Greetings, Internet users! This is my first shot at a fan fic in a really long time and it's pretty much just me geeking out and then vomiting words, but I love it. If I get even one review for this, I will probably cry sweet tears of Motivation and then update within thirty seconds.
It's kind of a short first chapter, but bear with me. If you have any suggestions for this story, let me know! I own nothing.
Chapter One: A New Problem
Erik was miserable. Thoroughly miserable. Profoundly miserable. Yes, that was it. He was profoundly miserable, he decided, and anybody who thought his sorrow warranted a less poetic description deserved to rot at the bottom of the lake with Erik's lasso around their neck and the word 'Dunce' written on their forehead.
Not that Erik felt at all up to strangling someone. Ever since Christine had left, he had been too sad to do anything but lie in his coffin amidst piles of dirty tea cups and second-rate romance novels. He was so upset, in fact, that when he finally died and everything around him faded into shimmering blackness, all he could bring himself to do was give a little huff and cross his arms. Death was rather boring when you had spent your entire life mimicking it, and he was just debating the idea of striking up a conversation with the twinkles of light floating abstractly around him, when he heard a voice from behind him.
"Erik, old chap! Good to see you!"
He turned with a swirl of his cape to see three elderly men floating toward him on a green cloud that smelled like apple pie. The face of the man on the far left was obscured by a squadron of dark curls and a pillowy beard. After a moment of squinting past the man's round spectacles, Erik recognized him as an older incarnation of a troublesome young reporter who had taken to poking around the opera house after the chandelier incident. This was the man who had called out to Erik a few moments before. The man in the middle was not familiar. His kind face was blanketed by laugh lines and his hair was thin and gray, but at least kept in order. The man on the far right sported a sparkling purple party dress, half-moon spectacles, and a beard so long that it trailed over the side of their cloud and into the distance until it disappeared from view.
The dark haired man beamed and spoke again. "I'm so glad we found you. I'm Gaston Leroux, a writer for the Epoque. To my right are J.R.R. Tolkien—a fine and esteemed writer himself—and Albus Dumbledore, who makes an obligatory appearance in all mystical excerpts in which a character makes an important discovery while dead."
Erik's confusion must have shown through his mask because Tolkien declared, "Allow me to explain: we are all dead."
"Deceased," Leroux agreed.
"Living corpses, you might say!" Dumbledore piped up.
Erik wasn't sure if Dumbledore was making fun of Erik's past, but didn't really care to clarify. He yanked the Punjab lasso from his sleeve and threw it a Dumbledore who happily shouted, "Protego!" and waved a long stick of wood, causing the rope to dissolve into a swarm of butterflies.
"I had hoped that once I was truly dead, I might have some peace and quiet," the Phantom grumbled.
"Yes, well I'm afraid there has been a bit of a problem," said Leroux, "after that whole letting-Christine-and-Raoul-go-and-making-your-peace-with-Gd episode, nobody can tell if you're a good guy or a bad guy."
Erik did not know what this meant, but he was not about to say so in front of what might have been the only three people crazier than he was. He offered the trio a long and painful death by suffocation in his torture chamber and they burst into a chorus of laughter.
"With that sense of humor you'll have no trouble at all proving yourself as a good guy!" Tolkien exclaimed delightedly.
Leroux nodded, brushing a tear from his eye. "All you have to do to determine it is choose either the good side or the bad side and help them win," he added, "I highly recommend the good side. They usually stand a better chance of winning, and their fangirls are infinitely less frightening. Good Mr. Tolkien has offered to let you be an OC among his charming creations."
"Oh and here, you speak Westron now," said Tolkien. He grasped a twinkle floating near his shoulder and forced it into Erik's forehead. He then gave Erik a pat on the head, which made the Opera Ghost feel both touched and annoyed.
"Have fun!" Dumbledore sang, waving his magic stick again and before Erik had time to wonder if he had finally lost it or what the hell an OC was, he was falling through the darkness, hoping his next destination would make more sense.