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Three Spirits	By : BellaLaura Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Crossovers Views: 3412 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Halloween, or A Christmas Carol. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter 2

The rope tightens, the trickle of water sounding like rapids, and the trio of human lives waits...

MAKE YOUR CHOICE!

Before I can call your name, before a single sound comes from my mouth the catgut is around my neck.

“Erik!” I shoot upright as my hands check my neck, unsure if I have escaped the nightmare again or not. Only my clammy skin is beneath my fingertips, no noose, but the words repeat in my mind again.

You try my patience...Make your choice...

I did...I did I did I did...the wrong one. The tears slide down my cheeks, cold against my colder skin. I shiver at the repetition of the scene playing in my mind.

Wait! I did choose you. I did... I know...I remember. Erik that kiss wasn’t to spare Raoul, but to save us. But it didn’t unblock my words did it?

It’s in your soul...where the true distortion lies

The tears I might have shed for your dark fate....grow cold and turn to tears of hate...

No kiss would erase such additions to the litany of horrid remarks in your life would it?

“I did choose you Erik" I whisper to the dark room. "But now it’s all wrong and too late"

"It is never too late dear child.."

I am not mad...not mad...

As insane as I know it is I have to answer. “Papa?”

“Yes child.”

“Oh.” Now I am all right. Not mad, just traveling from one dream to the next. “It’s been a long time since I dreamed of you, Papa.”

“No child. No dreams.” I squint from the bright translucent shape coming towards me, strangely feeling no fear. “Tonight, dear Christine I am but the first of three visitors...spirits of your past, present, and potential future.”

Just tell yourself to wake up Christine...

Even as my eyes close against the sight, my mind tells me that the apparition will not have vanished when they reopen.

My open eyes find the spirit closer to my bed, the face of my beloved father there, transparent and shimmery, but unmistakably Gustave Daae. Feelings long buried rush through me, as if I am a child of eight who once more wishes for nothing but the safety of their parent’s arms. With such a wish in my mind it is impossible to resist, and I reach out...my arms passing through his shape as if it were a mere fog in my room,

“My darling girl, I cannot embrace you in this form I have now, but perhaps what you discover tonight will be of greater worth.”

My heart pounds as the realization of how much pain could have been avoided if he had but shown up earlier, been the promised Angel of Music. “Why Papa? Why now?”

The silvery image floats until it seems to be sitting upon the edge of my bed. “I am not the one who dictates when a messenger is dispatched. I only know that I am grateful for the opportunity.”

My father stares at me for a long moment before continuing. “You have grown into such a beautiful young woman” He reaches a finger towards my cheek before remembering it would do no good, and sighs. “You are so like your mother...in looks and.... I thought only your mother could sing so beautifully, Oh Christine I have heard angels sing! And your voice my child! What a beautiful instrument it has become...it is like an angel!”

Please Papa...don’t mention angels. You may have heard them, but I have tasted the tears of one.

“I don’t sing anymore Papa...not since....not...well it’s been several months.” My revered voice tightens. “And it does not matter now.”

“I know about all of that my child, but...”

“NO! There is nothing else. I may as well stop dreaming because there will be no stage, no ovations, no glorious career.” I will him to understand. “A viscountess is not allowed to do such things”

“And you will let your soul wither away, deny it the use of the talent you were born with?”

Even in ghostly form my father’s scolding tone affects me and I look away, unwilling to lie. Instead I say nothing at all. There are no words which will not bring forth another flood of tears. Raoul’s refusal to discuss the incident does not mean he is willing to let me sing again. He (I mean we of course) studiously avoids any situations where I might be requested to perform, and so I have let my hopes for my music die quietly along with so many of the others.

“Dreams matter child. They give us hope, something to strive for. Are you willing to sacrifice everything for this?” His ghostly arm motions and instantly the room is illuminated, the fire and candlelight reflecting off the polished wood and marble.

“Please Papa...don’t.”

“Why Christine? Why? Your voice, your music is you.. Deny it and you choke part of your own soul. The melodies and rhythms that flow through you are as precious as the blood in your veins. If you wish to die, why be so agonizingly slow about it child? Why this?”

“I...” A single tear escapes as thoughts of another who believed in my dreams to be a great singer fill my mind. How many hours did you spend Erik, training me... preparing me for my dream? And I....I turned your dream into another nightmare. I do not deserve my dream.

“Come Christine...it is time for us to go.”

“Go?” The sudden change of topic flusters my poor mind further. “Go where?”

The ghost of my father stands, and all the candles in the room go out save one. He smiles at me again. “Where you can learn the importance of using the talent you are given.”

“But it is the middle of the night.” I feel ridiculous stating such an obvious fact, but then again how often does one converse with a ghost?

“Come,” His transparent arm motions to the one candle left glowing as it rests in its holder upon my bedside table. “Pick up the candle and we can go.”

The compulsion of a child’s obedience to her parent overtakes any hesitation I feel as I reach for the candle. The instant it is in my hand the room whirls into a dizzying kaleidoscope, my bed disappearing from underneath me. I feel free as I adjust to the odd sensations, as if the rules of gravity no longer apply. Papa is beside me and wherever we are going surely, it cannot be as bad as where I have already been.

My candle suddenly goes out as my feet hit upon firm ground once more. The lamps upon the unfamiliar street adequately take over the duties of my meager and now extinguished candle. A couple stroll past me, completely unnoticing of a young woman standing on the sidewalk in her nightclothes, and I catch wisps of conversation in German.

As I turn to ask Papa the most obvious question, I find him paying no mind to me. Instead he is walking....floating....moving towards a magnificent building. I follow him, my morbid curiosity getting the best of me, stopping as he does in front of the poster adorning the entry.

My German is sadly lacking, most of my training in the Italian and French operas so popular right now, but the picture is unmistakable. “Maman?”

Papa nods as he continues to stare. “I had forgotten how much I loved this performance.” He suddenly seems aware that I am waiting for some sort of explanation. “We are in Munich in 1852. This is the famous Bayerische Staatsoper (Bavarian State Opera) and your Maman is singing the role of Elsa in Wagner’s Lohengrin.”

“Maman.” I repeat it again, the word sounding strangely comforting in a time in my life where I doubted I could ever find solace in anything.

“She is the star...the diva...the voice sent from heaven more than one review said of her. By this performance she had traveled over most of the continent as well as England. But here...this night, this performance was unforgettable.” He floated in his ghostly way towards the entrance, pausing to look at me and ask “Are you coming child?” before he passed cleanly through the thick doors.

The ground feels genuine underneath my feet and I touch my arm, again confirming my own substantial existence. Yet I cannot deny that there is some trepidation in my mind as I walk up the steps. Do I proceed as a normal being would... as I believe my own self is able to do? Or am I expected to enter as my father did?

A sigh of relief escapes my lips as the door’s handle is grasped by my hand and easily opened. I walk through to find Papa there waiting, a look of amusement upon his face.

“Forgive me little one, I forgot to explain all this when we arrived. You are still as solidly human as you ever were, but you remain invisible, silent and hidden to everyone except me. Now come on Christine....you can’t miss this.”

I have no time to enjoy the beautiful entry, as I hurry and follow. I can hear the music pouring from the auditorium, a men’s chorus, a rich baritone. I don’t understand the words, but the tension and tone in the melody is evidence of a conflict. As my father passes through the main auditorium door, I follow in the conventional manner, freezing in place as the first sonorous wave hits.

In Lichter Waffen Scheine In splendid, shining armour
ein Ritter nahte da, a knight approached,
so tugendlicher Reine a man of such pure virtue
ich keinen noch ersah: as I had never seen before:

I keep walking towards the stage, drawn like a moth to the light that is her voice. The richness of tone enraptures, captivates the audience as well. There is no sound, none of the soft chatter that always penetrates the music in the productions in Paris. Only the waves of music are tangible as I continue down the center aisle.

Ein golden Horn zur Hüften, a golden horn at his side,
gelehnet auf sein Schwert, - leaning on a sword -
so trat er aus den Lüften thus he appeared to me
zu mir, der Recke wert; from nowhere, this warrior true

I stop when I reach the front, standing right behind the conductor in the pit. As the music swells I turn my head and suddenly realize it is my father seated in the concertmaster’s place. Sweat is visible upon his brow as he coaxes the violin to match the timbre and beauty of the voice. I look back and forth from my mother to my father, and the realization hits me that she is singing to him now. He knows as well and turns but slightly to smile up at her, the motion never interrupting his own masterful performance.

mit züchtigem Gebaren with kindly gestures
gab Tröstung er mir ein; he gave me comfort;
des Ritters will ich wahren, I will wait for the knight,
er soll mein Streiter sein! he shall be my champion

The ovation halts the performance, the pounding applause echoing the thunderous rhythm of my heart as I watch my mother bow in acknowledgement. Then all is dark again.

A scream pierces the darkness almost immediately, a sharp horrifying cry that makes my skin want to crawl from my bones. My candle reignites itself, the tiny light a feeble weapon against the ebony cloak of darkness.

“Papa?”

A door cracks open across the black void- a sliver of light escaping as a softer moan is heard.

“Papa?”

“I am here.” And he is, inhabiting the space beside me once again, the look on his face indescribable.

“What is wrong? Where is the opera house...Maman?”

“For every joy there is pain Christine. Does the prospect of the latter make the former worth the risk?”

“I don’t understand.”

A high wail escapes the room again and the door suddenly slams shut. My father looks across the distance with an inconsolable pain in his eyes. Each strangled cry that seeps from the room causes another degree of tenseness to appear in his ghostly countenance.

“After Lohengrin, I proposed to your mother, sure she would reject me, praising God when she did not. We married and then spent two wonderful years traveling and performing. By the time we arrived in Paris it was spring and your mother was enciente. She felt well enough throughout the summer and early fall to sing in several galas. Indeed I thought her beautiful the moment I first lay eyes upon her, but every month she...”

His voice falls to a whisper and I strain to hear him continue. “She was simply exquisite, the epitome of beauty and talent and I was constantly amazed that she was mine. Fall came, then the holidays, but Elise stayed in. I performed and then would return home to her. It was a blissful, wonderful life....love, music, waiting for you to arrive. So this caught me off guard...”

The door reopens and I can now see the figures of my father and a physician, the latter consoling as the former falls upon his knees sobbing.

“Go on Christine...learn what you must. I cannot enter that room again.” His ghostly hand brushes over my cheek; I feel but a hint of a breeze behind its passing. “One viewing of such is enough for any lifetime...or afterlife. Godspeed my daughter.”

In the blink of an eye I am alone....again. I will wake up now. I will not go in there. “Haven’t I seen enough people suffer because of me?” I yell at the empty space. “Why this too? I know she died because of me!”

“No Christine.” My father’s voice surrounded me in the dark space. “She lives on because of you.”

His words bolster my spirit for a moment, and I walk...one hesitant step after another

“I can’t....” The weakly spoken words no longer have the vibrancy of the woman who graced the stages of Europe’s finest opera houses.

“Madame...you must. It is your child’s only hope.”

No no no...I cannot do this... “Why?!? How will this help me?” My pleas mix with sobs...some mine and some from the woman struggling vainly to expel my sorry carcass from her body. “Seeing this nightmare can do no good! Or is this part of some punishment?” I am irate now, the months of pent up anger, frustration, and heartbreak more that I can hold back “Why not just go ahead and let me die???”

“Go in Christine and find out why.”

Get it over with....then you can wake up.

Why? What is there to wake up for?

The bleating wet cry of an infant interrupts my morbid contemplation, my damnable sense of curiosity getting the best of me, forcing my body into the room.

It is an odd sensation, quite an oxymoron in fact, to walk into such a well lit room which I know is the place where my mother draws her last breath. I think the presence of such illumination upon this agonizing tableau is cruelty in itself. Sunlight in December should not be so strong, indeed the only thing stronger is the lingering presence of death...lying patiently in wait for such easy quarry.

But warmth? No no no of course you will find no warmth here Christine. This light illuminates death, and fails to warm the soul. I could burn in the fire that roars beneath the mantel, burn a thousand times over and yet my soul would be frozen.

“Hello my darling.” I am brought back from the depths of my wanderings by the hoarse whisper of my mother’s voice. The physician has wrapped me in a blanket and is holding me close to my mother. I feel the lump form in my throat as she tries and fails to lift her arms to take me. “Please...”

“Of course, Madame.” He tucks me in the crook of Maman’s arm and moves her other over me. The vibrant ruddiness of my newborn skin is a sharp contrast to the pale, sweat streaked countenance of my mother. The doctor busily tries to tidy the room, assumingly for my father’s appearance as my mother watches me.

For the briefest of moments I can see my mother imagining that everything is alright, that perhaps by Christmas she can....and then with a grimace the moment is broken, a fresh rush of blood seeping through the sheets.

“Monsieur?”

“Oui, Madame, I shall fetch him immediately.” The doctor wastes no time, hurrying past me to the door. He closes it behind, and I don’t want to imagine the fresh tears upon my father’s face as he receives the news.

“Ahh ma petite...so many many things to say, and not enough time. But ...”

I am drawn to the bedside, desperate to know, to remember this love...to hear what words are said.

“My little one....you...are the best parts of me and your papa....”

My father comes rushing in now, a horrid attempt at a brave look upon his face. “Elise?”

“Come here, ma coeur.” My mother smiles before another grimace takes over. I hear the drip now as the saturated sheet leaks crimson upon the floor, each bright drop a disparity to the seeping pallor of my mother’s once vivacious complexion. My father complies immediately, moving to the side of the bed opposite my invisible self.

“She is as beautiful as her mother.”

The look in my mother’s eyes, one of complete adoration, shall stay imprinted with me as long as I draw breath. “Watch out my love, your Papa has such charm.” She smiles at me again, before turning serious. “I must tell you both...must tell...” Her eyes close...

“Elise?” My father’s voice catches as he grabs her hand. I see her weakly squeeze back before her eyes meet his.

“Love endures all things.” She turns her head to look at my infant self. “Never forget that my precious daughter. It is the most precious gift, and know that as long as you draw breath on this earth you have all of my love.”

It is almost too much for me to bear, watching as she kisses my forehead. It seems to take all her remaining strength to pull my father’s hand to her mouth, the dry, parched lips weakly kissing it before my father cups her cheek in a gentle caress.

“You are my world Gustave. Love her as much as you love me....do not blame her for this. It is... whatever is meant to be.” She closes her eyes and sighs softly, and I bite my lip had enough to draw blood... praying for some means or magic to trade places with her, to spare my parents this pain, to do something right for once.

“You are my world Elise, I...” He blinks back another tear. “I am blessed...I...” At this he gives up and falls sobbing upon my mother’s shoulder, his words of love blurring amongst his tears of despair. I stand there watching my mother’s life seep from her body as my father begs God for a miracle. His tear stained face raises from her body as she gently pats his shoulder.

“I love you Gustave. Thank you....for the best years of my life, and for my beautiful daughter. Name her...after Maman...will you?”

“Yes love...anything.”

She smiles again, a smile so beautiful that not even death could mar it. “It doesn’t hurt now.” A soft gurgle emits from the bundle, and with immense effort she turns that smile towards the infant me. “I love you, my precious girl.”

I am now crying unabashedly, grateful that I am invisible to those in this room. Aren’t I? For as sure as I am that I cannot be seen (which as I think about it, I am not very sure at all) my mother, on her deathbed, looks straight at me.

“There is nothing greater than love, Christine.” Her breath is shallow now, but her intense gaze never leaves me, her voice steady as she continues. “Denial of love...more painful a death than this. Remember... Christine...love endures all things.” Her eyes close and this time they remain so, her last breath no more than a whisper against the sobs of my father.

He kisses her cheek one last time and then gingerly picks me up. “Well Christine Elise Daae, I guess it is just you and me now.” He looks again at the body of his wife. “I will do my best, my love.”

You did fine Papa...it is my own mistakes...my own foolishness that has destroyed everything...everyone....the most important one..

We all make mistakes my daughter... I freeze as my mother’s voice sounds clearly in my ears. I turn and look around...the room is empty, my mother’s corpse still upon it’s bloody mattress. Yet the voice continues on...

Mistakes are part of life, it is the choice you make afterwards. Repair the mistake or make another one?

“It’s not the same.”

Yes Christine...it is...love endures all things.

“Erik has endured enough thanks to my love....I will not hurt him again.”

You will see my child...you will see.

In an instant I hear the ticking of the damned clock, and I blink as I realize I am back in my room. Back? Pffft. I did not go anywhere...simply some entertaining delusions...nerves before a wedding...indeed.

“Ha!” I call out to the dark room. “It is my imagination...nothing more! Nothing more!”

“I am afraid you are mistaken Christine.” A familiar voice says in the darkness.

TBC
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Three Spirits