By James R. Coffey
My duties couldn't have been simpler: Lock the entrances after the last performance, walk the building to make certain all the inside doors are secure, direct the occasional straggler to an exit. I could take a half-hour break any time I like, but I should expect to take the remainder of the night to complete my rounds of this grand old 19th Century opera house.
But even with a copy of the floor plan, I couldn't find my way through the maze of rooms and halls my first two nights. I could only hope that any door left unlocked wouldn't be discovered by the daytime caretakers, who arrive about 7 am. Still, I figured that if the last night watchman could cover the entire building in seven and a half hours, so could I. I just needed more time to find my way around.
It was on my third night there, as I worked my way along First Balcony, that I suddenly heard loud voices coming from somewhere down the hall. Had I unknowingly locked someone in? When I got to Box Five, I could hear two voices having what sounded like a heated argument. Not knowing what I'd encounter inside, I flung open the door to gain the element of surprise:
“Look! You want to see! See! Feast your eyes, glut your soul on my cursed ugliness! Look at Eric's face! Now you know the face of the voice!” said the most hideously deformed man I'd ever seen! Judging by his old-timey apparel, I concluded that he was an actor simply rehearsing his lines; his alarming appearance, quite convincing make-up. Embarrassed to have interrupted, I mumbled apologies and was about to back out the door when he looked at me and demanded, “You! What have you done with my Christine!”
Though I was uncertain if this were part of the act, I decided to play along just the same; figured it was the least I could do after barging in as I had. “I, uh, I think I saw her headed for the, uh . . . ladies' privy.”
“Fiend!” the man screeched, suddenly lunging forward; his eyes aflame like burning coals!
Seized with terror, I tried to scream but found that I could make no sound! I knew I should run — but my legs were like dead weights! All I could do was watch in horror as this hideous creature wrapped its bony, decrepit fingers around my throat and began to squeeze!
“You'll not have her! I'll kill you first! I'll kill you, I say!” he shrieked, his rancid breath reeking of rot and decay.
Turning from the revolting stench, I closed my eyes. And when I dared open them, I inexplicably found myself down on the main stage below — the man's trembling hands still locked around my throat! And as impossible as it were to be true, the theatre was now filled with row after row — a literal packed house — of elegantly-dressed men and women watching intently; seemingly transfixed by the horrific performance taking place on stage! I was being strangled to death in front of some of the most dignified members of Parisian society!
As I felt the life draining from my body, I heard thunderous applause and frantic feet filling the playhouse. But, were they applauding what was undoubtedly one of the most captivating performances in the history of French opera? Or simply impatient to see my life end? A moment later everything went black — and my lifeless body collapsed to the stage floor.
The last thing I remember was a riotous chorus of, “Bravo! Bravo! Magnifique!” echoing throughout Opera Garnier like a million firecrackers.
About the Author
A graduate of University of South Florida (USF), James has degrees in Psychology and Anthropology and currently resides in St. Pete, Florida.
He is a life-long musician and multimedia writer whose work appears regularly in numerous journals and magazines including Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, AntipodeanSF, Red Cap Publishing anthologies, History Defined, Salvo Magazine, Mystic Owl, the Chicken Soup for the Soul series, and current issue of WarMonkey anthology, “From the Yonder.”
James Walton was a librarian, a farm labourer, and mostly a public sector union official.
Barry Yedvobnick is a recently retired Biology Professor. He performed molecular biology and genetic research, and taught, at Emory University in Atlanta for 34 years. He is new to fiction writing, and enjoys taking real science a step or two beyond its known boundaries in his
My time at Nambucca Valley Community Radio began back in 2016 after moving into the area from Sydney.
Alistair Lloyd is a Melbourne based writer and narrator who has been consuming good quality science fiction and fantasy most of his life.
Merri Andrew writes poetry and short fiction, some of which has appeared in Cordite, Be:longing, Baby Teeth and Islet, among other places.
Geraldine Borella writes fiction for children, young adults and adults. Her work has been published by Deadset Press, IFWG Publishing, Wombat Books/Rhiza Edge, AHWA/Midnight Echo, Antipodean SF, Shacklebound Books, Black Ink Fiction, Paramour Ink Fiction, House of Loki and Raven & Drake
Tara Campbell is an award-winning writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse, and graduate of American University's MFA in Creative Writing.
Emma Louise Gill (she/her) is a British-Australian spec fic writer and consumer of vast amounts of coffee. Brought up on a diet of English lit, she rebelled and now spends her time writing explosive space opera and other fantastical things in
Sarah Jane Justice is an Adelaide-based fiction writer, poet, musician and spoken word artist.
Tim Borella is an Australian author, mainly of short speculative fiction published in anthologies, online and in podcasts.
Brian Biswas lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, USA.
Ed lives with his wife plus a magical assortment of native animals in tropical North Queensland.