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And thus the torture begins!
Part Two.
PART TWO. (Read the last entry for the first part...)

“I don’t know my parent’s credit card numbers if that’s what you mean. OK? If you want to know where the money in the house is, fine, but it’s only about twenty dollars.” I stated simply.

“I have no interest in your money.” He said simply. “I was hoping that you might be able to clear up how I came to be here.” He finished.

My patience was warring thin at this point. “How should I bloody know how you got here!? You probably broke through the window in hopes of getting a quick pile of cash. Wonderful thief you are, forgetting what you’re doing in the middle of it. And in the middle of the day across from a police station!”

“I’m not a thief. I’m merely a man from Paris, who is in search of some answers.” He replied.

I scowled. “Right. Paris. Just because you can waltz into my room, look at the poster, and discern that I like Phantom of the Opera, doesn’t mean I’m going to think you’re the stupid Opera Ghost!” I snapped.

He looked at me, his golden eyes unreadable. His eyes flickered to one of the posters on the wall, a massive four page spread of the masquerade scene. He seemed to look at it closely for the first time.

I frowned. “Fine. I’ll play into your delusions if It buys me a few moments of breathing air. Hi. How are you doing? I hope Nadir’s well. How’s Ayesha getting along. Did the managers bloody pay you ye-?”

At that moment, my words were cut off as his hand seized my throaght, and pushed me against the wall. I realized two things simultaneously. First off, his hands were incredibly cold, which wasn’t terribly significant. The second thing I noticed was no matter how confident I sounded just seconds ago, I was still afraid of death.

“Mademoiselle. I would ask that you tell me where you came across this information.” He hissed softly.

I made a frantic gesture with my hands, hoping he’d translate it to something along the lines of ‘I’ll tell you whatever you want to know as soon as you release my neck, for it is restricting my vocal chords, as well as making it increasingly difficult to breath.’

He must be like a mind reader or something, because he released my throaght and I took a deep breath, coughing a bit. When I was sufficiently sure that I wasn’t about to pass out, I looked up at him, a bit more mistrust in my eyes. “I read it in a book.”

He moved again, and I shrank back, hands going to my own neck in defense. He didn’t grab for it again.

“What book?” He asked simply.

“Phantom. And Phantom of the Opera. Kay’s and Leroux’s. Same story, different interpretations. I have like eight copies. Look for yourself.” I said, gesturing a small pile of novels. I had been writing before, and had all eight copies out, as if different covers of the same novel would some how help me overcome my writers block. It hadn’t.

He rose, moving over and picking up a novel. He leafed through it, not seeming too satisfied with what he saw. He dumped it back on the floor and I flinched. “That cost me twenty five bucks you know.” I said, half heartedly, for I didn’t want my neck to be broken at that particular moment.

“And this is common knowledge.”

“Yeah. I resort to my theory that you’re mental if you don’t know that it just became the longest running Broadway musical. Webber’s a bloody millionaire after all this, and he’s the nerve to start work on a sequel based off of that horrible novel. Phantom of Manhattan. I still hold Otto as my hero, for his heroic attempt to stall that event.” I said, noticing that I was rambling quite a bit. I came back to the point. “But yeah. You can pick up a copy of this book in almost every book store.” I finished.

He nodded, looking at me strangely. “Ah. Well. I’m afraid, I’m not to acquainted with this time period’s culture. I would be obliged if you might assist me.”

“Well you better become acquainted with this particular time period, because I’m not too keen on showing around a loon.” I paused, looking him over. He was oddly thin, and I found myself wondering for a moment if he wasn’t a loon after all.

I shook my head. Impossible. Just because the fanfics exist, doesn’t make it true. Besides. Nothing was right! Erik only ever appeared when some poor phan was watching the Gerard Butler movie version of phantom… and Erik would never accept that.

I licked my dry lips. “So… you’re telling me… that you’re a deformed genius, who lives under an Opera House, that you helped to build, and come from the eighteen hundreds?” I asked, not ready to believe that.

But he nodded. I paused. How would I know. “Sing something.” I said.

He remained silent, looking at me for explanation.

“I won’t know until you do. Sing, or I’ll make it my business to get to the police outside. Even if I don’t make it, you’ll have one hell of a time fitting in around here without my help.”

Erik’s lips parted, and he sang a few grudging lines from Don Giovanni. I closed my eyes. His heart wasn’t in the music, as he was probably too busy being pretty annoyed with me. But the voice didn’t leave any doubt. I could be reduced to tears by the worst recording of Pavarotti (may he rest in peace), but I’m sorry to say that this put even the best recordings of his out of the picture.

I opened my eyes before he stopped, and nodded. “Alright. Fine then. Messier.” I said, not quite sure what to address him as now. “If…If you would wait downstairs, I’ll get ready and be down in a moment.”

He nodded. Wordlessly, he rose and moved down the hallway. I got up and headed towards the bathroom. I paused in the door way, turning around.

I stared after him in awe, not so much at the fact that the Phantom of the Opera was in my house, but more at the fact that he had just walked soundlessly down the creakiest stairs in all of New York State.

I shook my head, not sure if I was excited, or nervous. What was I supposed to do? It wasn’t as if I could just send him back… and was I prepared to have an experienced murderer living in my home? I just thanked the lord that my parents weren’t home… What would they say?

I sighed, picking up the tooth brush and brushing my teeth. Oh well. There wasn’t much I could do anyway. I’d simply have to see and wait.

The Opera Toast
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The Opera Toast
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