This is my first story, so I would find it rather humbling if you were to give me constructive criticism. I'm a God awful writer and have very little confidence in my ability. We are all human so I would please ask that you were polite, we all have hose moments when we read something that makes us have a pure disdain for the writer, if you do, please put so kindly and I will understand. Thank you and please, do TRY and enjoy.

Some of you may recall the mysterious affair of the Phantom of the Opera. A mystery,now, fully explained. Some may even believe they know just what happens next. But what if our star-spangled specter never actually went to coney island. What if, maybe, he even learned that being lonely was not the only choice for him? What if his love for Christine did die? This is my story of how the Phantom finally gets the girl. This is 'Beauty Is In Soul Of The Holder'.

Four years had passed. Four: long, abysmal, lonely years. Too long had he wandered in darkness, crying and begging for his death to come quick. Too many times had he tried.

As he lay, rotting like a corpse in the tunnels within the catacombs he would try everything, just for release. Poison, overdose, starvation, drowning. BUt something would not let him die.

So he lived on. Pumping morphine into his veins, staring up at the ceilings of these caves of death as trickles of water pierced he eerie silence. Drip, drip, drip.

Like a grieving widow he'd wail and lament her name. Over and over. When he'd close his eyes, she would be there. Then he would cry. His sanity was slowly slipping. Soon there would be nothing left of the previous phantom, just an empty shell where a tormented soul used to linger.

His once rich and elegant night attire was now: shabby, outworn, stinking. He did not care anymore. His mask laid cracked under the surface of the water- so that when his eyes would focus he could see just how repulsive he was and maybe that would be enough of a push to finally take his own life.

Sometimes he would even muse about how easily he could take someone else's life, but couldn't take his own. He had put many disgusting creatures to sleep in his time, but he couldn't kill the most pitiful of all. Himself.

Yet soon the morphine ran out, the poison dulled and the food eaten by rats. Even the murky water seemed to slowly flee. There was no drip, drip, drip on the ceilings. There was nothing. It was time to come out now. Time to try to move one, though he knew he never could, he would keep that bit of hope that was keeping him sane. Hope that the world may be kind. Hope that his suffering was not in vain.

But before that, he would have to have words, words with old friends.

Madame Giry stood grand and tall on the roof of the Opera Populaire, with as much pride as a pedigree. Her black hair pinned elegantly in bun. However, now age was beginning to show. The cane she once used to discipline the chattiest of dancers was now an actual walking aid; years of such intense activity had taken its toll. Her splendor was fading also.

She grasped the note tightly in her hand as she stared deep into the dark. Mind racing and breathing rapid and deep. She sincerely hoped he would show, Christine's Angel, The Operas Ghost, Erik. And he obliged.

"Ah Madame, I thought you had given up on me." The specter shouted from the shadows. The ballet mistress turned instantly, at first shocked, then gave a smile. "Of course, I only thought. I knew that you wouldn't be able to forget."

"Forget someone like you?" She laughed regally "How could I? I would have to be a rather dumb creature, do you not agree?" They both jested and Erik emerged fully from his place of hiding, assured she had not set a trap.

"Madame, as you may have assumed, this is not a social visit." He spoke as she observed his messy appearance. He glanced at the note "Did you follow my instructions?"

She gave him a rather dark and serious look that set him on edge inside.

"Yes and no."

A flame ignited withing in him and he growled, loud.

"What do you mean?!"

"Well," She cleared her throat "I did as you instructed and used your save money to buy you secluded châteaux in the country, however..." Erik grimaced and gestured for her to continue.

"However, I refuse to follow your command of the purchase of drugs and poison." He moaned out and rolled his head impatiently.

"But I NEED that most of all!" He yelled imperiously. But the old woman stormed over and slapped him.

"You don't NEED it, you WANT it! I refuse to take no part in your addiction!" She screamed back at him.

Erik held his cheek. Though it stung, he felt a warmness inside. She cared. Someone actually cared for his existence, enough to want him to live. He smiled to himself and took the keys. At least now he might be able to busy himself with his music.

I took a day to reach his destination. He was assured by Madame Giry that all of his belongings would be ready, in boxes, in the châteaux for him to unpack and place.

The châteaux was deep in the country side, at least a mile from a village. It loomed rather dark and menacingly over small streams that ran through thick fields of dead grapes. It was beautiful, in all its grandeur. Perfect for a solemn phantom mourning for the loss of his Christine.

The carriage rolled through the nearest village and he took a peek out. It was dainty, in a villager way. Small cottages with hay roves, in narrow passageways with cobbled seemed to know each other, talking and laughing as the children played games around them. What caught his attention, was the small building, its appearance bright, colourful and clean. The hay atop looked fresh and a group of children were all line up around the front.

They were all looking toward a woman. Tall, blonde, glasses a teacher. How he envied her. All he ever wanted to do was teach, share his knowledge, his wisdom. But that's impossible, for a creature like him. He drew back and awaited the arrival to his new home.

He paid the carriage driver a handsome fee; it had been a very tough journey. Then stared at the châteaux. It was huge, far to many rooms for his use, but it's demeanor reminded him of himself in his glory days. Big, intimidating, inspiring. He let himself in and could only admire the fine furnishings of mahogany and glistening pine.

All of the furniture was covered with white sheets. As soon as you opened the door you were met with a huge lobby. A grand fireplace to the towering wall on the left. Two curved staircases immediately in front of you, a balcony upon the first floor over looking the lobby. He guessed to the left on the first floor would be the washrooms, music rooms and studies. Then to the right, the bedrooms. On the ground floor, to the right wold be the kitchens, to the left, the dining room.

He doubted he would use the dining room, studies and most of the bedrooms, so he kept them locked. He removed the white sheets on one table and one chair closest to the fireplace in the lobby; that's all he would need. After stocking the kitchen with fine foods he'd paid his driver to buy in the village he ventured upstairs.

He unpacked his clothes and most personal belongings into the bedroom. Taking extra care with pictures of his angel. He kept all the curtains drawn. Used only one plate, one bowl, one set of cutlery. The music rooms are what he took pride in.

The acoustics were spectacular. He played a short lament on his organ and listened in pure bliss at the sheer beauty of the sound. He like it there, the peace, the quiet, the solitude, the-

"This way children!" Chimed a young woman.

The company?

Thanks for putting up with this, really. I'll try to do a chapter a day. If by five chapters I seem to have a lack of readers, I assure you I will stop. So, who is this woman? What is she doing on his property? What with the Phantom fiend do next? Find out soon.

Thanks.