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Far below, the ballet mistress was tapping her walking stick on the stage, garnering the attention of ballerinas and chorus members alike. They all turned to her with an awe inspired fear, the hushed whisperings and scampering feet falling silent.
He watched too.
That face. He had seen it before somewhere. He knew that face. How did he know that face? None of his previous work involved the ballet corps. Besides, he hadn’t been in Paris for decades—not since…
The key changed, a new tonal centre. He staggered, the cold of the stone wall shooting through his hand. He looked to it, and, for a moment, the music shifted back. But when he looked up, the new key returned, its familiarity prickling over his skin, a strange metallic blue.
It coloured the ballet mistress’ face too, flashing deep blue-grey in her eyes. Her wrinkles faded, the marks of stress, of pain, of life’s trials far less prominent. The sounds came next. The bustle of excited fairgoers, the shrill, ever-present music, the smell of sweets and hot coffee, the saccharine screams of children. It all clung to him against his will.
He shook his head and stepped back. His hand reached back and met wood—wood? Shouldn’t it be stone?
A crowd gathered before him, curious and horrified. He stood and straightened, drawing his shoulders back. A face caught his eye—a young woman, oddly familiar. Her eyes held no horror nor curiosity, only concern. For a moment she caught his eye, and he could have sworn he saw the corners of her mouth curl up in a weak smile.
One of her friends nudged her, trying to get her attention. “They said he’s only half alive!”
“I heard that he’s like that because his mother lay with the grim reaper himself,” another chimed in.
“I heard that it was because his father died during the act of—”
“Gross!” another squealed, clapping her hands over her ears.
“My friend saw him do magic. He disappeared!”
“You can’t actually disappear. It’s a trick.”
“Maybe he can do it because he’s half-dead.”
All through it the young woman stayed fixed on him. He closed his eyes and took a breath. For a moment, the wood went cold. He pulled his hand away in shock. No. The key was still wrong. This wasn’t supposed to be—
“Get on with it,” his handler hissed from the side of the stage.
On with what?
A shove propelled him forwards, back into the spotlight. He squinted and pushed the voices of the young women from his mind, his body following a worn pattern, the same routine he had performed for weeks? Months? It didn’t matter. The whole thing had been a mistake. He had thought—thought what? That he could be a performer? That anyone would ever take someone like him seriously? That he could ever be anything but a—
“Freak!” One of the young men in the crowd was pointing at him.
He grit his teeth. They could at least be more creative with their insults. He held out his hand, a flame appearing in it—one of his own illusions. They had let him have use of their mirrors and traps after he had gone off script once. He had been severely beaten for it, but in the end, they’d let him continue. The revenue it generated was too lucrative to turn down. Vultures.
“Hey! Corpse boy!”
Something whistled through the air and thudded off his chest. He looked down slowly and took a breath. His lungs fluttered, and he coughed, a strange tickling in his chest. His vision continued to the ground where a fist sized rock had fallen. The crowd fell silent as though he himself had stolen their breath.
“Show us your coffin!”
With the words of the young man, the spell broke. The crowd came alive. People jeered and hurled more insults. Small children tossed pebbles. Some tossed coins. The young man who had called out hurled another rock.
He held his arm up, and it bounced off, smacking against bone.
He glanced to the wings only to be met with a sharp shake of the head. He had to finish his act. He dodged the next rock. The crowd did not like that. He would have to switch tactics.
He took a deep breath and sang, ignoring the pain in his ribs.
He threw his voice out over the crowd, a mockery of an angel descending from on high. He kept his lips still, to maintain the illusion. Children shouted and one of the young women from before pointed upwards, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. He directed the sound, having it jump to another part of the crowd. Several individuals ducked and glanced around, only to find nothing. He resisted the urge to smirk at them. Fools.
Several onlookers began to whoop and applaud, looking for the source of the voice. He danced the song around individuals in the crowd, twisting and skipping among them, before bringing his voice back towards the stage. He began to move his lips as he sang, letting the sound come from its original source. The entire crowd was mesmerized, though most of them averted their eyes. One face dared look though—that young woman near the front. This time, her eyes were full of pity, pinning him in place.
A flash of heat came over him, the tears in her eyes filling him with rage. It was far more infuriating than any of the insults, far more painful than the rocks colliding with his bones. Her mouth opened as though to speak. He pulled a handful of flash powder from his pocket and threw it onto the stage. The trap beneath him gave way, and he vanished from view.
Immediately, hands were upon him, pulling him tugging him, a sack clamped over his head.
“You’ll be doing twice the shows tomorrow to make up for that catastrophe. Boss won’t take kindly to a dip in profits. You know what happened last time.”
He staggered forwards and was shoved again. Pain shot through his knees, behind him a gate slammed shut. Footsteps retreated, then he was alone in the darkness. The darkness was loud. Far too loud. Sometimes it screamed at him, but screaming was good. Far better than the whispers. They came at intervals he could not define as regular or otherwise. He didn’t know—couldn’t tell—his hands clasped over his ears, but that only made it louder.
He gasped, falling forwards, his palms hitting cold marble—wait, marble?
“Hello? Is someone there?” A voice pierced the darkness. A new chord played, and the tonality shifted once more. Muscles relaxed, the song was back on track.
He scrambled to his feet, stumbling as his legs shook, but he managed to make it back to the safety of his passages. He waited there, silently watching as the widowed ballet mistress continued through the hall, searching for something that wasn’t there.
Over the next several weeks, he spent hours at the organ, playing until his mind stopped. He scoured the memories, driving the filthy key and all its abhorrent tonality from his mind. He had to strip it all out, with its suffocating midnight blue and cloying metallic velvet. That song was over. It had come to an end decades ago. He had nothing to fear from them. They weren’t even looking for him; they had long since assumed his death.
And yet, later as he sat in his box, as the ballet rehearsed below, as her piercing gaze observed the dancers, the key changed again. He shot to his feet, his head snapping up. That cloying blue filled his throat and choked off his snarl. His hands clasped over his ears.
The crowd cheered. It had grown rowdier of late. Perhaps the young man with the rock had spread the word. No! There was no rock! Not in the Paris opera. That made no sense. They were rehearsing. It was the ballet from the third act.
He needed to sit down. His legs ached. He was performing three times a day now. Three times a day, they would fetch him from the dark cell, tear the sack from his head, and shove him onto the stage. He had protested last night, and they had forced him to stand while they whipped him. Now he couldn’t sit down, it would hurt his back.
“Mesdames and Messieurs, I present to you: The Living Death! ”
His handler waved his arms and bowed with a flourish. The crowd jeered. A young woman near the stage stared up at him, those same blue-grey eyes fixed directly on him once more. He moved, as though it would free him from their notice, but they tracked him, softening as they went. He fought the urge to cower. He had long since numbed himself to many a piercing gaze, but this. This was different. She couldn’t see! He pulled his hands from his ears to cover his face. He had to hide, return to the safety of the column in the box—what box? He was performing, wasn’t he? She was supposed to see.
With his ears uncovered, the rising din of the crowd grew worse. He clenched his jaw and stepped forwards. The discontent of the crowd only grew as he made his way through his routine, pulling feathers from thin air before making them vanish again, making use of misdirection and mirrors to seemingly vanish from plain sight.
“He did that last time!” a woman called out. “Do something else!”
“Yeah!” Another joined. “Show us how you came back from the dead!”
Others joined in, voicing their agreement, until another piercing voice cut through them.
“Stop it! Can’t you see it’s just a child?”
He froze. There, in the crowd, was the same young woman from before. She was looking up at him again, unflinching and bold, her eyes just as pitying. The fair faded away, his entire world drawn to a point. Around him the cacophony grew, consuming his mind and stealing away his thoughts.
His vision flashed, and the world tilted. He blinked. He was lying on the stage. There was a rock next to his head. A man climbed onto the stage. His handler ran out to prevent the man from approaching, but another climbed on as well, followed by a third. His vision tinged red. He raised a hand to his eyes, and it came away wet. He looked out to the audience, and immediately found those pitying eyes. He snarled.
“Get up, corpse boy! Dance for us!”
He ignored the taunts. They meant nothing.
Rough hands hauled him to his feet. He moved to twist from their grip. His vision flashed again as a blow forced his head to the side.
“What? You think you’re too good for us? Dance! ”
His eyes looked past them, found his handler, held back by another three men, blood trickling from a split lip. He struggled, but at this point it was mostly for show.
One of the other men approached, shaking his head. “He can’t very well dance if you’ve got hold of him.”
“But—”
“Let go. Don’t worry. He’ll dance if he knows what’s good for him.” He pulled out a large purse and tossed it on the stage.
The hands vanished from around his arms and chest. He stood before them, unable to focus on anything but that gaze. It pinned him in place, reduced him to nothing, in a way the insults never could. They released his handler as well. The man knelt and scooped up the purse before scrambling back to the wings without turning back.
The crowd calmed, anticipating a show they would never get. He didn’t move. The crowd booed. His head snapped back, spots flashing before his eyes as another blow caught him upside the jaw. The crowd cheered. He stared at the young woman.
More blows rained down on him, more commands to dance, and through it all he stood. Crack. The sharp staccato of impacts—a staff on a stage or another blow to the head? He fought to ignore it all.
Crack.
The pain barely registered now. All he could perceive, all he could think about was the agony of those eyes as they burned into his soul. Why did she remain? Why not go? If he was so horrible to look upon, then why must she stare? She wasn’t his mother—no, not even his mother looked at him like that. So why the hell did she care?
Why did he?
She wasn’t in charge of him. He wasn’t in the ballet. It did not matter if his pirouette was a full turn or his plié was at the perfect angle. There was no need for him to—
Crack.
He jerked forwards, shaken from his thoughts. Another blow found his back, and he tumbled forwards, his elbows jarring on the stage. A boot found his stomach, a strange warmth blooming through his chest. He blinked through hazy eyes as the man raised his arms in triumph. The crowd went wild.
His head rolled back, his vision sliding away.
But once more there she was, her terrible eyes drawing nearer, her timid voice calling out.
“Don’t bother,” one of the men sneered. “He’s already half-dead anyway. Unless you’d like a go of it yourself?”
He held back a scream as the look in her eyes only grew worse. How dare she? How dare she, with her money and her nice clothes and her lush skin stand here and judge him as such. She paid to be here. She came to see the show. No one was making her stay. She was no better than any of them. None of them saw him as alive, as human. He was a thing, an object, a way for them to profit, to be entertained. At least the men beating him admitted it and didn’t try to couch their true feelings in half-hearted attempts to alleviate their discomfort.
This was his life. If she didn’t like it, she could leave.
“Dance!” the man screamed again, and this time he screamed back, that voice that had once been angelic now warped as though it had gone through a funhouse mirror, dissonant and cracked. It echoed off the stage, some unholy wail from the depths of Hell itself. His vision faded to black—no, midnight blue.
He clawed at his eyes, snatching at the colour that was wrong. They snapped open, and the plush red velvet of Box Five surrounded him instead. The key shifted back. He clung to it.
Crack.
The tonality wavered.
“No! ” he growled.
“The phantom! It’s here!”
Crack.
Instantly the noises hushed. The silence hung in the air like a fermata. His fingers tore into the plush of the chair.
“We are rehearsing! Continue with your pliés. I shall have someone investigate.”
A new chord. A matching rich red. He let out a breath, the strength returning to his limbs. There was no time to waste. With what energy he could muster, he stood and dragged himself back to the hollow column and out of sight.
He avoided the ballet mistress after that, keeping out of the halls and turning away when he heard the familiar tap of her cane approaching. He avoided ballet rehearsals as well, observing only the chorus as it rehearsed.
The incidents had all but left his thoughts until the night he brought Christine back. The ballet mistress was there, clad as ever in her widow’s black, her gaze picking him out of the darkness as he fled. Those eyes, the very ones that had burned into his soul all those decades before… He slowed to a stop, watching, waiting to see what she would do. If she would alert anyone to his presence. His fingers twitched, reaching for the thin garotte wound up his sleeve.
Her eyes flicked to his face—the mask. The mask that Christine had removed not long before. The same pity in her eyes as had been there all those years ago.
Stop, he wanted to command her. He took a step forwards. She flinched back, her hand coming up to her face.
Keep your hand at the level of your eye.
He released the garotte and lunged for the passage. The song modulated, the tone shifted, the tempo lagged.
Hands held him back. He struggled. An oppressive and heavy blue held his eyes shut. He fought to open them, and immediately closed them again. It was bright—too bright. Why was it bright?
“If you fight, this will only be more unpleasant. We are trying to help you, but in order to do that we must understand.”
Understand? What was there to understand? He had brought her back; they had no quarrel with him now. He opened his eyes once more, intent on fighting back. Even with his washed-out vision, he could see a crowd forming. Where had they come from? He blinked, trying to acclimatize his eyes. His heart pounded. This was wrong. This wasn’t part of his act!
A man stood over him and prodded him in the chest. He tried to turn away. He was so cold. His body ached. It had struggled to heal after the crowd had gone overboard at his last performance, beating him until he had lost consciousness.
“Doctor.” Another man handed the first a set of tools, and the first man began to prod at his arm with the tools. A horrid pressure filled his head, but he forced himself to remain still.
“No response to pain whatsoever. It’s fascinating really. Perhaps he is half-dead after all,” the first man—the doctor—muttered. He turned to his assistant. “Light me a match.”
The smell of burning hair filled his nostrils. Flame licked and kissed at his skin. His arm felt unusually tight, strange, like he had put on clothing that was too small. He resisted the urge to shake it off. He turned his head away, desperate to escape the smell.
And there she was. Those ever-present pitying eyes, seeing everything, doing nothing. Peeling back the layers of him—just like Christine had. Christine? Who was Christine? There was no Christine here. Just this young woman and her horrid blue-grey eyes. Her cheeks were wet this time, stained with the tears of her sin. The tight feeling grew worse, and a shudder rippled through his body.
“There! He finally responded!” The doctor lifted his arm, twisting it up. He gasped, his breath stolen with the involuntary movement.
“You see this here? This is also incredibly unusual.” The doctor pressed against his shoulder where it met his arm.
His body jerked, and he twisted away.
“Hold him!”
A man shot forwards and grasped his arm once more. Right over the place where it now throbbed. He struggled briefly but fell still, his eyes once more meeting the young woman’s. If she were going to do anything, now would be the time.
“Now, as I was saying, if you press here…”
Heat flared through his chest, and his whole body spasmed.
"He ought to be screaming. Any normal, living being would scream, but all he does is twitch. Clearly, he does not experience pain as a living being would.” The doctor pressed down again, digging harder. The heat increased, and he was wracked with another spasm. He tried to pull away, but the man held him firm.
“Watch as I take this knife—”
Please, he called out to her with his own eyes. Finally breaking down, finally begging her, just like she probably expected.
The pitying eyes left his, releasing him as the young woman looked away in shame.
No! he wanted to scream.
Hands came up to her face, to cover her ears. She shook her head in denial.
You paid for this! Look! The Living Death! Half alive, half dead! Look! Look!
A warm hand pressed against his forehead. His eyes jerked up to the doctor, but instead the young woman peered down at him. She was the doctor. No. No, she wasn’t. He was—
He tore away from the touch, dragging himself backwards.
“Are you alright?”
Midnight blue filled his vision—no it was dark. He was slumped against cool marble. Smooth. Hard. The key changed. He clung to it, clung to the wall as he fought to stand.
“Careful, you collapsed. Do you want me to send for a doctor?”
His heart skipped a beat. “You looked away,” he sneered.
“I’m sorry, monsieur, I don’t understand…”
He heaved himself to his feet and fixed his eyes on her.
“At the circus, there was a child on a stage. And you looked away.”
Her eyes widened as his words played across her face. Shock. Horror. Fear. Guilt. And at last, there it was, the very thing he had been looking for. Shame. She looked away.
His heart sank. He had expected it, and yet, disappointment found him all the same.
“The Living Death,” she whispered.
But he was already gone, disappearing back into the underworld he had crafted for himself, leaving her alone in her misery, just as she had left him all those years before.