Happy Cyber-Monday! My gift for you is clearly... a new story! (About time, right?)

This story is already complete, and for those who are... *coughs*likeme*coughs* , it is ready for purchase on Amazon by the same title—print or ebook, whichever you prefer. And if you're a part of Kindle Unlimited, it's even free! Doesn't get much better than that, right?

With that in mind, I wrote this story a bit differently. The chapters are long, and I don't... like reading long chapter online. There are exceptions to that, but there it is. So because of that, I've broken them up for the sake of posting. Some segments will be longer, others will be shorter, we'll have to see. (I'll be honest, this will likely read better in its full form, but I didn't want to leave you guys with nothing! I enjoy participating in the Phandom too much to leave it entirely in favour of full publishing).

But anyway, I hope you enjoy and whether or not you choose to purchase this or simply read it in installments, please review and above all, enjoy!

i

She had not meant to lose it.

The halls backstage were always rather forlorn after the hum and excitement of a performance. Some still milled about, muttering their discontent at being forced to work late in their respective fields, some rigging having come loose during the performance and a costume torn when the lead was a bit too vigorous in his movements.

Christine typically returned home fairly quickly, her agreement to join her fellow chorus members for a drink infrequent. For all her love of the stage, Christine held a private life. Her apartment was simple but well cared for; despite its rather shabby exterior. It was smaller than the one she had shared with her father—barely more than a single room without much space to differentiate any separate uses. But it was hers, and she appreciated the solitude after long days spent rehearsing at the opera house.

Years ago, she had indulged her father in his many fantasies that she would achieve greatness here. But now it was all she could do to continue in her singing even at this level. Her heart would ache with remembrance as she recalled her father's smiling face, his many encouragements as he winked at her from the pit below, his cherished violin still pressed against his throat as she searched out his approval.

But now he was gone, and she was alone, but for his wedding band that she kept safely upon her thumb during each performance.

Except, it had not been safe. Not when after the final curtain—when she had returned her costume to the racks and donned her street clothes once more—did she realize it was missing.

Christine cursed herself for such carelessness, anxiety pulling taut at her belly as she worried at her now bare thumb. She would not be so foolish in future. Once it was again in her possession, she would put it on a chain about her neck, where surely it would be secure and protected from her recklessness. Perhaps it was best for it to be tucked away in a drawer along with the rest of her cherished mementos of her family, but even such a consideration sent a pang of loss through her and she quickly dismissed it.

She would simply have to find it and use better precautions against its loss.

She scoured the stage, earning more than one disgruntled glance as the cleaners entered, readying to purge the platforms of the scuffs and marks well earned by the many dancing feet.

"Please, have you seen a ring around here?"

The man—Jack was it?—grunted, pulling his cart nearer, never fully tearing his eyes from his work. "Haven't seen one. Check lost and found, or maybe with the prop master. Coulda been picked up by accident."

Christine managed a mumbled, "Thank you," before she scurried off, her hope plummeting as she made her way to the front office. She tried not to think about how any number of people could have picked it up and pocketed it for themselves, either unknowing or uncaring that it meant something so important to another.

The ticket office was closed, and with it the lost and found box was locked away as well. And so with barely a hope left, Christine made her way down the many steps toward the prop department. It was always rather depressing down there—forgotten scenery lending an ominous feel coupled with the many layers of dust and cobwebs that clung to the lesser used articles.

Thankfully it was not necessary for her to go there often. The prop master was an old and rather unpleasant man that she thought best avoided whenever possible, his trips up to the stage during rehearsals a bit of a trial as he snapped and glared at any who came too close.

But for her papa's ring, she would face him with all the courage she could muster. And perhaps only the slightest bit of trembling if he was especially cross about her intrusion.

"Hello?" she called out nervously as she continued down toward the lower levels of the theatre. Great freight elevators would transport the larger pieces up to the stage for performances, but the stairs themselves were creaky and the stairwell dim, and Christine was fairly convinced that a great many safety codes would admonish the entire structure as she tripped yet again. Eventually the stairs evened and she crept along a passage that at least looked a bit more promising. Unlike its counterparts, it had a few lights on overhead, suggesting that there might be someone milling about as they organized the props for the next performance.

"I don't mean to interrupt," she tried again, this time a bit more forcefully. "I was just wondering if you'd found something of mine when the stage was being cleared."

A mild thump was the only reply followed by a muffled sort of groan, and though her heart sped at the unexpected response, she followed the sound regardless. While she was not particularly close with any of the staff here—not even her fellow chorus members, she would be glad of the company at the moment. The many shadows wrought too many tricks on her frayed nerves, and should her father's ring truly be lost, she would at least like to know that she had exhausted all potential spots it might have been stashed before going home.

She turned to the right, the light a bit dimmer but the sounds continuing, muffled yet insistent as she drew closer. Had the prop master injured himself? She hurried a bit at the possibility, fearing that one of the heavy sets had fallen on him and he was unable to call for help.

Christine did not expect to find not one figure, but two amongst the many props.

She did not expect to see a man struggling for breath as a rope was tightened about his neck, his fingers grasping and clutching as they fruitlessly tried to find purchase beneath the bite of the noose.

And she was not prepared to see a figure at the other end, holding the rope steady as he strung the man high amongst the scenery, a morbid display for the next person who walked past.

Except that person was her.

And she viewed it all with an unflinching numbness.

It could not possibly be real.

Could it?

Time held little meaning as she stared, her throat too tight to manage a scream or even a plea for the man's life above her, her eyes flicking to the dark figure below when his victim's struggles eased in what she assumed meant death.

Terror seized her. She tried to muffle the sob that threatened to overtake her as the magnitude of what she's witnessed settles over her, but still it escapes, the figure's gaze settling upon her.

He must have only been a man; even in her fear her mind could not fully accept her initial impression.

For as soon as he regarded her, she felt as if Death himself was so coolly staring at her.

She had seen a corpse before, having been escorted to the county morgue to identify her father when news of the mugging had reached her. He had not looked like himself, his once lively features too still, too cold and waxen as she managed only a disbelieving nod that it was indeed her papa who laid there.

But as her attention briefly strayed to the man still hanging so horribly above her, she knew that, while violent, her father's death had been far more peaceful than this had been. His face was red and swollen, as if all the capillaries had ruptured during his last few moments of life, lending a truly macabre scene to the beholder.

And suddenly his murderer was taking a measured step toward her.

And though she had not found her voice, she at least had found the ability to run.

Run she did.

Back through the towering backdrops and the dusty furniture, back up to the stage and people who could perhaps stay the man from committing the same atrocity against her.

The man with his terrible black mask and eyes that did not seem to be there at all except for the deep awareness that settled over her when he'd noted her for the first time.

She burst through the stairwell still running, fear making her breath come in anxious pants as she moved toward the more populated areas.

Only to run into a something tall and firm in her blind need to escape.

And this time a scream tore from her throat as she reeled backward, certain that at any moment she would feel the cut of the noose about her neck. She shut her eyes tightly so she would not have to see—so that perhaps he could not see her if she could just stop screaming…

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

Her eyes flew open at the familiar voice, and she swallowed down another shriek as she recognized the man before her, her cheeks flushing crimson as she realized her error.

And the more consuming desire to fling herself into his arms.

But no matter what her secret desires might have been, that was not her relationship with Raoul de Chagny.

They had been friends once, back when they were younger and brought to the theatre during rehearsals—his elder brother tending to business as one of the primary financial backers to the opera, and she during the summers when school was out and with it her supervision.

They would roam the many seats, testing where they liked best, arguing their cases admirably and finally agreeing that the private boxes on the upper levels were the most exciting. He had even dared her to enter the Ghost's box, promising her a very large bit of candy if she could last five minutes inside without incurring his wrath, but she had adamantly refused, even if he did call her chicken after. If she angered the Ghost, he might make her one as well, and that would leave her papa all alone now that her mama was dead.

And she wouldn't be the cause of that for anything in the world.

Though she did refuse to speak to him for a week after his frequent teasing began to hurt her feelings.

But then he'd grown older, and playing with his young friend was less appealing, and though she still harbored sweet fondness for her childhood playmate, there was little recognition on his part now even as they passed one another in the halls.

Except there was no mistaking that she held his attention now. "Are you all right?" he asked, his hands held upward in a placating manner. "Did something happen?"

Christine choked out an incredulous laugh that was more sob than anything. "A man is dead, I don't know who."

Raoul's eyes widened in surprise, his gaze shifting the way she'd come as if to ascertain the truth of her statement through sight alone. "Are you hurt?" His tone was mild and compassionate, and as her arms came about herself—the closest thing to a hug she was to receive, she was sure of it—she did not know how to answer.

"Can we go back to the stage? I... he might find us here."

And hurt not only her, but Raoul as well. She swallowed thickly at the thought.

Raoul nodded and gestured for her to follow him, the hallways growing more familiar as they neared the auditorium. The cleaning crew was still hard at work, and Christine was glad of their presence. The more people, the less likely it would be that a killer would attempt to harm them all.

"Better?"

Christine nodded.

Raoul sighed and brushed a hand through his hair, eying her speculatively. "A man's dead you say? Where?"

Christine cleared her throat in an effort to make her voice work properly. "In the prop room. I... I walked in and... and a man was... was..." Her voice failed her as she remembered the horrors she had seen, and Raoul looked at her with sympathy before producing a trim black phone from his pocket.

"Okay. I'm going to call the police and they can at least send someone to check it out. Why don't you sit down? You look about ready to faint."

Christine relented and sank onto one of the plush theatre seats, a feeling of detachment settling over her as she watched Raoul place his call, explaining the need for a an officer to come and investigate. What if there was nothing there? She was certain that what she'd witnessed had been no figment of her imagination, but if the murderer suddenly hid the body—if even now he was removing all evidence of his existence, then no one would believe her...

Would she get in trouble if the police came and there was no longer a body?

She tucked her legs up and curled in on herself, her chin resting on her knees as she stared blankly down at the floor—a forgotten program looking back at her.

"They'll be here in a few minutes. They... they ask that you not go anywhere until then."

Christine nodded, and she startled when suddenly a hand was on her shoulder, Raoul coming to sit in the seat beside her. "Do you want me to stay with you? I will, you know, if you're scared."

Christine wanted to scoff at that. Of course she was scared. She'd seen a man murdered and his killer was likely even now waiting to corner her so she could be next. But it was difficult to look at Raoul—with his compassionate eyes so empty of recognition. Many times she considered reminding him of who she was. Of who she had been. But a very great part of her wanted him to know of her of his own cognizance, without any prodding on her part.

To know that she meant as much to him as he once had to her.

She felt the tears begin to prickle once more and she shook her head. "You don't have to. You've already done enough." Her voice sounded strained and hoarse and she winced, thinking of what a terrible addition she would be next rehearsal.

Tea with honey. That was what she needed. But instead she now had to stay until some officers came, only to then probably be arrested for making a false report once the murderer cleared the scene.

She shivered and Raoul frowned, leaning back into his seat and withdrawing his hand from her. "I think I'll stay, at least until they arrive. You're clearly not all right."

And even despite her slight resentment, she was grateful for the company. Even as a great part of her still feared that a masked figure would appear before them with his terrible noose, ready to extinguish both their lives as easily as he had that other man's.

Sooo... there we have it! (And since I give this assurance in all my stories, do not worry. Raoul is not going to be a big part of this story.) So who's ready for more?

Along that vein, I have a question for all of you. Would you prefer set posting dates, or if I set a review goal and when it's hit, you promptly receive a new chapter? Which would you prefer?

Cast your vote, share you thoughts, I love to hear from you!