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The room crackled with an excited energy. After almost two years of online meetings, rambling video calls and late night cross timezone chats, this was finally it, October 31st, they were all here, in the room, together, and they were going to contact him. It was seance day at last!
The seances had been a bit of a joke at first - an excuse, if excuses were really needed in the middle of all the pandemic madness to reach out and make contact with actual real life people, instead of existing through words on a screen. So it made sense really, when things began to open up, and people began to talk about meeting up in real life that they would jokingly refer to it as an in person seance. And then it was only one step on from there for someone to suggest that it be an actual seance, and that they really, truly try and make contact.
There were so many questions that needed answering. What really happened at the end of the story? Were Christine and Raoul really in the North, or were they buried somewhere in the basement of the Opera House? Who is the Shade? How much does the Daroga really know? Did Christine and Erik secretly marry? Exactly what does Erik smell like? What on earth was all that nonsense about the safety pin?? There was so much that was left uncertain, and only Gaston had the answers, so really it was only natural that they try and talk to him.
Of course, none of them really knew all that much about undertaking a seance. If they did, they might have been a little more careful with how they went about it. They couldn’t afford to go to Paris and meet up in any of the places that he might have actually frequented, much as they wanted to, so instead, they had had to make do with a room in a Holiday Inn, artfully decorated to make it feel more ‘seancey’.
Apparently, everybody was of the same mind that a seance required candles, and they had all brought them in abundance. They lay now, scattered around the floor of the Holiday Inn room which they all huddled in, bed shoved as far into the corner as it would go, sock placed over the smoke detector in the hope that their illuminations didn’t trigger a fire alarm. Scattered about them were numerous copies of the book, in all its various translations, plus playbills, merch, a few masks, and even a rather battered copy of the libretto for Faust one of them found in a second hand music store - just to set the scene.
Conveniently the room came with a full length mirror on a stand, that they wheeled towards the edge of their circle, tittering, just in case the creator had the same kind of affinity with them as his creation. They didn’t really think it would help much, but with the glow of the candlelight and their bright eyed faces reflected back at them from it’s glassy surface, it did complete the mood of the place.
At last, with the scene set, a makeshift ouija board laid out on the carpet and the wine (or gin, or really, whatever was in that bottle that was being passed around) flowing freely, it was time to begin.
‘Anybody got any idea how you actually summon a long dead French Author?’ one of them asked. A giggle went around the room.
‘Don’t you just say, like ‘We summon you’ or something?’ somebody offered. ‘Worth a try at least’
‘Gaston Leroux!’ another announced grandly. ‘We summon you to speak to us.’
They waited. Nothing happened.
‘It didn’t work’ said one.
‘No shit’ answered another.
‘I think we need to all join hands, or put our fingers on the cup, and think really hard about Leroux’, one of them offered, ‘or something like that anyway?’
They all nodded - and taking swigs of their respective drinks, shuffled forward to place their finger onto the upturned complimentary coffee cup that was serving as the glass for the board.
‘Ok - now concentrate’.
They all shut their eyes, and for a moment or two, thought as hard as they could, about anything they could related to Leroux.
On the other side, somebody began to listen.
‘Is anybody there?’ they asked again.
The styrofoam coffee cup jiggled, and then flew to towards the ‘Y’ scribbled in lipstick on the inside of an empty skittles packet.
A gasp rippled through the room.
‘Tell us your name.’
The cup jiggled again, and then slid slowly across the carpet toward the E. Then R, I & K.
‘Erik?’ one of them shrieked incredulously. ‘Oh ha ha. Ok, who is pushing the cup?’
Everyone laughed and removed their fingers, but nobody owned up.
‘You guys - I thought we were being serious?’
The cup jiggled again. They all stopped laughing and watched as it slid once again towards the E, then R, I & K. This time, they were sure that nobody was pushing it, because nobody’s finger was on it any more.
‘...Shit’
The tittering grew to an excited level, and some of the group started to what can only be described as preen.
‘Speak to us!’ one of them whispered breathlessly. The cup jiggled again.
M - I - R - R- O - R
They all gasped, and looked up. Sure enough the surface of the mirror had begun to cloud, and in the centre a small black blob had appeared, shimmering and shifting as if something were approaching the mirror from behind at a great distance.
Unconsciously, they all leaned closer.
The figure began to become clearer. They could make out arms, and legs, and then soon the outline of an elaborately feathered hat and a long flowing cape
‘Red death, red death, read death, please let him be dressed as red death’ one of them muttered under their breath.
It continued to approach, until finally, it appeared to almost be upon them, filling the entire mirror - a black suit and cloak (‘Drat! Not red death!’) clearly visible, a white mask covering the entire face, except for the chin.
‘Is it really him?!’ they gasped. ‘It can’t be can it? He’s not actually real. Is he??’
‘Hold me back!’ another cried
Except as it drew ever closer it became clear the figure behind the mirror was not tall, and thin and skeletal as they might have expected. From the hazy outline that appeared, well, almost stocky.
There was a hum of contemplation in the room.
‘My God!’ a voice whispered. ‘We’ve only gone and summoned Gerik. Must have been all the candles…’ Several more voices tittered in excitement.
Then at last, with a smooth click, the mirror slid open and out of it stepped a small, portly man, with a protruding belly, dressed in shabby, badly fitted suit. Wrapped around his shoulders was a lumpily knitted woolen blanket, and rammed on the top of what could only be described as a rather long mass of extremely greasy looking hair was a very battered, slightly mouldering looking hat. Only the mask, glinting softly in the candle light, gave any hint to his identity.
For a moment he stood there, breathing noisly. The room filled with the faint odour of sardines, and cheese and onion crisps. Nobody dared say a word.
At last, someone broke the silence.
‘Erik?’
The stumpy little man pulled himself up as grandly as he could - which given his diminutive hight, and rather rotund proportions, was not really that grand at all.
‘Yes!’ he squeaked, ‘Tis I!’ He sounded small, and nasal, and sort of watery.
‘Is that…’ one of them stuttered, ‘is that really his voice?’
‘He’s not quite as I imagined him,’ another replied from the back.
‘Perhaps his singing voice is better?’ came the suggestion.
‘Will you sing for us Erik?’ someone shouted, a note of desperate longing in their voice.
‘Sing? Me? What a notion. Why on earth would I do that?’
There was a collective gasp from around the room.
‘But are you not The Erik? The Opera Ghost and The Angel of Music? Extraordinar singer, composer, musician, and architectural genius?
The strange little masked man gave a snorting laugh, like a pig.
‘ Me? A singer? Musician? No no, my dear. I am neither that, nor an architect. But I am a very important person.’ He puffed out his little barrel chest, his rumbled suit riding up around the collar until what little neck he had disappeared and his round head and straggly hair seemed to be balancing precariously on top of his sloping shoulders.
‘I am Erik. I am the plumber !’ he cried ‘I clean the tanks and stop the opera house from getting all smelly and clogged up with filth. I don’t bother myself with all of that nonsense on stage. It sounds like you have been reading too many novels…’
He picked up one of the copies of Leroux which were strewn in front of the mirror.
‘Ah yes. That stupid man’ he squawked. ‘Erik met him once in the opera house. I offered to give him a tour of the water tanks. Imagine! He called them Lakes. Lakes! The man clearly knows nothing of plumbing! And then I find out that he has written some fanciful story about a man living beneath them! Now let me tell you, I know those tanks like the back of my hand, and there is nothing living in them except some fish, and occasionally some unusual floating lumps. I always collect them to see what they are, but there is nothing else. Nothing! If there was Erik would surely know about it.’
He chuckled, and then turned on them with a wild look in his eyes.
‘But that didn’t stop him, did it? Mr High and Mighty Literary Writer? No! No, he only went and stole Erik’s name and put it into this stupid story, making up all sorts of nonsesne about music, and singing, as if anyone is really interested in all that. What would a silly opera girl be doing wandering around in my tanks anyway? She would get all wet, and then she would not be able to do any more of that horrific screeching that they insist on doing on the stage, because she would have a horrible cold. Utterly ridiculous.’
He rocked on the balls of his feet as he spoke. His stubby little fingers curled tightly into chubby fists which swung back and forth like pendulums at his side. So absorbed was he in his hatred of ‘that man’ that he did not notice that one of the group and broken free from where the rest huddled, and was slowly advancing on him, fingers outstretched and twitching, a look of half hope, half horror on their face as they leaned forward, slowly, slowly, and then, at last, made contact with the edge of the shiny white mask which covered his face and yanked it off.
‘Oh!’ the man squeaked in surprise.
Several of the group screamed.
Beneath the mask was a perfectly normal face. A rounded, almost double chin, with apple cheeks, and what would have been an almost perfectly adorable button nose - if it hadn’t been set within such a rosy, clammy, flustered complexion. It was a face about as far from skeletal as could be, and far from being golden and fiery, the eyes which peeped out from a set of rather wild, straggly eyebrows were watery, and slightly piggy looking. It was far from repulsive, and yet not a bit attractive either. It was, in fact, exactly the kind of face you would expect to find on a middle aged man who, by his own admission, spent most of his time, tinkering with waste water tanks.
‘No! No! It can’t be true! He’s not even properly ugly!!’
‘But the mask! You wear the mask. Why do you wear the mask??’ they asked in desperation.
‘I don’t like too much sunlight’ he wheezed. ‘It disagrees with me, makes me blotchy.’
‘Why?’ the wailed. ‘What does this mean? Why are you here?’
‘You summoned me!’ he replied. ‘You called for Gaston, but in your minds you all thought of Erik. All of you wanted to know the man behind the legends. And now you do!’
He smiled upon them, almost beatifically, as if he had bestowed upon them some sort of wonderful gift.
Several of the group wondered if they were about to throw up.
Mother always said that a respectable man has no business messing around with music and other frivolities - she knew best. Girls don’t like strange men with nice singing voices. Strange men with nice singing voices can’t mend the pipes when they start leaking, can they? No! What girls want is a nice, practical man to keep them safe and dry, don’t they?
‘No. No this can’t be true! He’s unhinged!’ someone cried.
‘Well what do you expect?’ another replied, ‘He’s an Erik!’
‘Mother would have been appalled by the idea of putting furniture in the basements next to the thanks.’ He continued. ‘I told her all about the tanks of course. It would moulder! Imagine mother’s furniture mouldering!
‘We need to go. I don’t think I can take any more of this,’ someone whispered. The group began to edge toward the door, but the little man, for all his stout, portly appearance, was remarkably swift, and no sooner had they started to move then his short, bulky form moved and blocked their only exit.
‘No, no, my dears,’ he squeaked, ‘you have waited so long to meet Erik. You cannot leave now. You summoned me, remember, and I have not yet told you about my proposals for improving the waste water system in the opera house yet, you know!’ He gave an excited little jiggle ‘So many miles of pipe! I get quite beside myself you know!’
He moved towards them, his arms outstretched, smiling at them greedily with his little piggy eyes.
‘All of the others have had their chance, but now it is Erik’s turn, and soon everyone will know of his story, and the glory that is the Opera Garnier’s Waste Water System!’
The next morning they wake with a start, each in their own respective rooms. Neat, and tidy, with no sign of candles, or mirror portals, or strange, chubby little men in masks. At their bedsides their phone chirrup, proudly proclaiming the date. October 31st - Seance day.
One by one they rub the sleep out of their eyes and shudder in relief as the cobwebs of the dream loosen from them and they realise that there are no small, chubby sewer men waiting to tell them more horrors of dry water traps, or the perils of badly connected tailpieces.
Instead they settle themselves at the tall hotel suite mirrors, each of them repressing a shudder internally, and brush the tangles from their hair. Dressing hastily they rush to join the other for breakfast, each and every one of them excited to regale the other with the tale of their nightmare, (‘Imagine - we finally manage to summon an Erik - and he isn’t even ugly!’), excited to see what the day brings.
And if, they exit the room - just for a moment - t they catch on the air the scent of sardines, and cheese and onion crisps, and they wonder if they didn’t spot the glint of a white mask, and a pair of watery, piggy little eyes, watching them from the other side of that tall, blank expanse of glass, they shake if off as only the ghost of a dream. After all, even if the opera ghost was real - what are the chances, eh?