ERIK'S JOURNAL - SEQUEL TO THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

Thank you syoonchannel and welcome. So happy you enjoy my stories.

I will try to post more often. Here is Chapter 29. Please R&R (read and review).

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As Philippe moved about in the chamber, he noticed hints of flour traced along the floor. The rack empty. The count kept talking about everything and nothing to distract his unwelcome visitors as he motioned for Palmer and Donatien to spread out and search for the intruders.

With guns drawn, the two henchmen separated and scowled the room. Erik realized what they were doing and swiftly, but silently removed his lasso. Hamilton drew his GB Steyr. Fireworks would soon commence. Bringing down two armed men presented no challenge to the Opera Ghost, but snagging the Count would.

With the tip of his gun, Donatien nosed the rack where he flushed out Antoine and his uncle. Nothing delighted the pervert more than to imagine the forbidden pleasure he would ensure with the young man. Perhaps a taste of the older man would be gratifying as well, thought Donatien as he reached for Antoine. The boy jerked away in violent protest. The henchman snickered and made some lewd remark in French.

Knowing they’d have to do something, Erik and Hamilton lay in wait for Palmer as he crept closer to the shadowed corner. Philippe didn’t seem to mind the lewd remark and he didn’t show any fear. He trusted Palmer and Donatien would handle the situation.

In a matter of minutes, Erik had the lasso around Palmer’s throat and Hamilton brought down Donatien with a single shot. But no one anticipated the old count’s move.

The shrill sound of Mae’s scream brought Erik to attention. Near the skeleton, the count had a gun to Mae’s temple. Raoul lay unconscious on the floor.

“I will kill the woman if you don’t drop your weapons,” came the vile demand. Gripping the lasso tight, Erik nearly choked the life out of Palmer. But to save his wife, he released the criminal. The body hit the floor with a nasty thud. The old count showed no emotion as he gestured to the door with his gun. In a flashing instant, he wrapped his arm around the young woman’s throat and followed them out.

Eventually, Palmer rallied in his hazy world of near death. Blurred eyes focused on his dead comrade lying a few yards away; blood pooling under him. Scrambling to his feet, Palmer staggered to the exit and joined the count and the intruders in the corridor.

“You blundering idiot!” cried Philippe in a menacing voice. “I tell you to do something and like a fool you nearly get yourself killed. Donatien is dead. Take this gun and keep it on the woman while I see to my bungling relative,” he referred to Raoul whom he left on the floor of the torture chamber. The disoriented disciple of evil took the weapon and wrapped an arm around Mae’s throat and placed the gun to her head. The others knew he couldn’t miss, even in his hazy state of mind.

Returning to the torture chamber le modern Comte de Chagny went to the spot where he’d left the unconscious Raoul, but found no one. With a scowl on his face, the count visually searched the chamber. Where could he have gone? Moving quickly to the iron maiden, he wondered if his time-traveling kin had escaped by this exit. One other hidden door to check.

Feeling along the wall near the hanging skeleton Philippe engaged the counterweight and a door slid open. Drawing a cigarette lighter from his blazer pocket, he lit the dark passage way. Deathly silence hung like a lead in the dank air. Nothing stirred. Where did Raoul go?

At the moment, the old count had no time to contemplate the problem. He had a dead henchman to remove and a perhaps some intruders to add to the pollution of le Seine. Dead men and women tell no tales.

From the corridor, the count ushered everyone into the sitting room. He didn’t see the need to torture them if they didn’t answer his questions. A bullet in the head would make short work of them. What he wanted he would probably find in the rest of the journal; as soon as Lucas McCleary completed restoring the water damaged pages.

After seating Erik and the others on sofas and overstuffed chairs, the old count glared at each one; Palmer still had the gun to Mae’s head.

“Torture only forces the individual to give me what I want. I want nothing from anyone but Lucas McCleary. Finish restoring the rest of the journal. The rest of you will be disposed of,” he looked to his right hand man. Palmer swallowed hard. Knowing he’d made a number of mistakes upset him enough, especially with the threat of death. But now given another chance with an impossible task…he knew Erik would kill him for sure. At one time he feared punishment from the count, but feeling the lasso choking the life out of him told a different story.

“Since you plan to kill us anyway, please tell us what’s in the journal that’s worth killing for?” demanded Erik.

The count studied him carefully before responding. This man he knew somehow. From where, he could not recall. “Who are you?”

“Mason, Erik Mason,” came the reply. Philippe ticked a look to Hamilton, his sandy colored hair tousled from the sneaking and hiding.

“Most people think the Phantom of the Opera was a myth, a fairytale, but a chosen few do not. This journal was allegedly written by this creature whose genius and power exceeded anyone upon this earth. Three things are said to exist in the book, 1) the secret to eternal youth and life, 2) the key to ultimate power, and 3) the ritual enabling one to walk through dimensions,” the count finished. For a brief moment, the evil in his eyes became so prominent that Mae gasped and Antoine winced. Even Erik and Hamilton exchanged looks at the demon in the count’s eyes.

“So this is worth killing for? This sounds like some sort of hocus-pocus,” the words fell absent-mindedly from Erik’s lips. He couldn’t get over how much the count looked like his ancestor and he also wondered what happened to Raoul.

“Hocus-pocus indeed. You know better than that. I hear a slight bit of French in your voice, monsieur. Obviously cultural and academic breeding from the upper echelon of Paris, no?” As the count finished a manservant brought in a tray filled with a crystal decanter of cognac and matching snifters. After placing the tray on the coffee table, he proceeded to pour each a snifter of the full-bodied liqueur. The count gently swirled his drink around in the glass.

Erik smiled and bowed his head, snifter in hand. “Touché. Very astute observation, but you have not really answered the question.”

“Oui, monsieur Erik, killing for gain is worth it. You pretend to scoff at the indication of magick, but deep in your heart you know it is true. The ritual and spell do exist. Can you imagine walking from one dimension to another, even time traveling? Mon Dieu! Such power no man has ever known. I will be richer and more powerful than anyone could ever imagine.” Philippe paused a moment and studied Erik again. Something about the former Opera Ghost made him wonder who he really was.

“From where do you come, monsieur? I feel like I know you from somewhere? How is it you accompany my ancestor to this castle? Answer me this! Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny should have been dead for a least 100 years, but yet he walks with you as if he were a man in his twenties?” This caught Erik off guard and he fell silent. How could he answer without giving himself away?

At this, Philippe motioned for Palmer to lower the gun from Mae’s temple. For the moment, he figured shooting her would bring him nothing. Guns and dealing with intruders fell beneath his cast, so the count sent for more muscle to rid him of the pest.

A tall, dark man of Haitian decent called Agwe entered the room in answer to his master’s call. Agwe removed Antoine and his uncle Lucas. His master needed for Lucas to continue restoring the water damaged journal. As soon as they left, Azacca, also a tall dark man from Haiti came to collect Erik and Hamilton and dispose of them. The two exchanged looks. They already had a plan to take out Azacca. But how do they over power the count. Something about the man didn’t feel right. From his talk and actions, he seemed like a man of age, but his physical appearance said he may be no older than forty-five or fifty years old. Why had he employed Haitians?

For a moment, Erik stood in protest. “What about my wife? Let her go. She cannot hurt you neither can she be of use to you.”

“You are correct Monsieur Erik. She is useless to me. Therefore, I will give her to Palmer to deal with. When he is finished with her, he will kill her.” At this Erik balked, but the Haitian caught him about the throat. The count drew his gun and pointed it at Hamilton.

“So gallant and yet so stupid. This is no game. Monsieur Hamilton and I have contented over the journal before and killing you both where you stand would not bother me in the least. Since I’ve just put in new carpet and furniture, I’d prefer not to. Blood stains on a carpet like this would be murder to remove,” with a wicked grin, the count motioned for Azacca to take them from the room.

The young woman struggled against Palmer who actually found the protest most arousing. Knowing this, Mae back-kicked his kneecap, causing him to lurch forward, screaming in pain, as she scrapped her heel down his the front of his leg and then let down hard on his foot. This threw the Englishman off balance, and with an elbow to the face, he hit the floor in seconds.

The commotion distracted Azacca long enough for Erik to loosen the grip around his throat and send the man to the floor. With a swift kick to the head, the Haitian went out like a light. Hamilton lunged for the count’s gun, but it went off. Philippe moved away, but the reporter kept moving in. He knew he’d it the man. Philippe knew the reporter should have dropped but didn’t. Confused and surprised, the count turned tails and ran from the room, firing one last shot before disappearing from sight.

Both Mae and her husband rushed to the reporter. He indeed had taken a bullet in the side, but still with his obnoxious grin, Hamilton remarked what cowardly actions the count displayed.

Gently Erik and Mae eased the reporter to the sofa, where blood spilled from his wound on to the creamy colored, brocade sofa. Oh how Philippe would hate this!

Thank you so much for posting this brilliant work!!

I love your works!! Thank you, thank you!!

Merry Christmas to all,

S

Thank you, thank you syoonchannel. I shall work on this one until I finish it. Did you read the first one, Through the Looking Glass. The was the prequel to this one.

More to come soon.

Of course, I have read it!

I loved it!!!

Brava, brava, bravissima

For my loyal readers I post Chapter 30. I will try to have another chapter next week.

Thank you syoonchannel for your kind words.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 30

The Lab in the de Chagny Château

The room set up in a distant part of the castle looked like a modern day laboratory. All the chemicals and drying needs for the journal lay at McCleary’s disposal. Generally he would only need an electric fan, wax paper and latex gloves, but because of the age of the paper, Lucas chose to vacuum freeze drying the manuscript after drying out the pages. This technique would preserve the pages.

Time seemed to pass slowly under Agwe’s watchful eye. The man spoke very little and when he did he usually muttered in French or Creole. He appeared to understand English, but never used it.

Antoine felt very uneasy in the man’s presence. He found it difficult to read his intentions, save for obeying the count’s orders. The young man tried to keep his mind off being captive by assisting his uncle in restoring the journal.

With both in white lab coats, Antoine and Lucas gently and carefully pressed a clean cloth to several pages to absorb any excess moisture. Then they laid sheets of wax paper between the pages to help them dry completely. With latex gloved hands, the men handled the sheets of the journal as if they were gold.

As they restored each sheet, they realized this entry heralded the return of the Phantom to the 21st Century to retrieve his endearing journal and precious book of spells, especially the book of spells. As Antoine finished reading the last words of the entry, he stared in shock, almost blankly at his uncle. This meant the creature of myth and magick walked among them. But how? Where was he now?

As if he could read his nephew’s mind, Lucas McCleary shook his head as if to remind the lad to say nothing in front of the Haitian. Whether or not he understood English, they couldn’t risk such knowledge to anyone. How could they keep this from the Count? Each entry was clearly labeled by date. Could they hide this entry without any suspicion? Would the entries to follow make sense without this one?

Agwe rustled about looking for a strong drink. Apparently, the Count had some form of liquor in almost every room of the château. Finally, the Haitian found the cabinet filled with a nice assortment of belly burning liquid. After selecting his poison, the Haitian poured himself an untradionally large glass of it and settled back in a chair facing the boy and his uncle.

With the entry hidden, Lucas and his nephew continued the process of restoring the pages. From an indiscreet corner of the room, the eyes of a male watched every move, including that of Agwe.
After an hour or so passed, Agwe finally moved from his chair and mumbled something about time for them to stop for a break. If seemed like someone guided the Haitian, but no one else stood among them. Lucas concluded that the man had a hidden mic on him. Who knows, perhaps a hidden camera as well. Both he and his nephew broke into a nervous sweat. Immediately, they stopped what they were doing and left the room with Agwe. One by one he allowed them to freshen up in a nearby bathroom.

In one of the small kitchens a small meal awaited them. Agwe ate very little, but liquor he consumed by the gallon. They waited for him to get drunk, but fermented drinks didn’t seem to affect him. Not good.

Once again, male eyes furtively watched them in the kitchen. Lucas knew more than the Haitian and cooks stood in the kitchen with them. Where? They could not say.

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Erik and his wife each supported the reporter from both sides as they made their way through the winding maze of hallways and rooms of the castle. Erik hadn’t recalled so many twists and turns. At last, they found a room with its door ajar. The lab where the restored pages of the journal lay drying stood before them. Erik wrinkled his nose as he squinted to read the entry. This was not the one that told of Doone’s return. That one Lucas hid somewhere in the room when Agwe poured himself a drink.

“I’m bleeding to death here,” Hamilton said half jokingly. Erik grunted an acknowledgement, but actually paid him no mind.

“What is it darling?” Mae moved toward her beloved.

“An entry from the journal. It is Doone writing. He does a good job mimicking my style of speech. If I didn’t know me, I’d swear I wrote this entry. I think I know how to defeat the Count.

“I’m listening,” Hamilton grinned.

“This is a need to know sort of thing, so when you need to know, I’ll fill you in,” came the reply.

“What kind of answer is that?” painfully Hamilton made a face and shuffled toward them. Erik moved away from the table and pushed the reporter back.

“We need to get that bullet out of your shoulder,” Erik eased him to a nearby chair. The reporter winced as he forced himself to sit. The former Opera Ghost pulled back his jacket and blood soaked shirt. The wound needed attending. The bleeding needed to be stopped. Erik looked around and found a scalpel on the table near the heating unit. Soaking a ball of cotton with alcohol Erik cleaned the wound and the scalpel.
Handing the reporter a rather thick pencil, Erik said, “Bite down on this and try not to break your teeth. There will be pain.” Then he proceeded to cut into Hamilton’s flesh. Searing pain shot through his shoulder and burned down his arm and across his chest. The reporter’s entire body quivered from the endless hurting that pulsed through his very being with each jab and dig of the sharp instrument.

“Hold him steady Mae. If I slip I could cut an artery.” His wife tightened her grip on the reporter. By now he nearly couldn’t breath and nearly bit the pencil in two.

At last the bullet came out. Without a word, the former Phantom applied a wad of cigarette paper to the gaping wound. Immediately, the paper stuck to the bloody flesh and seemed to fuse it together. The reporter nearly passed out. His eyes fluttered a bit, but Erik shoved an open decanter of cognac under his nose. In a moment, half the liquor disappeared down the reporter’s throat.

“Dang you Erik! Couldn’t you have given me this drink before you started digging into me?” Hamilton frowned.

Without a blink or single twitch of emotion, Erik made no reply as he cleaned up all evidence of his primitive surgery. Downing the last drop of cognac, Hamilton sat down the decanter and tried to not wince too often.

Mae moved about the room cautiously, listening for sounds of approaching footsteps. She motioned for them to leave with her, but the rustling within the room made them all sit up and take notice. Could it be Raoul? After all he had disappeared.

“Raoul? Is that you?” Mae asked half aloud, the tremor in her voice gave away her fear. Something or someone had to be in the room with them. At that moment, the door bust open.

WHOA!

Your works are just great!

Thank you for posting this chapter,
it seems like that I am the only one doing R&R.

Thanks again,
X

S

Thank you syoonchannel for your devotion and lovely comments. Sorry I've taken so long to post, but the holidays had me in a tizzy.

Today I give you Chapter 31. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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Staring about in the midst of citizens and tourists moving to and fro in the busy railway, Doone stood majestically in 19th Century attire with a dark cloak draped across his shoulders. No one paid any attention to him. Even with a mask, the current Phantom looked about in calm, regal dignity. Things didn’t seem much different from when he last remembered. This being his first visit to Italy, the railway sounded just as noisy and looked just as crowed and busy as the Paris metro or New York subway. However, the people seemed the same. Regardless of language or culture, he could tell he had landed in the 21st Century. Young men flocked together in jeans and Tees as they’d seen in American movies. Young girls still got pinched for being pretty and the smell of garlic and simmering spaghetti sauce filled the air. Who cooked at a railway station? He didn’t know or cared, the Phantom had returned.

Something evil stalked the trains and haunted the streets. Doone felt an ill wind and shuttered at what it might be. Magick had advantages but always consequences outweighed all. If memory served him correctly, the Staff of Osiris rested in a museum here at Turin, Italy. He had to find it. Nothing else would be able to stop Philippe and return the spell book to him but the Staff of Osiris.




Dating back to approximately 1224 BC the staff depicted two intertwining serpents rising up to meet at a pinecone. According to the spell book symbolic parallels Eastern philosophy in the Indian “Kundalini,” a spiritual energy in the body depicted as coiled serpents rising up from the base of the spine to the Third Eye or Pineal Gland in the moment of enlightenment. Awakened Kundalini represents the merging and alignment of the Chakras, and is said to be the only way to attain “Divine Wisdom” bringing pure joy, pure knowledge and pure love.

Kundalini literally means coiled. In yoga a corporeal energy-an unconscious, instinctive or libidinal force coiled at the base of the spine. It’s envisioned either as a goddess or sleeping serpent. The Kundalini resides in the sacrum bone, the large triangular bone at the base of the spine, in three and a half coils and has been described as the residual power of pure desire.

According to traditional Indian medicine the chakra is a concept referring to wheel-like vortices existing in the surface of the etheric double or astral body. Chakras are thought to be centers of force or whorls of energy permeating from a point on the physical body, the layers of the subtle bodies in an ever-increasing fan-shaped formation much like the spirals of a pinecone. Why the pinecone? The pinecone called the evolutionary forerunner to the flower with spines that spiral in a perfect Fibonacci sequence in either direction, much like the Sacred Geometry of a rose or a sunflower.

The Fibonacci sequence starts with the number 1. Each additional number is the sum of the two numbers preceding it—such as 1+0=1, 1+1=2, 2+1=3, 3+2=5, 5+3=8 and so on. In the 19th century Fibonacci numbers were discovered in many natural forms. Many types of flower have a Fibonacci number of petals: daises tend to have 34 or 55 petals, while sunflowers have 89 or, in some cases, 144. The seeds of sunflowers spiral outward both to the left and the right in a Fibonacci number of spirals; as do the whorls on a pinecone, which contain great energy. The trick is to unlock and control the energy and one could very possibly control the world and walk through dimensions.





After slipping into the nearest men’s room, Doone removed his mask and with the rudimentary makeup he’d brought in his satchel, applied it to his face to make him look like a normal 21st Century man, if there be any that truly are normal. Then he removed his cloak and folded it tenderly and slipped it into the satchel. The rose pin fastened into his tie lay carelessly awaiting the moment to claim its victim.

Turin famed for keeping the controversial Shroud of Turin, alleged to be the same used to cover the body of Jesus after the Crucifixion, now held another sought after icon, the Staff of Osiris.

The Egyptian Museum at Turin housed many fine statues and artifacts from what we call ancient Egypt, but actually finding the Staff was not so easy. Strolling among the ancient statues of Egypt’s many deities and royals, Doone felt the sadness of long since dead with a mix of power from a realm far beyond the human comprehension. It rested here, ancient magick. This the Chinese called chi, a venerable source of energy, energy that must be harnessed and controlled, channeled through a metal staff with powerful symbols of a pinecone and two snakes.

Every twist and turn in the musty, stuffy building reeked of dust and decay, and something other than the power he sought.

After what seemed hours in pursuit of this iconic staff, something dark and oppressing loomed up ahead near the entrance of yet another chamber. In the dimness of the room, Doone squinted and strained to make out the nature of the black mass. It stood in guard of the next area and commanded fear and reverence. Whether a god or demon, he knew not, except the Staff had to be in his hand before the day’s end or there would be the devil to pay, literally.

This is pretty intense.

Another clever chapter!!! Very well written.

I am planning to post some phanfiction up.
Can you give me any good tips on how to write well?

I would love to see more of Erik and Mae together and I will expect to see more of this work and your other one.

S

Brava, brava, bravasimma

Thank you syoonchannel for the kind words. I am pleased that you enjoyed by work. Currently, I am working on the next chapter, which should be up shortly.

At last I have Chapter 32 ready. Please R&R. Enjoy!


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CHAPTER 32

The Lab in the de Chagny Château

The door burst open with a bang as it hit the wall. Agwe stood in silence stiffing the air as he glanced about like a protective pit bull. No sign of life in sight. The Haitian moved aside and permitted Antoine and uncle Lucas to enter.

Agwe slammed the door and locked it. Turning slowly, deliberately, he checked each corner of the room and behind the drapes—nothing—no one. He could smell the blood. Like an animal or vampire, whatever your belief, the Haitian smelled it-blood. Someone else had been there and possibly never left.

Antoine and his uncle resumed their work on the journal. They weren’t sure what happened to cause the odd behavior, but they knew better than to question. Lucas never worked well under fear. Meeting a deadline posed to challenge, but trying to survive told another story.

His nephew could see how much his uncle’s hands shook and how he nearly hyperventilate. He felt that way as well. Not being in any way religious, both he and uncle said a silent prayer.

For a long time silence hung heavy as the two men dried and restored more pages of the lost diary. From these pages the Staff of Osiris came to life with a description of its power and use, but in later pages another relic came into play, the Spear of Destiny. In religious theory, this spear said to have pierced the side of Jesus at the Crucifixion. To possess it would guarantee the owner rule over all people and lands.

Philippe utilized magick, but not as much as he’d wanted due to his limited knowledge. Generally he resorted to old-fashioned brute force as demonstrated in earlier chapters. However after hearing about the content of the journal, he knew he could rule France, if not the world if only he possessed the journal and the spell book of which it spoke.

Somewhere, somehow his misplaced cousin from long past, Raoul, had the spell book, Philippe knew it, but without the journal, it would be useless to him.

The top of the actual staff had a bronze pinecone in the center fastened between the two rising ebony colored serpents made of obsidian. A mixed alloy fashioned by a god for a god composed the staff itself, or so went the myth.

The one in the museum display case served as a decoy for the real one. Exactly where the actual staff laid no one seemed to know.

From the expression on Lucas’ face, his nephew could tell new information had come to light. If so, how could they keep it from the master of the castle?

Agwe still smelled blood. The scent grew stronger as he moved closer to a section of wall near the back of the room. With closer examination, he could clearly tell that a trapdoor opened within the wall. Something had to be hiding there. Something or someone, bleeding, perhaps dying.

Seeing the Haitian’s fascination with the wall, Lucas cleared his throat and called out to the man. Agwe didn’t answer. He knew his job and did it well. Flushing out spies, trespassers he specialized in. Whatever or whoever concealed itself behind the wall would die when he found it and with that, he traced the area with his fingers until a small door popped open. The scent, now the strongest, gave away the fugitive. Fresh drops of the life’s rosy fluid led back into the wall. Not a patient or a talkative man, Agwe bent down to see what hid within the walls. As soon as he did, Lucas hit him with a nearby chair with all of his might. Surprisingly enough, this barely staggered the man, and with the agility of an angry wild cat, Agwe sprang at Lucas. In seconds the deadly Punjab Lasso had him around the neck. With bulging eyes and protruding tongue, the Haitian clawed wildly at the yellowish catgut around his neck. In a moment the thrashing stopped as the body hit the floor with a ghastly thud.

The original Phantom of the Opera stood over the motionless body with renewed strength as the adrenaline rushed through his very being. This brought back memories. The high from a kill-the power over life and death all came rushing back. Mae emerged from the hidden crawl space within the wall cringing at the sight of the strangled man.

“Please do not say a word my sweet. I apologize that you had to witness such atrocities, but I assure you it was necessary. This type of man is not to be bargained with,” Erik turned to his beloved wife, who now stood with hands covering her face. After rolling up the lasso and tucking it away, Erik wrapped his arms around her in comfort, knowing how much she despised violence. Hamilton crawled out of the wall and nodded to the two men drying pages of the journal.

Lucas and his nephew carefully stacked the pages and moved to Erik and the others.

“Quickly, we must leave,” cried Lucas as he gestured to Antoine, who went to the liquor cabinet and produced more of the restored pages. Then putting the pages with the others, the lad collected the rest of the journal and shoved all into a leather brief case Philippe had provided.

“He must not read this. (Referring to Philippe.) It will only bring more destruction,” Lucas continued.

“What’s in the journal? What does Philippe want?” Erik wouldn’t budge until he knew the motivation.

The young man looked to his uncle and then to Erik. “The Staff of Osiris and the Spear of Destiny.”






Hamilton’s eyes lit up. Mae and Erik puzzled.

Holding his wounded shoulder, the reporter moved closer and explained. “In Egyptian Mythology, Osiris, the god of the dead had a staff woven with energy and spells by the chief god Amun-Ra. Accordingly, the energy was drawn from a source similar to the sun from which Ra drew his energy. Said power is what it is, limitless, endless and absolute.

The Spear of Destiny is supposed to be the same spear that pierced the side of Jesus during the Crucifixion. Legend says whoever possesses it will have supreme rule.”

For a moment no one said a word. The object of struggle remained the same, power-limitless, endless and absolute.

Cool.. so much things are happening here..

YOU ARE ALWAYS SO GOOD AT WRITING!!! LUCKY YOU!

Oh, I am working on my own piece so, I will email you soon..

Many thanks,

S

Thank you syoonchannel. Your kind words always make my day.

Here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 33

The Lab in the de Chagny Château

Several entries in the journal pointed to time travel. This Phantom of the Opera had somehow entered the 21st Century. By what means, no one knew. The entries no longer listed 1894 as the year, but 2007. Impossible! Yet, there it lay before them in smeared black ink.

Apparently, the Phantom recognized the dress of the day, while dates on newspapers and magazines confirmed his walk through dimensions.

Lucas handed Erik a few pages with trembling hands. Without a doubt, the handwriting resembling his own, stared back at him telling him a story not even Hollywood could contrive.

Scanning the words, Erik realized that Doone had returned to the 21st Century, but how? Magick? This may be the consequence of which Doone spoke.

As Erik read silently, his wife’s eyes wandered back to the motionless body of the Haitian lying on the floor a few feet away. Blinking rapidly, she dared to look again. Perhaps her eyes played tricks on her, for a second she thought she saw movement from the body. Impossible! When her husband used the lasso, he made no mistakes. The dead don’t rise. Or do they?

At that moment, the entire body quivered, then it sat straight up. This scared the daylights out of the reporter who gave a sharp cry, Antoine jumped back and Lucas froze, mouth agape. With all this commotion interrupting his read, Erik looked up from the smeared pages and flinched at the sight of the body rising to its feet. The Haitian was dead. No mistake. As many times Erik had used the lasso, he knew when he’d killed a man. No breathe, no heartbeat-dead. In spite of all that, there stood Agwe eyes giving the dead man’s stare. Empty pupils bored a hole in each subject, marking them for death.

For a man who claimed to know no fear, Erik clutched the pages, grabbed his wife and beat it for the door. Hamilton and the others close behind.

Locked! Rattling the doorknob would certainly not force the door open. An old fashioned key locked the door, but who had the key?

“Oh my God!” screamed the reporter. “It’s a zombie!”

“Zombie!” exclaimed Erik, trying to shield his wife with his body as they inched along the wall away from the locked door. “I thought that was just a story to scare little children.”

Lucas and his nephew hid behind the table used in restoring the journal. Dear dead Agwe only had eyes for Erik, in the killing way. The dead be unforgiving.

Hamilton inched along the wall away from Erik and Mae. “Obviously not a story.” The reporter ducked a chair sailing his way. The zombie wanted silence. Reaching for his gun, the reporter aimed for the head. With a quick, almost jerking motion the dead man turned its head and glared in his direction. Lifeless eyes penetrated his very soul. The reporter lowered the gun, he felt almost helpless.

With a quick jerk, the head turned back to Erik, the man who had choked the life from him. Revenge would be taken.

“Hamilton, you miserable sot, shoot it! Erik shouted.

The reporter had no will of his own. His arms would not obey him. With heart racing, he grit his teeth and strained to raise the gun.

For the first time in his life Erik trembled with fear, not for himself, but for his beloved wife. Who would protect her when he died? She’d be alone, this beautiful, delicate flower that evoked a passion beyond eternity.

Zombie, the word meant nothing to him. At one time he thought the meaning nothing more than a tale to tell on a stormy night or another word for the “boogie man”, to scare children into obedience. At the moment, empty eyes stared into his as hands with a dead man’s grip tightened around his throat. Zombie now had new meaning-imminent death!

Rather short and bizarre, I thought but it is great!

Sorry, I couldn't come online for various reasons..

I've got mock exams and some other reports to hand in.

But this gives me strength!!! Good work and I expect to see more from you!!

btw, I don't think I can continue with my story for awhile. I've got too much things going on.. may be during the easter if I have more time..

X

S

Thank you syoonchannel my faithful reader. Your words are most encouraging.

I understand if you are busy for now. Take your time to write. I am here if you need.

The last chapter was short and bizarre. It was meant to be. Not all chapters have to be long and drawn out to progress the plot.

Here is a new chapter. Please R&R. Hope you aren't too busy to read. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 34

Turin, Italy 4 April 2007

My mission is very clear, save the world from the de Chagnys' heirs. I am not certain of the date or time. The calendar said 1894 when I left this morning and I’ve now arrived in the year 2007, approximately a year after being born into a new life, the life of Erik, the Phantom of Opera, known to the Parisian locals as the Opera Ghost.

Today I am in Turin, Italy, my first and last visit. The day has not gone well. Whenever we use magick there be consequences. I met the consequences head on at the Egyptian Museum at Turin. Darkness comes in many shapes and sizes, but the absence of color is the same, void of conscience, emotion and thought. It has but one drive, one motivation, destroy. Certainly I do not speak of a color but of an entity, rich in lies and deceit, but absent in goodness and virtue.

The Staff of Osiris, said to be on display at the Egyptian Museum at Turin I must secure. The power is very real and extremely dangerous. The staff in the display case could not have been the weapon made by a god for a god. Yet, the Darkness lay in wait for me. I had no choice but to fight, but how does one defeat something non corporeal? Why fight over a fake staff?

I must find the lance as well. I pray they are not together. If memory serves me the two things that must never be possessed by one person, the Staff of Osiris and Lancea Longini, the Spear of Destiny. Should this happen, the results would be catastrophic.

The musty smell of dust and decay rose up all around Doone as he stood a distance in the room looking into the next where the black mass set, lying in wait. When he moved, it moved. When he stopped, it stopped. What was it trying to do?

The stench came not from the antiquities on display, but from the creature blocking the way. If he turned his back to run, surely it would overpower him. Staying put served no purpose.

Armed with only the spells in his head and a few slight of hand tricks, Doone set out to combat something from the netherworld.

The closer he came to the black mass, the faster his heart raced, his mouth felt dry and his hands cold. The absence of warmth, another sign of a spirit being close. The dimness of the museum with its myriad dusty, musty artifacts caused Doone to give an occasional cough and sputter for oxygen. The place seemed to close in around him. The room grew dimmer and dimmer.

Suddenly, voices came in from behind him—a tour. The guide spoke both English and Italian. Doone shifted his look from the black mass to the tour guide coming up along side of him. Time to back up and try another way to the room. Slowly deliberately, the current Phantom backed out of the room, step by step. The black mass did not move. The tour and its guide gave no indication of seeing it. They moved about the room and went through the darkness as it if never existed. Doone stood at the doorway where he’d entered. Nothing. It disappeared. Perhaps he should have moved on with the tour.

Upon reentering the chamber with an attempt to move on to the next room as in the original thought, the black mass reappeared, taunting, teasing, ready to claim its victory.

The tour passed right through the creature as though it didn’t exist. Why shouldn’t he? Once again, Doone moved forward as he’d seen the tour and guide do. The intensity of foreboding and dread filled him up and by the time he reached the center of the room his body shook as if suffering from a terrible bout with chills. His heart raced so he nearly couldn’t breathe. He could not come any closer, let alone pass through it.

Once again he backed out the chamber, only this time the black mass advanced.

Into the light he leapt, where the mummies and funerary items displayed in cases. The black mass paused in the doorway and began to take shape, a very shapely one at that. In a fraction of an instant, the black mass morphed into the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Coal black hair like silk cascaded down her back and draped her bare shoulders. The strapless red dress hugged every curve and stopped at two inches above the most temptingly luscious legs one could ever imagine. Her eyes flashed like diamonds on black velvet. Ruby lips beckoned, creamy white arms begged him to fill them. Part of him wanted to give in to the dark temptress, yet the other part held him back. His body ached to melt inside of her, to feel her bare flesh next to his.

All thoughts of Christine fled. Erotic visions rushed into his mind, making him want this voluptuous woman more than anything else in the world. The very reason he came to the museum drifted away. Nothing but naughty desires filled him up. He wanted, no craved this seductress.

He knew very well no woman stood before him. For intents and purposes everything appeared normal. But the cry of the damned rose up to his ears and he knew those arms meant certain death-the inviting lips screamed poison, more powerful than the one, which tipped his tie pin.

With the strut of a wanton woman, the creature advanced. Every male in the room looked to her, some even flocked around her. Every inch of those deadly curves would bring a man down to the very depths of the Abyss.

Without a second thought, Doone turned on his heels and ripped through the room, vanishing before the dark beauty could catch him. In her fury she hissed like an angry viper and melted into the shadows of the room from whence she came taking a good six or eight of the men flocking around her. Hollow cries of agony trailed off as the beast claimed their souls for the one lost.

Whipping through the musty rooms without bumping into anyone proved next to impossible. Doone knew he had to find another way into the room where the staff lay. Quickly he found a docent and asked where the icon rested. The young man asked he wanted to see the one on display or the authentic one, the one hidden away beneath the museum. Two staffs? For what reason? Of course he wanted the real one. On the way the docent explained the legend of its power, how it was forged from bronze and a mixed an alloy of the gods, with the two black obsidian Kundalini rising to meet a bronze pinecone.

The two staffs looked identical, but with one touch one would feel the difference. Finding the staff seemed too easy. Could it really be this simple? What happened to the dark lady?

Beneath the museum, existed another world of hidden passages and winding stone paths. Along the walls, ancient stone sconces lined the walls, each baring a lit torch. Each man took a torch. An endless path veered to the right where a hidden door rolled up after pressing the a particular section of the wall and a few magick words.

After repeating this action three more times they finally found themselves in a crypt-like chamber void of all color except for three sarcophagi spread out over the cramped ground. The men set the torches into an empty sconce on the stone wall.

Three sarcophagi gave intruders a choice of finding the real staff or something, which would make a person damn the day they were born.

The young docent cautioned the Phantom not to touch any of the other sarcophagi but the one he would show him. After a venerable nod of the head, the docent motioned for Doone to help him remove the top.

With much straining and groaning, they slid off the top and carefully leaned it against the sarcophagus. Upon removing a torch from the wall the young man held it over the stone coffin.

Inside, lay the most perfectly fashioned staff one could ever image. Pure, solid bronze made up the staff with two ebony colored obsidian Kundalini rising up to meet a rich bronze pinecone. It seemed almost surreal to find it three-dimensional and not flat as in all the photos.

Carefully, Doone removed the staff from its resting place. A tingling sensation tickled his senses, as a low hum accompanied a low glow emanating from the now brilliant pinecone. A very slight vibration coursed through the staff keeping in time with the hum. The world around him spun like a top and Doone, the current Phantom found himself on the balcony of a great palace in Thebes. The robes he wore marked him as Pharaoh, but the staff made him a god.

Good chapter! Keep it going!
X

S

I am waiting.. Please.. You haven't posted anything for a week..

I am on the edge of my seat. Please post something.

S

Sorry I haven't posted. I'm still working on the next chapter. Somethings came up in my life that have only temporarily delayed me. I will have a new chapter up this week, by Saturday at the latest.

Thank you for your loyalty and patience.

Here is a new chapter for syoonchannel and all others who love a a mystery in the world of fantasy.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 35

The Lab in the de Chagny Château


Zombies don’t die, they just fade away. In this case, making it stop moving would work. Shaking with fear, Mae stood in horror as the Agwe zombie strangled the life out of her husband.

The low mumble of a chant filled the room as the zombie increased its strength.

Picking up a letter opener from the table, the young woman jabbed it deep into the neck of the zombie. Stunned, it released its prey, allowing Erik to slide to the floor gagging and gasping. In wild-eyed fury, the thing whipped around to the terrified woman and paused to yank the letter opener from its neck. A horrified scream came out of Mae like a dying a peacock. The sound, so shrill and painful nearly shattered the window.

The mumbling continued in low tones. Antoine and his uncle looked around to see where it came from. Nothing. No one other than Erik gasping, Mae shrieking like a banshee, the zombie getting more and more agitated, while the reporter tried to force himself to move.

Growling, the dead man threw down the letter opener and lunged for the young woman. Side stepping, she took off running towards the opening in the wall, an escape route. She reached the open passageway but powerful fingers wrapped round her hair flowing like a kite a string, and jerked hard, pulling her back. In a split second the iron grip had her throat as he lifted her up from the floor kicking and gagging. The thing snarled and growled like a savage beast.

BANG! BANG! Two shots rang out and the zombie dropped like a sack of potatoes. This time red fluid ran from the wounds in its head. Dead, again.

Finally Hamilton now able to move realized from his study of the weird and awful the only way to kill a zombie was to destroy the brain. Erik scrambled to his feet and ran to his beloved wife. Both held a hand to their throats as they hugged each other. The mumbling stopped.

Antoine and his uncle urged them to hurry and leave the room. Philippe and his men would be there soon after hearing the gunshots.

Tucking away the unrestored journal into a satchel on the table, Lucas brought up the rear as the Erik and the others made their way down the corridor. They had to get out of the castle and find the current Phantom, Doone. If he had retuned from the 19th Century, they had to find him to set things right. Where was he now? How could they second-guess?
As they turned a corner the sound of scuffling, hurried feet echoed from behind. Looking back would only cost them time. Hamilton’s wound bled as he pushed onward, trying not to wince. Erik and wife could still feel steel fingers around their throat.

At last they reached a door leading to the rear of the castle. Outside, the sun beat down with intense light, but a chill remained in the air running down their spines. Each shuddered silently as the terror took their screams before they could speak.

In the patch of garden where something appeared to be planted, Erik and his group stopped and turned. They didn’t want to, but something compelled them.

With several of his men stood Philippe, and one they recognized as Azacca, the other Haitian who shook what looked like a hand full of dolls at them as he mumbled something neither one could understand. This Haitian did not stand as tall as his dead countryman, Agwe, neither was he as young. Somehow he seemed to have aged. Could this be the same man?

The reporter thought what he spoke sounded Haitian Creole, but some strange underlying language appeared to be mixed in.

Erik and the others exchanged confused looks. Living in darkness as the Phantom of the Opera did not make comprehending this strange practice easy. Creole differed from Parisian French. However, one thing they all understood the hazy vision of a bronze staff with two ebony Kundalini rising up to meet a solid gold pinecone and lance or spear hovering over it, indicating what the old Count sought.

Fear. Nothing nurtured it more than the anticipation of something dreadful about to happen. In this case, this horror, this danger could be around any corner. If Azacca could raise up his dead countryman, Agwe, and turn him into a zombie, what other nightmare could he bring about?

Another thing seemed clear, the dolls represented them and somewhere, somehow something of theirs had been stolen and affixed onto each of the dolls. If one believed in voodoo magick, then seeing the dolls strung together, dangling was definitely a bad omen. Magick, no matter the origin had consequences, which undoubtedly end in death.

Did death lurk in the rippling vortex forming itself before them? The strained voice of Azacca tried to rise above their thoughts, but the vortex had their attention.

This is quite cool! Zombies!

ANother Gr8 chapter and please continue!!!!

Bestwishesofalltimes,
S

Thank you syoonchannel. So happy you enjoyed. Here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!


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CHAPTER 36

Beneath the Egyptian Museum at Turin


The vision of ancient Thebes surrounded Doone like an immense 3-D panorama. Great temples dedicated to the gods of Egyptian myth loomed up in various directions, as did pyramids. Colossal stone figures of the reigning pharaoh and monstrous columns distinctively mark Luxor Temple at Thebes. It all lay before him in all its glory, not in ruin as in future times. The heat of the mid-day sun warmed his cheeks as much as the staff warmed his hand. The smell of the desert sand mixed with animals being herded through the local bazaar tickled his senses. Lambs bleated and cattle mooed in the distance.

“Is my pharaoh pleased with his kingdom?” asked a sultry, female voice from behind. The spoken language sounded like nothing he’d ever heard. Yet, he understood. Quickly, the Phantom Pharaoh turned on his heels to see who owned that arousing voice. The pinecone at the tip of the staff emanated a warm glow of untold power.

There before him stood the dark lady from the museum. Dressed in fine stark white linen she wore a collar of malachite and turquoise beads separated by silver ones around her necked. The malachite appeared so dark green it looked black. The voluptuous beauty wore her hair with straight bangs across her forehead, while the remainder of hair dangled in small braids interwoven with golden thread just past her ears. The intense, dark eye shadow with the bold use of liner and mascara marked the makeup of royalty if not a goddess. A light shimmer enhanced her face and bare arms, the same arms that beckoned to him, while those lips the color of wine tempted.

“Hathor!” the exclamation fell carelessly from his lips. Such a perfect woman had to be a goddess. There she stood in the flesh, Hathor one of the ancient of all deities, best identified with cows. Her headdress made up of what looked like bronze cow horns holding the sun disk, set upon her silky tresses. A known shape shifter, the goddess was worshipped by women since she ruled over joy, love, romance, fecundity, dance, music, alcohol and perfume and by men as she connected to metal leading to miners and soldiers worshipping her as well. On occasions the goddess could be fierce and vengeful, but never unattractive, eternally gorgeous, and not a hair out of place.











[Left Hathor receiving an offering from Nefertari wife of Ramases II.]


The scent of perfume intoxicated the Phantom Pharaoh. His mind
reveled in naughty thoughts, but with a quick jerk back to reality, the dark lady yanked the staff right out of his hand.

“The staff belongs to me,” roared Hathor morphing into a lioness, then with a paw on the staff, she disappeared.
“NO!” screamed Doone. It was too easy. She knew where the real staff laid, but for some reason could not remove it from its resting place. Cursing under his breath he stomped the ground and twirled around and around like a child throwing a tantrum. The docent watched in utter dismay.

Where would she go? What did she want with the staff? More cursing under his breath echoed throughout the crypt-like chamber. In his madness, he stormed out of the room leaving the docent in complete confusion.

Down the winding corridor Doone fled. Anger filled his entire being until he shook. He felt angry with himself for being so foolish. Emotions only got in the way. As it did with Mae and Christine, so it did again with Hathor. Losing the staff only complicated things. Now he had to either find Hathor or the Spear of Destiny. How does one find a god or goddess? Prayer? What does one say to an ancient deity that no one worships anymore?

As he turned a corner to leave the corridor and climb the stone steps, a strange, wild-eyed black man stood at the top of the stairs. Doone gasped and halted. The man held up a small black bag and said something in Creole. This language he barely recognized. Doone’s heart raced, his body shook and every wit of him froze. What could make a creature of darkness like the Phantom shudder in abject terror and lose his voice? Even Hathor had not frightened him so.

The eyes of the crazed man morphed into something a kin to glowing coals. “Ak tout pouvwa ki nan loas yo ak orishas, mwen bani ou nan fènwa a soti nan kote ou rive.” [“With all the powers of the loas and orishas, I banish you to the darkness from whence you came.”]

Just asking,, are you like obsessed with Egyptian myths? (NO OFFENCE )

Cause I like ancient myths and I think (and it is really obvious) you've used quite a lot of them in this story, not necessarily this chapter though.

I like and plzzzzzz continue!!!

S

Not obsessed, but inspired by the culture, arts and beliefs of Ancient Egypt. I had to explain and unfold the story, therefore a lot of Egyptology came into play. There is also a lot of Voodoo and legends around the Spear as well.

Thank you for the kind words, syoonchannel. For your reading pleasure, here is the next chapter. I worked all night on this. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 37

In the Gardens of the de Chagny Château

The skies in the garden darkened with the blackest of clouds. The vortex rippled like water before Erik and his wife. The reporter held his shoulder, now bleeding again, and the nephew and uncle stood with mouth agape.

The chant of the Haitian unnerved the bravest of them when the ground beneath began to move. Trembling, Erik and wife clutched each other, as did Lucas and his nephew. Still holding his wounded shoulder, Hamilton widened his stance in an attempt to brace himself. A familiar voice called out from the vortex, urging them to hurry and enter.

The chant continued. Apparently it had not summoned the vortex, but rather caused the earth to quake. What was happening? The sod cracked beneath their feet and hands burst up from the ground. Mae shrieked as though a mouse had startled her. But no mouse crossed their path, only hands popping up from the ground groping as if searching for something.

“Make haste,” again urged the voice from the vortex. “Quickly, before it’s too late! I cannot keep this thing open much longer.”

Each shot a look to the other. Without a second thought, Antoine and Lucas leapt into the watery opening and disappeared. Hamilton hesitated, but the rotting corpse that popped up from the ground made up his mind and he too, leapt into the vortex.

“Zombies again?” cried Erik. Who opened the vortex? Should they follow the others to safety or death? He and his wife wondered. The moan and groan of yet another zombie pushed up from the dirt shattered his thoughts. The stench of decayed flesh nauseated them. A hand beckoned from the shaky ripples of the watery opening. “Quickly. The opening is starting to collapse.”

Presently, seven male corpses surrounded them. Each corpse displayed motley, discolored flesh that peeled off in selected sections. The clothes, now soiled with dirt and moister, hung like a shroud. Empty eyes stared past them awaiting their master’s command. Mae screamed a number of times before hiding her face in the folds of Erik’s shirt.

Philippe stepped forward and shouted, “Give me what I want and I will let you go. Resist and you all die!”

Erik tried to cover his wife’s ears. The smell and sight of dead things she could not bare. Without further hesitation, Erik lunged forward into the vortex pulling his wife with him. In a split second, the opening closed before the zombies could follow.

Inside the vortex the reporter, Antoine and his uncle stood on a narrow path, which gave off a bright mix of colored lights. The atmosphere around them swirled with a thin mist, which also seemed to glow. From behind Erik and Mae stepped Raoul, still looking like a 19th Century gentleman. Still shaking, Mae closed her eyes and gave a sigh of relief. Not used to confronting the dead, Erik took a deep breath to calm his nerves.

“It’s about time you got here. Where have you been? And why are we fighting zombies?” The former Phantom tried to keep composure.

“Zombies?” Raoul puzzled. “Do you mean the walking dead?”

Hamilton moved forward and grinned. “He means the dead summoned by their voodoo master. Not vampires, who are called the walking dead,” he corrected.

Throwing up his hands, Raoul dismissed the talk, “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Let’s get out of here before we forget who we are.”

Still trembling, Antoine and Lucas wondered what he meant, but didn’t question. Getting out there sounded like a grand idea.

Looking about as if remembering, Erik and Mae felt as though they had been here before.

As they walked the mist dissipated and the bright colors popped out surrounding them with weird images and psychedelic lights. At times they seemed to be enveloped by walls of strange symbols, such as pentacles, crosses in various forms (Celtic crosses, Iron Crosses, Greek crosses, St. Anthony’s crosses, St. Andrew’s crosses, ankhs and the ever popular Latin crosses) took shape in bright, intense colors.



































Crosses melted into spears, spears melted into staffs with pinecones, then everything began to spin and pulse. No longer could they watch the lights. It made them dizzy, especially Hamilton since he’d loss so much blood. Lucas caught him before he hit the ground.

After what seemed ages, the psychedelic illumination ended at another vortex. Through the ripples another foreign land lay before them.

Vienna, Austria 12 April 2007

A turn of events leads me to seek out a man known for his research and study of holy and ancient relics. Professor Lenhard Holzknecht of Vienna, Austria is the only one who can put me on the path of the Spear of Destiny. Perhaps the Spear will help me retrieve the Staff of Osiris.

Legend tells of the many hands the Spear, which supposedly pierced the side of the Crucified Christ, has passed through—from the Roman Centurion named Longinus to Constantine, then Charlemagne and lastly Adolf Hitler (to name only a few) before it fell into the hands of an American soldier on April 30, 1945. Anyone possessing the Spear will control the destiny of the world, however, should that person lose possession death will claim him or her. Even though possessing the Staff and the Spear at the same time makes the owner immortal with limitless, ultimate power, the curse of death as a result of loosing possession of the latter becomes null and void. Little consolation if these enchanted relics fall into the wrong hands.

Dark powers work hard against me. Not only must I confront Hathor one of the most ancient Egyptian deities, but the high priests of Voodoo. Egyptian magick I am familiar with, but not Voodoo. This priest or houngan mistook me for an evil loa or spirit and tried to banish me. Assuming the spell he tried to use he spoke in Creole made a chill run down my spine. Never have I been more terrified.

Rumor has it the spear that lies in the Hapsburg Treasure House Museum is not the actual Spear, so if it isn’t, Professor Holzknecht will be able to tell me where it might be.

At the moment, I must take a “walk through dimensions” in order to reach Vienna. I cannot risk being caught by a Voodoo priest again. This truly puzzles me. Why is Voodoo mixed up with my quest? Who do I know would use such magick?

After reviewing this entry from the journal, Lucas looked up from the aged paper and surveyed their surroundings. Vienna, Austria – that’s where they were. Erik and the others agreed. Now they too must search for this thing of legendary power. Since it was revered as the only thing that could kill a god, they would definitely need it to take the Staff away from a goddess.

Good story! Sorry, i've read this over a week ago and i forgot to review!

Many thnx,,

S

p.s. Happy Easter!

Thank you syoonchannel. I didn't want to keep posting until I was sure you had read this one. Hope it was to you liking.

I am nearly finished with the next chapter. Will hold you in suspense a little longer.

Happy Easter to you as well.

For syoonchannel and all who enjoy magick, here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 38

In the tunnels beneath the Museum at Turin, Italy

At the foot of the stone steps the current Phantom met the angry eyes of the black man holding up the worn pouch, still shouting a spell in Creole. Very little sounded like the French he used in Paris. At the moment the only thing he could think of-getting away fast. His heart pounded like a trip hammer, which echoed in his ears. Suddenly, he feared darkness and death, something he’d lived with most of his life.

“Ianua patefacio pro meus reverto ut in inter pro EGO exuro. Caecus meus hostilis quo EGO ero. [Doorway open for my return to the in between before I burn. Where it’s safe I should be, before this man banishes me.]” Phantom Doone cried aloud trying to hide the tremor in his voice. Instantly, a vortex appeared. The black man stood taken aback. Never had he witnessed power to match his. In his lifetime, he’d banished many evil creatures but never had a vortex appeared. Banishment generally sent the monster howling in agony as it went up in blue flames. But before he could utter another word, Phantom Doone melted into the watery opening and all disappeared.

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The one thing he knew by heart, the spell enabling him to walk through dimensions. Certain that Hathor would be searching for the Spear as well, Doone quickly moved through the “in between”, space between dimensions or gap. From past experience, he knew he must move quickly. The longer anyone stayed in the space between dimensions; they would lose all memory of the life they knew before. Passing through a dark mist and areas of bright-multicolored lights, he pushed on taking great strides with his long, thin legs. A vortex to another dimension would soon pop up.

Residing beneath the Paris Opera House in all its dark, dank glory should have made him used to living like a rat or ghost; haunting every dark corner, and creeping among each shadow. Yet somehow, his heart nearly pounded out of his chest and his breathing became short and erratic. Death worked hand and hand with him and his signature weapon the Punjab lasso, but at the moment, he feared it most of all. Dread formed knots in his stomach and he wanted to faint. Yes, the brave, brooding creature of the pit that would normally welcome the Dark Mistress, now fled from her in terror. Why?

In passing myriad odd and questionable things, a sound of scuffling echoed from behind. When he stopped, it stopped. When he moved, it moved. Without a doubt someone or something followed, but what? The Creole speaking man trying to hex him? Hathor? Would a goddess travel to such obscure regions to possess an enchanted spear?

A glimmer of light popped up in the distance, the next vortex. The scuffling grew louder. Whatever it was, he had to avoid it. Hopefully the watery opening led to the place he needed to be.

Doone’s stride turned into a gallop and then a sudden halt as he reached the dimensional opening. Nothing looked familiar through the ripples of time. However, he either jumped in or faced whatever followed. No time to think. Deep into the watery opening he plunged with a thin vapor on his tail. In seconds the opening closed.

Confused, he stared about him in a withered garden of the walking dead. Surrounded by seven male corpses with motley decaying flesh that stood motionless with glassy empty eyes sunken deep in their hollows, Doone shuddered. The foul stench of death permeated the air. Looking passed the dead; his eyes met those of Philippe de Chagny, his nephew rather supposed-to-be nephew.

Instantly, Philippe recognized the man from family portraits and albums. The man called Erik Mason remind him of what this man looked like, his great-great-uncle Erik, the infamous Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. This changed things. He no longer needed the journal if he had the man who wrote it. Quel bon chance! What good luck!

Azacca studied the new uninvited guest. Had something tainted his voodoo magick? How did he get here? Philippe pushed him aside, took the dolls from his hands and called him a few choice names in French that the Haitian understood. He did not take insults well. Anger welled up in his eyes.

“Do not even consider it. I still posses one power you do not, Azacca. Do not get in my way,” threatened the Count de Chagny in English. Without a word, the Haitian moved aside, still waiting for his chance to teach his benefactor a lesson in respect.

“Uncle, please come. I apologize for the hostile greeting,” beckoned the count. To the standing corpses he dashed the dolls to the ground and crushed them with his booted foot, as he commanded them in Creole, “Kite moun mouri a rete mouri. [Let the dead remain dead.]” At that moment, the zombies dropped and the earth absorbed them. The air cleared and once again the dreary, withered garden looked like a normal dreary withered garden that had something planted in it.

“Impressive, nephew. Very impressive,” Phantom Doone replied with a steady, sureness in his voice. Still he had to work at masking the horror he’d witnessed, the terror of the unknown and the knowledge that he’d have to face an ancient deity to get the Staff of Osiris.

Looking about to make sure no more dead things stood in his way, Doone moved toward his proverbial great, great nephew.

As he approached Philippe, the count gave him a manly embrace and kissed each cheek, as was the fashion in France many, many years ago. Together they walked back to the château as the two henchmen followed.

Azacca stood silent and alone watching the count and his uncle. Slowly, menacingly the Haitian turned back to the withered garden with fiery orbs like dying embers. “Dwe pasyan frè m 'yo. Ou pral gen tire revanj ou. [Be patient my brothers. You will have your revenge.]”