He groaned, gritting his teeth and trying to cover his ears, to block out the chittering, chattering sound above him. The high trills and tap-tap-tap on the floor. Open auditions. He hated open auditions. They drew out the worst of the worst, and subjected him to days of listening to untalented hacks try and prove they could sing and could dance and could act. Most of them couldn’t. And sometimes, those that couldn’t cried and wailed as they were ushered out of the building. Open auditions meant he had no rest whatsoever.

He scrambled out of the bed and reached for his mask, sighing as he slipped it on and adjusted it, glancing quickly in the mirror to ensure it covered the worst. He needed a new one. The mask was chipped, the white paint faded, and that would not do for peering out of the shadows to scare an unsuspecting leading man.

He could, of course, show his real face, but the few times he’d done that in the past it had resulted in the actors believing a trick was being played on them. After all, according to one of them, nothing could be that horrific.

Something about the mask was much more unsettling.

He had to admit, he missed the old days. The days when the theatre was dedicated to high art, when the voices of performers floated down to his cavern, when talent rose to the top and he could easily lure an unsuspecting, naïve girl to his side with promises of fame.

The last time he’d cornered a promising young woman, she’d done nothing but stare at her phone as he sang to her, making ‘Uh huh’ noises before smacking her lips and asking what sort of success he had on something called ‘Instagram’. 

“Erik,” a voice called, followed by a light rapping on the door. “Erik, mate, you in there?” 

He sighed, wishing the young stagehand understood the mystique he tried to maintain. He shook his head, muttering under his breath as he shuffled to the door. 

“Yes?” he drawled, and the man – Henry – flashed him a big smile, before holding out a tray containing what these young people called junk food.

Despite himself, Erik smiled. He ushered the man in, and the pair settled in the old, tattered chairs Erik had salvaged from some play that had been put on years before.

A high-pitched warbling filtered down from the auditorium.

“How much longer do I need to endure this?” he declared, before swiping up a burger and taking a bite.

Henry shrugged. “Few more days, I think.”

“This is ridiculous! Where do they even get these people from? They are talentless, Henry. Why do they want me to suffer so much? Every off-key singer attacks my soul.”

Henry shrugged. “It’s an am-dram production, Erik. You can’t really expect West End quality.”

Erik sighed, shaking his head. “When I fled my home, I simply sought somewhere I could enjoy the art of performance. Maybe tutor a promising young actress or three. And yet in all the years I have been here, I have yet to find anyone worthy or my teachings.”

Henry tilted his head. “Maybe you’re not looking hard enough.”

“Bah! The only intelligent one here is you, Henry. And they shove you backstage out of the way.” He leaned towards him, staring at his face. “I’ve heard the way they talk to you. Why do you put up with it?”

“Guess I just love the theatre.”

“I know the feeling.” Erik finished his food, scrupled up the wrappers and stood, brushing down his trousers. “Now, would you like to accompany me to my box? If I’m going to deal with that God-awful wailing, I might as well see it, too.”

* * * 

Erik remained in the shadows, as Henry bustled around the box, making attempts to look busy. Those who regularly worked at the theatre were well aware of Erik’s presence and living arrangements, but for the sake of those auditioning, it was usually better if he remained hidden. He groaned, as yet another talentless singer took to the stage.

“They’re not that bad,” Henry said.

“I do believe you need to get your ears checked, and that’s coming from someone who has one burnt off.” He gestured at the side of his head. “They are awful. Do they really think this is a good way of finding the right person for the performance? Do they not want the best?”

“How else are they going to find it, Erik?”

“You need to cultivate talent! Nurture it, locate that seed and water it until-” Erik froze, eyes widening as he spun away from Henry and towards the edge of the box, gripping it as he looked down at the stage.

She was as beautiful as her voice, tall, back held straight, eyes closed as her notes rose higher. Everything else disappeared. The stage, the seats, the box melted away and all that was left was her and her voice.

“Thank you,” the director called. “We’ll give you a call. Next!”

“How dare they?” Erik cried, and the girl turned, looking towards his box. He ducked back, sinking back into the shadows. “Henry, they cut her off!”

“She wasn’t singing the right song.”

“She was singing from her heart! She chose the song to show off her range, her talent, and they just dismissed her as if she were nobody!”

“She is nobody, Erik.”

“If they think that, they are fools.” He crossed his arms, as the next singer started. Then, he clamped his hands over his ears. “Awful. Absolutely awful. Henry, I need you to grab that so-called director and tell him I want to see him. Now.” He spun around, and headed out of the door.

“I…I can’t, I’m just a-”

The door slammed, and Henry groaned, regretting, as he so often did, befriending the theatre’s very own phantom. 

* * * 

Erik’s eyes narrowed as the director – one Thomas Williams – stepped into his living quarters. Erik crossed his arms. 

“I asked to see you hours ago.” 

Henry stepped in behind the director, closing the door as he avoided looking at either of the men.

“I was busy. What do you want, Erik?”

“That girl. The one with the voice of an angel, she should be-”

“No.” Thomas shook his head. “Absolutely not. Do you – Erik, do you even know what our next performance is?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Erik snapped. “If you want the best, you need her! You need to give her reasons to be here.”

“We don’t want the best!”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not what the role calls for.” Thomas rubbed his head. “We’ve asked to meet you before, Erik, to tell you whatever our next show is. But you never bother. This isn’t an opera or a musical. It’s a comedy. The lead is supposed to be a terrible singer.”

“A terrible – why would you subject your audience to that?”

“Because it’s funny.”

Erik lunged. His hands found Thomas’ shoulders, and he shoved him into the wall. Henry cried out, went to move for Erik, but Erik half-turned and pushed the stagehand away, before returning his focus to Thomas. He lifted him, pressing him against the wall.

“Create a role for her,” he growled. “Do you know my story, Thomas? Do you know what I am capable of? I want her here. I want her within my reach. If not, you won’t have any lead for your stupid, pathetic play.” He let go, and Thomas dropped, falling into a crouch as he panted. “Get out. Now.”

Thomas scrambled to his feet and out the door, and Erik sighed, shoulders slumping.

“I really did hope I would have a home here.”

Henry clenched his fists, barely looking at Erik as he exhaled slowly. “No one is driving you out, Erik. Not this time. But you can’t expect people to treat you with the awe you want. No one is falling for it. Not anymore.”

“I simply want what is best for the art-”

“No, you don’t,” Henry snapped, lifting his head and glaring at the phantom. “You want what is best for you. You want some pretty little prodigy you can mould and seduce so you can prove you’re still worth something. Because the world has moved on and you haven’t.” Henry squared his shoulders, shook his head, and left, Erik staring at the door as the stagehand slammed it closed behind him.

* * * 

They did not hire the girl. They did not, as he had requested, create a role for her. Erik stalked along the corridors behind the stage, muttering to himself as the actors repeated lines in the auditorium for their ‘call backs’. Pathetic. All of them. Unable to appreciate great talent when it was directly in front of them, unable to realise the possibilities contained in their hands when they had an actual living legend beneath the stage. 

A shape appeared ahead of him, a slender woman with long, blonde hair currently tied in a high ponytail. The lead actress. Talentless, a complete and utter inability to carry a tune. He frowned, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed as she looked around, then spotted him and froze.

“Um, hello?”

“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just…working.”

“Oh, are you a stage hand?” She stepped forward, peering into the shadows. “Oh, no, costuming, right? Are you messing around with the masks?” She grinned, and he almost flinched at the sight of her off-white teeth. “I’m Jessica. I…they cast me as the lead, but I…well, it’s my first production.”

“Amateur,” he said.

“Yes! I can’t believe – I tried to go to drama school, but we couldn’t afford it. I-”

“You shouldn’t have the role.”

Her hand fluttered to her chest. “Well, that’s rude.”

He tilted his head, trying to imagine how, exactly, he would get rid of her. He could make it fast, or slow. Bloody, or clean. Poison? No, he preferred neck snapping, the use of a rope as he pushed someone off one of the platforms running across the stage, and…

“Do you hear that?” she said, frowning as she looked around. “It’s…beautiful.”

His thoughts stopped, and he listened, as the song drifted over him, the words ones he didn’t really recognise, the song unfamiliar, but haunting. Strong, and deep, and…

He pushed past her, following the sound, and sensed her turn behind him as he rounded a corner, growing closer and closer to the most beautiful music he’d ever heard in that theatre.

Behind the stage was a small workshop area, used to store props and the larger parts of the set. Standing on top of a ladder, painting a wall piece black, and singing, the source of the beautiful music, was Henry.

Erik stared, struggling to understand how such an unassuming man could produce such a wonderful sound. He stepped forward, registering the tears in the actress’ eyes.

The song – deep and mournful – wrapped around him, drawing him towards the stagehand. Only when Henry looked down, spotting Erik and the actress, did he stop. His voice cut off, and a deep blush filled his face.

“Sorry. I probably sound awful. I-”

“Henry,” Erik whispered. “Henry, why have you never sung for me?”

His blush deepened. “I’m not very good.” He climbed down the ladder, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped off. “I mean, I just-”

“It was beautiful,” the actress said.

“Quiet,” Erik snapped. “Go back to the stage. They’re probably waiting for you.”

“Right. Sorry. I…please, don’t stop singing,” she said. “Ever. You have a lovely voice.” She turned and walked off, and Erik focused on Henry.

“You need a tutor. A mentor, Henry. Someone to help you really draw that voice out. And someone to champion you.” He half turned. “They must stop this play! We need something special, something to really show off your talents. If we-” He stopped, as Henry grabbed his arm.

“Erik, it’s fine. I’m happy being behind the stage.”

“You shouldn’t hide that voice. It should be out there, listened to by everyone. It should be-”

“Stop. Please, stop. I don’t want to perform.” He stepped closer, almost toe to toe with Erik. “I’m happy. Here. Helping. I like singing, but I like doing it for me.”

“I don’t understand. You could be famous.”

“I don’t want that.” Henry laughed, taking Erik’s hands. “I want to work backstage and run about during performances and…do you really think I’m good?”

“You are amazing. I haven’t heard such talent in years.”

“What about this then – what if I sing for you? I don’t need training, and tutoring. But if you want, I can sing for you, Erik. I don’t think you need someone to train. I think you need music back in your life.”

Erik thought it over, studying the young man’s face, his eyes, his open expression and soft smile. And he thought of all the times Henry bought him food, or spoke to the staff on his behalf, of how he put up with his rants and anger and had been there for him, every moment, since he’d arrived at the theatre.

Erik smiled, and put his hand to Henry’s cheek. “I think I would like that. Very much, Henry. I would like that very much.”

By Elle Turpitt
Twitter: @ElleTurpitt
Website: www.elleturpitt.com