8Written for a-partofthenarrative's Tumblr POTO 13 Nights of Halloween. 👻
The Girls and the Ghost
Is there any sound in the world worse than a giggling girl?
Certainly not in Erik's opinion, and he was more qualified than most to judge. He had been woken at the break of dawn by the keening of the peacocks which strolled the gardens of Mazenderan; had fallen asleep to the infernal hum of swarming cicadas as he nearly suffocated in the hot, damp nights of Southeastern Asia; had spent endless days trying to block out the sound of Russian children learning how to play the fiddle, the screech of the bow against the strings a torture worse than anything he'd devised in Persia. But nothing created a teeth-clenching, shoulder-hunching, fist-curling reaction quite like the sound of ballet rats and chorus girls tittering like a flock of little starlings.
Worst of all, there seemed to be no end to the list of things that would trigger that laughter. A passably good-looking man says good day: laughter. The bassoonist (once again) overblows a note: laughter. The ballet mistress scolds them for laughing: silence for a moment...then more laughter. It was absolutely ridiculous.
He had sought to replace that laughter with its polar opposite, but even that proved fruitless. Slamming doors, falling backdrops, objects stolen right out from under their noses, none of it had the desired effect. Oh, they would scream at first, but then those satisfying shrieks would inevitably dissolve into fits of laughter. Eventually the whole plan backfired: they had decided there must be a ghost. Now, jittery from the ever-present threat of the supernatural, the girls skittered en masse everywhere they went, giddy and giggling.
He'd thought of giving up and redoubling his efforts to ignore them, but then again… If he was going to have to hear their laughter either way, why not have a little fun with it? Perhaps there was something low and vulgar in the thrill he felt when those girlish voices turned shrill and panicked, but when one's world is almost entirely bound within a set of stone walls, one must find amusement where one can, no?
And so it was that the Opera gained itself a ghost.
It was late October, the time of year when the chill of the night air made Erik wrap his cloak tightly about himself as he made his rounds backstage. Tonight he was on his way to check the progress on the backdrops for the new production of a tired old Meyerbeer work — Erik had sent a few helpful suggestions to the management regarding their unfortunate choice of color scheme which he needed to ensure were being taken into consideration. He was slipping through the shadowed hallways connecting the dressing rooms, taking care to avoid the last stragglers after ballet rehearsal, when something caught his ear.
"My aunt in America, she does it all the time and has contacted loads of ghosts," a girl's voice was saying. Her tone was prim, preening, the words clipped in that insufferable style favored by girls who think too highly of themselves. He recognized the voice immediately as belonging to one of the de facto leaders of the group, blonde, thin, with jutting bones that looked sharp enough to cut. "It's so simple. We just need a table, maybe a few candles."
The backdrops could wait. Silently, Erik slid open a false panel and entered the secret passage he'd stealthily snaked through the walls during construction — a long, narrow hall, slashed with beams of light falling through mirrors which were useful for much more than just checking a reflection.
Erik had made various inroads into each and every room in his opera house, so it wasn't as if he'd only chosen to do his spying in the dressing rooms. It was simply a matter of pragmatism: dressing rooms were the best place to eavesdrop if one wanted to learn secrets of any real value. He couldn't be blamed if there was an occasional glimpse of bare skin or the inadvertent witnessing of an intimate moment. It wasn't intentional! It was an unfortunate, but unavoidable hazard of the job.
Keeping his eyes averted as the girls stripped off their dirty stockings and boxed up their pointe shoes, Erik pressed in close, ear to the mirror.
The girl's voice continued, "Auntie says that All Hallows' Eve is when the veil is thinnest. That's less than a week from now, I think we ought to try!"
"Oh we couldn't!" another girl said. "Maman would skin me alive if she found out." Erik hadn't seen the point in learning their names, but that one he knew: Madame Giry's daughter, little Meg.
"We can tell her you're staying the night with me, she'll never know," said a third voice, this one as bright and grating as the bell of an alarm clock set to ring far too early in the morning.
"Oh, I don't know…" Little Giry was wavering.
"Well I'm in," said a fourth voice, this one huskier, confident. That one he recognized, too: the most talented dancer of the bunch, the most beautiful, with the cold, cruel haughtiness to match those peerless qualities. "I have a thing or two I'd like to ask the ghost."
"Me too," chirped the girl with the alarm-bell voice. "Maybe if we can find out why he's here, we can help him be at peace."
Erik nearly choked on a laugh — there was little chance of that as long as ballet was in fashion.
"That settles it then, we'll meet at 10 o'clock on All Hallows' Eve," the first girl announced decisively, "in the empty dressing room they use for storage. Will you come Meg?"
"I'm not sure… Could I bring a friend?"
"That new singer you've been hanging around with? Sure, if she likes. What was her name again?"
But Erik didn't hear the answer; they'd begun spilling out of the room. And besides, his mind was already elsewhere, spinning with delightful possibilities for an evening's diversion.
Those girls were in for a treat: for the first time in the history of seances, a ghost would actually be in attendance.
Six days was more than enough time for Erik to set things up exactly as he liked. A few bolts secured the small round table onto the trapdoor he'd fortuitously included in the room's design; a jiggle of the lever was all that was needed to give the girls all the table-turning they could want. A metal rod and a hollowed out wooden block, a handful of chinese fireworks which created sparks and plenty of smoke, and the subtle adjustment of the dusty cloth covering the mirror so he had a decent view of the room, and the stage was set.
Just before ten, five girls came tip-toeing in around the stacks of boxes, three of them already giggling. The two quiet ones, Little Giry and her friend, hung back, huddled together, eyes wide. Erik recognized the friend as one of the new batch of singers fresh from the Conservatoire. He'd watched her sing before. She was passable, though passionless, with a pretty face. He supposed she'd do well enough until she found some admirer with a little money to come sweep her off the stage and into a more comfortable, domestic life, as seemed to be the goal of so many of them.
The leader of the group gave the orders — candles were lit, seats were taken, and hands were joined, all accompanied by alternating giggles and shushes, as Erik gritted his teeth behind the mirror and tried to remind himself that they wouldn't be giggling for long.
Shadows flickered over those youthful faces, some eager, some apprehensive, as they looked expectantly at their ersatz medium.
"We come here tonight," the girl began, in an admirable impression of authority, "to join hands and call out beyond the veil, to the spirit who roams the halls of this opera house." She paused dramatically, letting the weighted silence settle heavy upon them. "Are you with us spirit?"
A smile began to curl what passed for Erik's lips. Keeping his eyes trained on the circle of bowed heads, he took hold of the lever and gave it a good, hard shake.
Gasps and shrieks erupted in a sweet symphony of terror, their voices a panicked chorus of breathless, overlapping exclamations.
"Did you feel that?"
"It's him! It's the ghost!"
"I can't believe it worked!"
"I changed my mind!"
"No, don't let go!" The leader's voice cut through the chaos. "Just hold on tight to each other, we're perfectly safe as long as we don't break the circle."
As the girls continued to bicker and fret, Erik lifted his mask to wipe the tears from his eyes.
Ah, that was every bit as satisfying as he'd hoped. He would need to pace himself, though; it would not do to scare them off right away. The night was young and Erik wanted to savor every shriek.
Eventually, the girls quieted, and the leader tipped her little pointed face up to the ceiling and raised her voice in offering.
"Spirit, we hear you. Thank you for letting yourself be known to us. May we ask you some questions?"
Perfect. Erik would play their game, wait until their guard was lowered, and then terrify them beyond anything they had ever known. It would be a splendid evening.
With the hollow block in hand, Erik took the rod and gave the wood a solid rap.
Sharp little inhales rippled around the table.
The corner of the leader's mouth quirked in smug satisfaction. "Alright then spirit, one rap for yes, two for no." She took a deep breath. "Did you work at the opera?"
Well...he might as well answer somewhat truthfully.
TAP
"Did you die here?"
Honestly, sometimes he wasn't sure he would call his current state "alive", but all the same…
TAP-TAP
"Then why stay here? Is this where you were happiest?"
Erik paused, considering. It was, wasn't it?
TAP
"I want to ask a question," said the girl with the grating voice, grinning like an idiot. "Were you young and handsome when you died?"
"Marie!" The girls squealed and tittered and blushed, as heat flashed up Erik's neck. His hand tightened around the metal rod, preparing to deliver a single firm rap, no longer so keen on truthfulness.
The husky-voiced beauty snorted loudly. "Of course not. Joseph Buquet saw him and he said he looked like a dried up old husk."
Erik flinched. He felt the smooth metal slip from his hand, just managing to snatch at it before it hit the floor.
"Cecile!"
"What? It's the truth."
"Don't listen to her spirit, she's just teasing." Hands still linked, the bossy little blonde jabbed at the girl with a bony elbow. "Apologize, Cecile!"
The girl sighed, rolling her dark, heavy-lidded eyes. "Fine. I'm sorry Monsieur Ghost. Please don't go."
Behind the mirror, Erik narrowed his eyes at the group, weighing his options. The girl was right, it was the truth, but it was a rare person who had ever spoken that truth and lived to speak a single word more. Fortunately for her, Erik was no killer of young ladies, although he did have half a mind to toss in a few lit firecrackers and let them fall where they may.
Really, he should have left then and there, and put an end to their fun.
But the other girls were joining in, saying "Please ghost, don't go. Please, stay and talk with us!" and obviously their pleading meant nothing at all to him, but an end to their fun also meant an end to his, and it wasn't as if there was anything better for Erik to do with the rest of his night…
He gave the lever a little shake.
A cheer went up and Erik's heart gave an odd little squeeze.
"May we ask you some more questions, then?" asked the leader.
Erik sighed. He really was getting soft in his old age, wasn't he?
TAP
"Have you been here long?"
Long? Compared to the many decades of his life, no, but it was true that each day had felt longer and longer than the next…
TAP
"Are you trapped here?"
Erik almost laughed. He was, wasn't he? Caught in a trap of his own making.
TAP
"Are there other ghosts here?" Little Giry asked.
TAP-TAP
Silly girls, ghosts weren't real.
"So you're all alone?"
That voice was new. Soft and sweet and slightly distressed — or perhaps that was his imagination. It was Little Giry's friend, sitting in profile, her brows creased above the little sweep of her nose, her bottom lip pinned between her teeth.
tap
Erik looked down at the tools in his hands. Strange...that time the sound hadn't been nearly as loud. He must have misjudged his aim.
"Are you lonely?" she asked, very quietly.
A strange, swirling sensation began pooling in Erik's clenched stomach. His hand hesitated over the block.
"I have a question," a harsh, husky voice cut in. The girl cocked her head, her dark eyes hard. "Did you steal my stockings?"
A collective gasp sucked every ounce of air from the room. Five sets of eyes flew to the speaker: four sets belonging to girls, and one belonging to a rapidly reddening ghost.
"What? If he took my stockings, then I want them back. They weren't cheap." She arched a perfect brow. "And why would he even take them, anyway?"
Erik's breath caught in his throat, hard as a stone. That wasn't a fair insinuation! Yes, it was true that he had taken the stockings, but that was just to— well, he wasn't doing anything with them!
"Stop Cecile! You're going to make him angry!" the blonde girl was hissing.
"So? I'm not scared of him. Why should I be scared of some bodiless creep who gets off on scaring a bunch of girls?"
Beneath his mask, Erik's face burned hot. His fingernails dug into the wooden block, hard enough to leave marks.
"I've heard him in the dressing rooms." She laughed, sharp and scornful, and yes he'd been in the dressing rooms, but only because— "What are you doing in there, Monsieur Ghost? Watching us change?"
The block and rod slipped from his hands with a thunk and a clink and he tried to bend to pick them up, but his head swam and he nearly fell.
"Ha! See? That's a yes!"
But no, no, that wasn't it at all, and if she would just stop laughing—
"Cecile!"
Beneath their ring of clasped hands, the table began to shake.
"We have the ghost of an old ugly pervert!"
No, no! It was a no! But the girl kept laughing, and the table kept shaking, harder and harder, as Erik wrenched the lever harder and harder, the wood beginning to splinter off painfully into the flesh of his hand.
The girl was still laughing, even as the others were screaming, and all at once it wasn't just her laughter but all the laughter that had ever been aimed at him, pointed and lethal as poison-tipped arrows — and maybe he'd made some mistakes in his life, but he didn't deserve laughter, not now — not then, when he was still not much more than a child and had no way to escape from the jeering crowds, no place to hide behind the bars of a cage as the spectators hurled insults as easily as they hurled their half-eaten food at him — and if he didn't stop the laughter his vision would turn blood-red and then everything would turn black and when the light came back, his hands, too, would be blood-red — and he was not a killer of young ladies, no — and so his voice was shouting before he'd even realized it "GO! GO! GET OUT!" — and then there was screaming, as horrified as if he'd stripped off his mask and exposed the horror of his face — and somehow the metal rod was in his hand and then the mirror was crashing, shattering to pieces, and he would have to fix it before he was found out, but for now all that mattered was that the shards were exploding outward, beautiful and brutal, raining upon the table, and the screams came louder and louder, drowning out the laughter, until finally, finally the laughter stopped.
It took a few days to come to a cool-headed decision as to what to do about the girl. It had been all he could think of since that night, churning in his brain and leaving little room for his responsibilities. He shuddered to think of what the state of the backdrops might be.
Erik had left behind the cruel, evil man he'd been in Persia, which is why he was only going to make it so that Cecile broke an arm, and not a leg. She'd heal soon enough and be back to her career no worse for wear, only now with a more proper level of respect for the Opera Ghost.
Creeping through the darkened passages toward his target, not far now, he froze as he heard voices approaching. He pulled back deep into the shadows, waiting for them to pass.
"You've hardly said a word all day. What's wrong, Christine?"
Little Giry and her friend, the one with the soft sweet voice came into view. Erik averted his eyes from the handful of small red scratches scattered over the girls' smooth, pale arms.
"I can't stop thinking about the ghost." The crease was back between the girl's brows, and suddenly, the strange feeling was back in Erik's stomach. He held his breath.
"You too? I've had nightmares every night since then."
"No… No, it's not like that." She twisted at the sash tied around the waist of her costume. "I— I just can't help but think the ghost must be terribly sad and lonely, to be trapped here all alone. I feel so sorry for him."
"Oh Christine," Little Giry sighed. "You and that tender heart of yours. If you're not careful, someday you're going to—"
But he didn't hear what she said; they'd disappeared down the hall. And besides, his mind was already elsewhere, spinning like a carriage wheel, a name — not Cecile, no, she and her arm had been all but forgotten, but a different name — lodged there like a stone, the wheel hitching with each spin, over and over, the rhythm gathering speed, thumping like the quickening beat of his heart. Christine. Christine.
Christine...