Paris - 1878
The dull murmur of conversation came to a sudden halt as the Orchestra began to play. The curtain rose, the actors took the stage, the audience enraptured as the Opera Populaire's latest production began to unfold. No one paid any mind to the private box to the left of the stage, shadowed and seemingly empty. No one noticed the figure sitting in the shadows of the box, a disapproving scowl on the half of his face not covered by the ivory mask he wore.
He knew not why he bothered attending these performances. They were never anything spectacular. But now that he had chosen to make his presence in the opera house known and settled on some... arrangements with Lefèvre, the manager, It seemed wasteful to not make use of his private box every now and then. This, along with the 20,000 franc salary he had managed to coerce out of that fool, found him sitting in a considerably better position than he had been previously. All because these imbeciles believed there truly was an Opera Ghost.
The thought of the day he made his presence known for the first time turned Erik's scowl into a twisted grin. He had been causing disturbances for months, knocking things over, moving objects around when no one was looking, slowly building up doubt in the minds of the Opera Houses residents that the shadows moving in the corner of their eyes were simply their minds playing tricks on them.
Then one day during rehearsals when that wretched La Carlotta was about to take the stage, Erik struck. He locked the diva in her dressing room, hiding the key and leaving a letter on the ground at the base of her door. As Carlotta wailed from the other side of her door for Lefèvre and the others to "Get-a me out ov 'ere!", Madame Giry, the ballet mistress, had found the note. "Monsieur." she said, handing the envelope to Lefèvre. "This is addressed to you." Monsieur Lefèvre read the note aloud, amid the crowd of stagehands, actors and anxious ballet girls.
"Dear Monsieur," he began. "For months now you, and everyone in the Opera House have no doubt been taking note of certain occurrences that you cannot explain. No doubt some of you believe you are not truly alone in this grand palace. I am writing, Monsieur, to alleviate the curiosity of you all by introducing myself at long last. I am the Phantom that haunts this opera house, the shadow that is everywhere throughout these halls. Know that I am always there, I am always watching, and should you displease me, I have the ability to make your lives quite...Unpleasant. I am, Monsieur, your obedient servant... O.G."
The was a silence, followed by slow murmurs that gradually began to grow. Lefèvre glanced about nervously. "Right then." he said. "Who wrote this?" No one answered. "Oh come, now. One of you must have written this nonsense! I am telling you now, I am not amused!" "Pardon, Monsieur..." interjected one of the actors. "But the signature... What does it mean? O.G.?" "I haven't the foggiest idea myself." the manager responded. "Opera Ghost?" came a small voice from the back of the crowd. "I think it means Opera Ghost." The voice belonged to a tiny blonde ballet girl. Lefèvre chuckled. "Miss Giry." he chided. "There is simply no such thing as Ghosts."
As these words left his lips, a sandbag came plummeting from the rafters, and crashed to the floor mere inches away from Lefèvre. Meg Giry let out a shriek, and the rest of the crowd followed suit, followed shortly by tense whispers and gasps. Lefèvre's gaze snapped to the rafters. "Buquet! My god man, are you trying to kill me?!" the now quite shaken manager hollered at the catwalks. "Monsieur?" came a voice from behind his back. All the color drained from Lefèvre's face as he turned slowly, only to find his fears realized as he stared at Joseph Buquet, the chief of the flies, standing on ground level with him. His eyes glanced back to the catwalks, devoid of any living soul. Any living soul. "Just get la Carlotta out of her dressing room." Lefèvre muttered, staggering away from the crowd. In the shadows, the Phantom of the Opera watched with a grin. His reign had begun.