So this is a bit of Halloween phantom fun. This theme has been done before, but I don't think it's ever been done quite like this. It's a one-shot inspired by the Twilight Zone episode Eye of the Beholder. You'll completely understand the story without watching it. But basically our beloved Christine is going to enter the Twilight Zone.

I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. It belongs to Gaston Leroux.

Enjoy! :)

She slept fitfully.

Perhaps that should have been the first sign that something was, well….

Not quite right.

Usually, her slumber in the eerie underground home was unsettled. She was generally on edge and jittery, disturbing thoughts invading her dreams. How could she not be troubled with his constant gaze upon her and that eerie music he played all hours of the day?

She shivered as she sat up although the temperature was not too cold. The underground home was quiet as she stood onto the cool carpet, opened the door, and left her room. Was Erik away? Likely not. Christine suddenly noticed the black mask lying upon a table, and he would never leave without that. Although somehow it seemed smaller and differently shaped. Odd.

Her gaze wandered over the home. Something seemed…altered. Softer was the only word to properly describe it. Blues had replaced blacks. Whites had replaced greys. There was more lace and more colorful flowers…more frills.

Or perhaps she was beginning to lose her mind.

Yes, her visits down to Erik were beginning to drive her a bit mad. Still, Christine had promised him that she would continue to visit, and she had kept her word. Poor Erik. Condemned to the catacombs.

Yet she was also beginning to feel rather sorry for herself as she stood there alone, trying to determine why everything seemed so different. "Erik?" she called, softly. "Erik? Where are you? Are you here?"

There was no answer. Perhaps he had had gone out for supplies. He could have at least left a note. Or invited her. She did often miss the sunlight.

Sitting on the sofa, she attempted to read one of his many books. The hours ticked by steadily, and she grew more and more frustrated. This was ridiculous! How dare he ask her to visit and then simply leave her there all alone! Did he want her to go insane? Perhaps as insane as he seemed sometimes….

Christine finally decided to leave. If she angered him, well, she would simply deal with that later. It was his fault for abandoning her there by herself.

After dressing for the colder weather and checking once more to make sure he was not there, Christine left the small home, carefully closing the door behind her. She must be growing accustomed to the cellars as the path out somehow seemed easier to navigate. And yet still she had that feeling that something was…not right about it all. It was the same and yet—not.

Yes, she was slowly beginning to lose her mind.

As she approached the exit, the first thing she saw was a man with his broad back turned toward her, wearing grey trousers and a simple white shirt. Perhaps he was an opera house worker as he was carrying what appeared to be a piece of scenery. Gathering her skirts, she moved to go past him, hoping he would not harass her. The temperature and light indicated that it was nearing evening. She could never tell the time of day in Erik's home.

Likely hearing her footsteps, the man turned to face her.

She gasped and placed her hand to her heart. "Erik!"

His mouth fell open as well.

The black sockets of his eyes gaped at her over his hole of a nose. His thin, greyish lips parted, revealing yellowed teeth.

It was Erik, unmasked. It had to be. Because—

But it wasn't! It wasn't Erik! His shoulders were too broad, and his fingers were not long and graceful. And the other little details that she had come to know in her time underground—they were all wrong! It was another man! Another skull face! She placed a hand to her lips as he continued to gape at her, also seemingly frozen in place. With a horrified sob, Christine turned and raced back into the tunnels, hands stretched out as she blindly attempting to find her way forward.

What were the horrible odds that she would meet another man with a death's face? How could this happen to her? Warms tears of fear streaming down her cheeks, Christine continued forward through the darkness. She needed to escape these awful catacombs and find some semblance of normalcy.

She finally found stone steps and began to climb them, picking up her skirts as her footsteps echoed. Christine tripped once, stumbling and reaching out to the cold wall to steady herself. As she blessedly reached the top, she could see a triangle of light slipping through the crack beneath the door. Voices were audible on the outside. Oh, thank heavens! She was almost there!

She could not do this any longer. She could not go visit Erik in that terrible underground world. He enthralled her. He fascinated and terrified her and made her feel things that she could not even describe and did not want to think about-horrible and wonderful things! But it was all going to make her crazy. And she wondered if it was time to reach out to her dear childhood friend for liberation from this madness. Yes, it was time to speak with Raoul.

With a deep breath, she opened the door and saw no one on the other side. Where was she? Fleeing through the cellars, Christine had not even noticed where she was even going. Taking a shaky breath, she made her way forward. She heard singing and talking. Perhaps rehearsals? Or was it a performance? Was she supposed to be there, too? In any case, she was very near to the stage area. She supposed that Erik had doors that led to everywhere.

She briefly wondered if he had discovered her disappearance yet. Was he angry?

Fumbling her way forward through several layers of red curtains, Christine attempted to find an escape back to her dressing room or even to the outside. Anywhere but the cellars below. But suddenly she stepped forward and found herself right on the stage. And in front of an audience that she could not see yet because of the blinding lights. She gasped. Then the audience gasped.

The nearest dancer, a ballerina, turned around to face her, slender arms high up in the air as she prepared for her next move.

Christine shrieked and threw up her hands in self-defense.

The dancer stared at her through cold, empty sockets.

And then Christine glanced down into the audience—now able to see the enormous sea of skull faces. Dark eye sockets. Noseless visages. Yellowed skin. Thin, dry lips and sparse hair. Screams sounded out as they stared up at her. She could not tell which shrieks were hers and which were theirs. All blended together in a horrific cacophony.

She tried to step back as the actors, singers, and dancers began to approach her with their wide gaping eyes and mouths. She tried to get away from them.

But Christine stumbled and fell-dizzy from her terror. Her face grew cold and clammy as she sunk to her knees. Resting her head against the stage, she attempted to escape what surely had to be a horrible nightmare, the sea of skull faces coming closer and closer. Her last scream died on her lips as she succumbed to unconsciousness.

Christine awoke later to a cold sensation on her forehead. With a soft moan, she opened her eyes and gazed upward. There was Erik—yes, Erik-standing over her with a cold, wet cloth in his bony hands. He was unmasked but, after that horrible dream, it did not seem so terrible to only see one skull face. She shuddered and sighed.

"Are you well, my dear?" he softly asked.

"Yes," she whispered, hugging her arms up to her chest and finding strange comfort in his familiar voice. "I had a nightmare."

"What of?" There was a deep sympathy in his yellow eyes that she had never seen before.

"Oh…nothing." She closed her eyes and took a breath. "It was rather silly." And horrifying.

"I see." He paused. "Well, it is good that a bad dream is the only result of your strange escapade. What were you thinking? Running up onto the stage with a packed audience? It will take me weeks to sort this out, you know? They will wonder…." His voice tapered off.

Opening her eyes, her mouth fell open in horror. "B-but that…that was r-real?" she stuttered. "No. It could not have been."

"I fear it was." He studied her. "You seem rather unwell. Perhaps you have come down with some sort of sickness? I shall attempt to make the home warmer."

"No," she gasped, sitting up onto her elbows. "Erik, you do not understand. That could not have been real! It could not have! The faces, you see! The faces!"

"The faces? Like back down, my dear. You are clearly unwell."

"I will not lie down!" she cried, pulling herself upright and placing her stocking-clad feet on the floor. "You do not understand." She shakily stood and made her way to the door. "It could not have been real. It could not have."

"Where are you going?" he asked in alarm. "Lie back down, Christine. Before you fall again."

"To prove that I was dreaming!" she exclaimed. "I want to go to the surface. Now. Take me to the surface, Erik!"

"Perhaps tonight," he said. "If you are feeling better."

"No!" she exclaimed, growing frantic. "I am going now! Right now! I want to see my friends! I want to go home! I want to see Raoul! I want—" Christine clamped a hand over her mouth. Slowly, she turned around, expecting his anger at the name of her friend. Now he would never let her leave.

But Erik only stood there staring, arms limp at his sides. And then he asked in a very calm voice, "Who is Raoul?"

With a cry of insane frustration, she flung herself toward the door and pulled it open. He made no move to stop her, only walking closely behind and staring at her as though she'd lost her mind. Perhaps she had.

Yes, she had.

But she would keep running. She would never stop until she proved that none of it had been real!

Christine made her way forward down the dark path and soon saw a figure approaching up ahead. From the long, black dress and sturdy posture, she knew it was Madame Giry. Oh, thank heavens! Madame Giry would help her escape this awful nightmare. Christine raced forward with her arms held outward as though reaching for an embrace. "Madame Giry! Help me! Please! Madame—"

She stopped.

And stared up into Madame Giry's face.

Her skeleton face. Her death's face.

Madame Giry blankly stared back with two empty eye sockets. The older woman frowned.

Christine fainted again.

Erik ran his hands over his face in frustration and sorrow as he quickly walked forward to where Madame Giry stood beside the collapsed form of poor Christine.

"All this time, Erik?" Madame Giry questioned angrily. "How long have you been hiding her down here?"

"Nearly a year," he murmured, bending to place a hand on her clammy forehead, staring at the strange…thing that protruded out between her oddly red lips and very peculiar blue eyes. And she had so much more hair than anyone should really have. It was a horrible sight-and yet he could not let her go.

"How?" Madame Giry continued the interrogation. "When I discovered the poor deformed thing shivering behind the opera house, I assumed you would send her to an institution. You said you would. But you have kept her here!? All this time?"

"I built her a home down here," he stated, gesturing to it. "Hid her away where she can be alone with her music. Our music. It was no one's business, was it? It harmed no one."

"But you cannot—"

"I am one of the managers! I helped to build this damned place. I will do as I please!" he snapped.

"But she is going to go mad. I think she already has gone mad," the older woman murmured. "You should send her to an institution. They can keep her safe. It is where she belongs."

"She is perfectly safe here. I will not send her away to one of those god awful places." He bent down and scooped her up, possessively holding her against him. "She is fine here. And if you tell anyone of it, I will have you fired."

"Oh, Erik," she murmured as he headed back to the strange home. "That poor girl. Whatever are you thinking?"

"I am thinking of her well-being. Now mind your own business, Madame." With a glare, he took Christine inside and placed her back on the sofa. Slowly, her blue eyes opened again.

She stared up at him, blinking once…twice. "It is not right," she murmured. "It is not right. It cannot be."

"Sh," he whispered. "I know, my dear. But it will be fine. You are simply ill."

"No, it is not right. Not right."

"Sh. It will be just fine."

He sighed, hoping that the older woman was not correct and that the girl was not succumbing to permanent madness. Then again, she had always been a little odd. Honestly, he did not really know why he had taken a fondness to her since that day Madame Giry had discovered her. Perhaps it was her voice. Yes, it had to be.

It was perfect. Unnatural and heavenly and absolutely perfect.

How strange—that such a voice should come from a girl with the most peculiar disfigurement that he had ever seen. Perhaps it was that unsightly protrusion in the center of her face, between her eyes and mouth. Perhaps it was some sort of magical instrument. He really should give it a name. Something starting with an "n" maybe. That felt right.

Christine continued to shake her head back and forth, muttering, "It is not right. This is not how it is supposed to be." He continued to murmur soothing words back to her.

With irritation, Erik knew that he needed to leave soon and attend to business above. Everyone would be asking who she was by now. He would have to lie and say he called the authorities to take her away. He would certainly not allow her to become an opera house spectacle.

But would she be well by down here herself? He would lock the doors so that she could not escape, but would he need to tie her down somehow so that she did not hurt herself? That was not an appealing thought.

"I need to go above for about an hour," he said. "Will you be fine here?"

She stared up at him blankly.

"Christine? Will you be fine? You will not harm yourself, right?"

She nodded. But then again said, "It is not right."

"I know, darling. I know. I will be back very soon. Stay here."

He made her as comfortable as he could, covering her in blankets and fixing her an herbal tea. Erik then retrieved Madame Giry to keep watch over her, not trusting anyone else. As quickly as possible so as to get back to her, Erik made his way to the surface. He brusquely headed toward his office to see if anyone was waiting for him, perhaps some nagging journalist asking questions. A masculine voice called to him from down the hall. "Monsieur!"

Cringing, he turned and frowned. It was the Comte Philippe de Chagny, a valuable patron of the opera house. They had rarely spoken as Erik preferred to avoid the irritating aristocrats whenever he could. He allowed his more gregarious business partner to deal with them and their ridiculous requests. They knew nothing of the arts.

"Yes?" he asked sharply.

"You are a manger, correct? I must speak with you!" he exclaimed. "Immediately!"

"Concerning what?"

"That poor girl. The girl with the-the face! The one who came on stage this evening!"

"What of her?" Erik asked, standing up straight. "Have you come to gawk? You will not get far."

"No. You misunderstand," he said with excitement. "My brother. My little brother!"

"I was not aware you had a brother. What of him?"

"He has the exact same disfigurement as her! It is uncanny! The exact same eyes and that-that lump in the middle of his face! We hide him away to keep others from tormenting him. You can only imagine what it is like! But he looks exactly like that girl!"

Erik froze. "You are not joking?" he weakly questioned.

"Not in the slightest." When Erik said nothing, the Comte continued. "They should really meet, you know? They will never find anyone like each other. Normally, I would not have a relative consorting with such a-a girl. But I fear my brother will end up alone with such a face. Perhaps this is a miracle."

Frozen, Erik turned around, running a hand through his sparse hair. His heart was pounding as he considered the implications. It could not be….

"Monsieur? Do you not agree? Where is she? I will take her into my protection as I do my little brother. I swear I will keep her safe. My sisters have very kind hearts and will take care of her as well."

Erik slowly turned around. Fingers curling, he said, "Keep him away from here."

"But—"

"The girl is gone. And she is not coming back. I suggest you forget her."

"Where is she?" the Comte desperately continued. "At a hospital? An asylum? A poorhouse? Where?"

"It is none of your concern."

"But—"

"She is gone." Erik quickly walked inside his office and closed the door. Leaning against it, he took a deep breath, palms flat against the wood as though to hold it shut. Damned Comte. No, he would not do it. He did not care if de Chagny's brother looked the same.

He could not explain it. But he would not hand her over. Not to anyone. She had become his strange little obsession-this poor, disfigured girl with the voice of an angel. No one else could have her.

He checked to make sure the Comte was gone before leaving. After finishing some business and assuring several people that the girl would not disrupt any more performances, Erik returned to the underground home. "How is she?" he asked. To his relief, Christine was still on the sofa. She was blankly staring up at the ceiling. She turned toward him.

"It is not right," Christine murmured. "Not right. It is not."

"She keeps saying the same thing over and over," Madame Giry replied with a frown. "Whatever does she mean by 'It is not right'?"

Erik shrugged. "Likely nothing. Likely a fever or something."

"Hm. I still say she should not be down here. It cannot be good for her."

"I did not ask your opinion, did I? Thank you for your help; you will be compensated for your extra time. You may take your leave."

Shaking her head, the older woman obeyed.

"It is not right," Christine whispered.

"I know, darling. I know. Sh." He sat beside her. "I built this home for you, you know? So you would be safe here, you see? No harm will ever come to you, my dear. Not with me."

He would have to make sure she stayed down here, or they would cart her off to an asylum. Erik shuddered as he thought of the horrors that might await her there.

No, he would keep her safe.

"It's not supposed to be this way," Christine whimpered, looking up at him with those strange blue eye. To his surprise, they nearly looked sane. Even if her words were clearly not. "It's not supposed to be like this, Erik. They are not supposed to look like that. No one is. They should all have noses. Except for you. Oh, Erik. I don't understand!"

His thin, grey lips formed into a smile. He continued to run his fingers through her strange yellow hair. "I know, darling," he murmured. "The world is an odd place, no? But you will be fine."

With a sigh and a hiccup of a sob, she closed her eyes. As Christine drifted off to sleep, a smile formed on her strange little face.

Perhaps she was dreaming of a better place.

Fin