Phoebe hung low and huge in the sky, glowing with a yellow-orange light, a pregnant goddess swimming through the rich navy velvet, oblivious to the cares and worries of the little creatures she overlooked. It lit up the mask—set it ablaze in the most frightening manner, a twin to the moon, but angry and vengeful. The face behind it, however, was undemonstrative, and the unnatural voice was silent. The figure to whom the voice belonged stood now on the parapet, impossibly tall and slightly less-black than the night, dusted here and there with a whitish, chalky powder, trapped in the folds and wrinkles of the heavy cloak: a star-sprinkled sky, ready to throw itself at the sun and be consumed in its blissful fire, burned away until only the pure, clear blue light of day remained, leaving the world unstained once more.
The impossible had happened. That voice—the voice of the Host itself, the sweet, strange, frightening tonality which had seduced any who had ever heard it, however briefly—was no more. Ravaged by disease, stolen away! That one truly unique and extraordinary feature to which no other man, woman or child could lay claim had been ripped away. A punishment. A punishment for refusing to die when the way of things dictated that it should be so. This was an error the figure now intended to correct, and it stepped closer to the ledge. A dry, ragged rasp of a cry issued from the mask, and the pale, yellow hands belonging to this skeleton clenched to trembling white fists at its sides. To die this way meant being found easily by any passing by—by a crowd. A horde to stop and gawk at the twisted remains on the stones of the street, its mask lying slightly askew and revealing death's face underneath. To have all those people stare and gape like stupid, bottom-feeding fish at the horror of the face, not even noticing that it was attached to a dead being. No, best to have done with it all in private, where he wouldn't be found, at least not for long enough that his unnatural appearance would simply be thought natural decay. The thin creature stepped down from the parapet and unclenched its hands, the whole skeletal frame relaxing, slumping in defeat, masked face dropping to cravatted chest.
“What, you're not going to consummate our acquaintance, Erique? And you have been courting me for so long—I do believe I feel a bit insulted.”
A light, lilting voice shuddered through the bent grotesque like a shock, and he wheeled around, sharp, yellow eyes searching for the impudent intruder. The expression of rage was somehow apparent on the serene leather facade that hid his face. There, across the roof and leaning against Apollo's knee like some knave, some cocksure jackanape stood a mirror figure of himself, or so it seemed. This new phantom pushed itself from Apollo and approached, its steps lazy and graceful, grit crunching under spitblack boots. It wore fine pressed trousers and coat with tails so ridiculously long they nearly dragged on the ground behind it. One hand was pushed deep into a pocket, and the other looked long, frail, and white swinging at its side. It likewise wore a mask—a death's head, perfect mockery of the observer's face, but even more featureless, more grotesque: a true leering, lipless skull. It wore no wig but had upon its head a low topper with a pall-bearer's scarf dangling from the band.
Erique leered at the impudent creature and croaked out, in harsh, cracked, broken tones, “You mock me, monsieur! Come to have a close look at the Opera Ghost, have you? You'll get a better look still.” His intention was to employ the Punjab lasso, but he must have been more ill than he'd thought, for his aim fell terribly off his mark. The target was not where he had thought it was; it was closer than he judged. When he missed, it did not laugh but pulled its pocketed hand free, holding a large, silver pocket watch. When it spoke, incredibly, the jaw of the mask moved with its words.
“You have been so enamored of me for so many years, I thought I might come and pay you a visit here upon this facade.” It gestured broadly, the bony, white fingers of its hand spreading out over the view of the city. “And I was hoping to take you at last.”
There were no eyes hidden in the deep sockets, no lips moved behind the wagging mouth, and Erique knew his master and trembled.
The apparition gave a quiet chuckle and inclined its head a bit, touching the brim of its hat in respect. “Ah, so now you know me. Are you ready, then?” It stuffed its hand back into the pocket of its trousers and cocked the grinning death's head slightly to one side, giving the disturbing impression that the skull, if tipped any further, would topple from where it joined the creature's vertebral neck. All wit left the Opera Ghost, and he wondered if perhaps he had not been more ill than he'd thought. He was not, of course, afraid to die, or of Death itself—in fact, he considered himself a rather devout apprentice in his younger days.
“You have time for this? Do you show yourself to every man before he gives himself to you?” Erique pulled his frame back up to its full height, finally drawing back the lasso and coiling it away under his dusted cloak. His twisted lips curled upward behind the mask as he saw that he was taller than Death by a hand. He had always known. Death came closer, its attitude still cocksure, and it produced from its pocket a cigarette, which it offered to the Opera Ghost. “Every man sees me in the end, whether I present myself to him or not. For time, I have nothing but, do you really think I attend each mortal's failing personally? I am everywhere. At this moment a million eyes are set on me; they see my face, they know or do not know me. I am a kindly stranger come to help them from their suffering. Or an avenging angel to strike them down for their pride.”
Erique took the cigarette mindlessly, but only tucked it away into his own pocket, disappearing it under his cloak with the rest of his poor, sickly frame. “You are too late, master Death. I have not jumped to my doom,” he sneered and whirled quickly around, striding across the rooftop, one hand floating to his throat as if trying to soothe and comfort his damaged voice. Yes, he had planned to go below once again, perhaps to take a heavy dose of laudanum and sleep until his bones were dust, but now that Death had presented itself to him, his old stubborn fire returned, and he would master the creature by refusing to submit to its one purpose. He would die soon, but on his own terms, when he was again alone.
Of course, he should have known better. One cannot fool Death into leaving him to die in peace!
Cigarettes 15:52
The hall was winter cold, dark. He had let the fires burn out and locked his door, left it as a sort of museum to his memory. The world should not remember such a beastly thing as Erique, but perhaps his music, at least, would be found one day. He remembered a shallow hurt in his chest as he'd covered the beloved organ and extinguished the lamps and candles that had remained constantly lit around it, as if he'd left a beloved pet to starve to death alone in a dark tomb.
His absence had not even been long enough to let a layer of dust settle over the white sheet that covered the thing, but he whipped it away with relish and tossed it aside, standing still for a moment over the only thing which returned his love, which bent perfectly to his will and moaned at the touch of his cold, spidery fingers. They touched the keys now, lightly, reverently, and a moment later he slid onto the bench, and his hands danced lovingly, compressing the keys, bringing forth gentle sighs and trills from the beloved instrument. He played for only a few moments before abruptly standing again and moving to relight lamps and candles, lingering in his bedroom until it was lit bright as the sun that had abandoned his universe. The task done and his apology made, Erique moved out into the main chamber of his home to stoke the fire and make similar amends to his piano, and then to his violin. When the room was lit warm orange with the blaze from the hearth and he had turned his attention again to music, he was met with the grim, grinning visage of his master once again.
Death sat on his divan, one leg crossed over the other knee, its arms stretched out on either side of it over the back of the sofa. Its mourning hat was laid on the cushion beside it, and Erique saw now that the creature had a fall of golden, curling hair, much at odds with its otherwise skeletal appearance. But looking again, he could now see the dim yellow glow of pinprick eyes deep in the black sockets, and a thin skin which stretched over the skull and wrinkled at the lips and now existed over the grinning maw. It looked much like Erique himself, only somehow less...repulsive. The face was smooth rather than aged, scarred, and pitted, and the lips were much better formed. After another moment, he remembered to stop staring and be angry that the creature had now invaded his home—of course he had to admit that he'd invited Death into his home long ago, and really had no right to send it on its way now.
“Will you haunt me until I give myself up? Is that what this is? Well, monsieur, this Erique does not give in so easily—you will be waiting quite a long while.”
The Opera Ghost rasped, again absentmindedly touching long, gloved fingers to his ravaged throat as he dropped himself into the plush chair near the hearth, letting his arms hang over the sides. Death gave a low, musical chuckle and pulled one long arm across the back of the divan, drawing a cigarette from its inner pocket, this time taking it between its newly formed lips. “You won't mind if I smoke, Erique,” it stated, and the little stick sparked to life of its own accord. “I am not here to wait. But let us talk. It has been so many years since I have lain true eyes on you, child.”
The mask jerked up and toward the less-gruesome mirror visage. “You taunt me now, monsieur! It is dangerous to taunt Erique!” He realized as soon as the words had left his lips that his threat was rather empty, but the creature did not laugh or stir except to blow a halo of bluish, sweet-smelling smoke into the air above it. It curled and writhed like a dying serpent before dispersing into nothing. “Do you blame God for your appearance, Erique? I have no doubt that you do—” it held up a bony hand to still the Ghost's tongue and continued “—no matter how you say you believe that there is no God. It isn't His fault, of course. I have dealt only with the dying since the first man lay down to the dust—that was an affair, let me tell you. You cannot blame me for wanting to witness a new life enter the world. Just once, just one little life. I could not resist, and I laid my hands upon your mother's swollen belly and bent my ear to her to hear your heart beating as fast as a humming bird's wings. My touch infected you. I heard your heart still for several long beats, and I believed that you would in a moment be cradled in my arms, but it started again, weak and slow, and I knew that my mark would be upon you all your days.” It took another long, halting draw from its cigarette, released another wild serpent, then uncurled all its long limbs and stood. “God does not make mistakes, but his servants sometimes do.”
“You did this to me. You!” Erique had stood now as well, rage threatening to shake apart his horribly thin frame and rip his throat raw and silent forever. A single stride brought him to loom over Death, and he continued in a whisper “And you have let me serve you so well for so many years—that was your aim, admit it. A marked slave to bring you lives, as many as you pleased, and you saw to it that I would enjoy introducing you to as many as I could find, that I would not be taken in and shown any compassion which might sway my purpose.”
Now Death canted its head slightly to one side and flicked the cigarette over Erique's shoulder into the fire. “Ah, my child, it was never my intention. But I have come to meet you now, to take you.”
“And where will I go! Because of you—where will Erique go?” Erique countered, whipping around violently to turn his back on the creature in his living room. “Erique's salvation is gone—did you intend that as well? Did you expect Erique to deliver her into your hands! If you lie, he will know—” the voice strangled behind the mask and the thin gloved hands clenched in spasms and pulled against his chest, thumping the hollow, bony cavity through his cloak and jacket. He had not been meant to love anyone, least of all Her; his purpose was clear, his gifts were meaningless, and it now did not matter that the Voice was nothing more than a ragged gasp that died on his lips and pained his discerning ears. He covered them now and howled, his skeletal frame doubling over, finding a moment later that he had not fallen onto the floor as he'd expected, but against something sharp and warm.
“Hush now, boy. I know your fears and your pains. You think that I have not watched over you? I have seen all, Erique, but I am the Angel of Death and could do nothing to interfere on your behalf. Now you are at the end of your life, and I will grant you a stay if you wish it; I will keep you in my care until your own actions put you bared in my hands.”
Erique had remained bent as he was, unable to move from the shelter of his master's thin, hard arms. His own spidery hands clutched at the creature's fine silken suit, his gloves leaving dusty prints where they spasmed. A longer, warmer hand rested on his back, splayed wider than a hand of flesh could spread, covering more of him, comforting better. The mask pressed hard against the fabric underneath it, and the yellow lights buried deep within its wells blinked out as eyes were squeezed shut. After a few moments, he was guided upright, a long, warm bone-hand curled around the back of his skull gently. “Come now, child. I have traveled a long way to bear witness to your other talents.” The free hand of Death gestured broadly toward the piano, and the smooth face wrinkled up into a smile. “Sit and play for me now.” Death returned to the divan, stretching itself out again on the plush cushions, freeing its loose collar from its looser cravat and lighting another cigarette.
Erique obeyed mechanically, the brief contact with his guest having left him in a state of blissful shock. He took the bench stiffly and had little control over his hands as they stretched over the keys and moved in a furious torrent of alternating rhythms and harmonies—disharmonies—at once enraging and enrapturing as his impromptu composition shifted with his own confused and conflicting emotions, too rapid, too violent for human ears to bear lightly. It would have sent her fleeing from the room to her little apartment, but Death bore it much more easily, though its cigarette hung limp and forgotten between its lips. When he finished on a savage, hammering chord and let his arms drop to his sides and his body slump over on the bench, he was sobbing quietly.
In the moments after the piano's last howl had reverberated and died away, leaving only the crackling of the fire and pitiful gasps of grief issuing from the piano bench, Death had risen and crossed the room, leather soles shuffling almost silently on plush Persian wool, stopping behind the bench, at the composer's back. It leaned over him, not touching.
“Dear boy—unfortunate child of my folly—I see how you tremble so. Come now, I will put you to rest,” a hand curled gently to the back of Erique's skull, rough bone catching lightly in the wig the Opera Ghost wore, “in the box you call your bed. I will give you a fortnight to decide what you wish to do with yourself. When you are ready to give yourself over to me, you need only speak the name I see shining just behind your eyes.” Hard, warm points pressed gently into the flesh of the composer's neck, moving to his shoulder and urging him up.
Erique rose and turned to follow as Death led him to his own bedroom, but he halted at the threshold, his teeth chattering and limbs shaking as the sight of the open coffin greeted him. “I do not wish to sleep in that just now...” was all he managed to croak out before swallowing the metallic taste of his own raw throat and turning around to glare down at his guest, mastering his body, stilling himself in preparation for an argument.
Death chuckled lightly. “So many years you've slept in my bed and now you refuse? Well, sleep where you will, Erique. There is only one other bed in your house.”
The hidden face blanched white as its façade and Erique whirled around again, feeling ill. “You bring that up—Erique's poor Christine, lost to the Lake. He could not save her. Erique will not spoil her apartment with his horrible presence. It must remain untouched; it is her tomb—let her sleep there in peace.” The defeated phantom gave a rather violent and startling cough, his breath rattling in his chest. Perhaps if he did not choose to leave the world on his own terms, this damnable infirmity would kill him anyway.
Death did not bother to correct the confused man. It had not yet met the girl whom It had watched utterly devastate the somewhat peaceful life Erique had come into under the Opera.
“Very well, what have you left? The divan, then; make use of it.” It sounded almost impatient, and it pushed past Erique into his room to grab the pillow and coverlet from inside the coffin, then returned to the main chamber of the house, where Erique had wandered to the sofa and dropped down on it, curled up and facing the cushioned back. It was too short to accommodate his considerable height; his cloak was tangled up under him, the mask still tied to his face, and the wig slightly askew where the top of his head crammed up into the arm of the divan at an uncomfortable looking angle. Death regretted its moment of annoyance at the child and knelt down on the floor beside him. “You are very tired, I can see. Lift your head.”
The familiar pillow was stuffed under his skull, the cloak was tugged out from under his painfully slight frame, and those long, warm bone fingers reached around his throat to remove it altogether. They did not make for the mask nor the wig, and Erique was grateful that he would not have to put up a violent struggle he was far too tired to win. He was covered and then left alone.
His absence had not even been long enough to let a layer of dust settle over the white sheet that covered the thing, but he whipped it away with relish and tossed it aside, standing still for a moment over the only thing which returned his love, which bent perfectly to his will and moaned at the touch of his cold, spidery fingers. They touched the keys now, lightly, reverently, and a moment later he slid onto the bench, and his hands danced lovingly, compressing the keys, bringing forth gentle sighs and trills from the beloved instrument. He played for only a few moments before abruptly standing again and moving to relight lamps and candles, lingering in his bedroom until it was lit bright as the sun that had abandoned his universe. The task done and his apology made, Erique moved out into the main chamber of his home to stoke the fire and make similar amends to his piano, and then to his violin. When the room was lit warm orange with the blaze from the hearth and he had turned his attention again to music, he was met with the grim, grinning visage of his master once again.
Death sat on his divan, one leg crossed over the other knee, its arms stretched out on either side of it over the back of the sofa. Its mourning hat was laid on the cushion beside it, and Erique saw now that the creature had a fall of golden, curling hair, much at odds with its otherwise skeletal appearance. But looking again, he could now see the dim yellow glow of pinprick eyes deep in the black sockets, and a thin skin which stretched over the skull and wrinkled at the lips and now existed over the grinning maw. It looked much like Erique himself, only somehow less...repulsive. The face was smooth rather than aged, scarred, and pitted, and the lips were much better formed. After another moment, he remembered to stop staring and be angry that the creature had now invaded his home—of course he had to admit that he'd invited Death into his home long ago, and really had no right to send it on its way now.
“Will you haunt me until I give myself up? Is that what this is? Well, monsieur, this Erique does not give in so easily—you will be waiting quite a long while.”
The Opera Ghost rasped, again absentmindedly touching long, gloved fingers to his ravaged throat as he dropped himself into the plush chair near the hearth, letting his arms hang over the sides. Death gave a low, musical chuckle and pulled one long arm across the back of the divan, drawing a cigarette from its inner pocket, this time taking it between its newly formed lips. “You won't mind if I smoke, Erique,” it stated, and the little stick sparked to life of its own accord. “I am not here to wait. But let us talk. It has been so many years since I have lain true eyes on you, child.”
The mask jerked up and toward the less-gruesome mirror visage. “You taunt me now, monsieur! It is dangerous to taunt Erique!” He realized as soon as the words had left his lips that his threat was rather empty, but the creature did not laugh or stir except to blow a halo of bluish, sweet-smelling smoke into the air above it. It curled and writhed like a dying serpent before dispersing into nothing. “Do you blame God for your appearance, Erique? I have no doubt that you do—” it held up a bony hand to still the Ghost's tongue and continued “—no matter how you say you believe that there is no God. It isn't His fault, of course. I have dealt only with the dying since the first man lay down to the dust—that was an affair, let me tell you. You cannot blame me for wanting to witness a new life enter the world. Just once, just one little life. I could not resist, and I laid my hands upon your mother's swollen belly and bent my ear to her to hear your heart beating as fast as a humming bird's wings. My touch infected you. I heard your heart still for several long beats, and I believed that you would in a moment be cradled in my arms, but it started again, weak and slow, and I knew that my mark would be upon you all your days.” It took another long, halting draw from its cigarette, released another wild serpent, then uncurled all its long limbs and stood. “God does not make mistakes, but his servants sometimes do.”
“You did this to me. You!” Erique had stood now as well, rage threatening to shake apart his horribly thin frame and rip his throat raw and silent forever. A single stride brought him to loom over Death, and he continued in a whisper “And you have let me serve you so well for so many years—that was your aim, admit it. A marked slave to bring you lives, as many as you pleased, and you saw to it that I would enjoy introducing you to as many as I could find, that I would not be taken in and shown any compassion which might sway my purpose.”
Now Death canted its head slightly to one side and flicked the cigarette over Erique's shoulder into the fire. “Ah, my child, it was never my intention. But I have come to meet you now, to take you.”
“And where will I go! Because of you—where will Erique go?” Erique countered, whipping around violently to turn his back on the creature in his living room. “Erique's salvation is gone—did you intend that as well? Did you expect Erique to deliver her into your hands! If you lie, he will know—” the voice strangled behind the mask and the thin gloved hands clenched in spasms and pulled against his chest, thumping the hollow, bony cavity through his cloak and jacket. He had not been meant to love anyone, least of all Her; his purpose was clear, his gifts were meaningless, and it now did not matter that the Voice was nothing more than a ragged gasp that died on his lips and pained his discerning ears. He covered them now and howled, his skeletal frame doubling over, finding a moment later that he had not fallen onto the floor as he'd expected, but against something sharp and warm.
“Hush now, boy. I know your fears and your pains. You think that I have not watched over you? I have seen all, Erique, but I am the Angel of Death and could do nothing to interfere on your behalf. Now you are at the end of your life, and I will grant you a stay if you wish it; I will keep you in my care until your own actions put you bared in my hands.”
Erique had remained bent as he was, unable to move from the shelter of his master's thin, hard arms. His own spidery hands clutched at the creature's fine silken suit, his gloves leaving dusty prints where they spasmed. A longer, warmer hand rested on his back, splayed wider than a hand of flesh could spread, covering more of him, comforting better. The mask pressed hard against the fabric underneath it, and the yellow lights buried deep within its wells blinked out as eyes were squeezed shut. After a few moments, he was guided upright, a long, warm bone-hand curled around the back of his skull gently. “Come now, child. I have traveled a long way to bear witness to your other talents.” The free hand of Death gestured broadly toward the piano, and the smooth face wrinkled up into a smile. “Sit and play for me now.” Death returned to the divan, stretching itself out again on the plush cushions, freeing its loose collar from its looser cravat and lighting another cigarette.
Erique obeyed mechanically, the brief contact with his guest having left him in a state of blissful shock. He took the bench stiffly and had little control over his hands as they stretched over the keys and moved in a furious torrent of alternating rhythms and harmonies—disharmonies—at once enraging and enrapturing as his impromptu composition shifted with his own confused and conflicting emotions, too rapid, too violent for human ears to bear lightly. It would have sent her fleeing from the room to her little apartment, but Death bore it much more easily, though its cigarette hung limp and forgotten between its lips. When he finished on a savage, hammering chord and let his arms drop to his sides and his body slump over on the bench, he was sobbing quietly.
In the moments after the piano's last howl had reverberated and died away, leaving only the crackling of the fire and pitiful gasps of grief issuing from the piano bench, Death had risen and crossed the room, leather soles shuffling almost silently on plush Persian wool, stopping behind the bench, at the composer's back. It leaned over him, not touching.
“Dear boy—unfortunate child of my folly—I see how you tremble so. Come now, I will put you to rest,” a hand curled gently to the back of Erique's skull, rough bone catching lightly in the wig the Opera Ghost wore, “in the box you call your bed. I will give you a fortnight to decide what you wish to do with yourself. When you are ready to give yourself over to me, you need only speak the name I see shining just behind your eyes.” Hard, warm points pressed gently into the flesh of the composer's neck, moving to his shoulder and urging him up.
Erique rose and turned to follow as Death led him to his own bedroom, but he halted at the threshold, his teeth chattering and limbs shaking as the sight of the open coffin greeted him. “I do not wish to sleep in that just now...” was all he managed to croak out before swallowing the metallic taste of his own raw throat and turning around to glare down at his guest, mastering his body, stilling himself in preparation for an argument.
Death chuckled lightly. “So many years you've slept in my bed and now you refuse? Well, sleep where you will, Erique. There is only one other bed in your house.”
The hidden face blanched white as its façade and Erique whirled around again, feeling ill. “You bring that up—Erique's poor Christine, lost to the Lake. He could not save her. Erique will not spoil her apartment with his horrible presence. It must remain untouched; it is her tomb—let her sleep there in peace.” The defeated phantom gave a rather violent and startling cough, his breath rattling in his chest. Perhaps if he did not choose to leave the world on his own terms, this damnable infirmity would kill him anyway.
Death did not bother to correct the confused man. It had not yet met the girl whom It had watched utterly devastate the somewhat peaceful life Erique had come into under the Opera.
“Very well, what have you left? The divan, then; make use of it.” It sounded almost impatient, and it pushed past Erique into his room to grab the pillow and coverlet from inside the coffin, then returned to the main chamber of the house, where Erique had wandered to the sofa and dropped down on it, curled up and facing the cushioned back. It was too short to accommodate his considerable height; his cloak was tangled up under him, the mask still tied to his face, and the wig slightly askew where the top of his head crammed up into the arm of the divan at an uncomfortable looking angle. Death regretted its moment of annoyance at the child and knelt down on the floor beside him. “You are very tired, I can see. Lift your head.”
The familiar pillow was stuffed under his skull, the cloak was tugged out from under his painfully slight frame, and those long, warm bone fingers reached around his throat to remove it altogether. They did not make for the mask nor the wig, and Erique was grateful that he would not have to put up a violent struggle he was far too tired to win. He was covered and then left alone.