It was snowing when we arrived.

Snowing rather heavily, I might add. Have I mentioned that I loathe snow?

Christine loves it. I watched her jump out of the carriage and utter a cry of delight at the sparkling white landscape, laughing in sheer, unabashed joy.

God, how I love that sound.

The village was disgustingly adorable. Squat cottages sat happily next to each other, a cheery yellow glow shining from every window of each. Several were laced with Christmas decorations. Signs swung in the wind, advertising franchises such as “Madame Dupont’s Pastries,” “Le Café Des Boulevards,” and “Jean-Marc’s Fine Tailoring.” Pink-cheeked couples walked hand-in-hand along the sidewalks, hunched against the cold yet still smiling widely. There were carolers even, a dreadful cacophony of sound that made me want to slap the culprits on the back of the head for even attempting such a monstrosity.

And yes, there were stares.

I'd remained adamant that Christine bring her belongings to our rented cottage alone, and I would follow later, hidden. Her response was entirely unexpected.

“No, Erik,” she had said, crossing her arms, “You are not hiding on this vacation. I will not let you sulk about in the shadows. I want to walk with you.”

I’d blinked, at a loss for words as a blush crept up her cheeks.

So I walked with her through the bustling streets and among the crowds, fighting a scowl the entire way. I kept my head down, but did not miss the curious, fearful glances shot my way. Apparently, there was some unspoken law in this village that forbade citizens to wear black, for there was not a single trace of it. This, unfortunately, caused me to stand out rather more than usual and also motivated someone to tug insistently on the back of my cloak.

I froze, then spun around slowly to be met with absolutely nothing.

Perhaps my limited sanity was finally diminishing?

Ah, but that was regrettably not the case.

“‘Scuse me,” came a voice from somewhere near my feet. I snapped my head down to where the offender stood and saw, much to my exasperation, the round, freckled face of a boy staring up at me. He looked to be about five or six years of age and had a mass of fiery red hair that stuck up at all ends in a rather unbecoming fashion. A large, equally red scarf was draped around his neck and fell to his ankles.

First let me say that I have little to no experience with children. If you will pardon the dramatics, I never really had a childhood at all, and was in no way fit to romp and play with the others in the area. In fact, the only time I did interact with other children my age was when they were throwing rocks at my window and shouting various obscenities that would have made their mothers give them sound lashings, had they but known that their precious darlings knew such curses.

Then again, some of the mothers themselves participated in tossing rocks at the window, but I digress.

Nadir has a son with whom I have come in contact with once or twice, but I simply delivered a gift to the boy and departed. I met Antoinette’s daughter Meg when she was a toddler, though I am certain she does not remember it. I haven’t forgotten it, though. Little Meg vomited all over my new waistcoat that day.

If all of these occurrences are any indication, fatherhood is not my specialty. I am at quite a loss of what to do around a child.

Which is most likely why I hissed, “What?” when the little fellow resumed tugging on my cloak.

“I’m Sebastian,” he said.

“How very nice for you.”

“I’m five an’ a half.”

“Splendid.”

“My birthday’s in June, you know. Last birthday, grandmére baked a lemon cake. She told me not to eat any until the next morning, only guess what? I went into the kitchen when it was dark an’ ate some!”

I quickened my stride, but he simply began running to keep up.

“Guess what flavor she’s bakin’ this year!”

“Boar lard.”

He giggled madly.

“Nope. Raspberry! Raspberry, raspberry, raspberry!” he sang, “Or maybe choco-late, choco-late, choco--” here he paused for effect and then screamed, “--late!”

I was just about to lose it when I felt a hand upon my arm.

“There you are!” Christine said, looking concerned, “I turned around and you were gone!”

“Ah, yes, well, you know me. I love to pause and savor the splendor and glory that is the human race.”

She rolled her eyes, and then smiled kindly when she caught sight of the fly that was presently buzzing in my ear.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“I’m Sebastian,” he said, biting off a thumbnail and then spitting it out.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Sebastian. I’m Christine.”

“Neato,” he chirped, “I like your hair.”

“Thank you,” she laughed.

I gripped her shoulders firmly, steering her away and down the street, wanting to strangle each and every person that walked by and gaped.

“Erik!” she cried, struggling against my hold, “How terribly rude!”

“We needn’t make a scene, my dear,” I hissed, “I do not wish to spend this time being poked at by loud-mouthed, crude--”

“Where’re you goin’?” came Sebastian’s voice from behind us. His feet pattered in the snow as he jogged behind us. I groaned.

“We’re staying at one of the cabins for the holidays,” Christine said as she pushed against my insistent hands.

“Why?”

“Oh, we both need a little break. We work very hard.”

“Where do you work, lady?”

“I sing at L’Opéra Garnier in Paris--for the love of God, Erik, will you stop pulling? I’m coming--”

“What about him? What does he do?”

“That is quite enough,” I interrupted, leaning close to Christine and whispering, “Why don’t you just give him directions to the fifth cellar while you’re at it?”

“Stop it!” she whispered back, batting away my hands and placing her own on her hips, “I didn’t even mention you! I’m not stupid, I won’t say anything about you, why are you so worried? You should be relaxing--”

“How do you propose I do that, hmm? I am being pecked at by a veritable woodpecker--”

“Woodpecker, woodpecker!” shrieked Sebastian as he began to dance around in circles.

I lowered my voice even further. “This is not something I am accustomed to, my dear. Have you forgotten my situation? I am a wanted man, and a rather recognizable one at that! You have never been on the run from the law, but let me assure you that it is extremely unwise for a wanted man to prance about the streets in broad daylight!”

“You’re perfectly safe, I promise.”

“How can you possibly tell yourself such a thing?”

“I’d never tell any of your secrets,” she assured me, “You know that.”

“Accidents happen.”

Her lips thinned in a very Giry-esque way. “It isn’t as if I’m walking up to people and shouting, “Look here, it’s the Phantom--!”

“Where?” asked Sebastian loudly, wedging in between us, “What phannum?”

Christine blanched and hurriedly stammered, “Nothing--”

“You said there was a phannum! Like a ghost, you mean?”

“No--”

“Is there a ghost here somewhere?”

“Of course not, darling--”

“Where is it? I wanna see it! Where’s the phannum?”

“Nowhere. There is no phantom,” Christine told him, shooting desperate, pleading glances my way. For a moment, I could only stand like an idiot and watch the little bugger pry apart a treasured secret, until I realized that he was, in fact, only a child...

...and suddenly I was struck with the most brilliant idea.

“Now, now, now, my dear Christine,” I said in a scolding tone, “You should never skirt around the issue. After all, Sebastian here is an intelligent young gentleman, aren’t you, my boy?”

“Yup,” he replied, scratching his freckled nose.

“And intelligent gentlemen can handle the truth, can they not?”

“Yup.”

“Not to mention that, being so intelligent, they absolutely deserve to hear the truth, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yup.”

“Then I shall tell you the truth.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Christine’s brow furrow in confusion.

Kneeling down to his level, I peered into his pudgy, wind-whipped face and said, “There is, in fact, a ghost.”

His jaw dropped.

“Really?”

“Oh, really.”
“But she said that there wasn’t.” He pointed a sticky, accusing finger at Christine, who looked absolutely befuddled.

“Perhaps she thought that you weren’t brave or intelligent enough to know the true story.”

“I am so!”

“Which is why I assure you that the phantom is real.”

“Where is it?” Sebastian hopped from foot to foot, looking like he badly needed to relieve himself. “Where’s the phannum?”

“Right here.”

“...where?”

I gestured to myself. He blinked.

“I still don’t see it.”

“Oh, yes you do. I am the Phantom.”

He stared at me for a moment, and then shook his head.

“Are not.”

“Are so.”

“You don’t look like a ghost!”

“What do ghosts look like, pray tell?” I steepled my fingers philosophically.

“Um...white...”

I pulled back my black sleeve to reveal scarred, sickly pale skin.

“Check,” I said with a smirk.

“An’ they moan a lot,” he added hesitantly, “You aren’t moanin’.”

“I ask you, Sebastian, what sort of respectable ghost would moan in the middle of a crowded street and disturb all of these fine people? No, no, I do most of my moaning indoors.”

“Oh,” he said, frowning, “Where do you live?”

“I don’t live,” I pointed out, “I am a ghost.”

“Right. Where do you not live?” he corrected.

“I haunt a theatre.”

“Do you like it?”

“It is sufficient enough.”

I could tell he was slowly beginning to believe every word I said. This was turning out splendidly, for who would believe him if he told? His tale would be looked upon as a child’s imagination running full force. No one would take him seriously. How ludicrous it would sound coming from an innocent child’s mouth, rather than a suspicious adult’s.

“What an imagination that boy has!” they would chortle. “But he really is the phantom!” he would insist. “Nonsense!” would be the good-natured reply.

I was safe. Well, at least for a while. Unfortunately, I would have to come to terms with the fact that not everyone was a bumbling idiot. Eventually, someone would put two and two together and break out the torches and pitchforks.

But goodness, did I breathe a momentary sigh of relief.

Sebastian’s cynical expression was slowly melting into one of unashamed wonder. He gulped.

“You...really are, then?” he whispered, “A...a ghost, I mean? You aren’t lyin’?”

“I can say entirely truthfully that I am indeed the resident ghost at a theatre.”

“Wow,” he breathed. My gaze shot up to Christine briefly, who was surveying me with nothing short of a reverent awe. She laughed silently and shook her head, and I could not suppress a grin myself. What bosom friends Triumph and I could be when the two of us cooperated with each other.

A firm pressure suddenly asserted itself on my forearm, and I jumped, looking back at Sebastian’s oddly determined expression.

“But you still haven’t told me,” he sighed exasperatedly.

“My dear fellow, I have unraveled an enigma many a prying man would kill to discover. I am now an open book! What else could you possibly want to know?”

Obviously, I knew the answer. It was the same question that I’d heard countless times throughout my life, a question that never failed to bring about ghastly consequences, a question that seemed to perpetually hold me captive, no matter how hard I struggled to flee from it.

The question, of course, was “Why are you wearing that mask?”

I did not plan on revealing the truth this time, for the truth would send him running through the village, wetting himself and shrieking like a banshee, which would in turn bring about those torches and pitchforks and possibly the gendarmes. I was in no mood to strangle anyone, and besides, he seemed innocent enough. I’d be damned if I corrupted someone else; it grows rather tiring after forty odd years.

And so, like the outstanding member of society that I am, I lied through my teeth and skirted around the issue. A definite parenting faux-pas, I’ve heard, but no one ever said I was Papa Dearest.

“Sebastian, if I take off this mask, I will disappear forever.” And wouldn’t that be a loss.

He gasped, "No!"

“I am afraid so. It is the shackle that ties me to the ghostly world, and to lose it would mean to lose any chance I have of entering the next life.” It should have disturbed me how effortlessly I could fib.

“You mean...no Heaven?” he stammered.

“No Heaven.” That was not a lie.

He nodded furiously, lips tight with fear.

“I won’t take it off. I promise.”

“A wise decision.”

“You’d better not take it off, either,” he quipped seriously, “You’d better remember to keep it on. It would be awful if it came off, huh?”

I stared at him in silence for a moment, pondering his words. Again came that sense of déjà vu. How many times had I heard that one before? Never take that mask off, Erik! You’ll keep that thing covered if you know what’s good for you! Never a truer word spoken, and yet it did not hold a trace of malice when uttered by Sebastian. The chap was actually concerned.

I chucked wryly and assured him, “You shan’t have to trouble yourself. This mask is not going anywhere.”