Phantom: A Love Story.

Phillip soothed her again as she broke down completely. The captain looked away, wincing. Andrew looked at the steamer trunk, brow furrowed.

"There weren't that many weights piled on it," he said. "And there are more here in the corner. We must have interrupted him before he could finish. But wait a minute Penelope, this trunk isn't yours? He must have been hiding it. Where could he keep something like this in your room without you noticing?"

"What does it matter?" said the captain, voice grating.

"It matters if it tells us how he got in here," said Andrew. "Penelope, where were you right before you saw the Phantom?"

She pointed to the mirror, where the broken shards reflected a dozen versions of the scene. Andrew walked over to it, looked at his reflection, turned to the room, and then turned back to his reflection. Phillip gave him a questioning look.

"Do you see?" said Andrew. "In this mirror you can see the entire room except for the southernmost wall, with the closet door. The closet door..."

He opened the closet and stepped in. After a moment he called out to them; his voice echoed curiously. Setting Penelope on the bed, Phillip followed him, the captain limping along too, and they were shocked to see that a panel at the back of the closet had slid open, revealing a long, dark corridor.

Right next to the panel was a stack of lead weights like the ones piled on the trunk. Andrew grinned, clearly delighted by his discovery.

"Incredible," he said. "I bet it goes straight to that old wine closet. To think I never knew this passage existed. Did you, Phillip?"

Phillip shook his head.

"I bet there are more like it," said Andrew. "So now we know how the Phantom gets around the house without being seen."

"That means the Phantom is someone who knows the house very well," said the captain.

"Yes it does," said Phillip, his sardonic smile returning. "Someone who helped build it, for example?"

The captain's eyes went wide. "You must be insane? How can you even suggest that I'm the Phantom when you were standing right next to me when we all saw him?"

"It's clever, I'll grant you that," said Phillip. "You ask me how you can be the Phantom with your bad leg. Well I ask you, how do we know the Phantom is just one man? What did you do, hire some actor or some runaway slave for the part? You are something of a patron of the theater, as I recall."

The captain gritted his teeth. "You miserable little bastard!"

"That's not a denial," said Phillip.

"Phillip, no, the captain would never do something like this to me!" said Penelope.

She stood and was about to say more, but then she saw Jeremiah lurking in the doorway and she pointed and shrieked. "It was him! I know it was him! Just look at his face, there's guilt written all over it!"

Jeremiah shrank back, hands up, speaking a denial, and Penelope actually ran at him with nails raised. Andrew caught her and the two struggled for a moment, Andrew unprepared for her burst of strength.

He managed to push her back to the bed as she screamed all the while, "It was him, that black bastard, I know it! Don't you see how much he hated my father, how long he's been waiting for the chance to pay us all back?"

Even the captain looked astonished. Phillip stuck a finger in his face. "Will you still not admit it? Will you not even speak up to clear Jeremiah's name? I know you don't have any respect for him, but I thought at least your sense of honor meant something to you."

The captain shook a finger back. "Enough of this, damn it, I exactly who's behind this!"

"Then why don't you tell us?" said Phillip.

"Because I'm going to deal with this properly, like a real man would," said the captain, sneering.

"Now wait a minute," said Andrew, " We don't really—"

"It was Jeremiah!" said Penelope.

"It's the captain!" said Phillip.

"I know who's behind this, I know!" roared the captain.

"But we don't know, none of us knows!" said Andrew.

Penelope collapsed on the bed, sobbing. Phillip went to comfort her, casting hateful glares at the captain. Captain Sidney stood square-shouldered, still as a statue. Andrew sat in the corner, head in his hands, helpless. Jeremiah inched away, a shadow in the doorway, half his face illuminated.

And outside, the drums were beating, always beating, until dawn.

***

Amelia woke up and looked around. Was she in the attic?

She rubbed her neck (sore again. Would she ever sleep in a real bed in this house?) Yes, she'd been putting away boxes up here and then sat down for just a second to rest. How did she fall asleep here of all places?

But of course, she knew the answer; it was because she'd stayed up all night. Because she'd been afraid to go to sleep. She sighed. Am I losing my mind, she thought, or is this all really happening?

She chastised herself; there was nothing crazy about having dreams. True, they were vivid dreams, but so what? And she'd already explained to herself how she could dream about the Devereux's names and faces before knowing about them. She was jittery from the move, and still in mourning. It all made sense.

As she went downstairs, she did not admit to herself that she was going to the bedroom to check the closet for evidence of a secret door. Such a door would, of course, spoil all of her neat explanations.

She also did not acknowledge that piano music was audible and was obviously coming from the storage room, the room that was once the music room where Phillip confronted the Phantom in her dream.

The house seemed tense as she moved through it. Wherever she went, it felt as if someone had just finished an argument there and left the lingering residue of their anger.

Amelia went to the bedroom. The closet was still in the same place. She hesitated before opening the door, bracing herself for what might be waiting inside. But of course, it turned out to be empty, even of her own possessions. She ran her hands over the back wall. She would have to get some tools and break through the plaster, and then —

Then what, she thought? What would she find even if she were right? If the secret passage ever really existed the Devereuxs doubtlessly would have boarded it up. Inspecting the closet told her nothing one way or the other.

Amelia realized that her hand was hurting, and then realized it was because she was clenching something hard in her palm; the gold piece from the garden. Had she been carrying it the whole time?

What is this thing, she thought, holding it up. If it had ever once had a definite form, it was now just an ambiguous lump. She tried to drop it, but found that she was somehow unable. Her fingers wouldn't release, and she stood there actually shaking her hand back and forth, trying to rid herself of the little memento. It felt unnaturally cold to the touch.

She was panting and sweating by the time she'd finished. The gold piece was still in her hand. It seemed a grim sight, somehow. She brushed her sweaty hair back and thought, all right then. If that's how it's going to be.

Amelia left the closet, went to the dresser that she only filled the day before, and began to empty it. Her father's old suitcase was big enough to hold almost everything she had. She stopped to get a few essentials from the bathroom and grab her laptop, and then loaded everything into the car.

She set the GPS to find the last motel she'd stayed at, the reverse course of her trip of a few day's past. She didn't look at the mirrors as she pulled away, did not look at the house at all.

She turned the radio on and up as loud as it would go, and thought about nothing. Failing that, she thought about her father. It was painful, and the tears made it harder to drive, but anything was better than thinking about the house.

She would never think about that house again, she vowed. The house was not real.

The house was a phantom.

That flat, misshapen piece of gold was still in her pocket. She felt the coldness of it through her clothes the entire drive, but never realized that it was there.

***

There was no point in trying to work. There was no point in going out. There was no point in doing anything, it seemed, so Amelia just lay back on the bed, watching the blades of the ceiling fan.

The motel room smelled faintly of cheap disinfectant; the quiet was unnerving. She realized that she was straining to hear piano music. Maybe if she was quiet enough, she could just hear it...

She sat up and ran her hands over her face. God, she thought, what am I doing here? She stripped her sweaty clothes off, leaving them in a trail on the way to the tiny, white-tiled bathroom. She turned the hot water up as far as it would go and stood in the shower, letting it run and run. Her skin burned, but she didn't mind; after 20 minutes, she was numb.

Idly, she slid her hand down her stomach, over her hips, and between her legs, touching herself without thinking about it, a mechanical reflex more than anything.

Amelia slid one finger up and down the length of her sex, testing. Droplets of water trailed the line of her hips, and she wetted one fingertip with them, tracing the length of herself again, shivering as the heat tickled the sensitive spots.

Casually, she flicked her clit with her thumb and leaned back against the tile, sighing, closing her eyes, letting go of everything except sensation. Steam fogged the shower glass, obscuring the room, giving her a pleasant sense of isolation.

Amelia slid her free hand over body, following the curved underside of each breast and then squeezing one, hard. She frowned, then tried again, but no matter how hard she tried it really wasn't as satisfying doing it herself, so instead she circled finger and thumb around one nipple, twisting it.

A pleasant tingling heat radiated out from it, so she did it again, tweaking the tip. At the same time she slid one finger up inside herself, feeling her cunt clench tight. She didn't bother to move it, rather just enjoying the feeling of having something inside of her while her other fingers rubbed against the increasingly heated nub of her clit. She growled in her throat, so low that it was barely audible.

Amelia's back slid down the wall, until she was sitting on the floor of the shower, hot water pouring over her, burning. She licked her lips, enjoying the wet, sensual feel of it, and pushed against herself harder, grinding her palm against her cunt, grunting with exertion.

A thousand overlapping images spun through her mind, many of them memories; late nights, dark places, cool sheets, sweating bodies, soft lips, soft whispers, and heated screams. She hunched over, the muscles of her abdomen rippling as she pushed, pushed, pushed, biting her own lip until it bled. The hard reverberations in the center of her were spreading out, sending waves up her spine, across her shoulders, down the curves of her figure, bathing her in ragged pleasure.

Her eyes rolled back, and she felt herself becoming wetter and wetter. The pent-up pressure of so many sleepless nights in Richmond, so must anxiety and pain and uncertainty and grief, melted in the heat of raw physicality, draining away one bit at a time.

She actually moaned, "Fuck!" to herself, then doubled over, free hand pulling her own wet hair as she shook all over, trembling from the core of her all the way to the outside, then left herself panting and stunned, almost unable to move, a miraculous feeling of lightness gathering just behind her eyes, the inverse of the fog of pain and stress that had taken up seemingly permanent residence there in the preceding months.

Amelia allowed herself one, small, barely audible sight of satisfaction, almost contentment, and then stood, trying to regain her bearings without completely spoiling the novelty of her mood.

She realized the water had gone cold. She turned it off and stood listening to the gurgle of the pipes. A mistake, of course; the sound reminded her of her father's dying words, his struggle to breathe and—

"Amelia."

She paused, still naked and wet. For a moment the plumbing noise almost really had sounded like her father's voice?

"Amelia."

She jumped.

"Devereux."

She began to shake.

"Devereux," gasped the water as it swirled around the drain, a perfect imitation of her father's pained, choking final utterance, and then silence.

She reached for the taps to turn them on again, but then thought better of it. This isn't real, she told herself. I'm hearing things. Even perfectly sane, rational people can hear things, and see things, that aren't real.

Or maybe I'm not sane or rational at all. Maybe I am insane. But even that's okay. That's better than believing this is real.

She wrapped a motel towel around her body, not bothering to dry or fix her hair, not wanting to go anywhere near the mirror at all. The main room was dark and she stretched out on the bed, letting the cool air from the fan tickle her wet, naked skin. There was nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. Just enjoy the silence. Just enjoy the dark. Just enjoy—

The dark?

She'd left the lights one when she went into the bathroom. Now they were off...

Amelia bolted, but before she could say or do anything a hand clapped over her mouth. The thick, padded gloves nearly smothered her. A body wrapped around hers from behind, thin limbs invested with horrible strength and an awful coldness. Another arm circled her waist, and the grappling figure dragged her off the bed and onto the floor.

She struggled, but having landed face down on the carpet with her attacker on top of her she had little leverage. A hand gripped her wet hair and cracked her head against the floor, and she cried out from the pain, briefly dizzy.

The unseen figure rolled her over and climbed on top. A small amount of light from the neon sign outside slipped through the blinds, and she recognized the distinctive silhouette of the Phantom's clothing.

His hand was still over her mouth, and he leaned against her, pinning her naked body down. Amelia flailed at him with clenched fists, but nothing connected; it seemed as if he was solid only when he touched her, but not when she touched him.

He let her struggle a bit more before pinning her wrists together. Amelia could not move, could not fight back, could not cry out. The Phantom brought his face down to hers; she saw the wrinkled cloth of the mask sucking in and out with the panting labor of his breathing.

A sour smell came off of him. Amelia closed her eyes as they began to water. She flinched as a cold, gloved hand touched her cheek. Oh God, she thought, please let it end fast...

***

It was night and the lamps were out, but a single, flickering candle flame appeared at the end of the hall, cupped between fingers to stifle its light. It was Jeremiah.

He stopped, as if listening for something, and then nodded to himself and continued on. His footsteps fell very softly on the thick rug. He reached the door at the end of the hall, turning the knob slowly so that it wouldn't make noise. The well-oiled hinge did not betray him.

But when the door opened Penelope was there, ghostly white in her evening dress, as if waiting for him. He dropped the candle and backed away, stuffing his hand in his mouth to stop from screaming.

Penelope didn't react except to pick up the candle before too much wax spilled. She cupped it in her hands and held if in such a way as to cast a flickering glow on her face. She looked at Jeremiah and he blanched. He backed against the wall, face dotted with sweat, eyes downcast. His mouth moved, but no words came.

Penelope ran her tongue over her lips, as if tasting his fear. "It's late, Jeremiah," she said. The slave only nodded and looked at the floor. She came up to him, holding the candle between them, so that they both stood in the tiny halo of its flame.

"It's very late," said Penelope. With her free hand she touched his cheek. He bit his fingers. "What are you doing up?"

He mumbled something. The corners of Penelope's mouth twitched. "Were you going to the parlor? To talk to my husband?"

Jeremiah looked away. His eyes were wide, and his nostrils flared with his heavy, panicked breaths. "What were you going to tell them?" said Penelope.

She pushed her body against his. He winced as if he'd been stabbed. She cupped his face, running her nails down his cheek. She moved her mouth right next to his and whispered, "What were you going to tell them, Jeremiah?" She kissed him, and he began to cry, quietly, his chest jumping with trapped sobs.

With a coy smile Penelope kissed the tears from his cheeks, then trailed her lips over the line of his jaw. Her caressing fingers ran over his mouth, which was pursed tight to keep from sobbing. "Were you going to tell them about this?"

He shook his head.

"Then what?" Jeremiah tried to hunch down, seemingly in an effort to shrink away, but Penelope stood him back up, kissing him again, smiling at his pain. She stuck a hand between them, sliding down the length of Jeremiah's body. He took on a look of resignation, eyes becoming glassy and face assuming a far-away quality. He did not react when Penelope unbuttoned his trousers, sliding her fingers (with their immaculately manicured nails, claw-like) down until she touched his member.

She wrapped her hand around it, tugging it once or twice, trying to get him to react. His expression was dead, emotionless. She sighed, then pulled her hand up to slap him across the face. The crack of it sounded incredibly loud in the twilight atmosphere of the dark, empty hall. Jeremiah looked shocked, and before he could drift away again Penelope stuck her hand back down his pants, stroking the length of him. The mechanics of his body betrayed him, responding to the stimulation, swelling and growing, eliciting a smirk from Penelope's ruby-red lips.

Jeremiah continued to sob quietly as Penelope's hand jerked again and again, running her fingers over the fat head and testing the tiny dribble there. She pushed her body into his, pinning him against the wall. For a moment he resisted, but though the smaller of the two she was stronger, and he dared not exercise his full force against her anyway. She smiled, showing all her teeth, and in the flickering light of the candle he saw her eyes, wide and unblinking.

She kept on, and he did not resist, though his muscles ached and he had to hold his hands behind his back in trembling fists. Penelope teased him with kisses and soft whispers about how many white men would kill to trade places with him now. Jeremiah bit his lip to keep from saying that he would kill to be out of it. Her touch was delicate but firm and she slid her hand up and down him expertly, aware of exactly how much pressure it took to make him squirm. When she tugged, his body obeyed, against his will, and she giggled, voice thick with perverse amusement.

With a series of quick jerks she pushed him over the edge, and then wrapped her fingers around his shaft while the discharge flowed down and over them. She threw her head back, moaning in ghastly ecstasy, and Jeremiah hit his head against the wall. She bit his lip, though not hard enough to leave a telltale mark, and wiped her hand on his pants. She brought the candle close to their faces again.

"You'll never tell, will you?"

He shook his head.

"You know what would happen if anyone found out about us?"

Jeremiah swallowed. "They'd kill me," he said.

She put the candle back in his hand. He stared at it, face slack.

"Come on," said Penelope. " I need you for something else."

Jeremiah looked unsure.

"We're meeting the captain," she added. "I can't find my way in the dark."

She moved down the hall, away from Jeremiah and the light, her long white dress trailing behind her, until she became a patch of white in the gloom. Jeremiah hesitated a moment more, wiping his eyes, and then followed.