Page 11 of Phantom
Selling your soul for talent isn’t anewidea, obviously, but at seven years old, I took my dad’s word as gospel. He made the devil, demons, and angels sound like muses in their own right. I asked him about when I’d get my own once. He’d laughed and kissed my head, saying I was too good for a demon, but someday, if I practiced hard enough, I’d get my own angel. I used to even believe him.
But the day he died taught me something very important. With the hatred I felt that night and the wild emotions I experienced afterward, there’s no way I’d get an angel. An angel wouldn’t want anything to do with me.
A demon, however…
“Well if you’re sure you’re okay to stay, I guess I’ll go.” Rand’s voice trails like he’s expecting me to change my mind, but the fact that he’s still questioning me grates on my nerves.
“I’m a big girl now, Rand.” I smile and wink as I step back, trying to hide why I want everyone to leave. “So shoo! I’ll see you in a second.”
Thankfully, Jaime pulls him away before he can protest anymore and starts down the hallway. Maggie grabs the handle to my dressing room door.
“My daughter, Marie, has a babysitter tonight, so I’ll head out earlier than everyone, but hopefully I’ll see you down there in time.”
“You will. I’ll be there before you know it.”
She nods and steps out, shutting the door behind her. As soon as the door is closed, I whip around to face the prize on my makeup table.
Scene 2
THE LETTER
Scarlett
Anticipation bubbles up as I see the envelope, cream and pristine. My fingers carefully brush over the white rose lying beside it, a bloodred ribbon delicately tied around the thornless stem. Lifting the flower to my nose, I soak in the scent, loving the subtle earthy smell, like it’d been freshly picked from the sender’s garden.
Letters just like this one have appeared in my room sporadically for months, always right here on the corner of my makeup desk. I have no idea who they’re from, or how they get here. That’s obviously a red flag, and the first time I received a random mysterious envelope, I should’ve reported it. But they’d started showing up when I was at my lowest, and I didn’t want to question one of the few things that got me out of bed at the time. Now, I hate it when days go by without one. I wasn’t sure if a letter would arrive tonight, but with this being my first performance as a leading role, I’d hoped. Thank god that hope wasn’t in vain.
I lay the flower gently back down beside the envelope before picking it up next. Like always, written in near-perfect cursive on the front is “Ma belle muse.” The first time I received a letter almost a year ago, I did a quick internet search to verify the translation.
My beautiful muse.
A staccato beat pulses in my chest as I open the envelope, careful not to destroy the bloodred wax skull sealing it shut. Once it’s opened, I reach inside for the first of two letters I know are there.
Ma muse,
You were magnificent tonight. Congratulations on your debut. The spotlight is dim compared to your radiance. I envy the light that touches you. It makes me question remaining in the dark.
Tu me verras bientôt,
Ton démon de la musique
“My muse… Your demon of music.”
I whisper it aloud, wondering if my demon is somewhere listening as I say the parts I know in English and butcher the French sign-off. My French diction and language courses taught me enough to read, speak conversationally, and sing, but I have no confidence in my knowledge. I always double-check myself when I read something new.
I hold the letter to my chest and my demon’s leather and whiskey scent drifts up to my nostrils, settling me. Even though Iknowno one is here, I swear I canfeelthe heated gaze I imagine he possesses. Or that he would possess… if he were real. Looking around, there’s nothing to convince me I’m not going crazy, only my cluttered and slightly messy dressing room.
I sigh and reverently store the letter with all the others in the bottom drawer of my musical jewelry box before extracting the second letter from the envelope. Sheet music.
The pretty words of the first letters are lovely, but hismusicis divine. Every envelope contains thick cream paper with handwritten songs that I rarely hear, or I’ve never heard before. The ones I’m unfamiliar with are always in the perfect pitch for me to sing, almost like my demon of music wrote them specifically for me. Sometimes, I even hear piano music and his deep bass drifting into my room. Or… at least I think I do.
This music is all I have of him. If it weren’t for the letters, I’d worry I was making the whole thing up.
The fact thathecalls himself a demon in his notes should obviously scare me. But it’s what I called him out loud when I read the first letter that had no signature. All I could think of then was the angels and demons my dad sang about. My demon must have heard me because the next letter that came had the name he uses now. It should freak me out, and it’s crazy—maybe literally—but my brain can’t shake the idea that whoever my mystery pen pal is, he’s good. Or at least he’s good forme. Sometimes that’s all that matters.
I begin to hum the notes to myself before retrieving my journal from my bedside table. My nose scrunches as I concentrate to remember what lyrics I’ve scribbled down that will fit the beat. As soon as I get to the page I’m thinking of, I see the corner has already been folded.
“That’s weird,” I murmur. Bending pages is a no-no for me—bookmarks all the way, even in my music books. But sometimes I write in a sleepy daze in the middle of the night so maybe I did it then?
