by Trisha Telep
“Hide!” I shouted, with what little breath I’d regained. But Luci didn’t move. She cowered behind an armchair, the only normal piece of living-room furniture I’d seen so far. It was the only thing between Luci and a deadly dose of morning sunshine.
The rays shone in through the glass storm door, over and around the chair, passing a scant three inches above her hair. If we didn’t close the door before the sun got much higher, her curls would start to smoke.
At her age, even indirect UV light stung and a direct hit would blacken her skin in seconds.
I could take a little more, but not much.
On the floor the man moaned and shoved himself to his feet with his good arm. That got me moving. I tiptoed around the edge of the room, sticking to the shadows. I was almost to Luci when a hand tangled in my hair from behind and jerked me back. I staggered, but he held me up.
“OK, bitch, let’s see how well you tan.”
He shoved me forwards, towards the front door. Light fell across my feet, and I was more grateful than ever for my boots, even if they didn’t give me much purchase on the carpet.
Another shove and the light slanted up my jeans. I had to throw my arms into the air to keep them above the rising line of light. One more push and I’d be extra crispy.
“Kez!” Luci shouted from behind us. That was all the motivation I needed. I was not going to let my sister see me fried alive.
I threw my arm back, hissing when heat raced across my exposed hands. My elbow connected with the Mangler’s ribs and he grunted, caught by surprise. I swung myself around and pulled him with me, shoving him between myself and the glass door.
He screamed, and smoke rose from the back of his neck. His good hand scrambled for a grip on my arm, but we were both slick with the blood Luci had drawn from him.
I threw my leg up and kicked him in the chest as hard as I could. He flew backwards and crashed through the glass door onto the porch. When he tried to get up, smoking all over by now, he tripped and fell down the steps into a viciously sunny patch of light.
My hands still burning, I swung the wooden door closed and slid the bolt into place. I watched through the keyhole as the Mangler burst into flames. Only then could I look away. Only once I was sure he wasn’t getting back up.
That’s when I let myself slide to the floor, my back against the solid wood standing between me and an agonizing death. “Come here Luce,” I whispered, and she looked up hesitantly. “It’s OK. Come here.”
Luci crawled to me and climbed into my lap. She put her head on my shoulder and looked up into my face, now just as tear-streaked as hers. “Is he . . . gone?”
“Gone for good hon.” I hugged her as tight as I could, only relaxing my grip when she yelped. “Now we just have to find a phone –” I had a feeling mine was gone for good “ –and wait for the police.” But we wouldn’t have to wait long; the first sirens were already wailing in the distance, probably summoned by one of the horrified neighbours who would later tell reporters that the Mangler had seemed so normal.
Outside, a car door slammed. The sirens weren’t close enough yet. My pulse jumped, and I clutched Luci harder.
“Kez! Are you in there?” a familiar voice shouted. I gasped and my heart beat in excitement and disbelief now.
I stood and pulled Luci with me as I peered out of the peephole, squinting against the cruel daylight. A figure stood on the sidewalk between the Mangler’s charred corpse and Titus’ beat-up compact, parked on the street. He was covered from head to foot in a purple cape with a deep hood and huge dark glasses covering his face.
“Step back,” I said, guiding Luci behind the door as I opened it and stepped aside with her. “Titus?”
He stepped over the body and raced up the walk, pulling open the busted glass door. The first cop car arrived, followed immediately by several more and an ambulance, as Titus stepped inside and swung the door almost closed. He pulled his hood and glasses off in the safety of the shadowed interior, and his eyes relaxed the moment they met mine. “I thought that bastard had killed you.”
“Nope, but not for lack of try –” I never got to say the rest because his lips met mine, sucking the words right out of me. Along with my breath.
When he finally pulled away, I frowned at him, as the commotion rose outside. “How did you find us?” I asked, my hand on his arm. I wasn’t willing to stop touching him. Ever.
“Police scanner,” he said, tossing his head over his shoulder in the direction of his car. “I heard the address, and I guess I was closer than the nearest units. So, what the hell happened?”
Luci tugged on my sleeve then, and we glanced down at her to see her looking up at Titus. “I bit him,” she said. “Just like the witch in Oscar’s story.”
And I’d cooked the son of a bitch, just like the witch in our mother’s version.
“That’s right, hon.” I stroked her hair back in spite of the pain in my hands, streaking it with blood neither of us had lost. “You did great.”
She smiled at us then, and her teeth were smeared with blood, dainty little fangs and all.
Vestigial, my ass, I thought. Then I started to laugh, and was still laughing when the first cops burst through the door.
The Music of the Night
Amanda Ashley
Christie Matthews couldn’t believe it, she was actually inside the Paris Opera House. It was everything she had ever imagined, and more. Try as she might, she couldn’t find words to describe it. Beautiful seemed woefully inadequate. Awesome came close, but still fell short.
She owed her fascination with the Paris Opera House solely to Andrew Lloyd Webber – or to be more exact – to her fascination with the amazing production The Phantom of the Opera. She had seen the movie, of course, but it didn’t hold a candle to the stage play. She had seen the play once, and once had not been enough. The music had enthralled her; the plight of the Phantom had touched her every emotion from joy to despair, and she had eagerly joined the ranks of those feeling emotionally drained when the Phantom’s last anguished cry faded away.
She had become obsessed with all things Phantom. She had collected everything she could find with that world-famous logo: music boxes and posters, ads in the paper, books and magazine articles. If it related to the Phantom, she simply had to have it: dolls and figurines; snow globes and playing cards; picture frames and jewellery; Christmas ornaments and collector plates; every version of the music on tape or CD that she could find.
Before coming to Paris, she had researched the Opera House online and found a wealth of information. The Opera House had been built by Charles Garnier (at that time a young, unknown architect). Completed in 1876, the Palais Garnier was considered by many to be one of the most beautiful buildings on earth. The theatre boasted 2,000 seats; the building’s seventeen storeys covered three acres of land. Seven levels were located underground, among them chorus rooms and ballrooms, cellars for old props, closets and dressing rooms, as well as numerous gruesome objects from the various operas that had been produced there. It was rumoured that these grisly effects had sparked the idea behind Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera.
And now, after scrimping and saving for three years, she was there, in the Phantom’s domain. Alone. Shortly after the final curtain, she had hidden in one of the bathrooms. If she got caught wandering around, she would simply say she had lost her way.
Which would not be a lie, because she really was lost. There were so many hallways, so many doors, she no longer knew where she was.
Her footsteps echoed eerily in the darkness as she climbed a set of winding stairs and then, to her relief, she found herself inside the theatre.
She sank into a seat near the back of the house and gazed around, wondering if this had been such a good idea after all. It was dark and quiet and a little bit spooky sitting there all alone.
Resting her head on the back of the seat, she closed her eyes and music filled her mind – the haunting lyrics of ‘The Music of the Nig
ht’; The Phantom’s tortured cry when he sees Christine and Raoul pledging their love on the roof top; his heartbreaking plea when he begs Christine to let him go wherever she went; his anguished cry as he takes her down to his lair; his rage and anger and the faint glimmer of hope when he demands she make her choice; the last haunting notes when he declares it is over.
There was a never-ending discussion on any number of web sites about whether Christine should have stayed with the Phantom, and also surveys asking whether the listers themselves would have stayed with Erik (the Phantom) or gone with Raoul. Poor Raoul, he seemed to be disliked by one and all.
There had never been any doubt in Christie’s mind that she would have stayed with the Phantom. She knew what it was like to be left for another, knew the pain and the heartache of unrequited love, knew there was more to life than sweet words and a pretty face.
Sitting there, with her eyes closed, she seemed to hear Christine’s voice, but of course, it was only her imagination.
Still, it seemed so real. Opening her eyes, Christie stared at the stage, blinked and looked again. Was there a figure standing there? A figure wearing a hooded cloak and a red scarf? Christie rubbed her eyes. Not one figure, but two. A dark shape wearing a black hat with a long, curling black feather stood beside the cross on the cemetery wall. A long black cloak covered him from neck to heels. Was that a staff in his hand? Canting her head to one side, Christie heard him sing ever so softly and sweetly to his wandering child.
Christie sat up straighter and leaned forwards. It wasn’t possible. She had to be dreaming. She rubbed her eyes again. The figure of Christine seemed transparent, ghost like, but the Phantom . . . She was certain he was real.
Fear sat like a lump of ice in her belly, and then she realized that what she was seeing was probably just some star-struck member of the cleaning crew, or a night watchman wearing one of the Phantom’s costumes, or . . . Of course, it was an understudy who had stayed late to rehearse. It was the logical explanation, except it didn’t explain the ghostly Christine.
Suddenly, echoing through the empty building came the Phantom’s cry of rage as Christine turned her back on him and left with Raoul. Fireballs spit from the Phantom’s staff to light the stage and the image of Christine disappeared. But the figure of the Phantom remained standing near the cross, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his head bowed.
It had always been one of her favourite scenes, one that had never failed to move her to tears. This performance by some unknown actor was no different. With a sniff, she wiped the dampness from her cheeks . . .
. . . and found herself pinned by the gaze of the man on the stage. Even through the darkness, she could feel those black eyes burning into her own.
Her mind screamed at her to leave, to run from the theatre as quickly as possible, but try as she might, she couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her gaze from his.
It took her a moment to realize he had left the stage and was walking rapidly towards her. He moved with effortless grace, the long black cape billowing behind him. His feet made no sound; indeed, he seemed to be floating towards her.
And then, abruptly, he was leaning over her. The half-mask gleamed a ghostly white in the darkness.
“Christine?” His voice, filled with hope, tugged at her heart.
She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the mask that covered the right side of his face. No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t real. He didn’t exist.
He took a step closer, and then he frowned. “Forgive me, you are not she.”
Christie tried to speak, but fear trapped the words in her throat.
“You are very like her,” he remarked, a note of wonder in his voice.
His voice was mesmerizing: a deep, rich baritone, haunted, tinged with pain and sorrow and a soul-deep loneliness.
Caught in his gaze, she could only stare up at him, her heart pounding a staccato beat as he reached towards her, his knuckles sliding lightly over her cheek.
“Who?” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Who are you?”
“Forgive me,” he said with a courtly bow. “I am Erik.”
She swallowed hard. “Erik?”
A slight nod, filled with arrogance. One dark brow arched in wry amusement. “Some people know me as the Phantom of the Opera.”
Christie shook her head. No, it was impossible. She was dreaming. She had to be dreaming. Soon, her alarm clock would go off and she would wake up in her room at the hotel. And she would laugh.
She looked up into his dark, haunted eyes and wondered if he had ever laughed. Wondered if she, herself, would ever laugh again.
“And your name?” he asked.
“Christie,” she said, and fainted dead away.
He caught her before she slid out of her chair.
She was quite lovely, he thought, light as a feather in his arms. Her hair was a rich auburn, soft beneath his hand. What was she doing here in the Opera House long after everyone else had gone?
A soft laugh escaped his lips as he carried her down the aisle, turned left and disappeared through a secret door.
Down, down, down, he went, until he reached the boat by the underground lake.
He placed her gently in the stern, then poled across to the other side.
“Christie.” He spoke the name softly – reverently – certain it was short for Christine. He wondered if, this time, he might be blessed with a happy ending.
Christie woke to the sound of music. Sitting up, she glanced at her surroundings. She didn’t have to wonder where she was. She knew. She had seen it all before: the organ, the masked man sitting behind it with his head bowed over the keyboard, the boat rocking gently in the water beyond, the flickering candles.
She was in the Phantom’s lair.
He continued to play, seemingly unaware of her presence. The music was darkly sensual, invoking images of sweat-covered bodies writhing on silken sheets. The notes poured over her, making her skin tingle.
She studied his profile, though she could see little but the ghostly mask. Was he as hideous as he was portrayed on stage and in the movies? If she were Christine, she would rise from her bed and tiptoe towards him. She would wait for the moment when he was so caught up in the music he was composing that he was oblivious to everything else, and then she would snatch the mask from his face.
But she wasn’t Christine and none of this was real. She had to be dreaming. It was the only answer.
The music ended abruptly and she found herself staring into his eyes.
He inclined his head in her direction. “Welcome to my abode, my lady.” His voice was like warm whisky, smooth and intoxicating. Would he sing for her if she asked?
Feeling suddenly uncomfortable at being in his bed, she threw the cloak aside and gained her feet. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I must have fainted.”
“Would you care for breakfast?”
“What? Oh, no, thank you.” She forced a smile. “I really must go.”
In a lithe motion, he rose from the bench and glided towards her. “So soon?”
She nodded, struck by the beauty of the unmasked portion of his face. And his eyes, they were dark, so dark.
He gestured towards a small table. “You may as well eat.” He lifted a white cloth from a large silver tray revealing plates of sliced ham, fried potatoes and soft boiled eggs. The scent of coffee wafted from a silver carafe. A crystal pitcher held orange juice; a white basket held a variety of muffins and croissants.
Her stomach growled loudly. She hadn’t eaten since early last night, after all. “Well, I guess it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
“Indeed.”
He held her chair for her. “Please,” he said, “help yourself.”
“Aren’t you going to join me?
A faint smile played over his lips. “I’ve eaten. Please, enjoy your meal.”
And so saying, he went back to the organ.
It was the strangest meal she had ever eaten – her sitting at the
table, him sitting at the organ, the air filled with music that soothed her soul and excited her at the same time.
She studied him surreptitiously, noting the way he swayed ever so slightly to the music, the graceful play of his long, tapered fingers over the keys, the intense yet faraway look in his eyes. His white shirt emphasized his broad shoulders. The ruffled front should have looked feminine but there was nothing feminine about this man. His black trousers hugged well-muscled thighs. And the mask . . . It drew her gaze again and again as she imagined what lay behind it.
Glancing at her watch, she took a last sip of coffee and pushed away from the table.
As though pulled by a string, he turned towards her, his fingers stilling on the keys.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she said, looking around for her handbag. “And for putting me up for the night.”
“My pleasure.” In a fluid movement, he rose and moved towards her.
“You don’t really live down here, do you?” she asked. “I mean . . . do you?”
“It has been my home for many years.”
“Do you work for the opera?”
He laughed softly, the sound moving over her like silk warmed by a fire. “No.”
A sliver of fear trembled in the pit of her stomach. No one knew she was here. If she disappeared, no one would know where to look.
“Would you like a tour?”
“Some other time,” she said, backing away from him. “I really have to go.”
He moved to close the distance between them. “Christine –”
His nearness played havoc with her senses. “It’s Christiana, actually.”
“I’ll see you up,” he said.
She nodded, suddenly finding it hard to speak.
He plucked his cloak from the bed and settled it on his shoulders in an elegant flourish that would have made any Phantom worth his salt proud.
“My purse . . . ?”
He found it on the floor and offered it to her with a slight bow. “Shall we?”
He handed her into the boat, poled effortlessly across the lake, escorted her up a long, winding stone staircase and out a narrow wooden door into a dark alley.
