Chapter 6 The Phantom
The Phantom
Christine almost caught me.
I let myself wander too close to her, and then, when she lay down and parted her legs, exposing herself to my view, I could not make myself turn away.
I have seen plenty of naked humans during my online excursions, and while they’re pleasant to the eye, I don’t experience any notable attraction to them.
The closest I’ve come to being aroused by images or videos of humans is when they’re exceptionally gifted in the creative arts, brilliantly talented in the areas of music or performance.
Otherwise, they hold no sexual interest for me.
Christine is both intelligent and sympathetic as a person.
Besides her breathtaking voice, she accepts my instruction with a humble dignity that I find most entrancing.
I usually spend our lessons in a state of arousal, and when I caught that first glimpse of her pussy through the broken window of the stairway door, I couldn’t help myself.
I reached down and pressed my hand against the bulge between my legs.
She performed the pelvic exercises as I instructed, while I rubbed myself lightly through the fabric of my pants, my mind blurred with desire, no thoughts in my head except the pursuit of a pleasure I haven’t enjoyed since Cathy’s tryst with Heathcliff in the church, so many months ago.
I didn’t realize Christine had noticed me until it was almost too late.
I had to move quickly. I slipped into a side room, pulled myself up through a hole in the ceiling, and emerged on the third-floor landing.
From there, I could cast my voice to any point I desired, and the distorted echoes of the stairwell ensured that she was thoroughly confused about my location.
She must not be allowed to see me. She thinks of me as a spirit, an angel, a phantom.
That’s why she trusts me with her voice, her soul.
If she knew I had a physical body with such desires, she would recoil from me.
She would flee, as she did at the end of our lesson, when I sang “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine.
” That song was too poignant, too personal.
I should have known better than to venture so close to the idea of a romantic connection between us.
And yet my heart shields the tiniest flame of hope that perhaps, against all odds, Christine might come to cherish more than my lessons.
Perhaps, if I can help her overcome her fears and realize her dreams, she will value me enough to overlook my wretched face and my desolate past.
***
When I wake up, I am suffocating among thick black vines.
My mask must have dislodged during the night. The tendrils emerged from the wounds in my face and slithered around me, wrapping me tight. I cannot move. I cannot see. I can barely breathe.
Terror blazes through my very bones. This is how it felt, being suppressed under soil, chained by curses, lulled into tormented sleep by the droning of hymns from the cult charged with keeping me bound.
The blood of fresh sacrifices woke my spirit in the Afterworld, but I was still only a shadow of myself until I clutched the soul of the necromancer Heathcliff and rode his power out of the darkness into the world again.
But in this moment, I feel as if I never escaped at all.
Panic ratchets up my heartbeat into a frantic rhythm. I have a human body, forged from the magic of the leannán sídhe, but I’m not sure how durable it is. How fast can a human heart race before it explodes? Am I going to die here, strangled by the remnants of my own divine power?
“My lord,” calls a faint voice. “My lord.”
It sounds like Benedict, the ghost with the cigarette holder.
“I’m trapped,” I manage between fear-stiffened lips.
“Breathe slowly, my lord,” he replies. “Focus on something pleasant to calm yourself.”
Something pleasant. Music, of course, and Christine. I drag in a fragmented breath, then another. The vines loosen slightly.
“Keep breathing,” urges Benedict. “Slow and steady. You did this to yourself—you can undo it. Focus on what needs to happen.”
His voice is a tether to reality. I cling to it, and to the knowledge that Christine’s audition is happening soon, and I promised I would be there for her. I visualize the vines loosening, peeling back from my body, bursting one by one into puffs of black dust.
“I am a god,” I whisper sternly. “I control you. You do not control me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the vines obey, withdrawing and shriveling into ash, just as I pictured. I fight my way out of the crumbling remnants. My hands are shaking, and my body is slick with sweat. Desperately, I fumble among the sheets until I find my mask, and I fit it into place again.
When I try to stand, my legs give way, and I crumple to the floor beside my bed. “Fuck,” I whisper.
“You did it,” says Benedict.
I look up at his vague, wispy form, at the satisfied smile on his face. “Thank you.”
He nods. “Happy to help.”
“I will reward you as I did Agnes, with the ability to interact with certain objects,” I say breathlessly.
“I would be grateful. But only after you regain your strength.”
The kindness in his tone strikes a chord deep inside me. I could count on a few fingers the souls who have treated me kindly, in this world or beyond.
After a moment, I manage to struggle to my feet. “What news from my theater?”
“Nothing new to report,” he replies. “There will be auditions held in the theater today for a new musical. The composer is apparently a relative of Gil Leveque, Firmin Richards’s business partner. Should I observe the auditions? Gather information about the composer?”
“I’ll be there myself, but you could linger on the theater floor and listen to the comments from the director, the composer, and anyone else with influence on casting choices. And have a few of the other ghosts linger backstage to gather information from those who audition.”
“Very well.” He drifts away, and I head for the bathroom to shower.
The bathroom adjoining my lair used to be a wretched place, with three overflowing toilets, two broken sinks, and a shower whose drain practically oozed cockroaches, but I repaired and retiled it all myself with the help of several dozen instructional videos.
Now it has a luxurious shower, a new toilet, and a gleaming pair of sinks atop a well-stocked vanity.
After a thorough application of pest control products and the addition of a rain showerhead, the place is much more worthy of cleansing a god’s mortal form.
While the hot water washes the sweat from my body, I mentally review all the pawns I have in play and what the best move might be for each of them.
Three weeks ago, I instructed the ghosts in my service to look for any secrets I could use to control the residents of this place.
So far, they’ve brought back some useful information—a torrid affair between Mrs. Giry and one of her male students, the lighting technician’s violent criminal record, the security guard’s penchant for watching porn during his shift, the theft of some small valuables by two members of the cleaning staff, and the most useful piece of information yet…
the fact that Firmin Richards, the owner and developer of this building, spies on the female residents and the dancers via the two-way mirrors installed at various points throughout the building.
It’s surprisingly easy to control humans, even without magic.
All I need is my phone, the number of the person I want to blackmail, and their darkest secret, with enough proof to apply the perfect amount of leverage.
Thanks to the internet and a few devoted ghosts, I hold all the cards now.
If I wanted to, I could bring most of the people in this building to their knees with a few carefully worded texts.
Yesterday, I persuaded the security guard to ensure that Box Five of the theater will be empty and undisturbed during the auditions.
It’s perfectly situated for my needs—angled for an ideal view of the stage, yet deeply shadowed even when the house lights are on.
From there, I can size up Christine’s rivals and enjoy her audition.
Shortly before ten o’clock in the morning, I traverse the back hallways of the building, circumventing the residence areas, the dance studios, and the wedding chapel.
A black coat with a capacious hood shrouds my form.
If anyone should spot me, they won’t think twice about my apparel, since the skies opened up this morning and unleashed a heavy autumn rain on all of Nashville and its suburbs.
At last, I reach the theater space and enter by the employees’ door, which was left unlocked as I requested. A handful of emergency lights gleam at intervals in the theater lobby and the hallways. I mount the dark steps to the second floor, my polished shoes soundless on the thick carpet.
The door to Box Five is also unlocked, and I make a mental note to reward the security guard for his loyal service.
After stepping through and closing the door softly behind me, I walk to the edge of the balcony and survey the silent theater, lit only by the pinpoints of light marking the central aisle and the exits.
From what I’ve gleaned of this building’s history, this space was once a factory floor, now remodeled into a gorgeous theater with tiers of plush seating, ornate wall paneling, gilded cornices, and heavy crimson drapery.
The edge of each balcony features carvings of pomegranates, grapes, and swirling leaves, and the ceiling boasts a gothic painting of Hades leading Persephone down to the Underworld.
I take the central seat in the box and lean back, prepared to wait for nearly an hour until auditions begin at eleven.
But I’ve only waited for ten minutes before light flares onstage, illuminating a swath of the boards.
Frowning, I sit up straighter and lean forward.