There is something to be said, I suppose, of those who fill their houses with things that remind them of love. Those who dedicate their lives to finding those items that fill them with joy. Those collectors do have the best of intentions, I assume. But he was not like them.
Those collectors, they devote themselves to finding materialistic pleasures that can only remind them of what they really want.
He would rather bypass the material and go straight for the actual thing.
He remembered when he first heard the girl sing. She was young—most of the people who were willing to make a transaction with him were—but he was immediately struck by the beauty of her voice, the power and raw emotion behind it. This was something so rare—so truly exquisite—that he knew he would never, ever, encounter another voice like hers. A collector’s piece, indeed.
He had to have it.
When he brought her to his catacombic lair the first time, she was frightened. Most of them were. He had learned how to behave around them, how to dance around the issue like one might dance around a skittish animal, and how to carefully toe the line until they were ready to hear what he had to say. This girl, she seemed cleverer than most, and while she was afraid, he saw intrigue written rather boldly across her face, framed by curly brown hair and the glittering headpiece she hadn’t had time to remove.
“The rumors are true, then,” she said finally. Her voice quivered, but he saw that she staunchly refused to show any fear. A caged bird frantically beating her wings.
“Rumors?” he said, sweeping off his cape.
“Of the ghost.”
“Do I look like a ghost to you?” he asked, spreading his arms out wide. Like an eagle facing a sparrow.
“No,” she said. “You look like a man.”
He let his arms fall slowly, taking one step closer to her. “I can assure you, Miss Daaé, I am no man.”
The girl faltered for a moment. “How do you know my name?”
“I know everything about you, Christine.”
Christine’s already pale face went even whiter. “No.” She took one step backwards, then another.
“You can’t run, Christine.”
“What do you want from me?”
He reached out, grabbed her arm. “Just one thing.”
She tried to wrest her arm free. “Let go of me! I want to leave. Let me leave!”
He squeezed, just tight enough for her to fall silent. He stared at her, gazing into her clear blue eyes, tears trembling on her lashes. They said nothing for a long moment, Christine too afraid to speak and he waiting for the right time to strike.
“I’m a collector,” he said finally.
Christine’s eyes went from fearful to confused. “What?”
He let go of her arm, satisfied that she wouldn’t run away. Where would she go?
“I’m a collector,” he repeated, turning away from her and making his way to the organ.
“What do you collect?” she asked, her voice wary.
“My collections don’t consist of physical things, my dear, nothing as frivolous as that. No, Christine, I’m a collector of something much deeper. “Only things you can experience, nothing you can touch.”
“What does that mean?” the girl asked, the tremor in her voice returning. “What could I possibly give you?”
He sat, his fingers trailing over the ivory keys. “Your voice.”
Her hand went to her throat. “My voice? How can you do that?”
“I told you, Christine, I am not a mere man. Such primitive human constraints do not bind me to the same rules that you must follow.”
Christine trembled, her eyes wide, resembling a baby bird shivering in the wind. “Please let me go,” she whispered.
The man—the Phantom—stood suddenly. “You will not leave this place until you give me what I ask.”
“I don’t know how to do that!”
“I ask nothing of you except your voice. All you must do is stand before me. The extraction will take moments and you will not feel any pain.” Sometimes it was better to lie to them. If they knew the truth, they would beat their wings even harder.
“I don’t believe you.” He could hear the panic in her voice.
“I cannot make you believe me,” he said evenly. “I cannot even make you do this for me. But I can keep you here with me until you comply.”
“No, you cannot—unhand her!”
The Phantom looked up as Christine whipped around, watching two figures suddenly fly into the room. One of them was a young man—tall, strapping, dark—and the other was a girl about Christine’s age.
“Raoul!” Christine yelped, running to him, and in his shock, the Phantom didn’t even stop her. She threw her arms around him and he held her close, murmuring to her. The other girl, dressed in the traditional white of the ballet rats, eyed the lair nervously. Unable to help himself, the Phantom studied her pointe shoes, already wondering what it would take to siphon her ability to use them.
“Meg,” Christine said, pulling her into a hug too.
“Christine, what’s going on?” Raoul demanded, holding her at arms’ length. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right, Raoul, really.”
Raoul turned to the Phantom then, sweeping both girls behind him. “Let her go!”
The Phantom studied him coolly, trying to assess if there was anything about him worth taking. His love for Christine, perhaps. “I can’t do that.”
“Take me instead, then,” the boy insisted.
“NO—” Christine started.
Admirable. Pathetic, but admirable. Perhaps he’d take his courage.
He watched the three people before him. Christine, defiant but terrified. Raoul, protective but inept, really. Meg, fiery, but hardly a threat.
“Did you not hear me?” Raoul repeated, his voice harsh. “Take. Me. Instead!”
The Phantom, skilled at assessing his prey, watched Raoul’s eyes, then slid his gaze to Christine’s and then Meg’s. It stayed there, reading her thoughts without needing to pry.
“Don’t take him,” she said finally. “Take me.”
“Meg!” Christine protested.
“Christine, let me do this,” Meg said, her little hands shaking. “I won’t let either of you lose any of part the other. Or yourselves.”
The Phantom heard the footsteps of the mob above him. Not much time. His window was closing.
Christine’s voice was, of course, preferable. Nothing could compare. Raoul, frankly, was useless to him. Meg’s skill was impressive, he supposed. It would be a priceless addition to his collection, nothing like Christine’s voice, but he could always take that another time. He would find her, he always could.
“Fine,” he conceded, dismissing the other two with a wave of his hand. “Follow me, child.”
“No!” Christine lurched forward, reaching for her friend.
The Phantom slapped her hand away. “She’s made her choice, Miss Daaé. You and your fiancé are free to leave.”
“I’m not leaving her!”
The Phantom flicked his hand again, sending Christine and Raoul staggering backwards a few steps. “You may stay if you wish, but only if you are silent.”
“I’m not going to be—”
He snapped his fingers and Christine’s voice cut off like someone had switched off a radio. “What did you do?” Raoul yelled, taking her face in her hands.
“I silenced her voice temporarily. She’ll be fine. If you don’t shut up, I’ll silence yours too.” How he wished he could have taken her voice right then and there, but it wasn’t that simple. He turned back to Meg.
Her small form trembled, but she said nothing. He rested his hand on her head for a moment, closing his eyes in concentration.
Meg was silent for a moment, and then she screamed once, a horrible, bloodcurdling scream.
Then nothing.
She collapsed onto her hands and knees, sobbing. The Phantom backed up, away from her, feeling the power he took from her coursing through him. He turned towards his collection then, selecting a small vial, and he watched Meg’s power settle inside.
“What did you do to her?” Raoul asked, starting forward. “Is she all right?”
“She will be. You need to leave.” He took Meg roughly by the arm and heaved her up, thrusting her towards Raoul. “You might have to carry her.”
Christine found her voice finally. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I can’t dance anymore,” Meg said suddenly, her voice tiny.
Christine stared at her. “How do you know?”
“He took it. That’s what he does. I wasn’t going to let him take anything from either of you.”
“I don’t understand,” Christine wept. “Meg, I’m so sorry.”
The Phantom could tell that Meg didn’t quite understand either. The simplest way to explain it was that he had taken that talent from her, bottled it up, and kept it for himself. He had left her passion but took her ability.
The mob grew closer. Raoul scooped up Meg, who was swaying on her feet, and turned to go, his motive clearly only to get them to safety. Christine turned to follow him, but not before pinning the Phantom with such a withering glare that he stepped back. “I will find a way to reverse this,” she hissed, her voice hard with resolve. “And I will return. Meg’s sacrifice for us will not be in vain. You won’t win. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care where you are; I will find you.”
She left, and the air hang heavy with the weight of her promise.
She was just a girl. He was more powerful than any human on this earth.
And yet, somehow, he knew she meant it.
And he was afraid.
Owl Things Considered 