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Christine had always been fascinated by the macabre. Maybe the early memory of her mother lying in an open casket had affected her. Or perhaps it was when she treated her father’s bed sores and saw his skin grow grey and the light in his eyes die as he wasted away. It could be that she was just born with the inclination for the morbid and gruesome.
Whatever it was, it was with her as she grew up. When other girls were reading Elle and watching romantic comedies, Christine was reading Edgar Allan Poe and watching Chronenberg movies. She was an outsider in that regard, but it never bothered her and as she became an adult, she found friends who accepted her in spite of her interest in the grotesque.
It came as no surprise to her friends when they saw her costume for the famous masquerade at the esteemed Palais Garnier. While Raoul and Philippe wore a simple Hussar costume, Cecile was dressed as a golden lion and Sorelli as a 'star princess' (whatever that meant). Meg seemed to be the most original in their group with a feminine dark pink justacorps jacket and a tophat.
Then there was Christine, standing out from the rest in her group. She never did anything halfway, especially not when it came to costumes. While it wasn’t a Halloween masquerade as such, the fact that it was so close to October 31st didn’t escape her notice and she thought it would be a perfect time to dress as a character from one of her favorite stories.
She was dressed in a dirty-looking chemise from the mid 19th century with blood-splatters from a supposed wound in her shoulder where a fake axe was planted. Her face was painted to look like she was slowly decaying. The best part, however, was the realistic black cat sitting on her hair (not taxidermied though - that would be going too far) which let out a horrible meowing wail whenever she pressed a button on her inner sleeve.
The Black Cat by Poe had always held a special place in her heart because she in her childhood had a black cat which grew to be strange and angry in its later years. And while she didn’t know exactly how it died, she was certain her father had been involved in it; something she silently hated him for until his death.
Her friends seemed impressed and naturally disturbed by her costume. Raoul was the only one who, with an awkward smile, praised the details she’d put into it. It didn’t bother her though. She was just excited to go to the masquerade which Raoul and Philippe had secured tickets for. It was very expensive to participate and only the elite of Paris could afford. She was looking forward to seeing what kind of costumes the rich people wore. Surely, they had the most impressive and magnificent get-ups!
She was thoroughly disappointed.
Most of the men were in regular evening attire with black, white and silver masks covering their faces. A few wore more exotic costumes from the far East, but still kept in the white and silver colors. Every woman was dressed in Victorian gowns of black, white or gold and while their masks were elaborate, it was obvious that fashion bore more weight than ingenuity. Even her friends’ costumes were more inventive than these.
Christine stuck out like a sore thumb. While the whispers about the colorful clothes her friends wore were positive, it didn’t escape her notice that they huffed in outrage at her costume.
She told herself that she didn’t care. It didn’t matter that they found her distasteful nor that they talked behind her back. Her costume was the most brilliant of them all. But the truth was that she felt more out of place than ever.
Despite her wish to flee, Raoul’s blatant disregard for others’ opinions of her convinced her to stay. He didn’t like horror stories and was afraid of haunted houses, but he didn’t disencourage her interests. Tonight he regularly supplied her with champagne and kept her on the dancefloor and she found herself mostly oblivious to the stares from the crowd as he made her laugh with his overdramatic dance moves.
Raoul was a dear friend she’d known from childhood. He’d been absent in her life during their teenage years where he’d struggled with her fascination with the ghastly, but he’d returned when he felt more secure with himself.
She knew his feelings for her were more than just friendly, but she didn’t return them. He was young and handsome with a good future which should be all she wanted in a man, yet she didn’t find him appealing at all.
The only men she’d found an interest in at all were much older and less conventionally attractive which was why she rarely shared it with her female friends. It was obvious how unsavory they found her choices. She supposed it was natural for them when their teenage crushes had been N’Sync, Josh Hartnett and Orlando Bloom while her bedroom walls had been covered with Conrad Veidt, Lon Chaney Jr. and Peter Cushing, along with a vast selection of fictional characters.
It was rare these days that someone caught her eye. Maybe she’d get lucky and meet Crispin Glover or Doug Jones one day, although she wasn’t counting on it. In the deepest recesses of her mind, she had hoped to meet someone at the masquerade tonight, but those secret hopes were now dead and buried.
Until a tall figure resurrected those hopes.
Around midnight, the music from the orchestra suddenly ceased as an unseen clock somewhere began to chime. A dense fog began to flood the room. The guests gushed, seemingly in awe of the party organizers’ newest idea, until a tall, dramatic figure in red appeared at the top of the grand stairs in a mist of fog and unearthly light. All fell silent.
Slowly, this person descended the stairs, dressed all in a magnificent red cloak with intricate details such as overblown doublet sleeves, decorative shimmering beans and broad gold seams. A large hat with red feathers completed the look, but it was the mask that truly was beyond genius: it looked like a decomposing head. The features were sunken into the clear shape of a skull - cheeks, nose and lips rotted away - but with remaining flesh that appeared to be decaying; the skin being different colors of grey, green and yellow. There was no sign of eyes in the hollow sockets of the mask, only a deep all-consuming darkness.
Whispers and murmurs traveled through the crowd that judged and belittled the stranger for their melodrama. In truth it was obvious how they envied the grand entrance and the brilliance of the costume. The mask especially drew attention, evoking gasps of horror from the more sensitive guests.
Christine immediately knew the inspiration for this costume. She’d read the Masque of the Red Death many times. It was exciting to see another person dressed as a character from Poe’s work and she wondered if they would notice and understand her costume. Accidentally, she pressed the button that made the cat on her head meow, causing disgusted glances from the strangers around her.
She began to approach the interesting new individual when an arm held her back. “Don’t go near, Christine,” she recognized the warmth of Raoul’s hand and the gentle demand in his voice, but her eyes were locked on her target by the bottom of the stairs. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
His warning was ignored as she shook her arm from his grip and walked directly up to the red-clad figure, unafraid even by the broad shoulders or vast height difference. The features of the mask was distinctly male, as she had expected the person might be, but it was confirmed when her presence was noticed and a deep, smooth voice boomed:
"Don't touch me! I am Red Death stalking abroad!"
Christine had to suppress a shiver. There was an enthralling tone in his angry command, a hidden melody that she felt all the way into her bones. But to her dismay, he kept his gaze away from her, seemingly scanning the crowd.
With a smirk, she pressed the button to the cat on her head and let it shriek almost directly into his face. This made him turn his head towards her, staring first at the cat before lowering his eyes to her. Even up close she couldn’t make out his eyes in the dark sockets of the mask, but she felt his stare penetrate her.
However, she quickly realized that he wasn’t wearing a mask at all. It was the most realistic combination of makeup and prosthetics she’d ever seen, outside of Youtube videos; the lines around his mouth twitched before his non-existent lips turned upwards into a grimace that could be interpreted as a smile if one was generously optimistic. Luckily, that was exactly what Christine was at this moment.
“Impressive costume,” she complimented him with a more normal smile, even with her own corpse-like makeup. “And the entrance was very… in the spirit of the story.”
To her surprise, he leaned down until he was only inches from her face and whispered: “Which story? Poe’s… or ours?” The odd threat of the question intrigued her more than the words themselves. He didn’t give her time to come up with an answer though. His back straightened into a formal posture and he held out his red-gloved hand. “May I have this dance?”
She didn’t hesitate to take it, ignoring how hard he gripped her and the skeleton quality of his hand, only noticing a flash of glowing eyes inside the hollow eye sockets; it reminded her of a cat. How fascinating! She had to know where he’d bought those lenses.
Although she’d danced with Raoul all night, she wasn’t at all prepared for the way she was led across the dancefloor by the Red Death. He moved between the other couples with a graceful flourish and carried her with him around the room while quietly singing along with the song played by the orchestra, so only she could hear it. His voice was exquisite - otherworldly and velvety soft - a baritone timbre giving her goosebumps.
Christine had never felt so elegant and carefree. It was as if she was flying, like Wendy when she met Peter Pan. The crowd stared at them, but this time she relished their simple judgement. Her dance partner made her feel completely secure with herself and she only had eyes for him.
When the song ended, he stepped back, kissed her hand with what felt like more teeth than lips and bent into a charming bow. “I thank you, Christine, for honoring me with your presence.” His cat-like eyes glimmered in their dark holes - like tiny flames in deep tunnels - making her miss the fact that he knew her name, despite having never been told.
He had such an appealing presence that she felt utterly spellbound by him. Her heart was beating a mile a minute and her skin was tickling where he’d touched her moments ago. “Do you want to go to a place more private?” The words were mere afterthoughts of what she was thinking; she wanted him, desperately.
His bald spotted eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he wasted no time to silently respond to her suggestion. He grabbed her arm and tugged her to his side, his arm over her shoulder, and with a dramatic swirl of his cape, he turned and headed for the grand stairs. She could barely follow his long strides as they ascended, but he made sure she didn’t leave his side.
Underneath the cape, she noticed an unpleasant smell, one reminding her of mildew and compost. He must’ve stored the costume in a damp basement. Such a foul odor was difficult to get rid of, so she couldn’t really blame him for the smell. It still bothered her though because it reminded her of the crappy apartment her father had spent his last few years in. Immediately, she pushed the memory from her mind.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Raoul trying to get past the crowd to reach her and she picked up the pace a little, giggling. "My friends will be outraged by this. I haven't even asked for your name." This was so unlike her. She may have peculiar interests, but had otherwise always been mindful of her actions when they went to bars and parties with unfamiliar people and never even kissed on a first date. Nevertheless, she'd never met anyone like this man before.
"My name is Erik," he answered automatically to her unasked question, not acknowledging the rest of her sentence. He seemed to want to get out of there as fast as she did which she didn't mind. She liked the idea of disappearing before Raoul caught up with them.
When they reached the first plateau, he led them to the right, through a small hall and paused in front of a door. With a weird, sharp turn of his hand, the lock in the door clicked and he pulled her quickly inside, closing the door quietly behind them. They were in another hallway, although this one was completely dark. Guests were clearly not meant to stray here. It was colder as well. She was certainly underdressed for this obviously unheated part of the opera house and his body close to hers offered oddly little warmth.
“I have a perfect place. We’re there in a moment,” he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “and then I promise you won’t stay cold for long.” She noticed for the first time a slight lisp in the words he spoke. Certain words even made him spit a little in her ear. It was possibly due to the way the makeup created the illusion of not having any lips, she figured. It couldn’t be easy to speak with.
He stopped in front of a polished, brown door marked Box Five. The so-called Box of the Blind. It was definitely a good place for a tryst. This time he pulled out a small, golden key and unlocked it before holding out a hand for her to enter the box. A cold, gloved hand rested on her lower back as she entered.
The door had barely closed behind her before he pushed her against it, his mouth descending on hers. She accepted it gladly, responding to the kisses he bestowed on her and his tongue as it forced its way into her mouth.
He pulled the fake cat off her head and buried a hand in her hair with a tight grip. Mirroring his action, she pushed off his plumed hat and lifted a hand to his head, but only found a few coarse strands of hair. He was probably wearing a bald cap as part of his costume. She abandoned the thought when his other hand landed on her breast. Things were moving forward fast.
His lips felt nearly as nonexistent as they looked which caused him to salivate a lot, no doubt because of the prosthetics. His teeth were the worst though, as they lacerated her mouth. But none of it really mattered to Christine.
Perhaps it was the many glasses of fancy champagne Raoul had offered her, all of them quickly emptied; perhaps was his enthralling voice whispering obscene nothings between breaths; or maybe she was just desperate for connection with a kindred spirit. Whatever the reason was, she wanted everything this strange man had to offer.
However, she was still curious about his makeup and prosthetics. The distinct lack of a nose as they kissed was a bizarre and impressive effect. Had he somehow flattened it underneath the makeup? She might convince him to remove that and some prosthetics around his mouth to spare her from more wounds caused by his teeth. It could be nice to see his real face as they made out, she mused as she pulled away from his firm embrace.
It was dark in the box, but her eyes had already adjusted somewhat to the dark. Up close it was still impossible to see how he'd managed to make it appear as though he had no nose. Her curiosity finally got the best of her. Even if she ruined his makeup, it wasn't like anyone was around to see.
He inhaled sharply as her hands cupped his cheeks. The skin there felt so thin and dry like pages in an old book and so little flesh seemed to cover the skin, making sinewy and veins prominent against her palms. She felt him smirk as she moved down to his mouth where she expected to find something pulling back his lips, but found only more dry skin and his teeth.
She wanted to ask him how he’d done it, but her throat suddenly felt parched and the tension between them had shifted; fear slowly crept into her chest.
Her right hand lifted to his forehead. He gripped her wrist tightly as a warning, but didn’t stop her as she let a careful finger skate from the space between his eyes and down.
She found no special effect as expected; her finger slid into his nasal cavity and as she felt the moisture there, her heart seemed to skip several beats. "Oh God!" She cried, turning away to run from him, but his hard grip on her wrist kept her locked in place, forcing her to face him.
"What’s the matter? Cat’s got your tongue?" Erik cackled as he stepped on the fake cat lying on the floor; it let out a strangled meow. "Come on, look! Feast your eyes, glut your soul on my cursed ugliness! Look at Erik's face! You were so enchanted by this face a moment ago. I'm a very good-looking fellow, yes?”
Christine struggled against his iron-grip on her wrist, her whole body trembling with fear, as he taunted her. "Why, my dear, you seem frightened. Ah! Perhaps you still believe I’m wearing a mask and that this,” he grabbed her other hand and lifted them both back to his cheeks, “this is not flesh and bone? Well,” his eyes glinted like fire in their hollow sockets, like the fires of hell, “try and tear it off then! Come! Come along! I insist!” He dug her nails into his awful face and tore long gashes in his flesh and they both screamed as he continued for long seconds; she in horror, him with madness.
He finally let her hands go and she didn’t waste a moment to wipe the blood and dead skin off in her dress. “Know,” he hissed, as breathless as her and deliberately blocking the only way out, “know that I am built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse that loves you and adores you and will never, never leave you! Christine Daae...”
The sound of her name froze the blood on her veins. He knew her name. How did he know her name? “Who are you?” Her voice was but a whisper, but the horrible smile on his face assured her that he had heard. He slowly stalked forward across the small room as she backed away from him. The banister hit her in the back. She was trapped.
“I am The Red Death. And you are my living bride!”
“NO!” She screamed and turned around to climb over the balcony. Falling to her death seemed like a better fate at this moment.
It was a testimony to his strength how easily he pulled her from the edge and threw her over his shoulder as though she weighed nothing at all. Her desperate screams did nothing to stop him. He walked to one of the columns and pressed his hand against it. A trapdoor opened up to reveal a dark pit inside the column.
He dropped Christine into it, her cry echoing as she fell, before he followed her. The trapdoor closed behind him, once more invisible in the stone of the column.
The next day, as Raoul de Chagny was at the police station to report Christine Daae missing, the box keeper of Palais Garnier got quite a fright as she opened Box Five to the audience that evening. Inside the box stood a chair facing the door and on it sat a hideous beast of a cat letting out a wailing shriek.
It turned out to be a fake cat, worn by the weird woman who’d gone missing. Some scoundrel, perhaps even the woman herself, had placed it there as a prank. It was the only sign they ever found of her.
Christine Daae and the mysterious Red Death were never seen again after they had left the masquerade. Some, like Meg and Sorelli, fantasied that they had fled and started a new life together in some gothic castle. But most people figured that she must’ve become a victim to a dangerous murderer, a natural ending for a person with such perverse interests and little regard for her own safety.
None of them knew that she was imprisoned right beneath the opera house, kept as a living wife who longed for death.