The Phantom of Valletta Read online

  The Phantom of Valletta

  Published by Holland Legacy Publishing

  ISBN #978-0-9832959-4-5

  Copyright 2010 by Vicki Hopkins

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Work of Fiction

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Author Notes

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To everyone who shares the cry of Erik’s heart.

  “All I wanted was to be loved for myself.”

  Acknowledgements

  THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA

  By Gaston Leroux

  2002 Modern Library Paperback Edition

  Copyright© 2002 by Random House, Inc.

  HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®.

  NIV®. Copyright© 1973, 1978, 1984 by

  International Bible Society.

  Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Foreword

  “Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say, of a spectral shade.”

  Le Fantôme de l'Opéra by Gaston Leroux

  My creator, Gaston Leroux, is intent on convincing you that I actually existed. Of course, that is something you’ll have to decide for yourself. However, if you’re not familiar with my story, let me enlighten you before you turn the page to read of my adventures on the isle of Malta.

  You’ll find that I have many names: Angel of Music, Opera Ghost, Phantom, and most importantly, poor unhappy Erik. My talents are many: composer, architect, magician, violinist, and ventriloquist. My skills include proficiency in using a Punjab lasso, and I have been known to develop a few ingenious methods of torture.

  Like everyone else, I have a past. My humble roots began when I was born in Rouen, France. Mother expected a beautiful baby boy. Instead, she birthed a freak, whose deformity was so hideous that she immediately covered my face with a mask. My father was a stone mason; he taught me his trade but gave me no love.

  As you can surmise, my childhood was not pleasant. I ran away from home and joined a gypsy fair, where I was put on display as a living corpse. Afterward, I traveled to a foreign land and served a Sultan in Persia. I built a palace, executed poor souls, and ended up fleeing for my life. My Persian friend did save me from an untimely death, but he believes that I am a monster.

  Eventually, I returned to my homeland and helped with the construction of the Paris Opera House. I cleverly built a world of secret passageways and a home in the cellars underneath.

  Life was a bit dull, until a certain young woman by the name of Christine Daaé caught my eye. I preyed upon her weakness. She foolishly believed that her dead father had sent the Angel of Music from heaven to teach her to sing. She became my student, while I became her Angel. One day I revealed the truth to her that I was nothing more than a mere man who desired her for my wife.

  She was beautiful. I have a weakness, you see, and its name is beauty. I long for beauty. It’s the obsession of my life, and naturally, Christine became my obsession because she was the epitome of beauty in my eyes.

  I wanted her to love me as a man. Instead, she pitied me as a monster and pledged her heart to another. Oh, perhaps she did have a morsel of affection for her Angel of Music, but it was not enough to satisfy the cravings of my soul. I did the only thing I could do. She was not willing to consent willingly, so I took her by force. In a moment of madness, I brought down the chandelier during a performance and abducted Christine, keeping her captive in my underground world.

  Well, I do not wish to bore you with further details. The entire fiasco did not turn out well. Nothing went as planned. I eventually released her to the man she loved, and died a tragic death in my soul when she departed. I told everyone that I was dying of love. It was the most logical course of action—to die and disappear. A man can die of love, you know.

  As I bemoaned my fate in hiding, an opportunity presented itself on the isle of Malta. The Royal Opera House in Valletta had suffered a premature end and beckoned me to resurrect it from the ashes. I purchased the burned out shell, took a close friend and assistant with me, and moved to Malta to rebuild my life.

  You’ll soon discover, I could not hide from the past. It has a clever way of following you like a dark shadow until vengeance and justice is served. Such is my life, and this is my story.

  I am the Phantom of Valletta.

  Chapter One

  Southern Italy – Spring 1874

  “I loathe my very life; therefore I will give free rein to my complaint and speak out in the bitterness of my soul.” Job 10:1

  The carriage bounced hard and wrenched Erik’s neck, sending a sharp pain down his shoulder. One more time and he would scream at the ignorant driver who insisted on finding every pothole in the road. He had been inside a cage on wheels for over a week now, and Erik teetered on the edge of insanity. His nerves pricked him like thorns.

  He glanced across the seat and peered at his travelling companions with an irritated glare. Encased in a jostling box, he had been uncomfortably sharing a small area with two humans. Even though he invited them to accompany him on his journey, it did not mean that their proximity brought him any joy.

  Darius sat slumped against the side of the carriage like a limp rag doll. His incessant snoring filled the cabin, and his flapping vocal cords strung in unison with the beating of the horses’ hooves. The Persian’s servant had agreed to take the trip acting as his personal assistant, but Erik doubted the dimwit possessed the intelligence to assist a flea. After days of traversing roads together, he began to question the wisdom of bringing excess baggage. Nevertheless, Darius’ timidity made him easy to handle. Erik thought anyone could train a dog to obey—even a ghost.

  He shifted his narrowed eyes to his other companion and watched with amusement, as her head bobbed up and down like an apple in a barrel of water. Her black taffeta dress, wrinkled from days of confined sitting, bunched up at her waist. She wore a tattered hat that fell cro
oked to one side, which hid her disarrayed and matted hair.

  Andrea Giry had celebrated her fifty-first birthday last month, but in spite of her age, Erik still thought that she was an attractive woman in her own right. She insisted, nonetheless, on dressing in frumpy clothes, which made her look like an old maid. Her attire and lack of hygiene puzzled Erik. She no longer seemed to care about her appearance. He made a mental note to discuss her physical neglect after their arrival.

  Regardless of her choice in clothing, he had grown close to Andrea throughout the years. She constantly came to his aid when he needed it the most. The fact that she held her tongue from complaints over the long, arduous journey only confirmed her faithfulness. Andrea tended to smother him like a mother hen, while nagging like an overbearing wife. It irritated him, but he chose to tolerate her actions because of their friendship.

  As he sat there staring at her, he admired the ability of his old friend to sleep anywhere—a skill he sorely lacked. Rather than fighting the rocking, she allowed it lull her into a deep slumber.

  His fatigue, on the other hand, bothered him little. Erik rarely slept and ignored his need for rest. He only succumbed to its demands when he felt inclined. After wandering the Garnier while others peacefully dozed, his body had grown accustomed to a different lifestyle. Like a nocturnal animal, he gained the ability to roam in the dim cellars and through blackened corridors using his cat-like eyes to see in the shadows. Others groped about as blind men under similar conditions.

  He glanced out the carriage window and looked up at the gathering clouds tinted with dusty rose from the rising morning sun. His fingers snatched his watch out of his vest pocket and flipped open the gold lid to observe the time—5:40 a.m. They were making excellent progress toward their next destination.

  Erik’s relaxed state became cruelly breached a few minutes later when the sun rose over the horizon. A burst of light sped across the country fields and flooded the coach interior with gold streaks. The rays caught Erik off guard. He lost all composure.

  “Damn the sun!” he snarled.

  After he cursed the annoying light, he abruptly pulled down the window shade. Immediately, the loud snoring ceased, and the nagging hen stirred. He felt the unwanted eyes of the carriage occupants upon him. Thanks to his uncontrolled outburst, both of his travelling companions were now awake and staring wide-eyed in his direction.

  “Damn it, stop gawking at me!” He barked his displeasure to make a point, and then settled back for a moment of stolen peace. Hastily, he closed his eyelids to avoid their stares. Silence filled the cabin until the soft voice of reason met his ears.

  “A bit grumpy, are we?”

  He lazily opened one droopy lid and peered at Andrea’s disgruntled face. A brow arched over her sleepy eyes, and an unpleasant curl of her lips challenged his behavior. He remained silent and allowed her to play her traditional role of calming the savage beast.

  “How much longer until we arrive at port, Erik?”

  He grumbled an incoherent curse underneath his breath to express his displeasure. The tone of her voice demanded an answer. A long, drawn-out sigh released from his lungs.

  “Soon, if all goes as planned. We should arrive in Reggio di Calabria this afternoon. We’ll board a ship to Malta in the morning.”

  “Well, I am glad. It’s been a long and trying trip.”

  Thankful the conversation ended, he closed his eyelid and reflected upon his last statement. Malta—his self-imposed exile would soon begin.

  The past year, filled with sorrow, loss, and regret, grew farther away with each passing mile. Convinced that the authorities were hell-bent upon making him pay for his crimes, he had fled their reaches. He entertained no desire to make any restitution for his actions and would not let anyone throw him into prison. He had spent the majority of his life hiding like a rat in a hole. Society had sentenced him to an existence of solitude and rejection, and by now he had his fill.

  After fleeing the unfortunate outcome of his ill-conceived abduction of Christine Daaé, he hid in the countryside with Andrea for months. She had thankfully come to his aid during the rampant speculation on his whereabouts. Reports and rumors swirled about the Opera Ghost, who some believed had died. Other outrageous stories circulated, saying that he remained in the catacombs waiting to kill the next intruder who dared to approach.

  The Vicomte had swiftly spirited Christine away to Sweden. Erik wondered if Raoul still feared his further attempts to take her by force. Andrea later received a letter from Christine saying she had married the aristocrat and found happiness. Erik gave up all pursuits to win his beloved and deeply grieved her departure. He had not only ruined his own existence that night in a moment of madness, but he had also changed the course of many lives in the process.

  As he sensed the dogs in Paris nipping closer at his heels, he knew the time had arrived to flee. Otherwise, he would never find an ounce of peace. He feared Comte de Chagny’s untimely death would be pinned upon him out of spite. The Vicomte’s brother had been foolish to think he could enter Erik’s domain and leave unharmed. Of course, he failed, and death had dragged him into oblivion because of his audacity.

  As a result, many wished to see the elusive Opera Ghost pay and swing from the end of a rope. What an ironic outcome, he thought, should his own neck feel the grip of strangulation he had so skillfully used on his enemies. Though he often despised spending years in depression, he had decided long ago that no other human would take his miserable existence. He would leave that privilege to the Devil himself, and if not, then his demise would come from his own hand and no one else.

  Months had passed as Erik pondered his next move, until a unique opportunity caught his eye. The Paris news ran a story of a devastating fire. On Sunday, May 25, 1873, flames destroyed the Royal Opera House in Valletta on the isle of Malta. It had been reported that during rehearsals of La Vergine del Castello a naked gas jet ignited the stage scenery. The flames swiftly spread. Two hundred people, mostly singers and musicians, fled for their lives, breaking windows and jumping to the street while the fire consumed the interior. A few received injuries, but no one died.

  Erik had read conflicting reports as to the cause of the devastation, and the police considered arson a possibility. One investigation focused on a disgruntled tenor not awarded a part; he later fled Valletta after the devastation. In the meantime, blame turned upon two careless employees—a lamplighter and stage mechanic. The police arrested both men and charged them with negligence.

  An intriguing prospect tempted Erik, as his life had fallen into mundane boredom. He began to toy with the idea of purchasing the vacant Royal Opera House as a new playground of creativity. The opportunity seemed perfectly wrought at the right time, providing him with the means to start anew elsewhere. What better way to pay for his past than to resurrect another from its ashes? By moving to a foreign land, he could start a new chapter in his already wretched life.

  After making the necessary inquiries via correspondence with the owners, he offered a rather large sum of money for the bankrupt theater that lay in ruins. Funds were no object, for Erik had saved and invested his years of extortion demanding 20,000 francs per month as his salary at the Garnier.

  Erik had learned through further inquiries that the fire had extensively damaged the interior, requiring substantial repairs. The foolish owners had failed to renew their insurance before the catastrophe and now stood on the brink of financial bankruptcy. Since they possessed no money to restore the famous landmark, a quick sale was required to recoup losses. When Erik’s offer arrived, the gentlemen gladly accepted the funds to pay off their debts.

  Tedious months of slow correspondence between the buyer and sellers continued, with Erik insisting on anonymity and strict confidentiality regarding the pending purchase. He took the name of Erik Dante. The business transaction had been set to close within a week of his arrival. Soon, the empty shell of an opera house would belong to Erik to do with as he willed. The ve
ry thought of the possibilities that lay ahead helped to wipe the memories of Paris from his mind.

  Andrea Giry, after Erik’s persistent requests, had agreed to accompany him to Malta. At first, she had balked at the idea to flee with him to a strange land. Erik persisted due to their close friendship, as he trusted her implicitly to protect his secrets. He planned to use her skills to manage the household matters and residents living in the dormitories and private quarters. After reconstruction, she would be the mistress of his domain to ensure everything ran smoothly.

  Andrea was far more intelligent than being a mere box-keeper, but she kept her true character a secret from everyone. Upon the arrival of the new bumbling managers at the Garnier, Erik had requested that she play the role of an elderly buffoon in their midst. It had been an outrageous plot to use Andrea as his ears and eyes, while he continued to wreak havoc through trickery.

  Madame Giry’s daughter, Meg, married as he had prophesied. She lived in Belgium with her husband, Baron de Castelot-Barbezac, and their two children. Of course, Erik hadn’t an ounce of prophetic ability, but that made no difference. He possessed influence and had played a rather charming game of matchmaking behind the scenes with little Meg and the baron.

  It had all worked out as planned. Andrea agreed to accompany him on a new adventure, because Meg was happy and settled. Erik enjoyed playing a game of chess with the lives of others around him. He did so to his own advantage, smugly proud of how well he could manipulate the paths of unsuspecting people to achieve an end.

  Darius, on the other hand, had been a challenge right from the beginning. He proved useful to Erik in small tasks but required grooming. The Persian, fed up with Erik’s antics and his near-death experience with the Vicomte trying to rescue Christine, had strained their relationship to a breaking point. He watched Erik flee and returned to his homeland afterward. Darius, his servant, had been a parting gift, one Erik couldn’t refuse after all the years they had spent together.