She steps through the blackened hallways, over fallen timbers, and onto the ash-covered stage. Her lithe build alone keeps her from falling through the weak and rotted wood, her careful steps almost totally silent as she delicately crosses beneath the tattered remains of thick curtains.
She thinks that it is somber and macabre, like a graveyard where the golden memories of her childhood have been laid to rest. There is no light and laughter here any longer. There is only ruin and destruction, a pitted echo of her former home.
She should not be here. She should be sitting beside her mother near the hearth, dreaming of the new home she will soon have in Italy. There her mother will teach dancing again, and she will be a star, a prima ballerina, just as she has always wanted. It is a dream come true, a new chapter in her life.
But she cannot resist one final visit to the Opera House, the site of all her former dreams. It is somber and macabre, yes, but it is also strangely beautiful. This building, this former pinnacle of art and music, it is broken and alone now. And somehow, this makes the structure magical to her. It is a dark magic, but a potent magic nonetheless. Tonight, Meg Giry is determined to taste of its mysteries once more, to drink in its shadows one final time.
She does not know why she has been drawn to this wreck for so long. It has been a year since the Opera Populaire nearly burned to the ground, a year since Christine Daae ran away with her young lover, a year since the man known as the Phantom of the Opera disappeared forever.
Her life has gone on. Everyone's life has gone on. Yet here she stands, drawn in by some siren song she is powerless to fight.
Her quiet breaths sound obscenely loud in the indescribable silence all around her. She will stay but for a moment longer. Then, she decides firmly, she will leave, never to look back. It is how it should be. It is how it will be.
And then suddenly, like a quick burst of lightning, she knows she is no longer alone. It is instinct that tells her this, an indefinable sense of understanding that makes her blood run cold.
The same instinct tells her to run. Run fast and run hard, never look back, run run run.
But Meg knows that she cannot run, not yet. First she must carefully and delicately retrace her steps to the wings of the stage, off of the unstable timbers that form the once grand stage. She is as quick as she can be. Her dancer's body is graceful, even when consumed by fear. Soon she is again on more solid ground, and now she is ready to run, to escape from the terrible feeling of cold, unrelenting eyes focusing upon her.
Yes, she is quick; but he is quicker. The solid body that blocks her way moves faster than she can comprehend. Hands colder than ice and stronger than stone clasp around her small wrists. She screams in alarm, her cry echoing terribly.
There is no one to help her. She knows this, and she will not scream again, not if she can help it. Even with fear pulsating through her, she is determined to be strong and immovable, like her mother.
Her mother. God, why didn't she listen to her mother? Meg thinks of her mother and her effortless wisdom, her warm understanding. Do not be so quick to look for trouble, my love, she remembers her mother saying often. If you are always looking for it, soon it will be looking for you.
Now she struggles. She is small, but she is strong. Twisting and bucking wildly, she leads him on a stumbling chase as she tries desperately to move for the doorway she knows to be close by. His grip never loosens, and his strength easily eclipses hers. He manages to wind his arms around her, dragging her smaller body against his. She can feel the wiry strength of his body behind her as she struggles still. His arms tighten, forcing the breath out of her. Gasping for air, she admits defeat for the moment and ceases her fight.
"Why are you here?" rasps a voice in her ear. It is raw and unused, and oh, is it terrible. Hot breath pools beside the fragile skin on her neck, and she is wracked with a violent chill.
He is waiting for her answer. Meg swallows, forcing the fear out of her voice before answering. "I don't know," she tells him boldly, or as boldly as she is able.
"You don't know?" he asks, chuckling darkly against her hair. There is no humor in his laughter.
"No. I…" She cannot help the tremor that has crept unwanted back into her voice. "I came to see this place one last time. To say goodbye…"
Again, the humorless laughter. It is empty and lifeless, and she thinks that she can hear madness in it. "Are you sure, Little Meg? Are you sure you haven't come to look for me one…last…time?"
Through her growing terror, she has a fleeting thought. How does he know my name? she wonders to herself, then gasps aloud when he once again tightens his arms around her. They are moving now. He is dragging her back with him, approaching the very doorway she had fought so desperately to reach just moments before.
"You enter my ruined domain so frequently, you see, that I can't help but wonder why you really come," he continues, and now his voice is almost conversational. "You have never seen me, but I have always seen you. You have puzzled me with your youth and beauty, your insatiable curiosity. But then, you always were a curious little thing, weren't you?"
They pass through the doorway and into the dark hallway beyond. Meg finds herself suddenly unsure. His words disturb her, and his arms around her are relentless in their hold. But he is leading her back the way she came, and she dares to hope that he is leading her out of the Opera House, back to the safety of the world beyond where he, the Phantom of the Opera, the flesh and blood apparition that she, like everyone else, had thought dead, has no power.
"I'm sorry," she finds herself saying. She also finds that she means it. She is sorry for the life this man has been forced to live. She is sorry for the destruction the mob left behind that terrible night. And she is sorry for taking his mask and never returning it.
She is sorry to have trespassed on his solitude. She is sorry that she did not listen to her mother and stay far away from danger and all its forms.
"I will leave and never return," she vows. "My mother is waiting for me. You remember my mother, don't you? She helped you when you had no one else." Meg has heard the story in its entirety now. She knows that her mother showed pity on a small boy whose only fault was his deformed face, who knew of no kindness, no love and tenderness. She is nearly confident now that he is indeed leading her out of the building, for surely even he would never harm the daughter of a former trusted ally.
He stops abruptly, arms slackening about her. Hands upon her shoulders, he whirls her about to face him. She cannot see his face in the inky shadows that fill the hallway, but her memory reveals its features to her. His face is terror itself, and it should frighten her just to think of it.
"Why do you not scream?" He has waited several moments before speaking. He sounds puzzled, perplexed. "Scream," he urges. "Wail. Tell me I am hideous. Well? Go on, Mademoiselle. Don't be shy now. Scream. Scream."
But she cannot. Shaking her head quickly, she frowns into the darkness. "No," she tells him, staring up into his eyes, those smoldering coals that dimly glow in the darkness. She is transfixed by them, mesmerized by their onyx gleam. He will release her soon, she knows, and so she is compelled to tell him the truth. A man such as he deserves honesty in a world of liars and fools, she reasons with herself.
"I am not afraid of your…your face, not like the others. You did not hurt Christine, and you will not hurt me. I will not be afraid, and I will not scream."
Silence. He is watching her still, his hands like talons still wrapped around her shoulders. She can no longer meet his eyes. She is unnerved by his very presence, and despite her assurance given a moment ago, she finds that she is still a little afraid.
"No," he says quietly, his voice possessing a sort of tender quality that it did not have before. "No, you are right. I will not hurt you." And Meg's fear seems to bleed away as she is seized by equal parts compassion and relief. What a story she will have to tell, when she is ready to confide in her mother exactly where her curiosity led her this fine autumn day. She will tell it to her children some day as well, and her grandchildren, too. She will tell them so that they know the importance of kindness, such as the kindness the Phantom has shown her today.
He speaks again, and her blood turns to ice.
"I will not hurt you at all, Little Meg. Never will I hurt you. You are perfection itself, aren't you? Oh yes, I can see that. I have seen it for some time now." He speaks to her reverently, and her fear returns, more overwhelming than before.
"I must go," she tells him, trying to pull away. "My mother will be waiting for me."
"Go?" His smile can be felt in the darkness. "Well of course you aren't going, Little Meg."
"I am going," she insists, jerking away more violently when she finds he will not let her go. Ready to renew her struggle, she is caught totally unaware when he suddenly whirls her into the wall beside them. There is a terrible crack when her head strikes its hard surface.
"You don't know how it pains me to have to subdue you like this," she hears him say through the haze surrounding her. "I will never hurt you, Meg, but you must understand that I cannot allow you to leave. You have returned here quite willingly, you see. All is as it should be."
"No," she moans, fighting to see clearly. She cannot resist him when he lifts her body into his arms, and the darkness continues to spin around her.
"We will create a new life for ourselves, Little Meg. Beneath this ruin is a world you have never known, a world that I have created for you. Such wonders we will behold! I will sing and you will dance, and music will be our shared lifeblood."
"Please. Please, don't," she mumbles, nearly incoherently. But he does not hear her. And oh, God, she can feel that they are descending. He is carrying her Down Below.
"I thought my life was over when Christine left me. I thought I really was doomed to die alone." He is absolutely mad, and there is nothing she can do. "How could I have known that it was you all along? You shall be my queen, Little Meg. And you will never, never leave me."
As the pounding in her head increases and darkness begins to take hold, she knows without a shadow of a doubt that he means what he says.
She is his, and he is leading her to a life of imprisonment with a deformed madman.
She is his, and he is leading her to hell.
AN: For those who may be wondering, this story is completely unrelated to my current Phantom of the Opera WIP Return to Paris. I needed a little project to help me out of another round of writers block, and this the end result. It's definitely darker than what I usually prefer, so I would definitely love to hear your thoughts! Happy Halloween/Samhain!