His mother had been dead for at least a solid decade, yet he saw her every day within his own household. Hair the color of Turkish coffee, that she had always gone to great lengths to either keep neatly brushed or braided over her shoulder. Eyes of hazel, which had once held as many flecks of green as tears shed over his existence. The tone of her skin, the shape of her lips, even the bridge of her nose; every feature was exactly how he remembered. His mother was dead, however. What he lived with was a ghost, a ghost dressed in flesh.

How ironic it was, in hindsight, that he had named this ghost Gisèle. The title of a ballet – Christine's favorite – about the ghost of a beautiful woman. He had always been partial to names of the French origin, regardless of the meaning behind them, and was happy to oblige when his new bride suggested it. Thinking back, it almost chills him to realize it was well into the late hours when the announcement was made that a girl had been born. After all, do ghosts not begin their hauntings at night?

And haunted he was.

In the beginning, he had been grateful the infant had not inherited his accursed appearance. Yet, as the years marched on, he almost felt he would have preferred she looked like him. Having a child who so closely resembled the first tormentor of his childhood was a much darker blight in his life.

Memories that had long been repressed were now regularly torn from their hiding places and presented to his mind's eye. When he recognized the way Gisèle nibbled on her hair when idle, it brought back the mental image of his mother doing the same. Seated alone in her chair by the fireplace, she would always hide herself away in a novel, chewing on the end of her braid, focusing on the print to pretend he wasn't in the same room as her. To pretend that he wasn't calling for her, asking her to comfort him, to see him, to love him.

He sometimes wondered, if he had been…normal…would he favor her as much as her granddaughter did? His hair had always been too scarce to show pigment, his lips too twisted to show their proper shape, and his skin too discolored to tell; but after Gisèle, he began to wonder if he secretly carried the marks passed from mother to child. He wondered if he carried bits and pieces of her everywhere he went without ever realizing it. The possibility of it made him squirm.

She had managed to find a way to torment him from beyond the grave, for now he was forced to look upon her near perfect image every day. He was forced to provide for her, although she had never done the same for him. He was forced to watch his Christine shower affection onto her, despite all of the horrible things she had done to him in her previous life. He hated her all the more for it. He hated her.

"Papa?"

Erik broke from his trail of memories and came back to the present day. He had fallen into a spell of daydreaming while seated by the fireplace. Gisèle was peering over the arm of the lounge chair. Christine had sent her outside to play less than an hour ago, and the child's dress was already coated in a layer of dirt, her hair tangled and decorated with a few blades of grass, and her hands hiding something behind her back. He took one look at her and sighed.

"Has Maman seen you?"

Gisèle snickered, her nose crinkling up in a way Erik had seen before, "No."

"Go and wash up," Erik shooed her away, unamused.

"But, Papa, I found these," the seven-year-old said, bringing her hands into view. Closed inside her tiny fist were five drooping, yellow daffodils. Clumps of soil still clung to their roots, detracting from the beauty of the bright petals.

"Gisèle, put those back," Erik said sternly. "Maman will be angry when she sees you've pulled up her garden."

"But they're not from Maman's garden," Gisèle insisted. "They were growing in the hedges."

If that was true, which Erik was debating, then the seeds of some of Christine's flowers must have found their way beyond the garden gate.

"Here!" Gisèle offered her father the sparse bouquet, standing on her toes to reach over the arm of the chair.

Erik brushed away the specks of dirt that landed on his trousers, but didn't take the offering. "I don't want those in the house," he said, "go leave them outside and then wash up."

"But, Papa, I picked them for you," Gisèle once again help up the flowers.

Erik held up his hand to end the conversation. "I said no."

Gisèle's enthusiasm wilted. Withdrawing her springtime present, she silently left the room. The flowers left clods of dirt on the carpet.

He woke drenched in a sweat that felt like both fire and ice on his skin. It was dark, allowing the visions from his sleep linger a moment longer before his eyes. Hazel eyes alight with rage, a hand with filed nails raised to deal another vicious blow. He inhaled sharply, wheezing, as a soft hand touched his face. It was then that the ringing in his ears faded and he could hear Christine beside him, whispering soothing words.

Another night terror. It had been so long since his last. Somehow, in that time, he'd forgotten how horrendous they were. He gulped and his throat was raw. Had he been screaming?

A knock came from the opposite side of the room, gentle and unsure.

"Go back to sleep, min älskling," Christine called to the door.

The hinges creaked and Erik heard Gisèle's voice in the featureless dark: "Is Papa okay? I heard him crying."

"Papa is fine, go back to bed," Christine continued to insist. The hinges creaked again and small footsteps retreated down the hallway.

"I need water," Erik said as he threw off the covers that seemed to smother him. His hands fumbled about until he found a match and stuck it against the bedpost. Once the candle at their bedside cast its flickering light over the room, it quickened Erik's return to reality. He could see where he was, and the tangibility of it gave his mind something to anchor itself to.

Christine went into the master bathroom and returned with a glass of water from the tap. He didn't waste a drop, chasing away the heat in his vocal chords. The throbbing ache in his skull began to weaken. He was nearly at a full recovery, when his pulse spiked and stole his breath. The awful vision of his nightmare was standing in the half-open door to the bedroom, staring directly at him.

"Didn't I tell you to get into bed?" Christine scolded her daughter, unhappy at being disobeyed.

Gisèle entered the room, her hands hidden behind her back as she walked further into the candlelight. "I know, Maman," she said, "but this is for Papa."

From behind her back, Gisèle revealed the five daffodils from that afternoon. No longer in a bouquet, they all had been crudely laced around a ribbon to form a crooked wreath. "I made it myself!"

Internally, Erik had become angry at the blatant act of defiance. She was growing to be like his mother in more ways than appearance and idle habits. An innate disregard for others was making itself more evident with each passing day. He said nothing, however. The pain in his head had returned.

Christine met Gisèle halfway to the bed and stopped her. "Yes, that's very nice of you," she said, taking the flower wreath from the girl, "but Papa is very tired and needs to rest now." With that, she took Gisèle by the hand and led her back to bed.

Erik sat motionless on the side of the mattress, massaging his temples. Christine returned several minutes later, playing with the hastily-made wreath of yellow flowers.

"She loves her papa," Christine chuckled, holding out the wreath to her husband, "very much."

Erik eyed the gift for a moment. He had never admitted to Christine who their daughter was a constant reminder of, and he had no intention of discussing such a distressing matter with her. Not tonight. Not any night. He couldn't tarnish the one pure thing he'd given her in life. For the sake of his wife's happiness, he took the wreath. It felt submissive. He was allowing the ghost to hold a fragment of power over him by accepting its gift. It felt patronizing.

"I suppose so," Erik answered, his voice hoarse, "but it never ceases to disturb me."

Christine grinned as she settled back into bed. "You're her papa. That much is certain."

Erik turned over the wreath in his hands, inspecting the vibrant petals that seemed to glow in the dancing candlelight. He was her papa. Yes, he knew this. There was never any question about that. Well, at least he hoped not…he wouldn't dwell on that now. He – who had once been the feared Opera Ghost – was fearful of a lingering spirit. A spirit brought back into life with a body made from his very flesh and blood.

That was what disturbed him.

She was two people in one. Daughter, and mother. Innocent, and tormentor. He couldn't distinguish between them, no matter how he tried. Was that his fault? Was it hers?

Extinguishing the candle and settling down, Erik slipped the wreath beneath his pillows. He dreaded another night terror, like a child dreads monsters in the dark. If another happened, perhaps reaching beneath the cushions and feeling the silky yellow petals there would remind him. Would…help him separate the two people in his mind.

His mother had been dead for at least a decade. He lived with her ghost, but that ghost was his daughter. And his daughter loved him.