Through
Phantom Eyes
Volume Five
Christine
by
Theodora Bruns
iUniverse, Inc.
Bloomington
Through Phantom Eyes
Volume Five—Christine
Copyright © 2012 by Theodora Bruns.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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ISBN: 978-1-4759-5474-6 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5475-3 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5476-0 (ebk)
iUniverse rev. date: 10/29/2012
Contents
Review
Acknowledgments
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Dedication
To the gift of music
Review
Written by
Susan Rueppel, Ph.D.
Energetic Wisdom
Intuition for Empowerment
Through Phantom Eyes—Volume Five—sustains the same non-stop and spellbinding adventure as Bruns’ previous volumes. Gripping, suspenseful, and surprising—I couldn’t put it down. A gifted writer, Bruns has an impressive grasp of Erik’s life and is a master at connecting us with his heart-wrenching emotions and the unexpected twists and turns of his brilliant and often tortured mind. Each volume furthers the fascinating saga of the amazing life of Erik. Always leaves me wanting more.
Cover and Interior Sketch Design
Theodora Bruns
ThroughPhantomEyes.Com
* * *
Cover and Interior Artwork
Judy Sava-Coppola
Savadesign.Com
* * *
Model for Cover Art
Michael Preston
Grandson of Theodora Bruns
* * *
Models for Interior Art
Michael Preston and his wife
Carmen Preston
Grandson and Granddaughter
of Theodora Bruns
Acknowledgments
My eternal gratitude reaches out to those who inspired me and helped me breathe life into this unforeseen work. First and foremost to Erik himself, for, as his lonely existence consumed my thoughts and his mournful pain permeated my heart, my own expressions pleaded for a release from their boundaries. Consequently, without his tragic life so full of love for his music and Christine, my imagination would have remained silent, and I wouldn’t have started on this astonishing journey. Therefore, merci, Erik.
Next, to Brad Little, whose eloquent voice, along with his amazing musical portrayal of Erik’s love, passion, and pain on the stage, unlocked my barren heart. Because of his extraordinary talent, my own passion was aroused in ways previously unknown to me. Brad’s awareness of Erik’s love for that one exceptional woman, Christine, was what enabled me to spread my awakening heart across the printed page for all to see. I’m forever thankful, Brad.
Then there is Patti, who came into my life quite unexpectedly because of her fascination with Erik’s life. Among other things, she helped me keep my fingers on the pulse of those who want to read more about this man known as “The Phantom.” Perhaps with trepidation, she courageously spoke her mind and gave me insight. So thank you, Patti, for your time, tender care, and understanding of my special needs.
Also, I send a big thank you to Ann. Her skills in the editing department went far beyond the written word and various punctuation marks. She used her vast knowledge and patiently taught me the proper placement of those words and punctuation marks. I sincerely appreciate the time she spent helping me to become a better writer. I couldn’t have gotten where I am today without her.
I would also like to thank Susan, who spent the time and energy to read this volume and then to formulate a review. Hopefully, just a quick glance at her words will help readers determine if they want to follow Erik’s journey with me.
In addition, there’s my remarkable daughter Debi, who also shares my love for Erik’s story. She committed to working long and tedious hours with me to put the finishing touches on every phrase within my labor of love. Thanks to her keen eye, diligence, proofing ability, and patience, I believe the finished product is one that anyone can easily read, understand, and enjoy. She also came to my aid with financial backing. Without it I fear you wouldn’t be holding this book in your hands. A mere thank you isn’t enough to express my appreciation for all you’ve done, Deb.
Then there is my sister Janice who also came to my aid and helped finance this project. But what helped me even more were her words of encouragement. In almost every conversation we had she asked how the project was coming along and shared what she liked about the volume she was then reading. So, thank you, Jan, for being such a loving and supportive sister.
Finally, there is my eternal friend and daughter Kelli, who, from the beginning, enthusiastically shared my desire to see Erik with a full and satisfying life. She served as my diligent researcher, patient teacher, gentle critic, knowledgeable literary collaborator, and first fan. She has also added her talents in the public relations department by gettin
g Erik’s story in front of those who desire to read more about him. Her self-sacrificing efforts and encouragement over the years stirred my soul and gave me courage—courage that I never knew existed—courage that was an essential element in seeing these novels to their completion. I fear, without her ever-present reassurance, my whimsical ideas about Erik’s life would have eventually retreated in a cowardly fashion back into my imagination. There they would be forced to live with the rest of my “happily-ever-after” endings, somewhere in the silent and dark recesses of my fanciful mind. Merci! Merci beaucoup, Kelli.
Prologue
Paris, France
July 1881
It’s said that, in the few moments before you die, your entire life passes before your eyes. Well, my entire life had just traveled through my memories, but it had taken me four days to relive it. That is, the part of it before I met Christine—the woman destined to own my heart. With the syringe pressed against my waiting vein, I realized that the moment our paths met, my demise began. In that sense, our meeting was bittersweet.
Oh, Christine, my heart moaned. Why did it have to be this way? Why did I have to see you on that stage and allow you to capture my heart and soul so completely? Why did I allow you to lead me as your senseless slave? Why couldn’t you have remained like the rest of the chorus girls I’d seen—faceless? If I hadn’t made you my quest or if I’d allowed my curiosity about you to fade along with the stage lights, my life would still be just as it was. I would be living the remainder of my days in my home. I would be as content as I could be, with my music surrounding me.
Why did I pick that moment not to listen to my rational mind? Why did I listen to my wayward heart that was about to lead me down a one-way path? Why couldn’t I have remained content, just that once, to silence the moaning of my awakening and lonely heart, instead of allowing you to pluck its ripeness with the splendor of your eyes? Why couldn’t we have expressed our unconditional love for each other so we could be one?
“Oh, Christine, why?” I sighed.
There was no answer from her and no use in questioning the events that marred my once-comfortable life. Those events left me all alone, with only a lethal dose of morphine and the grim awareness that it was pulling me toward my impending death.
I glanced over at Christine’s emerald pillow and pictured her sleeping there, with her hair spread out over it, resembling spun gold. I missed her presence in my life so much. I missed the sound of her voice in laughter, her smile, and her dark blue eyes each time they sparkled with excitement. I missed her so. How could someone I’d known for such a short time take over so much of my life?
I’d memorized every curve and contour of her face and body, and I wanted to remember everything about her while I still could. That was a beautiful idea, but then I looked down at my reality, the needle as it began to puncture my skin. I clenched my teeth and pushed the needle in further, and then I closed my eyes to that dismal sight and returned to thoughts of the woman I loved.
With my eyes closed and her fragrance surrounding me, I could feel her there with me. I could see her eyes filled with wonder, as they were the first time I’d seen them. It felt as if only moments had passed since I’d spoken her name for the first time. I could still feel my heart race, sending a warm rush through my body.
What was that attraction, that love, that unquenched longing? It was so strong, it caused me to lose my dignity, after I’d sworn not to let anything or anyone take it from me again. What was it that caused me and many men before me to lose our minds? Whatever it was, it made it nearly impossible to tear myself away from her once I’d experienced it. As we stood on that dimly-lit stage, I knew I needed to move further into the shadows, but I couldn’t.
I remember trying to catch my breath, while wondering what had happened to me. I remembered watching Meg and that enchanting woman scurry off the stage and into the darkness. Yes, I remember everything about that night—that night when my life began its journey toward its final destination.
Christine
One
Paris, France
February 1881
My days had taken many twists and turns during the 45 years since I began walking life’s path, but none of them could compare to what awaited me during one evening in February 1881. The night was cold, with fresh snow covering the cobblestone roads and icicles hanging precariously from the naked trees. I felt the cold as I walked the deserted streets alone, even though I was still hot with anger because of that newspaper article about my midnight rides. It was tiring to watch my every stride just to remain unnoticed, and, with Paris now on the alert, I knew I would have to be even more cautious.
Consequently, I walked quietly through the dark passage beneath the stage, grumbling because of that exasperating reporter. He’d searched for my whereabouts before, and his boldness was becoming troublesome to me. It was bad enough that I had Oded to contend with, but now I had this writer also. Again, I grumbled. Why can’t they leave me alone?
Then, to make matters worse and to push my patience beyond its boundary, I heard Buquet’s voice. I shook my head, ground my teeth, and turned to leave before I did something I’d regret. But I’d only taken a few steps when he began telling out-and-out lies about me. I growled quietly. How I wanted to give him a piece of my smoldering mind. The final shove to do so came when the girls gasped and cried out. He was enjoying frightening them, and, as I charged back toward their location, I saw red.
Once there, I opened the trap door on the stage just enough to throw verbal assaults at Buquet. When I saw him and heard his fabrications in detail, my pulse quickened even more. So, with narrowed eyes, I waited for the right opening to direct my voice to that foolish man’s ears. When it came, I slowly repeated his name—in a deep, threatening tone.
“Buquet!—Buquet!”
Then, from my hidden location, I watched the scene as it unfolded. When he heard his name resound in his head, he twisted in circles, and his eyes bulged as they darted beyond the props and backdrops in a futile search for the mysterious ghost of his imagination. His sloppy mouth gaped open, and he flung his hands over his ears in an attempt to shut out my intimidating voice. He might have momentarily prevented my words from entering through his ears, but he couldn’t stop their tone from flooding through his frightened mind.
With delicate hands placed over painted lips, the silly girls in their lavender tutus giggled, perhaps believing Joseph’s actions were part of the entertainment. Well, in a way they were—entertainment for me, that is. After all, we were in an edifice designed with enjoyment in mind, so shouldn’t one of its builders also receive his due amusement? I believed so. Therefore, I continued to watch the hilarious movements of that superstitious idiot, the one responsible for my displeasure. While I maintained that cold and menacing manner he feared, I struggled desperately to restrain my hysterical laughter.
Once he removed his hands from his ears, I began again. “Joseph Buquet! Why do you spread these lies about me? Do you conjure up these falsehoods because of your dull and boring existence? Won’t these frivolous girls give you attention without bizarre stories? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You should be extremely careful, Joseph Buquet, or these lies about my past could become fulfilled prophecies about your future!”
After speaking my mind, I released my control over him. In his attempt at a hasty retreat, he groped backward, stumbled over a prop, and landed with a loud thud on the stage floor. With the color completely drained from his distorted face, he struggled to get to his feet and run away, to where I don’t believe he knew or cared. I will forever be amazed at how terrified someone could become at only the sound of my voice.
Instinctively, my hand pressed against my lips to prevent laughter from escaping, but by the time he managed to flee behind backdrops, nothing could have prevented me from expressing my amusement. Watching his desperate plight was better than any comedy script ever written, and, before long, I couldn’t suppress my sense of humor any long
er. As a result, my booming laughter joined the shrill pitch of the girls’ giggles.
Within moments, I became aware that my voice alone was reverberating through the nearly dark house. The ballerinas huddled together, resembling a group of porcelain figurines thrown on a young maiden’s bookshelf. They had a death grip on each other in an endeavor to protect themselves from their own over-active imaginations, fueled by the power of my imposing voice. As the last thunderous waves of sound gradually subsided, a chilling silence crept over the stage.
Out of the stillness, a small familiar voice dared to mutter, “It’s the Phantom—I know it!”
The familiar voice belonged to little Meg, who began chattering like a frightened baby bird. With a smile and shake of my head, I watched her scurry, with another young chorus girl, behind the dark red stage curtains. Curiosity about what stories she might relate regarding the infamous Paris Opera Ghost gained control, so I quickly and quietly rose up through the trap door. As I made my way into the shadows of the backdrops, I heard another voice.
That sweet, soft, and unfamiliar voice questioned, “The Phantom? Who’s the Phantom, Meg?”
Meg responded with the sound of excitement, fright, and intrigue in her voice. “The Phantom is who Joseph calls the Opera Ghost.”
“You mean he actually exists?” the new voice asked. “I thought Joseph was only toying with us.”
Although scarcely above a whisper, Meg’s voice showed the extent of her stimulated emotions as she began her version of the legendary Phantom.
“Yes, he exists! I’ve seen him! He’s extremely tall and always wears a black hat and cloak that flows along behind him. He doesn’t have legs, so he glides effortlessly and silently through the corridors and walls—and also through mirrors!”
With another shake of my head, I pondered. I definitely liked Meg’s story better than Joseph’s. Perhaps she’s in the wrong profession. Perhaps she ought to be a mystery writer.
Meg raised her thin arm and looked toward the catwalks hovering high above the stage; then she continued her unbelievable description.
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