I awake in the grip of fever and a blinding headache. The room spins and I retch violently unless I remain motionless with my eyes clamped shut. Christine soothes my brow and holds my hand.

"This is all my fault; I've hurt you too much, too much," she despairs, hiding her precious face in her hands. I don't know what she means.

-0-0-0-0-

I sleep fitfully; how long, I don't know, but whenever I wake, she remains by my side. I desire neither food nor drink, but she encourages me to partake, rewarding me with smiles and telling me how it pleases her when I do so.

Eventually I am able to stay awake and look around me without sickness or a nameless panic overtaking me. Soon, I can function again. I move like an automaton through my home, speaking of trivialities with the beautiful girl whose eyes overflow with concern for me. Yet, for all her tender care, for all the joy she gives me, my grief seems endless. My Christine is gone; I can remember no details. I was ill; when I awoke, finally well again, she was gone. If only I could remember, I tell myself, it would make a difference in my grief. Then again, perhaps I shouldn't struggle with the memories so. How does one get over the love of one's life?

"Here, Erik; take this for me; it will help you to sleep." She puts laudanum in my nighttime tea, for some weeks now. She says I walk the corridors at night, moaning and mourning, and it terrifies everyone upstairs. She is afraid, I know, that I'm mad as a hatter, but I have never been more lucid.

-0-0-0-0-

One day, she tells me she must go above. We need all manner of provisions; everything is depleted. "I would like to go to Mass before marketing, Erik. It is so long since I've been…"

"Of course, Child. Take whatever time you need; you needn't rush back to me. I…ha, ha…am not going anywhere. Here; get yourself something pretty," I smile, pressing a little extra money on her.

She smiles gratefully, dresses, and is gone. She is a good girl; I think she will keep her word and return as soon as she can, taking no time for herself. Once she has left me, I feel free to weep. It upsets her so to see me in my grief.

It is only upon waking that I realize I've slept. She is returned, and bustles about restocking our pantry. When she notices that I've awakened, she rushes to me with a smile. "Look, Erik; I've brought L'Epoque. It has all the news of the new theater season, and…look," she urges, pressing the paper into my hand. It seems crucial to her that I take some interest in the world above; all of a sudden, there is so much in this life that I don't understand. Still, if it is important to her, I will read the paper and converse with her about what I can learn.

-0-0-0-0-

Time passes; I can tell by the flowers that she brings below. A new pattern to life emerges. Her ministrations are unflagging; her capacity for compassion seems limitless. I come to realize that if I remain a kind of an invalid, I can keep her with me forever. But even a monster knows slavery is wrong. No; it is precisely because I am a monster that I know how wrong it is to imprison a body, much less a heart and soul. She hides from life down here with me.

"Come here, Child; come here. Sit with Erik awhile." She smiles and places her little hand in mine. "You must not stay here, playing nursemaid to an old man, my dear. Go, go have your life as I have had mine," I smile.

"Erik, please…" her eyes darken as they do every time I try to speak to her this way.

"Whatever became of that fine young man? You remember…your Mother liked him so very much. It would please her to know that–"

"Erik…"

"And me, too. It would please me, too. How can I rest easy in my dotage, worrying what's to become of you after I'm gone?"

"Don't…there's nothing wrong with you," she sighs. "You're perfectly healthy."

"But I am an old man, Child. Before too long, I'll join your Mother." She begins to weep silently. "Hush, now; I want to go. I've had my time. It's your turn now." Stubborn child, she won't listen. But I know how to wear her down; just a little word here and there, every day.

-0-0-0-0-

She must have returned from Mass; I hear the sounds of tea being prepared. I slip into my dressing gown and make my way to the parlor. She has a guest; the young man leaps to his feet with a start. She is on her feet, too, rushing to my side with a tight little smile.

"Erik, you remember my friend, Raoul, don't you?" She seems so fretful. Her young man nearly cringes when I approach him.

"Of course," I extend my hand, smiling as best I can. He takes my hand, looking hopelessly confused. "You look as tough you've seen a ghost, young man. Ha, ha!" Perhaps I am mad after all; I always laugh at my own jokes even when no one else does. I think these two make a fine couple; both of them solemn and worried all the time.

I fiddle with my piano, humming. I am trying to give the children a bit of privacy, but when I have a surreptitious look at them, they are murmuring anxiously and glancing furtively in my direction. Obviously this serious little couple will get up to no mischief with the old man about, so I decide I will sit and make conversation with the boy.

"I hope you will stay for tea, Raoul. Little Christine is a fine cook."

"Thank you, I will."

I shake a bony finger at him. "I remember you from the Opera, do I not?"

He glances at my daughter quizzically; she shrugs. "Ah, yes, I…have been a patron for some time."

I nod. "Did you ever hear my Christine sing? She made the angels weep…" Try as I might, I still cannot speak of her without tears threatening. "Forgive me, she is only recently gone…"

Young Raoul looks to her, embarrassed and confused; she moves to his side and whispers, "He doesn't remember…anything."

"My God," he whispers, "I didn't believe it when you told me."

"Ssshhh; he is happy most of the time, and as you see, harmless." What the devil does she man, harmless? How quickly they forget; I was the fearsome Opera Ghost, a lifetime ago, it seems now.

After tea, Raoul tells me that he would like to bring little Christine and me to his home, outside Paris. I suppose in her devotion, she has refused to leave her decrepit old father in the caverns. She is a good girl.

What choice do I have? My life is over; hers only beginning. Yet when I leave this place behind, there will be nothing left of my life with her mother, except what I hold in my heart. I wish they would let me stay, but she is a stubborn girl; I know she will never permit it. Still, let me give it one try.

"I don't know; I am an old man, and set in my ways. Look around you, Raoul: this place is all my life with my Christine–your little Christine's Mother. I met her at the Opera, you know; I was a musician, and she was an angel of music. See the costumes, the sets and stagings I designed for her--these watercolors, these sketches–all Christine. Look at your Christine, hm? The absolute image of her Mother. Better I should stay here with my memories, and you children make your way. I'm alright."

She rushes to my side and falls to her knees. "No, Erik, I won't leave you!" she cries. "Raoul--tell him, please tell him he's welcome!"

"Of course; you're absolutely welcome. Christine wouldn't hear of leaving you here alone…and…neither would I." I believe he is perfectly sincere; he adores my daughter, and would do anything for her, but he is uncomfortable with me, I can see it. Ah well, with time I will just be old granddad; he will accustom to my face, such as it is. He is a decent young fellow. My Christine always liked him.

"Will you come, Erik?" he asks. He seems to have some trouble speaking my name. I wonder if my little Christine's young man isn't too bright. Still, I remember he has some title, so-and-so, so she'll be well taken care of.

"Yes, I will come," I smile sadly. "One cannot stand in the way of young love, hm?"

When I look at my daughter, I see that her eyes are streaming. It is not the reaction I expected, but perhaps they are tears of joy. She rushes to me, overwhelmed with emotion, and grips my hands so tightly it almost hurts.

"Please, Erik, look at me. Look at me, won't you? Erik, don't you know me?"

"Of course I know you, my Angel," I whisper, cradling her lovely cheek in my palm. "You are my good little girl. How I wish your Mother could have seen you happily settled with this young man." She closes her eyes and embraces me as if she will never do so again; silly girl.

"Oh, Erik…" she emits a deep, shuddering sigh.

"Come now; we mustn't keep your beau waiting."

FIN