It was early October when Manager Garmin finally sent me a letter, which served as my official passport to the Palais Garnier, the most famous opera house in Paris. I packed quickly, putting my research notebooks carefully in my suitcase, selected my most sensible dresses, hired a carriage to take me to the Opera House, and said goodbye to my servants.

The last belonging I considered packing was my letter from Christine Daae. In it she simply stated that there had been a Phantom, that she believed him to still be alive; and in her conclusion, she asked that I contact her no further, nor send a letter in reply. I opened the creamy parchment, perused it again, and left it on my desk. There was no reason to bring it with me. I knew what it said.

I planned to stay at the Opera for only a few months. I had already interviewed the people that worked there during the so-called "reign of the Phantom". Most of those that had survived the fire did not return to the Opera, and so I had tracked them down with help from the Manager, Luke Garmin, who was very helpful in supplying me with a ledger of old employees. The first interview I had conducted had been with Madame Giry, the original ballet instructor.

"Madame Giry," I had asked, "do you recall any strange events during your stay at the Opera? Anything… unusual?"

"No," she replied. Her quick, bird-like eyes found mine; they were piercing. "And I doubt anyone else that worked there will either. The 'Phantom' is a figment of the ballet girls' imagination. They made the story up and spread it around, and everyone went along with it because it was amusing. Like all fashions, the story of the Phantom has died out too. I have no idea why you want to go digging around in old fairy tales."

"But you must admit that the Opera fire was strange," I pressed.

"The chandelier fell, Mademoiselle. The curtains caught fire from the candles on stage, and the chandelier rope was just above the curtains, and so the rope burned through and the chandelier fell. Any other questions?"

"But what about the murdered stagehand? The strange noises? The people that saw a masked man?"

"The stagehand died of a heart attack; he always had a weak heart. The strange noises and 'masked man' were all from imagination, Mademoiselle. That is all the 'Phantom' was, and ever will be. This book you're writing won't be very factual, if you insist on believing everything you hear."

I took my leave after a few more pointed comments from her, and I almost discarded the whole project on my way home; my thoughts were so negative. What if she was correct? She was quite intelligent, very astute. She had worked at the Opera House for years.

But then I remembered something she had said in the middle of our interview. She had said, "Of course he wasn't real!"

He, I thought. He. She had only said "he" once throughout her whole interview. Maybe she knew more than she was saying. Or maybe, said my sensible half, maybe she just said he. It's a very normal word.

But I didn't give up. I went on to interview two stagehands, three ballet girls, and one of the original managers, Gilles Andre.

He spoke softly; he had suffered a stroke soon after his retirement from the Opera, just after the fire. I had to strain to hear him, but what he said was startling.

"These letters," I had asked. "What was the seal on them?"

"A red skull," he murmured, closing his eyes briefly. "I remember that quite clearly. And they were all the same: demanding more important roles for Christine, and payment for his services. Apparently he thought that he deserved some sort of recompense for his time."

"And by what name did he sign them?"

"O.G. 'Opera Ghost'. And the letters – sometimes I found them on my desk; Firmin once found his on center stage; other times Madame Giry brought them to us. They were addressed in an old-fashioned calligraphy, with black ink. We never figured out exactly where they came from."

"And what can you tell me about the fire?" I asked, jotting down some notes.

"It was evening, the first production of Dinorah. Christine Daae was in the lead role. She had just finished her first scene – a soliloquy. She spoke her last lines, but the curtain didn't fall like it was supposed to. I was surprised; it was time for the next scene. Christine was just standing there looking up into the rafters above the stage. Her face was white. I remember clearly that she was shaking her head. She said, 'No.', just like that, and then she turned and ran offstage. I got to my feet; of course; my star was fleeing the stage! And the curtain fell, and the stage boy who was supposed to move the candles never did. The curtains caught on fire, the chandelier came down. That night we were ruined. I left a few days later."

"Did you ever get the chance to talk to Christine?"

"No, no, she left even before I did. With the Viscount. I have her address, though. I'll write it down for you." He looked up when he had finished, handing me the bit of paper. "I have no doubt, Mademoiselle, that the Phantom was more than a story. Someone wrote those letters, someone sealed those papers, and someone was talking to Christine during Dinorah. I suppose I'll never know. That is, unless you finish your research." He laughed a wheezy laugh, and rose slowly to shake my hand.

"Goodbye, Monsieur," I said. "If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to write me. Here's my address."

The ballet girls and stage hands had been no help whatsoever; they only spoke of the Phantom as a terrifying monster that lurked in the shadows and preyed on the innocent. They also mentioned that he had a mask, and this was the only information that was common to each of their stories. A half-mask, they said, to hide his face. He doesn't have a nose, only a hole, and his eyes are yellow.

If you see his face, you're never seen again.

I disregarded much of their fanciful tales, only taking what I thought might be useful: the mask. It would be plausible to wear a mask if one wanted to keep his anonymity. The part that struck me as strange was that the mask was only half of one. Why would you wear half a mask to conceal your identity? A full one would work much better. And Andre had mentioned Madame Giry. Despite my sudden confidence that she knew much more than she was saying, I did not go back to visit her. I knew she would say nothing.

It was early afternoon when I reached the Opera House. I took one last look down the street, watching the peddlers shout and point at their wares. Then I went inside, and the heavy double doors shut behind me with a dull click. I was here.

It was then that everything began…