chapter 8

N otes needed written. Sound created. Words found. Shrouded within the space no soul dared venture, I descended through stale air toward my hell, my solitude.

My chest pounded with song, and mind danced with images so sweet, both fantasy and memory. Only made more sublime by murmurs of the Ghost as I passed through.

To frighten. To evade. Always a thrill. Disrupt the goings on of all who take their freedoms for granted. Who submit so willingly to the normalcy of society.

Or not.

Cold steel slid smoothly beneath my hands whilst I descended ladders between floors.

The hour was early enough to work. Rehearsals resumed as I departed, without Carlotta, and Christine's lessons weren't until the evening.

Oh. The way the Banshee shrieked when the floor opened and swallowed her. If she had not broken a thing, blessed would I be that she at least bruised.

My Christine. Voice so ethereal, entranced them all, proved her worthiness, her spot in the light. A fine step towards the perfecting of my stage. My vision. My feat.

‘I fear what invigorating rush courses through your veins is not of Carlotta's screaming nor Christine's doing.'

The Ghost missed no opportunities to humble this mind.

These events would please me to no end on any day. Sate me for a short time to make this all worthwhile.

Except, he was right. My victories as of late have been dampened.

Why did she have to be there, distracting me with her nonsense. Nearly missing my mark because of her.

Intention on giving her a fright, ruined, but by my own hand. A miscalculation on my part.

Blasted sandbag.

Soft brown irises, which were now scarred into memory unwelcome, immobilized me yet again as I held her.

Why would she thank a ghost, a monster? A walking corpse.

I'd breached one of the many panels which led to one of the sub cellars beneath the stage. The scent of cold earth laced my nostrils and filled my lungs as I stepped into the darkness of forgotten things.

The quickest way home: I would know it in my sleep.

A table from Hamlet . Bedroom set from La Traviata . One particular item, however, always held my gaze a bit longer than it should have.

Encapsulated in a sheer netting, was Susanna's wedding gown from Marriage of Figaro several seasons past. I had thought of taking it many times. Holding it until the moment was right and it would be filled with a soul for me.

Imaginations were a fickle and cruel thing.

A faint glow near my destination slowed my pace. The chaos of not too long ago was over and the area was clear of crew. Who would be down here now? Had they come to their foolish senses and posted guards once again?

Hunched over near the base of the original entrance to the lake beneath the opera, a man examined the caved-in passageway.

The possibilities were endless when it came to what could be done at this moment.

There were no distractions to save. If I killed him, recent events may be overshadowed.

I rocked my jaw in thought.

"That entrance has been blocked for several years by now, dear Ardashir," I said. "Something about keeping ghosts out."

My dear Daroga, perhaps the only person in this world I would consider a friend. Even when he would see me in chains if he could. He pulled the pistol from the holster on his hip, whipping the lantern in his hand around, pointing in uncertain directions.

"Erique! You horse's ass," he said.

"How strange it is to be referred to by my chosen name after all these silent years."

"I can think of a few other names to call you," Ardashir said.

Once upon a time, this man was given duty to keep a watchful eye on the deformed prodigy and architect while in the employ of the King of Persia.

So long ago. So many misjudgments.

"Oh, come now, Daroga. You have no need of that. We are the oldest of friends, you and I."

Ardashir's focus flicked to the gun in his hand and back into the dark around him. Looking for the man in the shadows, one would guess.

"Unless you plan to use it this time? In that case." I stepped into the radiance of his lantern. "Here I am."

My bearded friend groaned and clenched his jaw as he holstered his weapon.

"What a shame. I was quite hoping for a rumble," I said, wishing to unleash this energy stowed within me.

"Nearly killing a woman wasn't enough for you?"

"Ha. I am uncertain Carlotta deserves such a title. And, if I wanted her removed from this earth permanently, she would have been long ago."

As a leper within my world, she has done nothing to deserve such an end. A broken femur perhaps, but not the afterlife.

"Give it time. You simply can't help yourself. It's in your nature."

"Why are you down here? I thought you were after the killer of that poor girl? It's been a month now, and still nothing?"

"Ah. Yes. Well, you're making my investigation quite difficult. Especially for someone who claims to be innocent of such a crime."

"Oh?" With careless air, I took comfort in an old chair from this season's Faust. "Perhaps you should have come sooner."

"Alas. Word did not reach me soon enough. Does not matter, my search leads to you every time. Every interview is the same. ‘The opera ghost did it'. God, these people. Are all French naive?"

It was a wonder how they believed so quickly that a ghost haunted such a place, even when it was new.

"If you truly believed me guilty, we wouldn't have these lovely conversations, would we? You would have shot me dead. Believing me more abomination than I am."

The thought of lead through my chest was almost pleasant, though fleeting.

"Perhaps next time, Erique." He leaned against a wooden beam and his scorned exterior shed only enough. "How am I to believe you had nothing to do with it if you're causing chaos all the time? You dropped the chandelier to hide what you did, I know it."

"Must we do this?" I sighed and picked at the arm of the chair. "The chandelier would have come down eventually. The rigging was set poorly in the original construction. I only aided in the timeline. No one was hurt." Unfortunately. "The vermin need their worlds rattled every now and again. Remind them that they're not untouchable. Now, the girl's death. Of all people, you should know the innocent do not find themselves at the end of my lasso."

"You're a good man now? How your memory fails you, old friend ."

The jab was sharp. Understandable that he would find it hard to believe. I was no stranger to death. Nor being the cause of it.

Dust danced its way into the distorted nostrils beneath my false face as I inhaled deeply. "You know the very circumstances in which that was." A memory I wished never to replay. "In any case, Carlotta still lives. My hands are clean in this matter. That should tell you something of my innocence."

"Your innocence …" He scoffed. "Arrogance is more like it. Though, I suppose you do have a point. Admittedly, that is one accident I could look the other way on."

"Daroga... have you a bit of darkness in you after all?"

"Perhaps too much time with you over the years."

"And I cherish every moment."

"Do you now?"

The air was light. Reminiscent of days long past.

To be that young man again.

"Instead of trying to find a way into my home, which I would gladly take you to. There's an unopened twenty-five-year-old brandy that I do believe you would enjoy. Perhaps you should continue your search elsewhere."

"Brandy?" He pursed his lips in thought. "Another time, my friend. Unfortunately, you are right. I must travel to Toulouse in the morning. There's a woman there with information about this girl."

It had been many years since we shared a drink. I'd hoped one day we would delight in such a friendly manner once more.

"Of course," I replied.

"Ah! Before I leave, I do have a question for you." Moving towards me curiously, trying to read the face he couldn't see. "Who's the American to you?"

"Merely a new face in the Opera."

She was no one. It mattered not the moment I caught her wrist, I wished my hand were bare so I could feel the warmth of her skin in mine. Or how my lips nearly placed a kiss upon the quickened pulse.

Had it not been for the baboon, I may have been heedless enough to do it.

"The people in this place can't wait to tell tales of glowing eyes and magical lassos. Floating skulls and walking skeletons. But not this one. She lies for you instead. Interesting, isn't it?" Ardashir asked, leaning onto the arm of my chair.

"That is curious." I stood, avoiding his probing stare. He was always too good at getting information and there was nothing to find where he searched.

A chuckle escaped his mouth as he shook his head, "In any case, is it strange. I hope you didn't do it?"

"I have the utmost faith you will uncover the truth. And when the time comes, a brandy will be shared."

"You wouldn't happen to know who did it? So we may end this cat and mouse game?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. "If I knew, you and everyone else would most definitely know. No one kills in my opera and goes unpunished for it."

"Erique, I loathe your very existence. And yet, I don't."

"That may be so. You are a good man, my friend. And perhaps discovery of truth will make you see, I'm not as bad as you think me to be."

"That is a day I wait for." His smile was sincere for the first time. Perhaps there was hope of that shared bottle after all.

"Good night, Daroga," I said and blew out the lantern, leaving him in darkness.

"You are indeed a horse's ass, Erique."

I slipped into the passage near where he had searched and descended for hell once more.