Phantom: A Love Story.

Amelia affected a smile. "Well, how thoughtful," she said. "But I thought we had our welcome yesterday?"

"Oh, that was just me being a busybody. This is from everyone." She leaned in, as if to get as much of her body through the doorway as possible. Amelia opened the door wider and let her pass.

They sat in what Amelia thought of as the living room (but what Philip and Penelope would probably have called the parlor). Other than the wall of unpacked boxes, the only things visible were Amelia's old sofa and the ancient stone (not brick, but whole stones) fireplace.

Ms. Price looked the room over as if she were planning on moving in herself (which Amelia supposed she very well might be), leaning as far as she could to peer down hallways and up staircases visible through open doors. They talked about nothing at all before Amelia finally came to what was her mind.

"Ms. Price, what was the name of that family who built this house?"

"You mean the Devereuxs?"

"That's right, but do you remember any of their first names? Or anything about them?"

"It's hard to say. I learned the whole story so many years ago. Mainly ghost stories, you know. They're supposed to haunt the house now. But evidently it was already haunted even when they lived here. Haunted since the day it was built, if that makes any sense?"

"But their names," said Amelia. "You don't remember anything?"

"I'm sure I have a book somewhere —"

Amelia put her hand on Ms. Price's arm. "Could you lend it to me, just for a day or two? I'm very interested in finding out the house's story, now that you've whetted my curiosity. I mean, it's important that I understand its historic value, isn't it?"

Ms. Price couldn't very well argue with that. The book she brought looked like a high school textbook, filled with lengthy treatises on county figures from the 19th century. The section on the Devereuxs was marked, and the pages were particularly worn.

Amelia went to the bedroom (where she involuntarily looked toward the French doors, imagining red velvet curtains affixed to them, as they had been in the dream) and sat down to read:

"Archibald Devereux, cotton baron, built Devereux Manor in 1840 as a gift to his wife, who died just a week before construction finished. That left Archibald alone to raise their son, Andrew, and their daughter —"

Amelia paused, and then read the name out loud:

"Penelope."

Her fingers shook a little as she turned the page.

"Penelope Devereux married Phillip Rich, a pianist and protégé of her father, in 1851. Phillip took the Devereux name rather than confer 'Rich' on Penelope, supposedly as a token of respect for her father but perhaps really because local gossip held that the Rich family line was the product of miscegenation.

"When Archibald Devereux died a year later, he surprised everyone by leaving the house and most of the estate to Philip rather than to his own son and daughter."

Amelia's lips moved, outlining the last words in the chapter:

"Phillip, Penelope, and most of the slaves and house staff died when a fire broke out in the late hours of June 16th, 1852."

That was all. No cause of the conflagration was recorded. There was a photo, though: Their faces were bleached and expressionless, as they so often were in pictures from those days, but still recognizable as the couple from her dream.

She closed the book and tapped the binding with one finger. It was possible, of course, that she had heard of the Devereuxs in the past, maybe even seen pictures of them, and not remembered.

Those old recollections, jarred to the surface by her habitation in the house and her conversation with Ms. Price, could have manifested in her dreams. Yes, that made sense, more or less, and it explained everything.

(Everything but the music this morning, but why worry about a little thing like that...)

But Amelia could not help thinking about one of the last things Ms. Price had said (or at least, one of the last things Amelia had paid attention to): "It was already haunted even when they lived here. Haunted since the day it was built."

And she remembered Ms. Price's mention of "the Phantom", and the figure lurking at Penelope's window, and the almost-forgotten recollection of a man at the same window as Amelia drifted off to sleep in the very same room.

Haunted since the day it was built.

From somewhere in the house, distinctly, Amelia heard the sound of a piano note.

***

Phillip stared into the fire, prodding the smoldering logs with the tip of an iron poker. "We're living in a kind of hell," he said. "Penelope refuses to even leave her room. Strange, since that was where it all started, at least for us, but you know how she is."

"She's not the only one, from what I hear tell," said Andrew. " I've never seen the slaves so agitated." He was dressed in his best white silk suit and somehow managed to appear as if he were reclining while standing.

Phillip looked lean and tired, his clothes a little rumpled. He stared at the mantle, where the painting of Archibald Devereux and the twin busts of Janus stared back at him. "It's no wonder if they are," he said. "Whoever the man is, he's a perfect terror to them.

"They complained of him first, you see, and I didn't pay attention. But who would believe that some specter was lurking around, peering in their windows and accosting their children while they slept?

"That's what all this damn drumming is about," he continued. "They think it keeps him away. If I thought it would work, I'd be out there banging a cowhide right along with them." He made a particularly violent jab at a log and then set the poker aside.

"But you think he's real?" said Andrew.

"I know he's real. Penelope has seen him. And the damage he's doing is certainly real enough." Phillip stared into the fire without flinching. "That's why I asked you to come here. This is your house too, Andrew."

Andrew put up a hand to protest, but Philip waved him down.

"You grew up here, and you helped your father put the estate in order. Whatever's going on, you have a stake in it too."

"I'll do anything I can for you," said Andrew.

"Not for me," said Phillip, turning. "For Penelope. We have one more guest coming, and then —"

They stopped when they realized that someone was standing in the door, a broad, red-faced man with gray whiskers, dressed in a crisp army uniform and leaning on a cane. Behind him, a slave stood, looking awkward, obviously wanting to prevent the newcomer from barging into the room but not daring to say so.

"Phillip," said the man in the uniform. He limped as he came in. "I hope you don't mind that I let myself in. I helped build this damn house, I wasn't about to sit around waiting to be shown through it by the likes of this."

Phillip smiled without humor. "Captain Sidney. Thank you for coming." He nodded to the slave, who departed with obvious relief, shooting an unreadable look at the captain's back as he went.

The captain nodded to Phillip but declined a handshake. He broke into a grin when he saw Andrew, though, pumping his hand several times while sitting down in the room's most comfortable chair. Andrew took another seat rather tentatively, while Phillip remained standing.

"Well Phillip," said the captain, "I would guess, judging from all that racket outside, that the local gossips have got it right for a change. They say you have a kind of...ghost, on the premises?" He allowed himself the tiniest sneer.

"Not a ghost," said Phillip. "A man. A man intent on ruining me, and my business, and my marriage."

The captain turned his cane over and over in his hand. "Is it true that your slaves are calling this man 'le Fantome'?"

Phillip nodded, and the captain grunted.

"And that he menaces the grounds in some ridiculous cape and mask?"

Another nod.

"Hmm. And what exactly has he been doing?"

"He's been doing all he can to drive me mad," said Phillip. He moved from the fireplace to the window, pulling open the curtains and looking into the pitch black outside. "This 'Phantom' accosts my slaves, destroys my property, leaves threatening messages for me and my wife, and steals whatever isn't nailed down.

"This week he killed the horses, all of them, every horse in the stable! The slaves say they saw him making his escape, but no one saw how he got in.

"Worst of all, he torments Penelope. Every night for three weeks she says she's seen him at her window, sometimes even trying to enter."

"Why haven't you just shot him and been done with it?" said the captain.

"I've never seen him," said Phillip. The drums beat louder and faster outside. "If not for Penelope, I might not even believe he exists."

"Why haven't you notified the police?" Andrew ventured.

"Those frauds and grifters?" said the captain, snorting. "No, for this kind of problem you need the help of real men. That's why — I say Phillip, I wouldn't object to a cigar."

Phillip opened the humidor to both Andrew and the captain, but took none for himself.

"Penelope writes and tells me that she thinks this is all the slaves' doing," the captain continued.

"I'm sure she does," said Phillip. "She's suspected them from the start. She almost killed Jeremiah. Beat him half to death."

Andrew choked. "But he was just here? Is he all right?"

"As he can be. She nearly whipped the hide right off of him. You know how strong she is when she loses her temper."

"But surely she couldn't think that Jeremiah is the Phantom?" said Andrew, shaking his head. "He's the gentlest creature on the face of the earth. Why, father brought him up by hand!"

"Try telling that to Penelope," said Phillip. "She's sure that if Jeremiah isn't the Phantom then he's protecting whoever is. From the beginning she's been obsessed with blaming the slaves for this, but I don't know why. They've suffered for it more than anyone."

"I'd say she's quite right," said the captain, interrupting. He settled further back in his chair. "All this sounds like a bunch of nigger witchcraft to me."

"Well I don't see how —" said Andrew.

"When you let niggers live under your roof they get uppity," continued the captain. "Bound to be the death of us all. If we'd stuck to the old indentured Irish servants for housework none of this would have happened. I'll grant you, an Irishman isn't much better, but at least they don't invite the devil under your roof."

Phillip's smile grew wider and more brittle as the captain talked. Andrew jumped in.

"Do you have any idea what this person wants?" he said. "A reason he's doing all of this, whoever he is?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," said Phillip, producing something from his pocket. "This is a letter I received the other day, purportedly from the Phantom."

The captain snatched the letter out of Phillip's hand and began to read it. Philip went on as if nothing had happened.

"It says that until I vacate Devereux Manor things will get worse. Notice that it singles me out, specifically; only I am to leave. The Phantom means for Penelope to stay."

Andrew shuddered. "What a horrible thought, to be left alone in this house with that monster prowling about!"

"Terrible," muttered the captain, reading the letter again. "What do you think it means?"

"What does it mean?" said Phillip. "It means that I know who the Phantom is."

Andrew sat forward. "You do?!"

"Of course!" Phillip spread his arms. "Doesn't it seem a strange request that I and I alone go? Doesn't that right there tell us who's behind all this?"

Andrew looked confused. The captain made an impatient gesture. "If you think you know something, just spit it out," he said.

Phillip stood directly in front of the captain's chair. "It's a little funny that you should say that, captain. Because we both know who the Phantom is. He's you."

Phillip wasn't smiling anymore. Andrew's jaw dropped. The captain dropped his cigar and had to catch it before it burned a hole in his coat. When he'd composed himself, he harrumphed as loudly as he could and said, "Me? What's in your head, boy?"

"Don't play stupid, Captain Sidney," said Phillip. "I brought you here because your game is up. You gave yourself away with the letter. I should go, but Penelope should stay, hmm? I find that interesting, in light of the fact that no one pursued Penelope's hand more aggressively than you did."

The captain shrugged. "What of it? Archibald was my best friend, his daughter grew into a fine young woman, and when the time came I asked for her hand. Archibald preferred you, and he convinced Penelope to go along. I've never held any ill will over it. I wish you both the best of happiness."

"Do you?" said Phillip. His voice was ice cold.

"Phillip, I don't think the captain would do something like this," said Andrew, half standing.

"He's counting on your good opinion, Andrew," said Phillip. "That's the captain for you, everyone has a good word to say about him. It's the perfect cover."

"Now see here," said the captain, his face turning purple. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but I very nearly lost this leg to Santa Anna. How do you think I could manage to be out all night prowling around your grounds and peeking into your wife's window with a hobble like this?"

Phillip glared. "I don't know how you're doing it, but I'm sure you're the one doing it, and I've brought you here to ask you, man to man, if you have any honor at all, to put a stop to this nonsense."

Captain Sidney's face was now the color of a plum. He stood, and his words came hard as he struggled to breathe around his indignation.

"The only reason," he said, pausing to mop the sweat from his brow, "the ONLY reason, that I don't take you outside and shoot you through the damned head right now is out of respect for the memory of that man." He pointed to the painting. "And because of the grief that it would cause Penelope. If you were anyone else —"

Before Phillip could reply Andrew stepped between them. "Wait a minute," he said. "There's no reason why, between the three of us, we can't —"

He paused, and turned his head a little. The other men watched him, curious.

"Phillip," said Andrew, "no one else in the house plays piano, do they?"

Phillip looked confused. "Why in the hell should that matter now?"

"Because someone is playing your piano."

They all listened, and, faintly, from another room, they heard it: The soft, ghostly strains of music.

"My sonata," said Phillip.

All three men left the parlor, following the sound of a discordant tune to the music room. When they arrived they found every lamp but one extinguished, and that one illuminating a ghastly figure with his hands on the keys, the thick, padded fingers of his gloves accounting for the clumsy, tuneless nature of his playing.

A grey riding cape with a high collar, ragged at the hem, draped the Phantom's shoulders. His mask was painted like a grimacing jack-o-lantern and his shirt and trousers were baggy, so that his limbs angled sharply against the fabric, giving him the look of a scarecrow made up of tattered hand-me-downs.

Behind the slits of his crude mask his eyes reflected the lamplight. He didn't stop playing as the men entered, except to nod at them, once, in silent acknowledgment, and then went right back to his music, each jarring, clanging note falling on their nerves as he went on.

Phillip managed to speak first. "Who the hell are you?" he said. "What are you doing in my house?"

"Sir!" said the captain, stepping forward. "You should leave these premises immediately. Whatever the nature of your complaint, it should be resolved according to the customs of men of honor."

Phillip looked sideways at the captain. Andrew lingered by the door. The Phantom said nothing.

"Sir —" said Phillip again, stepping forward, and as he did the Phantom leapt to his feet, producing a pistol from the hidden folds of his cape.

Andrew shouted a warning but it was too late: a flash and a deafening bang filled the small room, and Phillip fell back, the captain failing to catch him. Andrew ran to Phillip's side and the Phantom spun around, sprinting out the northernmost door, cape swirling behind him. The captain tried to give chase but could only limp along.

"Phillip, don't move," said Andrew, but Philip sat up anyway. Andrew tried to talk him down, but Phillip waved him off.

"I'm all right," he said. "Look, I'm not shot; there was no bullet, only powder. He just meant to scare us."

Andrew's sigh of relief rattled his whole body. He was white as a sheet. "But why?"

"So that he can get away!" said the captain.

"Not that way," said Phillip, standing. "That only leads to an old pantry. Penelope and Andrew's father used it as a wine cellar. He'll be trapped in there."

The door was stuck when they pushed on it, barricaded from the other side, and it took all three together to break it down. But inside there were only dusty, unused wine racks; there was not a soul in sight.

Andrew gaped, and even the captain looked surprised. Phillip turned around and around in the tiny space. "But he ran in here. We all saw him, didn't we?"

Andrew nodded, and the captain crossed himself. "He can't have just vanished," said Phillip, thumping the walls. "He can't have!"

It wasn't until Jeremiah, cowed by the presence of the captain but too panicked to stay away, appeared in the music room waving both hands that Phillip stopped turning around and around.

"Sir," said Jeremiah, "it's Mrs. Devereux, sir. She's in her room and she's screaming, and we can't get the door open."

"Penelope?" said the captain. "Is she hurt?"

"We dunno, sir," said Jeremiah. "We can't get the door open."

"Useless!" said the captain, pushing Jeremiah down and angling his enormous bulk through the door. Andrew and Phillip followed (Phillip stopping for a second to help Jeremiah back to his feet).

When they came to Penelope's door there was, indeed, the sound of screaming from within, but it was faint and muffled. This time the door was secured only with a flimsy lock, and Phillip broke it down with one charge. The room was in disarray, with the bed askew, the curtains pulled down, the mirror shattered, and Penelope's belongings strewn over the floor.

There was no one in sight, and the source of the screams was not apparent at first, but then Andrew spotted the steamer trunk in the corner of the room. Heavy lead weights were piled on top of the lid, and the entire thing was shaking.

Phillip ran to it, threw off the weights, opened the trunk, and caught a sobbing Penelope as she burst out, throwing her arms around his neck and falling against him. It was a long time until she could speak.

Andrew stood on one side of the trunk, speechless, and the captain stood on the other, face a furious red, his frame shaking and his knuckles white around the head of his cane, as if he might bash it over someone's head at any moment. Jeremiah fidgeted nearby, not daring to enter Penelope's private bedroom.

Phillip rocked back and forth with Penelope in his arms, tears blurring his eyes. She was blanched and soaked with sweat, her clothes torn and her arms bruised. When she finally talked, the words welled up and burst out of her with little ragged sobs: "It was him, it was him!"

"The Phantom?" said the captain.

"He told me he was going to bury me alive," said Penelope. "He put me in there, and I could hear him laughing, and I couldn't open the lid, and, and..." She trailed off, voice hoarse.

"But how did he even get in here?" said Andrew. "We just saw him not five minutes ago in the music room? And then he vanished from inside a closet!"

"I don't know," said Penelope. "I just turned around and he was there. And he grabbed me, and he was so strong, and I tried to scream but he had his hand over my mouth and, and, and —"