A Ghostly Sonata

Subterranean

Author's Note:

I chose this video because the song sets the Victorian-Gothic tone of the main characters (yes she has a name, and I will reveal it in due time) world, and the craziness and isolation that exists in her mind. #Yohio #MyNocturnalSerenade #Phantom #Ghost

A figure in a black shirt and black jeans walked down a hidden staircase that led from the balcony, a long black duster trailing on the steps behind her. She pushed down on the polished brass handle, the black leather gloves she wore ensuring that she would leave no fingerprints behind. She walked down a corridor that led to the lobby. There was a door that was separate from the door to the auditorium, this entrance was only for those who could afford to pay for balcony seats. At one time this had included foreign dignitaries, but that was before. 

"People are less cultured now," she thought. "They don't care about such things anymore, so it seems."

She walked past the ornate double door that led to the lobby and entered a storage closet, closing the door behind her. She climbed nimbly up a rack of shelves and moved stuff aside on the top shelf, she pressed on a hidden panel to reveal a small hidden door, there was just enough room for her to slide through. She crouched on a square platform that was only three feet on each side and pulled a lever in the wall which caused the door to spring shut, flush with the wall, and invisible. She then turned and stretched her feet in front of her, sliding down a chute in inky blackness, to a secret subbasement. 

She came to a stop at the bottom, her boot-clad feet hitting the dirt floor with a muted thud.. Before her was a maze of tunnels that snaked for miles underneath New York. They had been built in the 1930s, during New York's Prohibition Era.

Alone in the silence, she removed the mask she wore and slid into the inner pocket of her leather duster. She pulled a small but powerful flashlight out of her pocket. As she turned it on, the powerful light drove the shadows into hiding. The only sounds were water dripping somewhere, and her echoing steps as she walked along a track that had once been pulled by mules pulling carts loaded with moonshine.

This was the reason so many bootleggers weren't caught. Occasionally the police caught drivers above ground, but those were usually decoys, meant to be caught, so the police would think they were accomplishing something. The bulk of transport happened underground.

It was a subterranean city with stone archways, pillars, and streets with doors that led to theaters, shops, speakeasies, and other establishments all over the city. The Cosa Nostra still operated most of them. This underground city had long been abandoned and forgotten. Sometimes tourists came down here, but never far into the tunnels. They had seen her at times and had run in fear, thinking she was a ghost. She was skilled at disappearing; she would be gone long before they could raise a camera to take her picture.

She reached her apartment, an alcove hidden by a curtain she had found, and furnished with items she had scavenged, others Mr. Higgins had bought at auction for her. She sat on the bed and thought of him with sadness. He had been her only friend, but he had died ten years earlier when she had been only sixteen.

She had a new friend now, though. She lit the candles and oil lamps then pulled a sandwich baggie out of her coat pocket and crinkled it, calling, "Hamlet? Where are you? I brought your dinner! Hamlet!"

After just a few seconds, a furry white rat scurried out of a hole in the wall, paws pattering in the dirt. It came up to her and reared up, whiskers twitching and put its front paws on her knee, red beady eyes watching her expectantly. She took the slice of bread out of the baggie and pinched off a few pieces at a time, and tossed them onto the floor.

As he ate, she talked to him. "You'll never guess which play they are going to do, Hamlet."

Hamlet's ears swiveled toward her, but he continued grabbing up bread chunks in his paws and nibbling them carefully, not wasting a crumb.

"The Phantom of the Opera. Can you believe it? I hope it fails. You should see these two that they hired for the lead roles. Hollywood actors. They didn't seem like theater people at all. I should make sure the play fails."

Hamlet looked up at her, whiskers twitching.

"Oh don't look at me like that! What do you know about what it takes to be on Broadway? I'm telling you, these two aren't worthy of the roles." She sniffed in derision.

Hamlet let out a squeak and went back to eating.

She glared at him. "Keep your opinions to yourself!"

At this, Hamlet looked at her with a loud squeak and turned out and scurried toward the hole he had emerged from, just before he vanished inside, he stuck his long hairless tail straight up in the air.

She gasped in outrage, "Did you just give me the rat version of the finger? You rude little...."

She sputtered, trying to think of an appropriate name to call him. "You're a freak too, little red-eyed judgemental bastard!"

"Not a very satisfying comeback," She thought. "He's already gone and he probably didn't even hear it."

She watched the hole, hoping he would come back, but he didn't. "He's likely offended," She thought. "Hamlet," she called. "Come back!"

A faint squeak sounded in response, from somewhere inside the wall. At times It was hard to tell direction, here in the tunnels, and in the theater above. Sounds seem to come from everywhere, but it was a strange phenomenon that didn't happen all the time.

"Hamlet, I'm sorry I called you a freak. Please come back. I will show you my haul for the day...look," She dumped a pile of glittering jewelry out on the old green army blanket she had bartered for, back when she had first moved into the tunnels. The ugliness of the blanket contrasted with the beauty of the jewelry and other items in the room. She kept it because the wool was warm and get out the damp drafts, and it was much easier to wash and dry than a quilt.

"Look, I will give you something sparkly for your nest, if you come back," She said and held up a pair of tiny teardrop diamond earrings that Hamlet would be able to carry in his mouth, back to his nest.

Hamlet popped back out of the hole, nose, and whiskers twitching. He climbed up the blanket fold that hung to the floor at the end of the bed and pattered over and sniffed the pair of earrings she was holding in her hand. He seemed to be happy with the acquisition because he grabbed the earrings with his paws and stuffed one in each cheek and allowed her to pet his head. The white rat scurried off through his hole to deposit his new prize in his nest, wherever that was.

"He'll be back," She thought and chewed on the loaf of bread and sipped the wine she had procured as she sifted through the jewelry.

She flipped open her cell and typed out a quick text 'I got a shipment of glitter, when is the next craft show?"

She watched as a message popped up that said that her contact. listed as Fallon in her contacts. It might not be his real name, but that didn't matter to her; she never gave her name in her dealings either.

His reply popped up on her phone: Sunday, in the school gymnasium.

"Three days," She thought. "Perfect."

She typed back. 'I'll be there'

The messages were code, of course. 'Sunday' referred to literal Sunday, but also to the church on 7th. The priest allowed them to use the Sunday school rooms in the basement in exchange for a cut of the profits, hence the 'school' part of Fallon's message. 'Gymnasium' meant that the most promising buyer was named Jim, or more likely, James.

"So, three days to make trouble," She thought. "Let the games begin!"