The Strange Tale of Erik Rene

The Strange Tale of Erik Rene
By April Grey


Prologue


New Orleans, Louisiana

May 9, 1919


Dear Mr. Leroux,

I read your account of the Opera Ghost with some interest when your book was published here in America. Please find enclosed a copy of my father's diary. I found it among his personal effects after his death this past winter. I suggest that the body that you found under the Paris Opera was not actually that of the Phantom, for it seems obvious from reading my father's journal that he was the Phantom and did not die in the 1880's as you indicated, but lived a long life only perishing from influenza this past winter.

As my father was never one to mince words, you might understand why I do not wish this journal to ever reach the public. He is quite frank in his writing and I found myself often blushing while reading it. I remember when your account of the Phantom was published almost a decade ago that my father locked himself in his study for some hours. I believe this account was written in response to your book.

As you shall see, a leopard can change his spots. In your account you stated that the Phantom longed for a wife that he could walk in public with on a Sunday, and indeed, as you shall read my father did eventually accomplish that goal.

Please destroy this document after you have read it. The original shall remain in my safekeeping.

Sincerely,

Dr. L. LeBlanc

#

Chapter I

From the Journal of Erik Rene


Though many years have gone by, I feel the need to make an account of my history in hope of understanding and one-day gaining peace or some sort of absolution for the sins of my youth. Of the particular crimes, I choose to remain silent, except to say I remember them with utmost horror and remorse and have oft been tempted to end my life—to simply escape the torment of my dreams wherein I relive much of my former life as spectator unable to stop the vilest of demons.


(I had in fact once taken poison after having promised my beloved to depart this life, to bother her no more. But instead of death I was left incapacitated. I should have eventually expired from that state, but my sweet one found me and begged me to tell her if there was an antidote to the poison. There was and she retrieved it from the house across the lake. She made me promise never to attempt to take my own life again. It is a promise that I have kept.)

I took a coach to Calais. It was my intention to book passage to England. I was walking the docks, feeling feverish and dizzy, perhaps because the poison was still in my system. That was my last memory of France.

I remember heat and the darkness. I felt myself swim up from long dreams of pain and frenzied screaming. I was bathed in blood, the blood of men and women who were innocent except for having crossed my path. And even before that, many had died, broken by tortures of my creation.

I describe myself as no less than a demon, for during my early years my genius was devoted to inflicting the worst revenge possible on mankind for turning its back on me. In childhood I had been so repulsive that my earliest memories were of how my own mother twisted away from me and forced me to wear a mask at all times. Eventually I ran away and worked as a circus performer allowing the entire world for a price to stare at my deformity. I was known as the "living dead man" for my frame would tolerate no flesh and my hands were as cold as if I had stepped from the grave. There was no hair upon my body at all. My skin was a bilious yellow, so tight upon my skull that all who saw me turned away, shrieking in fright from the death's head that was my visage. To make matters worse, I had no nose to speak of and my eyes were so deeply set in my sockets as to seem non-existent. Though I wore a mask to cover this atrocity of a face, I also had a prosthetic nose connected to a mustache. When I added to this, a wig and make-up, and I could pass among the world unnoticed by the causal passerby.

I have two main talents, music and the building of edifices-- from humblest house to grandest palace. I was a master at the creation of secret passageways, warrens and tunnels. And because of such skill this devil was once able to pass himself off as an angel.

During my fever dreams on the trip from Calais, not only the faces of my victims but also of my most dear one confronted me--she who took my love and gave pity in return. I can hear her words still, "Poor Erik, my poor, poor Erik." For a time I was stupid enough to believe that she loved me for myself, when in fact I filled her with nothing but horror and a fear of the evil acts I might commit if crossed.

After spending what seemed like years in restless, heated visions, one day, I awoke to a woman sitting next to my bed, which was nothing more than a straw filled pallet.

Her skin was dark, like that of a Gypsy, and her hair was of a wiry silver, yet there was not a line or crease in her face. I could not see her eyes because they were covered in glasses with dark tinted lenses.

"Erik, you are awake?"

"How do you know my name? I do not know you."

She laughed harshly, "You have been my guest for long weeks now, and your fever has made you quite the tongue wagger. I know your name, that of some chit you are in love with and I suspect if you were not making it all up, a long list of men and women who have died by your hand."

I recoiled, wondering who this witch was and what was to be my fate. I thought that should probably have to kill her, but in the next moment knew that my appetite for further violence had dulled. I did not care if I lived or died at the end of a hangman's noose.

"Madam, you have the advantage of me," I said summoning all the politesse of the court.

"Eleanor, my name is Eleanor Devereux," she nodded.

I lay back on the bed, exhausted, and shut my eyes. I felt her cool hand upon my face and viper quick I grabbed her wrist.

"You are impertinent, Mademoiselle Devereux."

"It's Madame, and you are healing," she said.

"What?"

"I thought your deformities may have been due to the pox, perhaps inherited from a parent. But you are healing." She opened her hand and again touched my face. It felt different. Neither sore nor numb. She stroked the side of her thumb along my jaw line.

"You will need to shave soon, and, look there, fuzz, like that of a peach, on the top of your head. The rash is almost completely gone."

"I need my mask."

"You came with none. If that is your desire, I will have the maid make one up for you. I think we have some spare black silk lying about."

I let go of her hand. She tucked my arms under the bed sheet, as if she were a mother tucking in her child.

"Rest now. I am most glad that you are finally doing well, after being ill for so long."

"One final question, and then I will sleep."

"Yes?"

"Where am I?"

"Ah, such a question to ask. You are living atop a powder keg called Port-au-Prince on the island of Haiti. Now rest, and I will be glad to answer more questions on the morrow."

As she picked up the lamp and left me in darkness, I heard her mutter, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."

I could not help but think how singularly odd it was that she was so little affected by my appearance. Could she be blind? Yet her walk was steady, and she needed no cane to find her way.

It was very dark in the room, and where I once found the darkness comforting, I felt dread of what further horrors my dreams might bring me. However, that night I slept and woke with no recollection of my dreams. There was light from around the curtained window and coming through cracks in the walls. I could make out that I was in some small room or stall, perhaps part of a stable from the smell of old musty hay. A dark shape towered over me and I startled.

"Madam says you are well enough to bathe. I have brought you a tub for that purpose. Kindly undress yourself."

The man was a giant with skin the color of coal. I could not make out his eyes in the poor light of the room, but he wore a white shirt, which seemed to gleam in the darkness.

"What is your name?" Somehow it seemed important, although he was obviously only a servant.

"Henri, sir."

I noted that his French was accented in a most bizarre manner, later I learned that this was Creole, a dialect spoken by most of the Negro population of the island.

I fumbled with the nightshirt buttons and he looked at me with disgust. My own pride flared up in me, did he not know to dread me? Who were these people that I invoked no fear in them at all?

"Sir, do you need help in undressing?"

"No." I continued to fumble with the material. Where I was once quite deft, my hands felt as if they no longer belonged to me. And then I stared at them. My fingers seemed to me as thick as sausages--These were not my hands. They belonged to another! I cursed under my breath. What was happening to me? I reached up to touch my face, only to pull my hand away as if it had touched fire. There was a beard there, just as Madam had predicted. Panicking, I ripped off the nightshirt and tried to jump out of bed. My legs collapsed under me.

Henri lumbered over and lifted me up as if I were a child's doll. He then placed me in the copper hip tub filled with steaming water. He took a washrag and a bar of pine tar soap.

"Madam has washed you all these weeks. Are you now capable to wash yourself or do you need my assistance?"

Much to my shame, and surprise, the thought of Madam Devereux performing such ministry caused an amazing transformation between my legs. For the first time in my life the worm that had hung there to no purpose but allowed me to direct my piss was now growing hard

"I hope that is not for me--for if it is I will wring your neck like the ivory son of a bitch you are." The tone of his voice was quite mild, yet it left me little doubt that he had killed before and would not hesitate any more than I used to. So soon had I found a kindred spirit here in the New World.

I shook my head no and sincerely wished him to leave me some privacy. He left and I took my soapy hand to that area which had never performed manly service in my lifetime. It seemed to enjoy my touch for it sprang up like a stallion and began bobbing and throbbing in my hand. I had to remind myself to breath, such was my astonishment at my new found virility.

"Why?" and then I gasped. I realized that along with my body my voice had changed. I naturally had a deep singing voice, but it had dropped and was hoarse like a bullfrog's call.

The hardness between my legs was still begging for attention. I reached behind it for my sac. That too had changed, seemingly larger and fuller than before. Madam had to be a witch; for nothing other than witchcraft could explain this transformation in me.

I lathered myself with closed my eyes focusing on the new sensations cascading through my body. It was as if every touch in that area was magnified a thousand times and rendering up to me the most intense pleasure. Such magnificent feelings I had rarely known, except through music… and she. My beloved had created similar intense feelings too, those of hope and despair. I continued to touch and slide my hand around. My other hand crept down. I groaned and my mind exploded in whiteness as the serpent spat. When I opened my eyes, I found my chest was covered in drops of pearly wetness.

I am not an innocent, but the feelings that I had just undergone had me trembling all over and then I began to laugh. At the age of 36 I was becoming a man and had just experience my first petit mort. I touched my chest and found fine black hairs. My privates showed that the same process. My hands roved over my normally bald pate, and yes, Madam had not lied! Hair! No more need for wigs or fake mustaches!

I quickly washed my chest of the seed, my seed, and then soaped the rest of my body. More than anything I wished that I had the courage to call out for a mirror. I needed to see that none of this was imaginary. I was opening my mouth, about to call when Henri returned with a large towel and a bathrobe.

"It belonged to the master of the house," said Henri begrudgingly.

"And where is he now?"

"Dead these past five years," his voice dropped to a whisper.

"I am sorry for your loss," I surprised myself again. Rarely did I bother with such sentiment, but I felt in an indulgent mood.

"He was a good man. Madam bids you join her for the midday meal, if you are well enough and have an appetite. If not, it will be your usual."

Henri helped me from the tub and, holding my elbow, supported me until I was able to sit on the pallet. I dried myself and asked him, "The usual? I have no recollection of my life here prior to last night."

"She has kept you on a diet of rice gruel with some fish broth mixed in. Luncheon is a light affair and dinner is served at eight."

My stomach noisily rumbled. "Please tell her I will join her."

Henri scratched at his chin. "I will try to find something to fit you. Perhaps my wife, Amelia, will be able to take in the shirts and pants of M. Deveroux. You are taller than he, but he had flesh upon his bones."

I looked down at my legs. They looked positively fat to me, and yet it was only because I had been emaciated since birth.

"Tell me," I called out as Henri began to leave. "Is she a witch?"

Henri smiled. "That is what the Voodoo Priest claims. But no, her father was a doctor, one of the two that we had on this island. She learned her skills from him. Remember that and respect her. You owe your life to her."

She was not the only one that I owed my life to. There had been the Persian as well, sadly, I think he always regretted that he hadn't simply let me die when he had the chance. Many more souls would still be with the quick if he had.

Still wearing the dressing gown, I lay back on the bed and tried to nap. That I was weary in mind, body and soul could not be argued. What was it that Madam had said? Vanity all was vanity? Though tired my mind felt clear; normally the only times I felt this way were after long fasts.

Henri came in with a wheeled chair.

"I don't need it," I said, peevish that I was about to be treated as an invalid.

"Well, it's at Madam's request. I could just as easily hoist you over my shoulder." He kept his face straight, but I heard the underlying humor.

On the seat of the chair was a pair of trousers with braces, lightweight undergarments, a shirt and cravat.

"No shoes or socks?" I murmured more to myself than the servant.

"Best to walk before you run, and you won't be going anywhere today where you need to walk. Madam has set up the meal in the garden. You don't need to get up at all."

He walked out, and I felt my annoyance dissolve into relief that he wasn't going to try and dress me. I leaned heavily on the bed as I attempted to snag the chair and bring it closer. The truth was, I was not well enough to walk. And yet I was feeling better than I had felt in my lifetime. Was it another mystery?

Once I had the chair close enough, I was able to slip into the undergarments. They hung off of me and were a bit on the short side. The effect of the trousers and the sleeve length of the shirt were clownish.

I was not the sort to cry over little things but this, coupled with the changes that were happening so abruptly to me, forced the vile liquid from my eyes. Was I to be so humiliated? What would my beloved think if she could see me this way, no more a terror, but a simple comic oaf. After a few minutes of self-indulgence, I tied the cravat and hauled myself into the chair.

Henri wheeled me out. I was not surprised to find that my room was part of the stable at the bottom of the garden. He quickly pushed me up the gentle slope and had me at a wrought iron table on a small terrace. My eyes quickly adjusted to the bright light, but my hand, from long experience shot out to make sure my mask was in place.

I was without my mask.

Madam emerged from the large double doors. She was dressed in a grey gown and still had on her tinted glasses.

"You are looking well today, Erik. No doubt it was a pleasure to bathe after such a prolonged illness."

I blushed and quickly looked around the garden. It was filled with the dark greens and brilliant reds and oranges of the tropics. After a short time, I felt my composure return and I looked at this woman who had less modesty than a harlot, and yet was educated and refined in her manner.

"Can you explain this transformation to me?" I touched the whiskers that were sprouting on my cheeks and chin. I had never shaved a day in my life, but would need to soon.

"Ah, I wish I understood the mechanics of the illness. I am sorry. There is recovery but no cure."

My heart sank. Was I to return to my former self then? I stared, no words available to express my fear and the self-loathing that was welling up in me.

"My father made a study of a man by the name of Hubert, who I believe shared your condition. If the illness is left unattended and ignored--allowed to run it's own course then surely madness and death with follow. Back when our town had still had a madhouse, it was burnt to the ground two Easters ago, my father was able to help a few of the inmates to recovery. Yet for those who did not follow his instructions to a tee, relapse and re-institutionalized came in a short while."

I kept my nervous hands in my lap. I had told myself that I was tired of this mortal coil and quite willing to leave, yet at her words, I found some regret. My soul seemed at odds with my body, this new body that wished to live and experience all that had been denied to it.

"Then there is no hope?"

"Hubert still lives.

"Come, let us eat while the food is still palatable." She nodded to Henri, standing in the doorway, and he in his turn nodded to the maid Margaritte, Amelia and Henri's daughter, to serve the meal. She entered silently holding a large basket filled by a crusty loaf of bread.

"No, no dear Margaritte, I told you there is to be no bread while Mr. Erik is our guest."

The young woman, skin jet black as her father's, made a face and returned the basket to the kitchen. Henri waited on the table as a butler would, placing fresh salad greens on our plates.

"Was there a reason for there being no bread?" I found that for the first time in many a year I had an appetite and the bread had looked quite good.

Henri poured Madam a glass of wine. She sipped and nodded her approval before he filled my glass. She placed her glass down and then removed her dark glasses. She blinked frequently and shaded her brown eyes although we were eating in the shade of an enormous tropical tree, one that I thought might actually be bearing coconuts.

"There is a very important reason." Her eyes were tearing up a bit and I remembered how Henri had told me that sunlight, in fact any light, hurt Madam's eyes. I did not understand how she could subject herself to the pain of the outdoors, but chose not to question it.

I slowly sipped the wine. It was an indifferent grape, probably locally made, but I was careful not to show my disgust.

She studied me. I felt nervous being looked at without my mask on but she was waiting for me to ask again, so I did.

"And this reason?"

"Herbert came to my father, I was nine or ten at the time. I remember it all quite clearly, this disease that was to become my father's passion. Herbert was covered with a nasty blistering rash which he claimed was from eating bread!"

She smiled, put her glasses back on and took a forkful of salad.

"He must have been delusional. Bread!" I sneered a bit, wondering if I could sneak into the kitchen later for some.

"No. He was quite correct. No one in Herbert's family except for his mother, could eat bread either. They all would get either a bad stomachache or a rash, sometimes melancholia or splenetic, from eating wheat. But it was not only wheat, sometimes barley or ale, or even a bowl of porridge would make them ill.

"My father never found the cure. But he found several men in the insane asylum here who recovered their senses when various foodstuffs as I just mentioned were removed from their diet. And, interestingly, they all were descendents of light skinned Europeans."

"You expect me to believe such nonsense?"

"My father wrote to every doctor within the islands, and he wrote to doctors in France and England, even the American States, asking if this were possible. The only replies were from those kind enough to advice my father to not waste his or their time."

She stood up abruptly and went inside. Henri lifted a brow and sighed.

"You're in for it now, Sir. She won't eat her food until she has talked your ear off as if you weren't already missing your nose," he chuckled briefly. "If you know what is good for you, just agree with her. Maybe the soup won't get too cold."

After a few minutes she returned and Henri reseated her. She had in her hands a large leather bound journal.

"He kept notes on all of them." She opened the book and started pointing to various book-marked pages. "This one here, a blistering rash on the buttocks, another man here, like you, hairless from the rash. The rash eventually causes the skin itself to break down and thin, thus giving a deathly appearance. Yet, look your flesh is growing on you now, just as your hair is. "

I ate my salad and nodded politely as she rambled on for over an hour. She was gripped by her monomania and she enumerated every symptom and detail of the illness.

"It attacks every part of the body, including the mind, in some cases that is the only symptom. Sometimes it is the stomach alone, and for others the rash and still others, the liver. All can be brought in remission by dietary modifications."

I wanted to shake my head, or laugh. No witch here but a mad woman, fixated by her father's theories. But still, was it not an explanation? I sat back, made lethargic by the heat of the day and the droning of the insects. When had I ever been so relaxed in my old life? Hair, new skin, and virility, could it all be a result of not eating bread?

It would have been laughable if it were not so tragic.

"And no one in his family" I prompted.

"Except the mother"

"Except the mother could eat bread." I found myself smiling as I took Henri's advice not to contradict her. And best not to let Henri get upset with me, as he might be shaving me tomorrow and tempted to slip.

"I think we are seeing the effects of this regime with your recovery. I find it so very exciting."

"Was that why I was brought here? So that I could be your medical subject?" I said it in my mildest voice.

"Oh, no. Dear me, you don't know do you? You were brought here on a bet. You were shanghaied in Calais, but were so ill at the time that the sailors thought it might be better simply to cast you overboard and cut their losses. You smelled of death so badly that many were sure you must have been expired for a least a day or two. Yet you continued to breathe.

"One of the mates started betting on your chances of making it through the voyage. Money changed hands many, many times, simply because you were too stubborn to die.

"Another sailor, who seems to have great respect for my abilities because I once lanced a boil on the inside of his foreskin, chose to bring you to me.

"It was simply a matter of Providence that brought us together."

I sat back. I had been so absorbed in the mystery of my recovery that I had put to the back of my mind the wherefore of my landing in Haiti.

"And how much did your friend win?" I asked.

"Fifty francs." She sat back and closed the book, insufferably pleased with herself.



A/N: This account is based on the original Leroux novel and so the timeline and descriptions are rather different than found in various movies and plays.

I hope that the reader will not be too upset by the shaving off of some square corners on the ex-Phantom, but I trust that Erik is much more than his illness. And in reading Leroux' description of his condition I could not help but wonder if it had been taken from some poor real life victim of celiac disease-- a disease identified in 1950.