Hello again my readers! Thanks for coming back and visiting my craziness again.

All the usual disclaimers apply. Once again, my Erik is physically patterned after Gerry Butler (Drool! The man could make stone melt!). My Erik needs no wig; he has a full head of wonderful, sexy raven hair and deep, alluring green eyes. He is Gerry's height…which has been quoted at anywhere from 6'2" to 6'4", I choose to use the 6'4".

Even though I have never read Kay's version (can't find a copy), I have read enough fanfics to get the idea of her writings, my Erik will be playful and flirtatious, which I hope reflects Kay's Phantom. He will also be self-loathing, but not to the point of suicide.

This will be an Erik/Original Woman work of fiction. Enjoy.

Every adversity holds within it the seeds of an undeveloped possibility. From Robert Schuller's, Pearls of Power




May 27, 1851 – Clairvaux Mansion

The young boy huddled in the corner of the dark, dank cellar he called home. He had been its prisoner for the past seven of the nine years he had lived. Surrounded by his own urine and feces and barely more than bones, he resembled a caged, abused animal.

His brilliant eyes fastened on the figure coming toward him, hearing its voice but thinking it an apparition. He pushed himself further into the wall, fearing the shadow that he saw and clawed at the bricks with his fingernails as he tried to dig through the formidable barrier.

He pulled against the ropes tied around his hands, hoping beyond hope that he was strong enough to separate the binds. His efforts only made him angrier as time after time he failed, and the figure, which was now talking to him, came to within inches of his feet.

Antoine Tournier, police detective, knew that he had to get the boy out, but he had lost so much blood and his leg was broken. He inched his way toward the boy and finally reached his trembling frame, speaking to him in soft tones, knowing he had not heard a friendly voice in years.

The mansion was crumbling around him and he felt the urgency to get the child out swelling up inside him. His colleagues were inside the mansion, looking for other survivors and Antoine was determined to get everyone out safely. Before long, the entire structure would collapse, trapping them inside. The smoke made matters worse, as breathing was difficult and painful.

Antoine had known this family. Émilie had been the most beautiful woman he had ever met and her husband, Marcel, had adored her. The picture perfect marriage had taken a bad turn and Marcel left, just hours before Erik was born.

Antoine had made it his business to check in the household on several occasions after Marcel left. Benjamin was the only man in the house and he was gone a great deal of the time.

Antoine and the rest of the world had been permanently removed from the property when Marcel returned seven years ago. No one had been allowed in the house or on the grounds since that time.

He looked into the boys frightened, wild eyes and took note; once again, of the marred features that had not been there when he was born. Even through the scars, he saw the beauty of Erik's face; one side strong, defined and handsome and the other…not. Shivers ran up his spine as he thought about the abuse this boy had endured for seven years and the constant pain he must have been in until the injuries healed.

He was barely more than skin and bones, only eating every five to six days; or when Marcel would allow it, and he was seriously dehydrated. His breathing was fast and erratic as he watched the shadow reach up and cut the ropes from around his wrists. He made a mad dash for the door and was gone before Antoine could say his name.


Spring, 1837 – fall, 1844

Marcel Clairvaux was a brilliant biochemist and his genius was renowned around Europe. He had developed many of the valuable chemical weapons used by the French government, as well as other governments around the world and he had developed new serums and medications to treat various diseases, or cause them, whichever one was needed. His accomplishments were recognized by heads of state and royalty from every nation in the world.

He and his stunning wife, Émilie, never ceased to turn heads when they entered a room. They complimented each other beautifully. For the first four years of their marriage, things had been perfect. Marcel doted on his bride, knowing she was the most beautiful woman in all of France and Émilie cherished him more as each moment passed.

But something went horribly wrong…

Marcel became greedy. Unbeknownst to his wife, he put his formulas up for sale to the highest bidders, not caring that he put his country and family at risk. He secretly began experimenting on himself, noting the reactions he had in a journal, which he kept under lock and key.

Because of his chemical experimentations, his moods changed often and erratically. He began having violent episodes - psychotic episodes, which often resulted in bodily injury to him or someone else.

He was brutal in his husbandly duties and Émilie feared for her life on many occasions. He would literally beat her into submission and take her in an animalistic fashion, not caring whether he injured her or not.

He would be gone for days on end, selling his various formula schematics to whoever paid the highest price. He consorted with prostitutes and often babbled about his experiments to them. He was not particularly wary of the standard of prostitute he dirtied himself with and it did not take long for him to contact syphilis.

He buried himself in his laboratory, using his own chemicals and concoctions on himself; not realizing that these elixirs and mixtures were causing his downfall. Marcel could not help himself anymore and sank deeper and deeper into a state of madness and drugs.

Émilie could only watch helplessly as her wonderfully handsome, proud, brilliant husband; the man she had loved deeply and completely, left her – and a monster took his place. His first act of brutality had not prevented his seed from impregnating her and she tried desperately to hide her condition from Marcel.

Most of the time, he ignored her; locking her in her room and leaving her for days without his company. The servants watched helplessly as he abused and neglected his wife and Benjamin, the butler, would take food and water to Émilie when he was certain the master was out for the night.

When Marcel discovered the condition his wife was in, he went ballistic. He accused her of being a whore and entertaining men during the many hours that she was left alone in her room. He beat her even more, hoping to abort the baby; but, fortunately, that did not happen.

The abuse did not stop as the pregnancy progressed and Émilie did all she could to shield her unborn child from the wrath of its father. Many nights she spent under the healing hands of Constance as her wounds were nursed and tended to; and every night, she would feel her child move in her womb, a constant reminder that life goes on.


The day that Émilie went into labor, the servants listened in horror as their lady tried to birth her child in complete solitude, behind closed doors. Marcel refused to call a doctor or allow anyone in there with her.

"She conceived the mongrel on her own like the dog she is; she can bring it into this world like a dog", was all he said. He then packed his bags and left, saying he would return in a few days.

The blood curdling screams coming from the room continued for hours and the servants feared for the life of Émilie and her unborn child. The wrath of the master was bearable, but the suffering they heard behind that door was not.

Benjamin, the butler, knew that Marcel would not be back to the main house for days and he unhinged the door, taking as little time as possible to do so. Constance, Émilie's personal maid, ran into the room and embraced her catatonic mistress.

Émilie was pale, exhausted and curled up in the corner of the room in a fetal position. She wailed when Constance came to her and held the woman desperately tight.

Benjamin picked Émilie up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Constance's daughters, Elisa and Sylvie, carried in clean towels and buckets of water.

Émilie had been enduring labor on her own for 13 hours. She was a small framed woman, but her hips were childbearing hips and with Constance's help and the coaching of Elisa and Sylvie, her son, Erik Xavier Clairvaux was born.

He was perfect. How could such a monster create such a beautiful child? Every ounce of love that Émilie had once carried for Marcel now focused its attention on her infant son.

Erik had mounds of wavy, raven hair and the greenest eyes of anyone Émilie had ever known. He was as handsome as his father had been…once.

Camille, Émilie's sister, came to stay with her. Erik became like a son to Camille as she watched him grow into a beautiful boy. She had never seen such a handsome child. Erik flourished under the care of Émilie and Camille and he was never in want of anything.

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, and Marcel did not return. Little Erik grew into the most beautiful child who, thankfully, had inherited his mothers disposition. He giggled and smiled all the time, wrapping everyone he saw around his little finger.

The only side effect of his father's tainted seed seemed to be his green eyes; they sometimes carried a gold glow around the pupils, which created an amber hue. At the age of two, it was quite evident that Erik had inherited his father's genius. He could read and write, and began meddling with the piano and organ not three months after he turned two-years-old.

The everyday running of the mansion was harrowing, to say the least, but Émilie managed. Marcel was a wealthy man and his assets were available to her; thankfully, he had never thought to change that.

Émilie had begun giving voice lessons again, something she had done very early in life. Her voice had been her gift to the world, and Marcel had thrived on her talents…he hadn't heard her sing in years.

Years…just thinking about the wasted life that she was supposed to have shared with the man she loved made Émilie sink into a vat of depression. She had loved Marcel once; a deeply passionate, all-consuming love that had left her speechless.

Now, she loathed him, with every beat of her heart. He had thrown their lives away for his experiments and formulas. She would never be able to forgive him for that…never.


It was a cold, snowy night in the middle of December when the door creaked open and a tall figure made its way into the mansion and down the long corridor towards the voices. The eyes shifted from side to side, observing its surroundings with proficiency.

Marcel grinned with sinister pride as he approached the silent, stoic figure of his wife as she incredulously stared at him. He was a grotesque sight, lesions inflicted his skin; a result of the syphilis running rampant in his body and he was deathly emaciated.

His eyes were what scared her most. Void…that was all she saw. His eyes held no humanity…they were empty, dead pools of maniacal blackness. Marcel no longer existed within the confines of this used and abused body.

He struck Émilie hard in the face, causing her to lose consciences quickly. He stood over her still form and let out a sinister, malevolent laugh; caressing her bruising cheek affectionately. He pulled up and spied the others that were present in the room.

He grabbed Elisa and Sylvie by the hair, pulling them behind him violently. Constance pummeled his arms, hoping to make him relinquish his hold on her daughters. She screamed at him, begging him to have mercy. Marcel stared ahead indifferently, as though he could not hear her pleas. His descending madness had caused him to have superior strength and it was impossible for her to fight him off.

Having left the front door open, he literally threw Elisa and Sylvie into the cold night air and slammed the door. He vehemently turned on Constance, grabbing her around the neck and slamming her against the rock wall. The pressure of his hand against her windpipe, and the solid, impermeable barrier of the wall behind her, left Constance with no escape.

He hissed into her face with foul breath as he compressed the life from her, "You have interfered in my affairs one too many times…I cannot have you meddling any longer. What I do to Émilie and that brat of hers is none of your concern."

With one swift, skilled turn of his wrist, he snapped her neck and she slithered lifelessly to the ground. He watched in morbid wonder as her body twitched and jerked from the muscle spasms that were naturally present. Torture and pain fascinated him, in whatever form it manifested itself.

Marcel made his way back down the hall to his terrified wife. She was frozen in place by the fear that radiated through her. She knew that Constance, Elisa, and Sylvie were dead; she knew it in her heart. She prayed that Camille and Benjamin would not return, sparing their demise.

Marcel bent over her, leaning into her so that she could feel his breath on her skin. He smelled the freshness of her hair and skin and breathed in their warmth.

He spat into her ear, "You even smell like a whore." His cold, killer hands caressed her neck and shoulder and she shivered from revulsion. Marcel noticed the shiver, "See, whore, even now you desire me."

One solitary tear rolled down her cheek as she felt her end approaching quickly. She hoped that she would die by his hand tonight and be spared the cruelty that she knew he possessed. Her only prayer was that Erik would not suffer.

Marcel paced like a crazy man, his ranting becoming audible to her ears. "They are after me constantly…no peace…no place to go…it will never be theirs." He seemed to realize that Émilie was staring at him with disgust, "The government is hunting me down like an animal…it seems I am not free to sell my brilliance to the highest bidder…they call it treason…" He smiled an empty, evil smile that sent shivers up her spine.

His menacing voice caressed her ear, "I have killed Émilie; I have wrapped my strong hands around scrawny, useless necks and squeezed until no life was left." Marcel paused with euphoria on his face and moved to stand in front of her. "I stabbed a man simply to watch him bleed, as his life blood poured from his body I watched him fade away with my knife still embedded in his heart."

Marcel was ecstatic at the look of sheer horror on Émilie's sweet face. He harnessed an evil grin and winked at her, continuing with his gruesome tale, "I lured a whore into my room one night and in the middle of the act, I wrapped my rope around her neck, threw it over the overhead lamp, and strung her up." Marcel's eyes closed, enjoying the moment. "I watched her body jerk and contort in various directions, until she just hung there..."

Without warning, Marcel brutally slapped Émilie, causing her to fly out of her chair and hit the ground. Marcel stalwartly stood before her, reached down and grabbed a fistful of her hair, and literally hauled her behind him to the door.

He locked the door and roughly jarred her to her feet and pulled her screaming body behind him until he reached her bedroom. He shoved the door open, pushed Émilie inside. He spit on her and demanded, "Where is he Émilie? Where is the little beast you birthed?"

His voice was low and menacing causing Émilie to shrink away from his looming figure. She courageously spat back at him, "I will never tell you where he is!" Her eyes were wild and draped in the betrayal he had exercised on her.

His smile was malicious and Émilie physically trembled at the beast before her. He leaned over her as she coward away from him, "You will die in this room Émilie, it matters not to me if you give up his location…I will find him."

Émilie's scream was heard as he locked her in the room. She sobbed into her hands praying that her darling boy would be spared his fathers cruelty…but knowing that Marcel would find him in no time.

Marcel proceeded to search behind every door and in every space. It was not long until he found Erik in a warm, friendly-looking room playing happily by his self. Marcel glowered at the boy, his sick mind unable to recognize the miniature version of his self.

To Be Continued…