Chapter 4 The Phantom
The Phantom
When she sings, the chaos of my mind is quiet.
The first time I heard her was weeks ago. I was restless, aimless, my mind churning endlessly with the doleful dirges of ghosts. I wandered farther than I usually do during daylight hours, and by the will of the Morrigan, I heard her sing.
Her voice is bliss. Like clear rain, like warm earth, like the brilliant sun above and the liquid lake below.
I knew I would risk anything for the exquisite pleasure of hearing it again, so I returned to the stairway over and over, wishing that she might be there.
I never saw her, but sometimes I was fortunate enough to hear her.
Other times, I returned to my lair unsatisfied.
After weeks of this, I became conscious of the powerful urge to sing with her. And still it took me days before I yielded to the impulse. I feared I might drive her away.
But she didn’t run from me. She was wary, of course, but not afraid. At the end of our brief conversation, I opened the door for future encounters. I must wait and see if she walks through it.
I have never given a lesson in music. But that voice—that pristine, perilous voice—is too precious to lose.
I must enjoy it as often as possible. Which means I will have to teach myself how to instruct her properly.
The golden-haired vampire may have shut down most of my powers, but my mind remains intact.
I am a god, with superhuman intelligence and an almost infinite capacity for learning.
The vampire’s directive has dimmed my memories, though, specifically the ones related to my past existence and the use of my powers.
I can barely recall what transpired the first week after I was put into this body, nor can I remember what my original goal was once I rose from my enforced slumber.
But now, for the first time in ages, I have clarity. I have a purpose.
I will be Christine’s angel, and I will teach her to sing.
For the next hour, I pace along the brink of the canal that runs beneath the New Orpheum Theatre, gnawing my lip, pondering how best to pursue this task.
If I am to become this young woman’s teacher, I must know more about her.
I need to know where she resides. I must understand why she is so reluctant to perform.
The humans in the videos on my laptop seem all too eager to put on a show for swarms of screaming fans.
Some of the singers don’t even possess superior vocal qualities, merely a flair for the dramatic.
But the young human who sang for me today—she has raw talent.
All she needs is a little polish and the courage to sing from the deepest places of her heart.
As usual, a few dozen ghosts are drifting through my lair, moaning and muttering, with the occasional intermittent wail.
Until now, I’ve never spoken to any of them, not wanting to encourage their presence, but it occurs to me that they might prove useful.
Perhaps they, like me, would appreciate a purpose—a goal to achieve.
“You there.” I point to a pale, forlorn-looking female spirit with a long dress and a flowered hat. “What’s your name?”
The ghost halts mid-wail. “Me, sir?”
“Yes, you.”
Her eyes go vacant for a moment as she struggles for words. “I think it’s Agnes, sir.”
“And you.” I turn to a dark-skinned man in a bloodstained dinner jacket who is constantly mooning about and sucking on a cigarette in a silver holder. “Your name?”
He bows to me, an impressive feat since he’s floating in midair. “Benedict, my lord.”
“The two of you will follow a young woman named Christine. She just left the rear stairway. Follow her until midnight, and when you return, tell me everything you’ve learned about her.”
The two ghosts don’t question my orders or demand anything in return. They simply whisk away obediently, leaving me to wonder why I didn’t think of this sooner. If I am to be haunted, the least the spirits can do is serve me, their rightful master.
I raise my voice, addressing the remaining ghosts.
“The rest of you, spread out through this building. I have learned some of its secrets, but I need more. I want to know every passage between the walls, every dark corner, every neglected hallway where someone might pass unseen. Learn it all, and bring the information back to me.”
The ghosts linger for a moment, whispering and muttering, but when I snap, “Go!” they scatter in a frenzy of frightened obedience.
For once, my lair is blessedly quiet, and I am alone.
I wander among the things I have collected—forgotten pieces of furniture from the lower storerooms of this building, cast-off items I have discovered during my midnight strolls through the neighboring streets.
I have been watching a show about reclaiming old pieces and transforming them into objects both glorious and useful, and I’ve made several such attempts, with varying degrees of success.
I am especially pleased with one of my finds—a giant rectangular mirror, heavier than a human male could move alone but no challenge for my godly strength.
The mirror’s frame is encrusted with elaborate carvings that delight my soul in a way I don’t quite understand.
They are beautiful, and I’m beginning to comprehend that I love all things that are beautiful.
Perhaps I always have, and I spent so long slumbering in the dark that I’d forgotten.
Standing before the mirror, I survey myself. My form is familiar, a replica of the aspect in which I walked among humans long ago. My body is beautiful, and so is my face—with one notable exception.
Gingerly I remove the mask I’m wearing, one of several I’ve collected in different colors and styles.
On the right side of my face, open red gashes score the flesh, wounds that haven’t healed since they were inflicted by the wicked little artist who created this body for me.
And those wounds aren’t the worst of it.
If I leave the mask off for more than a few seconds, dark tendrils will begin to creep from the cracks in my flesh, writhing into the air like living worms. They spiral outward, sprouting tiny leaves, growing thicker and longer with every second until I smash the mask back into place.
The moment I cover my scars, the vines burst into dark dust and disappear.
Despite how easy they are to dispel, they unsettle me deeply.
They remind me that though my body may appear human, I’m far from it.
I am no longer Cernunnos, god of death, nor do I fit into any of the human roles I most admire—composers, connoisseurs, patrons of the arts known for their power and good taste.
With my limited powers and this grotesque face, I’m left to exist as a masked wraith—a phantom ravenous for everything I cannot possess.
When I feel like this—maddened and unsatisfied—the only thing that helps is playing music. I’ve collected numerous instruments, but my favorite is an upright antique piano I purchased from a place called eBay. I tuned it myself after watching instructional videos on the laptop.
Learning to play the piano was the work of a few days, and I like to amuse myself by mimicking the style, speed, and skill of the world’s most talented pianists. There’s a piece called “Rush E” that some of them find particularly challenging but which serves as a light exercise for me.
I seat myself on the padded bench and slide back the piano lid.
This time, when my fingers find the keys, they don’t ripple into the melody of the Hammerklavier, “La Campanella,” or any of my familiar favorites.
The girl’s voice lingers in my mind, liquid and thrilling, steeped in the deepest longing.
My fingers drift into a new pattern, a trickle of notes in tribute to that voice, to words softly spoken in the dark. Are you an angel?
“Christine,” I murmur, and I play a delicate little melody, as crisp and lovely as her name.
Until now, all my musical endeavors have been mimicry of others.
But after this encounter with her, something in my mind is unlocked, and I am not merely imitating, but creating.
The wonder of it astounds me, and I laugh, plunging headlong into a flood of wild melody that is mine, that is new, never before heard upon the whole earth.
My fingers fly with frenzied grace over the keys, hammering and thundering, rippling and dancing.
By the end of the madness, I’m sweating, my chest is heaving, there are tears in my eyes and laughter on my lips.
For the first time since I came back to life, I am healed. I am happy.
The satisfaction only lasts until the echoes fade. Panting, I stare at my trembling fingers. When I glance at the clock on top of the piano, I realize that hours have passed. I was lost in the whirlwind of my mind, and I don’t remember any of the music I created.
“My lord,” breathes a voice by my ear, and I leap up with a cry of startled rage. The ghost Agnes flits backward swiftly. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
“What have you learned?” I growl.
“I know where she lives…the Christine girl,” Agnes says. “If you come with me, I can show you, take you there by secret paths. There’s a passage behind the rooms, and you can see her through the mirror. Come, come, we must hurry. She’s getting ready to leave.”
“Leave?” I frown. “What do you mean?”
“She likes to go out most nights.” The ghost arches a disapproving brow. “She enjoys drinks and men. At least that’s what I overheard. Some of the other dancers and theater employees talk about her behind her back. They say she’s a little slut.”
A burst of concussive power surges out of my body, blasting the ghost back several feet.
She wails and cringes. “Forgive me, sir! I was only repeating what they said!”
My reaction surprised me nearly as much as it did her. I’m not sure how I released so much magic at once, nor could I control it, which is unsettling.