Ask and ye shall receive...

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Ask and ye shall receive...

Post by Lestat on Thu Dec 11, 2014 3:17 pm



Ahhh, nothing like the glorious sound of Mozart's Requiem in D Minor projected directly into one's eardrums to set the mood. You should try it, sometime.

~~~~~


This is not a new adventure, for those are few and far between of late, I'm afraid.
I suppose I could post my observations about the beautiful mortals I find everywhere.
I still go prowling, but I spend a fair amount of time simply sitting at home, reading, watching movies, and the like. I've spent so much of my "life", well... "living", that I feel it's high-time I start acting a little more my age.
I can't believe it, but I am finally starting to feel old. I'm sure it's just another phase. Grandpa Lestat. Ha ha.

Anyway, on with the tale. It is rather lengthy, so I'm going to divide it into sections, as I write them. This is only the beginning.

I had sensed him ever since I set foot in the Opera Garnier, right in the heart of Paris' throbbing artistic pulse. I sensed it before I'd even come through the grand doors, before I'd ascended that decadent, bestatued staircase. It was architecture, decor at it's very finest, and I was certain that I belonged here. But what was this alluring and mysterious presence that I detected? It wasn't at all like the presence; that which I had sensed during those first few seconds of my new found eternity. This was not entirely vampiric, but it was too strong to be human. I was intrigued from the very start, and if all the other wonders that the opera had to offer didn't make me decide to purchase a season ticket, this presence did.

Sometimes it was more clear than others. It could not discern individual thoughts or images from it, but it instilled very strong emotions within me, for such prominent emotions as love, despair, self-loathing, passion, and a myriad of others emanated from it, constantly. Whatever it was, it was somewhere, here, in this building. It was important, somehow, like if the structure had limbs, this entity would be one of them. It seemed to be part of the very architecture, itself, but I wasn't sure how this could be possible.

I went to the opera for every performance, sitting through it all, only mildly entertained after the first few showings, and all the while thinking of this pulsating energy which seemed to become more prominent during the second act. It took me awhile, but I was eventually able to discern the source of this energy, or at least its location--box five, whose curtains were forever closed.

After the performance, I decided to go right to box five and see what I could see. Unfortunately, it was locked, and though I know I could have easily broken the lock, I didn't. Whatever this thing was, I was not ready to alert it to my presence. I would reveal myself in due course, but first I wanted to discover more about this strange being, if they were even corporeal enough to be referred to as such.

I didn't really know what to call it, until one night, at the post-performance soiree, I picked up an interesting bit of information as I mingled. Apparently the Opera Garnier was quite haunted, for I heard a group of patrons talking about an "Opera Ghost." I was, of course, very interested to know what they were talking about, and so I politely interrogated them on this subject until I was, not satisfied, but still more curious. But they had told me all that they knew, with the suggestion that perhaps I ask one of the performers, or perhaps one of the managers.

I did so, that very night. I went backstage and conversed with some of the little opera rats, whose tales were far taller than those of the party guests, earlier. They entertained me, but in truth, I believed scarcely a word of it all. Pretty and enthusiastic in their story-telling as they were, they were just silly little girls, and I had still not satisfied my hunger for knowledge of "O.G.".

I decided that I would not bother asking the managers just then, for I didn't want to be too conspicuous if this "ghost" were watching me without my knowing it.


My curiosity was only piqued by the far-fetched stories and detailed (albeit varied) descriptions of this mysterious phantom. Some maintained that his eyes were glowing red, some say yellow, and still others claimed that there were no eyes, at all, just two gaping holes to match that in center of his face where a nose should have been. Joseph Bouquet, the head stage hand, offered what was thought to be the most accurate description, as he had clearly seen the ghost on at least one occasion. (Face like a skull with what looked like two fireflies for eyes, few strands of dark, stringy hair hanging limply by the ears, dark clothing, slight build but very tall.) This matched the general consensus that he was quite gaunt, had little to no hair, (I added these visuals together mentally and came up with something very similar to what I looked like after I escaped from the swamp, little more than a shrunken husk, a grey shadow of my former self), and always appeared in evening dress, the most prominent article of which was his black swirling cloak, which enshrouded him like a Grim Reaper's cloak. Monstrous. And it wasn't decided whether the bone white visage which so often appeared was a mask or, in fact, the creature's face. I was determined to find out.

But I bided my time, and was, for once, incredibly patient. I took great care not to inform this...whatever it was, that I was searching for him. Unlike when I was desperately looking for Marius, carving messages for him in stone and sending out private ones with my mind, I tried my best to keep my mind closed should this being possess the gift of telepathy. I didn't know if he was a vampire (I didn't think so), a demon (probably not), or some other mystical being (he surely didn't seem mortal), but whoever, -what-ever he was, I had my heart set on being the one to come to -him-.

Unfortunately, that part of my plan didn't quite succeed.

The pranks started small; thumb tacks on my seat at the opera, strange noises in my head whenever I was roaming the house, by myself, things like that. Mere annoyances that gave me more joy than grief. If his intention was to irritate or frighten me, he was not succeeding, at all. I never actually caught sight of him until one day, after my usual visit backstage to give my gifts and regards to the ballerinas and singers whom I'd grown quite fond of, over time. I heard a whoosh of air, then a counterweight for one of the scenes, cut from it's rope, nearly crushed me. I caught the sandbag with ease and tossed it to the floor as though it weighed little more than a feather pillow. I looked up just in time to see a glimpse of that bone-white face I'd been told about so many times before, and a swish of black cape that was more heard than seen. But it was enough to make me sure that it was him, without a doubt.

What had happened to me happened all the time, only no one was ever actually harmed by this pesky poltergeist's playfulness. In fact, even though, if not for my vampiric senses, the sandbag surely would have done me quite a lot of damage, I did not get the impression that the creature had deliberately tried to do me harm. I did pick up on a certain annoyance that I was as persistent as I was in discovering his identity, which I was not surprised by, but he would just have to get used to that. The Vampire Lestat is not one to give up easily.

The small pranks continued for a short while longer, until I took it upon myself to venture further into this mysterious figure's domain than before. I let myself into box five after a performance, one night, and sat in his seat. It was still warm, so he had certainly been there. It was quite comfortable, and as I scrutinized the small area, I seriously considered damning the consequences and purchasing the box for the next show. I could find nothing unusual about the box, no trap doors, no hidden chambers that I could see, only the curtains, the chair, an accompanying footstool (which I found odd, because usually it was only women who requested such things), and a marble pillar on either side of the curtains. It was elegant in its simplicity, and virtually identical to all the other boxes, save for only the single chair instead of more. But nothing suspicious. Still, the presence pulsed more strongly here, and I coudn't tell whether it was because the phantom had just left, or if he was still here.

I knew I was missing something, and this frustrated me. Still, I was getting restless, and thought, perhaps, that I should continue my search elsewhere.

I didn't leave anything in the box, that time. I'd thought about writing a note or leaving something, though I wasn't sure what, but I didn't. I left, to mingle with the patrons for a bit before returning home to think.

It was then that I met Garnier, himself, and since this mysterious presence coninuously seemed somehow to be part of the building, itself (though how could that be, when I had seen its corporeal, rather humanoid form with my very eyes...?), I passed myself off as a young and up-coming archiect (always the player on the painted stage of life), and humbly requested to see the plans for the Opera. I flattered him endlessly, of course, and he'd had more than a little to drink, that night. I could smell it in his blood and see it in his cheeks, his eyes, which sparkled in the light of the many crystal chandeliers that added to the opulence of the place. Needless to say, he was more than happy to oblige. After all, no one can resist my charms.

As I pored over the blueprints and various sketches he had to show me (he'd actually invited me back to his home, which, as you can imagine, I was ecstatic about), I began to notice some inconsistencies in the style of the building. I inquired about them and he answered me with pure gold; he was not the only one to work on the Opera. So, it had been a collaborative effort! I pressed him for more information about his partner, but he said that he really could not reveal the identity, nor any details about the man, as he, the other builder, liked his privacy, and Garnier was not about to compromise that. I called him a good man and told him that I understood. The only other thing he would tell me, was that not everything was mapped out on the blueprint; his partner had made some improvisations and modifications to his own liking after the initial construction of the building had been completed, and which were scattered all throughout the many-leveled establishment. I thanked him, for he'd given me a clue, at least, but I was still disappointed that he hadn't told me anything about the other man who'd helped to build the most exquisite building in Paris. Still, it would have been boring if he'd solved the entire puzzle for me. I still had a lot to learn, and was quite eager to continue my exploration, the next evening.

~~~~~

More to come, mes cheres. And it only gets better.

I shall continue later, for I cannot write anymore, at present.


Last edited by Lestat on Thu Dec 11, 2014 7:15 pm; edited 2 times in total

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Part two, as promised.

Post by Lestat on Thu Dec 11, 2014 7:11 pm



It was after Monsieur Garnier had so generously shown me the layout of his beloved Opera House that I felt confident enough to explore the lower levels. Unaccompanied. He'd asked if I was interested in a tour, which might have taken days, but probably not been very helpful in my search for the Opera Ghost. I respectfully declined, knowing that I needed to explore alone, unhindered, if I were to solve my mystery.

And so down I went, into the cellars. There are five, and what on Earth they needed so many basements for, I'll never know. Certainly, a large portion of said space was occupied by storage; stage props, entire sets, and other miscellaneous bric-a-brac. It was all interesting enough, and even quite bone-chilling, for I believe it was the fifth cellar that had been used as some kind of prison during the war that had just ended, and was connected to an underground passage that ran throughout that area of Paris. Full of rats.

Ah, rats. I cannot look upon one's greasy coat, one's wormy little tail without being reminded of my dear Louis. But it was a rat that led me to what I first believed to be the ghost. I followed one, using my preternatural sense of smell, and found myself face-to-face with a most horrible countenance. It glowed red, the body to which it was attached was hunched and black-clad. But, after the initial shock of running into such a frightening creature in the bowels of the Opera, I realized almost immediately that it could not be the phantom.

He didn't say a word to me, only kept on with his red lantern and squirming burlap bag, which was full of what I can only assume was rats. Strange fellow, to be sure. But not my phantom.

I continued my search for the ever-elusive O.G. in those cellars for what must have been nearly a week. I lost track, down there, for I only surfaced once or twice. Down there, I was completely protected from the sun, and could stay active for as long as I wanted, sun up or not. I did get a little hungry, but I was so much more hungry for knowledge of the whereabouts of this being that had obsessed my thoughts for the past month or so, that I scarcely noticed my ropey veins, my weakness, the gauntness in my face.

The entire time I was looking for him, it turns out that he had, in fact, been watching me. He must have been able to keep his mind barred to me, his presence somehow shielded. Due to this ability, alone, I knew at once that he was a powerful being, whatever his nature. Something deep within me sent off warning bells, but I, being the impossible creature that I am, chose to ignore them.

I'd grown weary of my explorations below, and though the lake intreigued me and I was very tempted to wade out as far as I could, and then swim when I could no longer stand, the aristocrat in me refused to immerse himself in such filth. So, that was that.

Not two days after my encounter with the Rat Catcher, I found myself in one of his traps. The phantom's, that is, not the rat man. And such a clever little devil he was.

~~~~~

I had decided to "give up" on looking for him, for the time being, for when one does that, the thing one is looking for tends to appear right under one's nose. And that's exactly how it happened, as luck would have it.

I was in the diva's dressing room, one evening, as she'd invited me there after a performance (scandalous!), pretending to enjoy some champagne as we made small talk (probably eventually leading somewhere; she hoped so more than I), when she had to leave suddenly. (Quelle dommage!) It was one of the managers wanting to see her about something or some such thing. I said that I would simply wait until she returned, as I had nothing better to do (which was somewhat true).

That's when I saw him. Just a flash, in the mirror; perhaps a flip of satin cape, the creamy white interior catching the corner of my eye. But more than that, I heard him, but not with my ears...and not really with my mind, either. I realized then that he'd been projecting his voice directly inside my head, the entire time (much like headphones, actually), but it wasn't his thoughts that I was reading. I was not at all familiar with this form of communication, and it greatly intrigued me.

I know you've been following me...

His voice was so clear, so resounding, so incredibly hypnotic. It was a voice that could have coaxed me into the flames of Hell with a single word. It instilled so many different emotions in me, I barely knew which one to feel, first.

My eyes were fixed upon the unmoving surface of the mirror. I could see nothing in it but my own reflection and that of the room, behind me. But that brief glimpse had been enough. And now it was his voice I heard, serious and strong without being especially menacing. In fact, there was something incredibly inviting about that voice...it was unspeakably...seductive.

...catch me if you can... Lestat.

Ah ha! There it was! An open invitation! To do what I'd been doing, the entire time! But now I was close, so close. He was right behind the mirror! I knew it. I didn't have to see him to sense his incredible presence. He was so close I could almost hear his heartbeat, smell his blood.

I forgot all about waiting for the spoiled singer to return and began immediately trying to figure out how to get through the mirror. Now that I thought about it, I remembered the girls sayind that sometimes he appeared in their mirrors, if only for an instant. So, either the entire ballet corps should be promptly escorted to le maison de lunes, or the mysterious genius had installed many two-way mirrors throughout the house. I chuckled at the perverted glory of it.

I scrutinized the mirror, tugged at the corners, tried turning it by the frame, but nothing worked. I was getting so frustrated, that I even very seriously considered taking the large candlestick on the table not far from me and smashing it. What is seven years bad luck to a vampire? But then, almost as if he'd handed the idea to me (or perhaps I'd just subconsciously plucked it from his mind), I began pressing on various points on the glass, close to the frame. After what seemed like hours, I heard a small ping, as if a spring had been released, and the mirror came away from the wall (frame and all), on a hinge, just like a door.

I was so excited, I almost cried out. I slipped through the opening quickly and shut it behind me. I was greeted with pitch-blackness, but my vampiric eyes took little time to adjust to the darkness. I felt my way for the first few moments, seeking him out with invisible tendrils of telepathy, very much like an ant feels its way with antennae. When I could see, again, it really was no different from when I could not. The passage was narrow and uneventful, one side was the back of the outer wall, the other, a rough grey stone, stacked one on top of the other with mortar. Had he done all of this, himself? I find it funny, hilarious even, to think that I was impressed by a bit of stone, when the real wonders lay ahead.

Or, perhaps more appropriately put, below.

The passage seemed to go on for miles, and in that colossus of a building, it may very well have done. But I was walking, walking, walking, and then suddenly, I was falling. I had slipped through a trap door in the floor, and was now in another dark space. But it wasn't dark for long.

A blazing light was suddenly blinding me, sending shooting pain through my sensitive retinas and causing a shudder to run over my cold flesh. It was reflected by many mirrors, all facing each-other, in a kind of hexagonal arrangement. It took me a full two minutes to recover from the pain the light had given my eyes and the start it had given my heart. As a creature of the night, I had grown to fear light in large amounts, as I automatically equated it to the light of the sun, which, though I was getting stronger, could still kill me.

I studied my strange prison for quite some time; and it was a prison, for there was not any way out of it. At least, no way that was immediately apparent to me. But I didn't have any intention of escaping, at least not right away. I knew I was right where he wanted me; I'd literally followed him into a trap. And quite an elaborate trap it was.

It was empty, save for a large metal tree, with a noose hanging from one of its limbs. These two objects and myself were reflected hundreds of times upon themselves, to create a kind of forest of trees, nooses, and Lestats. My vanity immediately took over, despite the warm temperature (for, it could have just been me, but it definitely seemed as though the temperature was slowly but surely rising), and I took this opportunity to gaze at my reflection from every possible angle, simultaneously. It was quite a sight, as I'm sure you can imagine. Though there was dust in my hair, and cobwebs on my jacket, my reflections were still enough to captivate me (and thus, distract me from what I was to learn later was intended to be my impending doom) for a full ten minutes, at least. I even forgot about the reason I was in this strange mirrored room, to begin with.

And then, the blood sweat began to appear in tiny droplets on my brow. Before long it was staining my white shirt, and I felt compelled to remove my tailcoat. In fact, I felt compelled to remove just about every article of clothing, but as I removed them, one by one, I kept becoming enchanted by the reflection of my increasingly naked form.

By the time I was in nothing more than my trousers and shirtsleeves, I heard a booming voice that filled up the entire room, and seemed powerful enough to shatter the glass.

"Enough! You incorrigible narcissus! Get out!"

I blinked, and the room went dark. Then, before instinctual panic set in, one of the mirrored panels popped open, exactly as the mirror in the diva's dressing room had. There was light coming from the other side. I walked toward it in a daze, not bothering to gather the puddle of sweaty clothes at my feet.

I blinked again as the comparatively bright light of the room enveloped me in its golden glow. When my eyes had adjusted (my but they had been working hard that night, hadn't they?) I took in my surroundings with what can only be described as sheer awe. I was dumb with it. I knew without a doubt that I was standing right in the home of the Opera Ghost, and I greedily drank in the details of it as I stood, speechless, this precious knowledge making my head swim.

And then I saw him, and what little breath I'd managed to salvage was completely taken from me.

~~~~~

And that is where I shall end, for tonight. A cliff-hanger is good for the audience. Keeps them interested, I hear.

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Re: Ask and ye shall receive...

Post by Lestat on Tue Dec 16, 2014 2:40 am

I gaped at the man like a codfish for an obscene amount of time, and I really was sorry, but I couldn't help myself. Here was a man who, I was to learn later, had been stared at all his life. That is, when he was not lurking in the shadows, and even then, there were pesky curious ones like myself who sought him out.

I didn't feel quite so rude, however, because he was staring right back at me, his strange yellow eyes skimming over my sweaty clothing, eying the blood with a skillfully suppressed curiosity. He noticed other things about me, too, and had definitely sensed that something was not entirely right with me. But as I looked at him, scrutinized his tall (my God, but he was so very tall!), lithe form, clad entirely in black save for a white tuxedo shirt that was barely visible beneath the exquisitely tailored evening jacket that he wore, and the bone-white mask that covered the pale yellow skin of his face, I knew that, though he'd seemed so much more, he was nothing if not heart-breakingly human. His appearance did nothing to fool me, for his aura swirled around his physical body, heavy and sad and dark, and though he looked at me without a hint of emotion in those cat eyes, I could tell that his capacity to feel was incredibly large.

He was, if it was possible, even fairer of skin that myself, the blue veins in his temples and neck etched vividly beneath the taut layer of skin, whose only pigment was a slight yellowish tinge that was made even more apparent in the lamp light. His hair (a wig, I was convinced, all though not a bad one, at that) was long and dark, complete with elegant sideburns that were in style at the time (I sadly lacked any, and was not able to grow them, and didn't want to bother with prosthetics), and tied tastefully back into a loose ponytail with a black satin ribbon, much like the ones I fancied. He stared at me from behind the few errant strands of ebony that hung in his face as a result, no doubt, of his running away from me. I had never seen anything like him, before. He was beautiful beyond words.

As I gawked shamelessly at the breathtaking sight before me, the pieces began to stitch themselves together in my mind. Now the voice had a face, (figuratively speaking, for I could not see his actual face) and realizing that such a powerful, seductive voice had come from such a being made perfect sense to me.

There was definitely something vampiric about him. In fact, very little about him was not. Even the manner in which he lived (and I had not even seen the coffin in which he apparently slept) was incredibly macabre, definitely smacking of the occult. But he was no vampire, no phantom. He was flesh (not much of it) and blood (which I could still smell, and it was making me dizzy with desire), and I loved him for it.

"It would appear that the game is up, Lestat."

I've always liked the sound of my name on anothers lip`s, but the way he rolled it off his tongue in that dulcet tone was just exquisite. I felt shivers run up my spine and dance back down again. I probably would have felt my groin tingle, if it had functioned like a human's. Almost certainly.

"Or perhaps it's just begun," I suggested, sounding a little less enthused than I felt. I was so taken with him, so awash with his power, I felt weak in the knees. And the scent of his blood...God, I felt as though I hadn't fed in days. I wanted him. I think he could tell, and was not entirely sure how to take it. He sensed my intentions were carnal, as opposed to sexual (though they are very closely related with us vampires), and it seemed as though he were mentally trying to cope with suddenly being on the other end of things. But he also knew that he was purposely inducing some of these emotions in me, and so was probably not as surprised as he would have been, otherwise.

He responded with a throaty chuckle. I found it unnerving that if I wanted to discern any kind of emotion from him, I would either have to pay very close attention to his body language and tone of voice (which I couldn't help but do, anyway), or read his thoughts. The mask shielded his entire visage, save for those glowing cat-eyes, peering out at me from twin pits of blackness. I had to get closer.

I was drawn to him like a moth to the flame. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps he was pulling me to him, like a puppet on a string, but I was moving entirely of my own volition. I half expected him to stop me, to hold up a hand or give me a warning of some kind, but he did not. I approached him until I was a breath's length away. Here I could see more of his eyes, which was a comfort, and I could also smell him. Being a vampire, I was well acquainted with the smell of death, and it was all over him. I wasn't sure why, because I'd all ready established that he was human. Unless he kept corpses in his residence (I wouldn't have kept it past him, at that point) or something similar, I couldn't figure out why he should wear le parfume morte as though it were a bottled essence he applied daily.

Of course, I wanted to kiss him. Or, the mask, anyway. That's just the way I am. Ever-affectionate, fond of kisses, Lestat. But, before the urge took me too far, I realized how absolutely ridiculous it would be to kiss the false lips of the mask. And also, it would probably alarm him quite a lot, and I thought better of taking the risk of upsetting him. Another realization soon accompanied this one, and it was that he must have a face, beneath the mask.

Curiosity took hold of me suddenly and without warming, but I dared not even dream of doing something so rash as trying to remove the mask, for I sensed that he donned it for a reason deeper than mere eccentric fashion, and, if I was patient, perhaps I would eventually find out what that reason was.

"Well," he began, after a time, "I suppose there really is no point in offering you tea...is there?"

This time I chuckled, and shook my head no. I might have blushed, I was so thrilled by his voice...by all of him. My senses responded to him almost embarrassingly.

For a little while, there was a sense of, "Well, now that you're here, what do we do, now?" The chase had ended. I was face-to-face with my so-called phantom, standing with him, staring at him, drinking him in (though not quite in the way I would've liked), in his house under the Paris Opera House.

For the first time in perhaps a hundred years, I was speechless.

~~~~~~

Apologies for the shortness of this installment, but you know it always continues.

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Prelude to an update

Post by Lestat on Fri Dec 19, 2014 5:13 am


Well... One of actual substance.

This serves as an announcement that I am actually going to continue the story of myself and the Opera Ghost at some point, probably in the near future.
But then, to me, a year (when I last updated) is like...well. What the hell do I care about a year? Let us put it that way.

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Re: Ask and ye shall receive...

Post by Yume on Fri Jan 16, 2015 8:38 pm

Will you continue your story?


Last edited by Yume on Mon Oct 31, 2016 11:21 pm; edited 1 time in total

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Re: Ask and ye shall receive...

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