The voice of the Phantom

Villa Bianchi was an old mansion in the countryside near London, built in 1841, that kept its Victorian façade and interior for long lonely years, until Mr Bianchi had bought it. Mr Bianchi was as close as one can get to a man of his time: he worked as a business consultant and he firmly believed that he lived the best life one could possibly live. His wife, a thin and loquacious woman, had fallen in love with him at a very young age and, to satisfy her romantic dream, had convinced her parents to arrange their marriage for alleged economical convenience. Mr and Mrs Bianchi had a daughter named Clara, who could not have been any more different from her parents: for example, she had a natural inclination for the solitary and academic life, hence why, when her parents fell ill from the pandemic that was morbidly sitting on the year 2020, she was glad to move to the countryside in her family’s ancient mansion, near London. She took the first train late in the morning, after having dealt with all the matters that kept her tied to her most hated urban life. The rural landscapes dashed outside of the running train beautifully, but the sight did not interest Clara; she was so completely absorbed by the book she was reading, that she almost missed Surrey’s stop. The fact that the old mansion was rather far from the station had never distressed Clara: she liked to take as many opportunities as she could for walking and her bag was not heavy. Moving to the countryside can only be a good idea, she thought. The fresh air of October still had in it a nostalgic trace of summer that the cold breeze, arriving from north, was taking away and the clouded sky was often home to some swallows, almost late, in their departure from England. Just upon seeing the small pond down the hill, Clara knew it was only five minutes until she would reach the mansion: she remembered how, as a kid, she would beg her mother to let her swim in it, but naturally, she was always dismissed with the same excuse: “It’s too deep, there’s evil creatures”. After twenty-one years of cohabitation, Clara was perfectly used to her mother’s eccentricity, but a five-year-old little girl can only develop an imaginative mind when presented with such a maternal influence: glancing longingly at the mass of water surrounded by sparse vegetation, she wondered what sorts of evil creatures her mother believed in. She closed her eyes, picturing a gigantic worm erupting from the pond and her mother screaming in terror: an amused smile lightened up her face. Soon, the large house was in sight with all the sublime beauty that she remembered. As the house grew closer, however, Clara noticed that a substantial part of the façade was in a dark shade: a tree, almost as tall as the house itself, seemed to have just appeared in the grass. Clara found that it was very unusual, but decided to ignore the matter. “Miss Clara, I wasn’t expecting you!” An old lady in maid clothes peeped from a bush of roses, smiling widely. Clara, who had just entered the garden, was walking along the devious path of gravel that lead to the mansion, when she saw the woman who was, to her, more of a maternal figure than her own mother ever was. “Well hello Josephine, I wasn’t expecting to come here myself” she smiled at the Maid with a tender look: “Mother and father fell ill and I’ve always found that the countryside has a way of appeasing my soul”. Josephine was ecstatic: it was great news for her that someone was going to live in the house with her. She had been for long years the only maid in the mansion and, whether it was due to her old age or her nerve-wracking loneliness, she found the empty house was growing more and more sinsiter; naturally, she was not planning on mentioning anything to Clara, it would definitely go against both of our interests, she thought. After having shared the usual greetings filled with unspoken affection with the Maid, Clara let her work on the garden and headed inside, instantly being caught off guard by the sudden temperature drop as she walked through the door. The mansion was rather small, if compared to most aristocratic villas, but it had some sort of majesty in it that went beyond any merit that one could give to the size of a structure and it stood out, tall, against the sky in the noblest way. After Mr Bianchi’s restoration works the interior had lost most of its Victorian features, exception made for the heavy curtains that adorned every window, or the large library that had always been Clara’s most-liked room. She carried her bag upstairs and decided to set her personal affairs in what would have been her parents’ room, instead of the malodorous guest room where she had to sleep for all her childhood and adolescence. Mr and Mrs Bianchi’s room was spacious and well lit, once the thick curtains were opened. Anyone could tell that the consorts did not spend much time in the room, as it was practically anonymous; the first thing Clara did was putting on the nightstand an empty frame and a book that she fished from her bag. She smiled, looking out of the window to take a glance of the monotonous landscape made of grass, trees and a cloudy sky and decided to go to the library as a first thing. The library was just as Clara remembered it. Ancient and new books filled the long and tall rows of bookracks, giving the room a faint scent of antique; she strolled along until she reached a small door nestled in the wall, almost as if it did not want to be noticed. Clara remembered that her father always told her not to open that door: as inevitable as it was, curiosity swarmed her mind. The door was unlocked- how naïve of him, she thought. Behind the door was a regular sized room that appeared much bigger than it really was, thanks to a multitude of mirrors of every size and shape pinned on the walls: in the centre of the room was a piano of imposing dimensions. Even from afar, one could notice the thick layer of dust covering all the objects in the room. In a corner, Clara noticed a rectangular shape covered with a dirty white cloth, she stepped closer. A cloud of dust raised in the air as Clara pushed aside the cloth, making her cough and rub her eyes: the last time someone entered that room must have been ages ago, she thought, while bringing her gaze to the object she had just uncovered, a painting. A terribly beautiful woman was portrayed through evident fast strokes and dark shades of colour. Her vermilion lips stood out against her perfectly pale skin and her raven hair. Clara hesitated for a moment before gazing away, the woman’s sad eyes seemed to follow her around with a magnetic glare. “That was the first owner of the house”. Clara jumped slightly; she turned around to see the Maid standing in the threshold. Seeing as the girl was not going to ask any question, she spoke again. “Oh she was a wonderful woman that one” her smile grew tenderly: “A few years after the construction of the villa, she moved in on her own, and here I quote, to get away from the social issues of the time, quite like you actually”. Clara listened quietly, soon growing particularly interested with the matter: “The library…” “Was hers, naturally!” Josephine interrupted her: “When your father bought the house he tried everything to get rid of her old things, but, as you can see, he failed”. Clara hinted at a smile, bringing her gaze back on the grand piano: “She played?” The Maid nodded and gave her a sly look: “If you want I can show you more, I know where they put it…” Clara, surprised at the foxiness of Josephine, understood with amusement the reason behind her curious attitude: she said that she would have been delighted to see more. As was her custom, the Maid nodded before speaking: “Well then, follow me” she said as if Clara should have simply understood she was meant to follow her. They walked up the stairs twice to reach the garret of the mansion; the space was almost completely empty, if it wasn’t for an old chest and what looked like a rat nest next to it; the air was cold and still. The Maid showed Clara the way, gesturing towards the chest: “This is all that’s left of her, well,” she said “and the lake”. Clara’s brows furrowed lightly: “The Lake?” “Oh yes” Josephine nodded, as if nothing was more blatant than the fact that the Woman’s ashes were thrown in that same pond, as she explained, that Clara wanted to swim in at the age of five. The chest creaked in a most sinister way as Clara raised its top: the lack of light limited her sight and she couldn’t distinguish the objects inside. She plunged her hand inside with a tremor; inside was a multitude of clothes, marred by time and bugs, old jewellery, a small pipe, that, as Josephine explained, was used to smoke opium and a black diary that looked like it had suffered Hell. Clara was mesmerized by the antiquity, she let her dainty hands travel along the elegant fabrics, as the rush of electricity that departed from her fingertips and excited her mind pleasantly surprised her. Looking at the objects now laying on the floor, her curiosity was instantly stimulated by the notebook: it was cold at the touch and seemed humid; Clara found that it was very unusual since the chest was closed well and the rest of the objects was perfectly dry. She hesitated: for some reason she didn’t want to open it in front of Josephine, she wanted to be alone. The Maid didn’t seem to notice her slipping the diary and the pipe in her pocket, as she was looking at her watch. “Let’s go now, she said, I’ve prepared a nice lunch for you.” Perfectly sated from the demanding lunch, Clara spent the whole afternoon lounging in the living room, reading or making to-do lists, and when the sun started bidding goodbye, disappearing behind the hills, she used all her persuasive sweetness to convince Josephine that she wasn’t hungry: truthfully, she was just anticipating the moment she would finally be in the quiet comfort of her room to read the diary. To her greatest satisfaction but not surprise, the bed in her parents’ room was much more comfortable than the one in the guest room and, she assumed, the one Josephine used. For a moment, she let her head rest on the silky pillow, savouring the events of the day: her eyes closed lightly, but the impatience won over the God of Sleep soon. She picked up the diary and opened it. It was only an instant of confusion. For a moment, Clara’s lungs tightened: she couldn’t breathe. As if the room had started spinning, she felt her head grow hotter. But it was only an moment. As the room stopped its furious course, her temperature dropped. She felt something force her eyelids close. A teardrop rolled down her cheek as she tried to fight back the Drowsiness. The last thing she saw was a thin and slanting calligraphy. Mania, 1847 When she opened her eyes again, the room had disappeared, but, for some reason, she seemed to find it perfectly normal. In front of her emerged in the dusky moonlight the old mansion, quite different from how she remembered it, but, again, the fact did not faze her. She walked towards the house calmly and, once she had entered, she stopped for a moment. The entrance was filled with a light that Clara had never imagined possible in such a narrow space, she smiled, feeling her chest swarm with an unknown sense of fulfilment and joy, then headed for the secret room in the library. There was no door, but just a decorative arch of marble. The first thing Clara noticed was the absence of the imposing grand piano: the room was perfectly empty. The only matter of significance was the multitude of mirrors, pinned in every corner and every surface of the white walls. She seemed to have come there for them. Just upon entering, Clara could only see the infinite reflection of nothingness in the mirrors, but as she walked in, a tall and considerably large woman: her clothes were elegant and distinguished, her hair were tied up in what looked like a most complicated hairstyle and her lips were tinted of a blood red colour. Clara recognized her instantly, but as she spoke, she felt as if her voice didn’t belong to her, as if it was really coming from the mirror, instead of herself. “Mania” It was almost a whisper, a silent cry of the heart. The reflection in the mirror moved her lips in the same way, giving back a sly eye-smile. Clara looked around as she stepped closer. The Woman was everywhere, looking at her from different directions, all gazing into her defenceless soul. She felt the sudden urge to reach for the reflection. Her legs moved faster as she approached the closest mirror. Her breath hitched, she raised her hand just as the reflection did. Her heart started racing furiously: oh! How it broke when her fingertips touched the hard and cold surface of the mirror. She felt her legs weaken terribly, forcing her on the floor. Her body started shaking from the cold in a sudden convulsion. The last thing she heard before returning to the comfort of her bed was a silvery voice, filling her head painfully. “No! Come back!” As she woke up, for a moment Clara could not open her eyes or breathe: the suave voice was still echoing in her mind, blending in a terrible scream-like noise with an unusual music: the grand piano. Clara opened her eyes, gasping for air. She looked around. The room seemed unchanged. On the nightstand, she recognized the shape of her empty frame, and then looked up to see a ray of moonlight shine lightly on the corner of her bed. The air was still and it was only after a while that Clara noticed the piercing notes of the piano playing. Her heart stopped. Did Josephine know how to play? She hoped so, but still, with the pumping heart cutting her breath off, she decided to go check.