Disclaimer: I own nothing Phantom...just Windows Vista and a keyboard and a lot of spare time

Welcome to the dark tale that is the Resurrection of Erik, the first in the phiction series that I plan to write in the spare hours of my lonely life. This is not like most phics in the Phantom world. In this phic you, the reader, are taken through a tale of mystery, romance, passion, light humor, and gore in detailed way. Here you will experiance old characters, new characters, various shippings, and most importantly, a begining that begins with a BANG.

Without further adieu, I give you:

Resurrection of Erik

Chapter One

Inspector Armand Ledoux Khan

The Mysterious Message

Resurrection of Erik

Chapter One

Inspector Armand Ledoux Khan

The Mysterious Message

It began with a letter. Once I had it in my hands, the letter edged in black, I should have foreseen the turmoil it would cause me. I should have known that it would change my life forever. However, I did not. I was stupid, pompous Inspector with no thoughts in my logical mind, but the case at hand, the case of the Opera Ghost.

Yes, I should have known that the letter was evil once it touched my tan palm, once my emerald eyes lay upon it. I never foresaw how an innocent envelope could bring such evil onto everyone in the Palais Garnier, the grand opera house.

It was my error, my doing and because of my actions and my foolishness, people suffered. People died.

I have failed.

~*~

To whom it may concern,

By the time that you finish reading this letter, you will know that the Phantom of the Opera is dead. Right now, I have no doubts that you are staring at my unearthed grave, wondering how in the world it came about. I will explain nothing to you, Sir, for I have no reason to. That would ruin the game. That would ruin my fun. After your little experience, I would expect you to think me quite monstrous. You are correct, but keep in mind that all I do in this life is for love and for revenge. Even so, you, my friend, and many others, are about to embark on the greatest journey- or adventure if you please-of your pitiful life. I know I am.

Happy hunting,

Erik

And so the mysterious letter ended as quickly and formally as it began. For me, the haunting thing was how proper it was. If I had not just plucked it from an unearthed grave, I, the most acclaimed detective in all of France, would have mistaken it for a letter of business. But how far it was from that!

At that time, I was by a well that was so tiny and insignificant that you wouldn't believe it to be anything at all. Adjacent to the small thing was a hole about 6 feet deep and 7 feet across. Some of the men here, mostly the ones spooked by the sceneshifters' ghost stories, think it's a grave. I don't know what to think of it. I do not believe in ghosts.

Taking out my pocket watch, I checked the hour: 43 minutes past 3 in the morning. I was already quite exhausted from an entire day of excavation and searching the mysterious underground chambers with no trace of any evidence.

My men and I had been down here for 3 hours. We started with the 1st cellar and some have even now moved onto the 4th and 5th, but only my hardest workers.

I'm told that there's a house in the 5th, if you made it far enough and past the lake, but I do not know. All I was certain of was that I was on the 3rd cellar of the grand Opera Garnier.

Of course, it wasn't so grand since the infamous incidents involving the equally mysterious Phantom of the Opera. It was not the first time that I found myself in the cellars of the Opera and I doubt it will be the last. So far, all cases filed in this "haunted building" have turned cold.

Perhaps the notorious masked man was right and I should not work his men to the bone for a useless cause. However, I, being the loyal and trusting type, knew in my heart that this case would stand for it wasn't as most cases brought to me, and this was saying something!

I was only 25 at the time and served on the force for 5 measly years, but they were incredibly educational. Then again, it was also the 4th time that my men and I have come to this place. Out of all of the cases that we've been put on, the unexplained Garnier continues to puzzle us. All other cases, I'm proud to say, have been a great success.

For that, I couldn't help but hope that by this time my father would not look at me with those disapproving eyes, just as green and haunting as my own.

"Inspector Ledoux?" One of my higher-ranking men made his way to me carrying some sort of sack.

I raised my lantern to illuminate the gray tunnels. By squinting my eyes, I could make out the form of my lieutenant, Girard.

Girard and I attended the police academy together and graduated in the same class. I graduated valedictorian though he was a considerable years my senior. It was rumored that he would have graduated first if it weren't for his fancy for liquor.

I would hardly call us friends, but I'd say that we were more acquaintances at this point. In the years I have known him, there has always been an air of envy between us. I for his carefree lifestyle and he for my position and ranking.

From afar, I could tell that the sack was not in the best condition. In fact, it was the opposite. Yellow and browning, the large bag slumped over Lieutenant Girard's strong shoulders giving off a nasty odor causing me to hold back a gag.

"Yes, Lieutenant Girard? What do we have here?" I said in my detective voice as I took out my notebook from my knapsack. Hopefully this would be a clue to this never-ending mystery.

I looked back up at Girard's face to find his eyes half closed and an expression of content across his bearded face. I sniffed the air to find it smelling heavily of rum, and a good brand at that!

"Girard, have you tapped into the opera's alcohol supply?"

He merely giggled and put one unkempt finger to his lips. "Is it that noticeable?"

Despite what others thought of him, Girard was a good man. From my understanding, he even had a wife and a couple of children. I suppose the thing I liked most about Girard, or that I liked enough to keep him on the squad, was that he was never sloppy with his work. True, he was often drunk and disorderly on the job, but it was always done so thoroughly that it looked like he had been sober for years. That is what makes a good inspector, you see. I should know more than anyone.

My father shipped me off to the police academy when I was only 13. I found a way to incorporate the characteristics required of a good officer of the law hoping it would earn the admiration or respect of my father. He himself served many years as a well respected officer from our homeland. He never told me why he left if he was in such high favors. Then again, we barely spoke. Unfortunately for me, my father is near impossible to please. In fact, to this day, I still find that earning his love is my main drive.

"We found this in the house…in a coffin," Girard said in slurred speech as he untied the satchel.

What I saw next sickened me.

In the dark depths of the bag, the mangled body of Comte Philippe de Changy was starring back at me. His mouth was agape in horror and across his noble neck was what appeared to have burn marks. A gash ran from his chin to his collarbone like a vertical smile. The Comte was bled dry. I could see spores and fungus growing from inside his mouth and on the large wound. The smell was unbearable. Could this really be the refined Comte?

I held a handkerchief to my mouth and nose as I waved the gory monstrosity away. I was a detective for God's sake, not a morgue!

I felt faint after seeing so much blood, dried and not, that a few of my men had to steady me. A weak stomach had always been my worst enemy.

"We're dealing with a killer, Sir," one of the men piped.

"We knew that before. This shouldn't be a surprise for us. At least it's some evidence we can show the Chief. Maybe then he'll see how important this case is," I pointed out with authority.

All of the men nodded in agreement, which I had no doubts that they would. We were all fed up with the Chief Inspector's behavior towards the opera cases. He often dismissed them as "accidents" which all the men on the squad knew very well that that wasn't the case.

"We also found this," Girard said as fumbled about in the sack once more. With blood covered hands, he handed me yet another note. "It was attached to his forehead."

I unfolded the paper with trembling fingers and read aloud to the men gathered around me:

To Whom It May Concern:

Comte Philippe de Changy broke the rules.

This time, the letter was not signed, nor was it formal, and God knows it wasn't as personal! In fact, if the letter had not been in the same unique handwriting, I would think that we were dealing with two different people.

I deftly shoved the note into my waistcoat pocket when I heard the first shout.

"Let's find this man and bring him to justice!" cried Girard in his drunken state.

There were cries of agreement and threats against our killer until I raised my hand for them to cease. They did so obediently.

"In good time, gentlemen, I'm sure we will. Patience is a virtue and a testament for us police officers to live by. Let's not get overly confident. True, I'm sure that the de Changy family will be quite pleased with the…" I glanced at the rotting sack now molding in the corner, "…discovery of the late Comte's remains. But remember, that's all we have now."

"That and these notes." I held them up for the growing crowd to see. "Let's hope that the Chief won't take this one as a suicide attempt."

I gestured to the dead man's bag as my colleagues grumped about our last encounter with the opera and a gentleman, or not so much as I'm told, by the name of Buquet.

Last we were here; the poor man was found hanging in the 4th cellar, only one cellar below where I stood now. This was the first of many accounts, the last one being around two weeks ago from a very worried de Changy family. In fact, the Paris police has to the Opera Garnier so often that I considered buying season tickets.

"Take heed friends," I continued, "we are dealing with a master criminal and so far he holds the ace."

Everyone around me was silent.

I've been told that I make good speeches and that I drive fear and sense into people. Even Girard was silent as I spoke. People go as far as saying that I should go into politics, but that will never be in my future.

I stepped down from the platform by the well. In doing so, my cape swished about me, the very cape that my wife insisted I wear. "It's cold in the cellars," she had said. I wish that she could be down here with me, but it would be far too dangerous. She, who had lived in the Opera her whole life, knew this the most of anyone.

Why did I even marry if I was always afraid of losing her? Was it because I fell in love?, Perhaps this Erik person is correct. Perhaps love is some sort virus that leaves us men dumbfounded.

Is that why he does the things he does? For love? Hell, that's why I do the things I do. I wouldn't even dream of spending 3 grueling hours in the sewers if I knew I didn't have mouths to feed.

I walked over to the well that caught my eye earlier. It was the strangest thing. So tiny was it that it couldn't be substantial to carry much water and yet here it was. From recent reports, I'm now quite confident that there is a lake on the 5th cellar. That would explain the amount of humidity and moistness of the dark and dank basements of the Opera. However, it did not explain the usage of a well, especially one as puny as this. Why, my 2-month-old son would take it for a plaything!

I crouched down to get a closer look. It seemed to be an average well, brick based and a brownish russet color from moss. I ran my tan fingers in the creases, collecting who knows what on my index finger. Suddenly, I felt a disturbance in my pathway. I quickly rubbed off the muck to reveal some sort of symbol. I was just about to get a closer look when I heard a voice from behind.

"Sir, the Chief has arrived."

"Good," I stated as I shifted through my thoughts, "send him down."

My men parted like the red sea as the stout man treaded through the muck. As he stepped over the unearthed filth, he had no qualms about it horrendously staining his white suit. He just walked on, cane in hand, until he reached me. I gave a gracious bow. Seeing the great amount of filth on his trousers irked me so that I offered him my handkerchief only to have it waved away by his fat little hand.

"No, thank you," he responded as he settled himself atop the well I was examining only a moment ago. I was surprised that a little thing could support a mass such as him!

Chief Gaston Leroux was the most peculiar man. He was sloppy yet neat. He was courteous, yet incredibly rude. Most of all, he was also a good and bad detective. Chief Leroux had the greatest observation skills I had ever seen yet he lacked the real passion for police work. He didn't want to admit that a crime had ever been committed and settled for any sort of misdemeanor suggested. In short, he was a crowd-pleaser. Leroux never wanted to start a fight or cause any trouble.

I used to wonder why he became a detective in the first place if he hated the reality of it all so much. I was later told that Leroux used to travel all over and do all sorts of things. He had also been a journalist, a lawyer, a theatre critic, and even, so I hear, traveled incognito in dangerous countries. I've also heard that he's interested in writing but I doubt that a man as unimaginative as Leroux has ever had a creative thought in his life.

The sad truth was that Leroux was no longer the exciting man in the stories told by aspiring officers.

"Chief Leroux," I said addressing him with the proper title, "we found the body of the Comte and we think it to be murder."

As he listened to my words, his little spectacles lowered on his small, pointed nose. "Are you certain of this, Inspector? There have been many murders in this opera house lately."

I attempted to hide the grimace on my face. This man, although awe-inspiringly clever, was also the most ignorant man I had ever met in my life.

"We found this one with his throat slashed…in a coffin."

To my somewhat delight, a look of worry clouded over Leroux's face. Perhaps now he would take these cases as seriously as most of the police did. After all, he was the Chief of Police; he should care the most out of any of us.

"Let's have a look at the body then," he inquired as he attempted to stand up.

My attention snapped from the mysterious well back to him as he wildly gestured for me to assist him. It took an extra two men to get his massive hindquarters off the tiny well.

After that heavy lifting, we escorted our Chief to the 4th cellar, taking care that did not trip or miss a step for we knew there would be no obstruction should he fall. We all exchanged small talk as we progressed through the dungeons. Leroux even went as far as clamping my shoulder so hard that I thought I would tumble over.

As far as I knew, Leroux liked me. More than that, he favored me. I was, after all, the youngest inspector on the squad and half the age of most men who had been on the force triple my 5 years. As far as I know, my men don't carry any coals over the great age difference. We were equals. To add to my unique resume, I am also a foreigner and would usually not even be permitted to serve in the police at all. I can thank my high marks in the academy for the respect I had in the field. Even so, my father and I made a mutual decision to change my surname to something more French. Hence, why I'm known as Armand Ledoux and not Armand Khan as I was born.

Hopefully it wasn't the similarity of name that will keep me in Leroux's favors.

At last, we arrived to the site where they were performing the autopsy of the body. I thought it to be more of a dissection the way he was cut open. I couldn't help but to look away.

Normally, the autopsy would take place some time after a person's death, but considering the condition of the body, the medics thought it best to carry out the gut-wrenching deed right then and there.

The Comte still had that same look of horror on his face as before. Leroux must have sensed my discomfort. At that moment, he crouched down, with less difficulty this time, and closed the bulging eyes of the Comte. Leroux's large hand laid on the poor noble's forehead for awhile until at least he stood with no assistance.

Leroux was many things, but no one could accuse him of being uncompassionate.

"Yes…yes I do believe this was murder. The wounds speak for themselves."

My shoulders rose and then sunk with relief. "I'm glad that we're all in accord then, Chief Leroux."

The normally jolly Leroux merely nodded and walked away from the dead man. I could not say that I blamed him. I did not wish to linger near the mutilated corpse either. It would be quite embarrassing to vomit in from of the Chief of the Paris police!

"Was anything found on the body, Ledoux?" Leroux inquired with a professional tone.

At the word "found" I had already been fumbling in my coat pockets for message that was attached to the Comte's forehead previously.

"Only this, Sir." I handed him the tiny slip of paper, not knowing how he would react to it.

"'Broke the rules?'" Leroux questioned with raised eyebrows.

"We're not sure what that means yet, Chief, but it does resemble the same messages placed on the bodies of Buquet and Ubaldo Piangi, the stagehand and the tenor, we found dead a few weeks ago, in a similar way. All of the notes state that the victim had broken some kind of rule," I said taking out a magnifying glass.

"But take a look at the note. See how dry the ink is on this one?" Leroux nodded in agreement as I took out the other note. "This was found in a hole on the 3rd, Sir. The men are calling it a grave. If you can see past the dirt, look at the ink. It's considerably fresher than the other! We're confident that it's written by the same person, this Erik, but at different times!"

"This one," I said holding the one we found most recently "must have been written two weeks ago at the most. And this one," I said again holding up the first note," perhaps 3 hours ago." I had been staring down at my notepad the entire time, avoiding any eye contact, but I could tell that the seriousness in my voice clearly fazed him.

"You don't think he's still down here, do you?" Leroux inquired with fear in his voice.

"We have no idea, Sir," I responded truthfully. "We've found no one yet. The men are just beginning to touch base with the 5th cellar."

"This really is the most interesting thing. Not only does this explain the other deaths, perhaps murders now, but…it will explain more in time." He looked down at the moist note from the "grave."

"I wonder who this Erik is…" He looked thoughtfully at the note as if it were his newborn child. "Erik…"

Leroux suddenly looked around as if he was hearing music. If there were music, it would be too soft to hear. I heard no music. The silence from the talkative man frightened me. I wanted to reach out and touch his shoulder to make sure he was alright but as quickly as he was put under the spell, he snapped out of it in seconds time.

"Let's go back up," he stated motioning with the cane that never left his side. "I want to get a closer look at that well."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. It was a strange request coming from Leroux who was normally all business and no detail. I thought that the well would go unnoticed all except for the curious antics of me. Still, I had no objections for I wanted to see the symbol.

All the same, a great wave of relief waved over me to hear his meaty voice and find that he was not having some sort of spell. Still, the incident made me extra wary in the catacombs of the opera. Perhaps it was haunted after all…

We treaded back the way we came, lanterns in hand, to the 3rd cellar once more. At last, we came to our previous location. But as we made our way over to the well, I had an awful sense of foreboding.

We were walking…walking! Not trudging through mud or stepping over piles of dirt. All of the excavation and the grave itself had disappeared.

I was about to cry out to Leroux but the man was already on his knees looking at the well. He motioned for me to come forward. For the first time ever in my life, I did not follow orders. Something was not right about that well or Leroux's behavior!

Only moments ago, it was all I could think of. I fallen under some sort of spell and now it had taken hold of Leroux as well. Again, he motioned for me, turned, and I knew I had to obey.

"Come look at this, Armand," he said calling me by my first name. That was not like Leroux at all!

"My eyes are too weak to see this," he pointed right at the symbol. "Tell me, my boy, what is that?"

To say that I wasn't curious would be a lie, but I was still cautious.

As if I didn't want to wake my newborn son, I stepped forward to the well and the fat man. I crouched on all fours, just as he was, like a dog, and began to wipe the grime from the ancient well.

It wasn't clear at first and I found that I had to rub harder than I expected. Slowly, the awful mixture of soot and moss came off.

The symbol was relieved to me like bride under a veil. I traced its sharp yet artistic etching.

I spoke its name with curiosity.

"A rabbit."

"A what?" Leroux responded shocked.

"A rabbit!" I repeated, sounding half out of my mind.

"A rabbit," Leroux said also touching it now.

"What does it-"

Then I saw something that I don't think that I'll soon forget.

It seemed to be standing right on the well, this dark figure. The shadow loomed over Leroux and me. We couldn't speak let alone scream. The thing leapt from the well, right over our heads, and began to head down into the cellars like a bolt of lightening. Still we could distinctively hear it.

"Yes," it rasped in a baritone voice, "a rabbit. It means I've returned…"

We sat there, Leroux and I, for God knows how long.

Then, the banging began.

We were still quite frozen in fear over our experience with the shadow man that we couldn't hear the screaming of protest and horror from below. A woman's voice at first:

"Erik, NO! You can't do this! Wait! No!"

And then our own men:

"What's that noise?"

"It's coming from above!"

"Take cover!"

"My God!"

A soft rumbling could be heard in the distance. It was Leroux that broke the silence for us.

"Down," he said in a whisper.

I stared back at him with a puzzled look on my beat red face.

"Down," he repeated. "Down, down, DOWN. GET DOWN!"

He grabbed my arm and pulled me to the staircase of the 4th cellar but a great white flash and fire propelled us forward, consuming us and most of the Opera.

In only seconds, my body shattered against the stone walls of the dungeons and I knew no more.

The mysterious note never left my hand.