There is some music that is so terrible that it consumes all those who approach it. The Phantom had known it all too well.
It was dark by the time he got home. He was faint with exhaustion, but exhilarated.
The apartment key was slick with his blood. He dropped it twice, then held it with two shaking hands and jammed it into the lock. The doorknob was slippery. He pulled out one corner of his shirt to grip and turn it.
The kitchen was dark. He could see the dim glow of the bedside light through a crack in her door. He passed the couch, and noted that she had tidied his bed clothes.
He either bled, or sweat, profusely. It drenched him as he walked through the darkness. He stopped outside the bedroom door, where she wouldn't be able to see him. But he could see his Phantom poster on the bedroom wall.
Only now did Andrew understand his fascination with the expression in the Chaney-Phantom's blazing white eyes. The overwhelming, animal emotion. Looking into those eyes now, Andrew could not understand how he could have missed it all those years. The fear. The raw, animal fear.
The Phantom had been terrified of Christine Daae. Terrified of her beauty, and terrified of what she must think of him. Terrified that she would soon discover that even his hideous skull-face was a mask, and that there were more masks to be discovered underneath. He would have had her think that he was a romantic poet trapped beneath that hideous mask. That if not for that mask he would be her perfect lover. But he was far more than poet or lover. And it was those other selves he was terrified she might see.
He knocked softly. He could hear the bedclothes rustle softly on the other side of the door. "Andrew, is that you?"
"Yes. It's Andrew. You remember Andrew. I'm sorry, but I couldn't get your sundae." The beauty and power of his voice.
"Don't worry about it. You can come on in—I'm decent."
"Decent" seemed like such an old-fashioned word. "I can't."
"Can't? Come on, Andrew. Stop playing games. We have to talk."
"We can talk through the door. I don't feel well. I'd rather you not see me just now."
She didn't say anything at first, but Andrew could hear her breathing. He imagined the way her chest rose and fell. He imagined the way her nightgown must look on her. He imagined her pale skin and her so dark hair. He imagined her as he had imagined every other woman who he had obsessed, who had seemed like the only woman possible for him, even though he knew hundreds were possible, if he just wore the right mask. He imagined her loving him even after seeing his one true face. He imagined who she must be, and yet never was. "But I need something to drink, Andrew. My throat's so dry. Can't you get me something to drink?"
"Of course, Chelsea. I'll have it to you in just a moment."
He went into the kitchen and poured her a glass of orange juice. Vitamin C. It would be good for her as well as for the baby. The paring knife was on the counter. He picked it up with his other hand.
He stopped in the shadows just outside the bedroom door. From here he could see a crescent portion—a selected slice—of her face, and the poster on the wall behind her. He studied the planes of the Phantom's cheeks, the line of jaw. "Here it is, Chelsea. Come to the door, but no further. I'll hand it in to you."
"Andrew, this is silly. I've lived here with you for a week."
"I've kept things very proper. I've remained the old fashioned gentleman. Humor me, please. Just do as I requested."
He heard her get out of bed, the soft pad of her feet toward the door. Soon he could feel the warmth of her blood near him. He reached his hand through the open door.
"Andrew! What's happened to you?"
"Just take the glass. A minor nosebleed, nothing more. Foolishly I tried to stop it with my hand."
He could feel the cool glass leave his hand. Then her warm hand touching his. "But your nails are all torn," she said.
"I told you I was foolish. Now get back into the bed."
He could hear her doing as he instructed. Once she was in bed, he heard her take a deep breath. "I want to leave tomorrow." He gripped the paring knife tightly. He weaved slightly, leaning into the light. "Andrew! There's blood on your face!"
"I told you I had a nose bleed. There's really no point in your leaving. You have no place to go. I'll take care of you. Who else could take care of you as well as I?" He stepped further back into the shadows, where he was sure she would be unable to see him. He raised the knife and slipped it into the edge of one of his open cheek wounds. Then he pushed the blade toward his nose. He was thankful for the blade's sharpness. He felt faint, his stomach lurched, but it was surprisingly painless. His head floated.
"I have to face my parents sometime. Maybe they'll take me back now that they've thought about it awhile."
He ran the blade into his other cheek and permitted it to dance through his flesh. "I saw your brother today. He said you're not welcome." The blade hit something hard and he pulled it back. He dipped it in again and began to write.
"Joey? You saw Joey and he said that? I don't believe you."
"He said you were 'preggie.' You've shamed them." The blade hit nerve after nerve and Andrew's flesh quivered electrically. He could hardly see. He didn't know how much longer he could stand. "I'd do anything for you. You know that."
"Then let me go! You locked me in today! That's not taking care of me, Andrew. That's making me your prisoner!"
"I just need you to understand!" He could feel the tissues giving, pieces of his face dropping to the floor with small, wet sounds. "I need you to see me as I am!"
"I want to understand. I'll do anything I can to help you. But first you have to let me go!"
"Okay!" he shouted, pulling the knife out of his face. "But first you have to see me!" He flung open the bedroom door and pushed his ruined face into the light. Her cry was a high, inarticulate shudder. He couldn't see her, but he could still hear her breathing. He held the knife out in the direction of her chalk-white skin, her terrible black hair, her warm blood reddening lips and cheeks. "Take it, Christine! Help me finish. Unmask me! Then you can see who I really am!"
HOW TO SURVIVE A FIRE AT THE GREENMARK
By Steve Rasnic Tem
(original appearance in The Spook, July 2002, under the pseudonym "Astrid Halsey")
A NOTE FROM THE MANAGEMENT
The issuance of this guide is not meant to imply that St. Louis' historic Greenmark Hotel is more prone to fire than any other hotel of comparable size and age. In fact, we believe the Greenmark's safety record to be superior or equal to the finest international hotels. But all of us are subject to the whims of fate and the general shiftiness of the cosmos. And none of us is immune to the actions of madmen or hostile foreign governments. So it is simply out of a sense of responsibility for our fellow man (and you, too, ladies) that we provide this list of simple fire safety procedures. Here's hoping that your stay at the historic Greenmark is a safe and pleasant one indeed!
1. STAY OFF THE PHONE
We may be trying to reach you. Don't tie up the line. Have some consideration.
Odd, Jane thought, that she'd never before realized the value of pure and simple anger in today's world. People acted as if something was wrong with you when you were angry, as if you wouldn't even need to be angry if you just had your shit together.
Well, fuck that. Fuck them.
Nothing better than a pure and righteous anger to scour the mind of all its useless debris. Nothing better to focus yourself, to remind yourself just who the hell you were at this point in time on this particular mud ball careening through soulless space. A healthy bout of anger burned through you like a flash fire, reducing all those little shames and regrets to such a fine ash it was no trouble at all sweeping them out before the next asshole came into your life with a pocket full of fun money and a big-toothed grin.
She'd been seething all day. Combustion was inevitable, and she didn't give a damn who got burned.
Jane gripped the receiver until her knuckles turned white. The pecu
liar thing was that even when she willed herself to relax, to let go, the muscles in her hand and arm refused, remaining locked and rigid, as if she had somehow misplaced the key that would release them. "You bastard," she said. She knew she had been repeating herself. She just didn't know for how long.
Calling me names isn't helping things any. I'm going to hang up. I said I was sorry.
"You promised you'd be here. I took the day off and god knows I can't afford it. I'm lying in this awful, stinking hotel because this is the place you chose. There was a goddamn used condom on the floor when I got here, Richard! Do you have any idea how this makes me feel? It makes me feel like a whore, you bastard!"
I really don't think this is a fruitful conversation. I'm going to hang up now. Perhaps later when you calm down ...
"Goddamn you! If you hang up I'm telling your wife!" The bastard didn't say anything right away. Jane smiled but it wasn't a smile she enjoyed. Something was wrong with her jaw. Smiling hurt her face.
And I'll tell your husband.
"I really don't think he'll be listening. I don't think he's capable of listening, actually."
What's that supposed to mean?
"He's dead, Richard. And aren't you the forgetful one?"
What are you saying?
"Jesus, you're a dense bastard! The gun in your glove compartment? Is it still there?" Despite herself, her smile spread. As her rigid facial muscles stretched and burned she almost screamed from the pain.
You crazy bitch!
She laughed out loud, and then she did scream. Flame had spread from the bed sheet to the black plastic phone, and now the receiver was too hot to hold. "I've got a little problem here. I'm going to hang up now. I'll call you right back. You pick it up right away, you hear me? You don't and you're a dead man!" She slammed the phone down, then watched as it melted. The skin of her hand had blackened and was dotted by a dozen or more blisters like tiny pearls.
It was a hell of a thing to happen to her. But it actually made her feel better.
2. EXPLORE THE EXITS
Decide in advance how to make your escape. There is almost always more than one way out. Whatever you do, wear comfortable shoes suitable for wild, uncontrolled running.
Jane leapt to her feet and opened the door. There were no indications of smoke or fire damage. She padded halfway down the hall before she realized she was wearing only a bra and panties. She hesitated, listening. Oh, the hell with it. She followed the hall around the perimeter of the hotel, finding three staircases leading down. She went up to the elevator doors and put her blistered hand on the outside of one. It wasn't particularly warm. On her way back to the room she passed an elderly couple who stared. "There appears to be a fire," she said with a smile. "I suggest that you stay off the phone, douse yourselves with water, crawl into bed and hold each other as tightly as you can." She took a few steps away, then turned. "Sexual intercourse would be optional," she added.
She went back to her room. One entire wall was enveloped in flames. She thought this was all Richard's fault, but she wasn't sure how. She walked calmly into the bathroom, soaked several large towels in the tub, went back to the flaming wall and spent five minutes beating the fire out. The flames disappeared with surprising ease, as if they had been sucked into the ugly wallpaper (Red and green and black clusters of geometric shapes—from a distance they looked like bugs chewing on the wall. How could people fall asleep in such a room?)
3. CHECK THE WINDOWS
Do they open? How far is it to the ground? Note that you will probably not survive a leap from above the third floor. Do you see fire trucks outside? Are there bodies on the ground? Are other people jumping? Does rain look imminent? Beating on the window will most likely do no good.
The fire was at least partly her responsibility. Emotions kept pent up over long periods of time can reach dangerously high temperatures. She had read this in some popular magazine, the woman on its glossy cover large-breasted and nude except for a bright red scarf around her neck. Jane supposed the scarf represented the strangulation brought on by female sexuality. Or maybe the woman's throat was on fire from all the things she could not bring herself to say.
But Richard's responsibility was even graver. The bastard. The prick. He should have paid more attention to her. He should have been truthful. It wasn't fair that all these innocent people might burn up in a fire while he was safe at home, free to continue cheating on his wife. Her face suddenly flushed with anger or with heat from the fire.
Jane walked around the room as she dialed the bastard on the phone by the closet. The cord became more and more entangled, but she could not stop herself from pacing. His line was busy. She dialed his number again and again, standing by the window, watching as flames shot out of one window and then another in the hotel wing across the courtyard. In the hazy distance other buildings appeared to be on fire. The ringing of telephones had risen to a deafening din. Obviously other women were going through the same things with their men. All over the city men were being bastards. All over the city women were turning into blackening, melting candles.
Jane? Is that you?
"You're a dead man."
My father called. I couldn't get him off the phone.
"He's probably a bastard, too. Is that where you learned how to treat women? From that bastard father of yours?"
Look, I know I screwed up. Let me make it up to you.
Veins of fire suddenly issued from one corner of the floor, flowed up the wallpaper, made jagged patterns like lightning across the ceiling over her head. Beautiful and deadly, as all things should be. "Come down to the hotel. We'll see what we can work out."
He didn't speak right away. She gave him some time. She didn't want to scare him off. She was a woman, after all, capable of great patience. I don't think I want to do that.
"You're not a little scared are you?"
Sounds like I may have reason to be, don't you think?
"Just come down here. I just want to talk to you. You talk to me and everything'll be okay—I'll make it right. But if you don't come down here in the next half hour you're screwed. Royally. That good life of yours is over. And you know I can do it."
But if there's traffic ...
"Call my cell phone from your car in fifteen minutes. Then I'll know you're coming."
She held on to the phone after he hung up, watching in fascination as a narrow trail of blue flame followed the cord from the cradle around the tangles toward the handset. She dropped it when her hand began to burn. More blisters. She did not find them unattractive.
Behind her the closet ignited explosively. Without considering the consequences she went for her clothes. A wall of heat pushed her back, but she managed to get her slacks and top out. Her shoes were already on fire. She watched them burn: the colors were spectacular—red, yellow, cobalt blue.
4. IF YOU SEE A FIRE, REPORT IT TO THE HOTEL OPERATOR
We have operators on duty twenty-four hours a day to provide you with information and answer all your questions. Please note that room service is closed from 2 AM to 4 AM. If you should get our answering service please leave a complete and detailed message.
A sheet of flame spread steadily up the wallpaper behind the headboard. Jane stood and watched. Those little bugs were suddenly very unhappy, curling up and tumbling off the wall in all directions, their bug parts blazing. Of course, she should have been making her escape, getting out of that room as quickly as possible, but she couldn't help herself. Once the fire reached the flame-retardant ceiling it rolled back on itself, further complicating the patterns of flame. Gorgeous. Like a headboard of passionate dream. She wanted to stretch out on the bed and feel the heat, sleep while all the tension of the day burned away.
Something in her hand. She looked down. Her cell phone. She wasn't even aware of getting it out of her purse. Of course. There was always the right thing to do, the thing that announced itself and judged you when you did not act. She dialed the hotel switchboard.
&
nbsp; "I'd like to report a fire."
Location?
"Four-oh-two-oh. My room. My bed. My goddamn life."
Any idea how long? A man's voice. She wondered what his name might be. He sounded like a Bob or a Bill, maybe a Tom. Certainly too sincere to be a Dick.
"Pretty much forever."
Then you'd better get out.
"Oh, I will. You just watch me."
5. FEEL THE DOOR WITH THE PALM OF YOUR HAND
Is it hot to the touch? Is it cold? Wet or dry? If you cannot relate to these words, how would you describe it? Perhaps everything's normal and you can go back to bed. Would you like a wake-up call?
The door was warm, but that might be simply because her room was on fire. Did they ever think of that? She'd seen movies in which the hapless victim had opened the door against all advice and been blown backwards by the explosive force of the conflagration on the other side. A great word, "conflagration," much more impressive than mere "fire," but a much harder word to shout during a dire emergency.
Jane could feel the hairs on the back of her neck begin to curl and singe. She jerked the door open, ran out and slammed it behind her. Muzak continued to play in the quiet corridor, vaguely reminiscent of the melodies they played at buffets. She felt a little embarrassed about running down the hall in her bare feet. Somebody might think she was having an affair. Somebody might think she'd been stood up. Somebody might think she'd been a fool. So she walked, head high, posture proud.
Tales from the Crossroad, Volume 1 Page 14
