Hello! Welcome to my first Fan Fic story! I have been a fan of Phantom of the Opera for about 25 years, but it is only recently that I was bitten with the writing bug to try to write my own story. I hope you enjoy!

I would like to give a major shout out to my wonderful Beta Reader FantomPhan33. She has helped me so much with this story, and without her friendly encouragement, I probably would have given it up long ago. So thanks FP33, and anyone who reads and likes this story should hurry and put her on their favorite/follow list! Her stories are amazing!

Now here you go: Chapter 1

1. A Deal With Death

1896

Erik took another agonizing breath. He didn't want to. The pain in his chest was excruciating, the fire in his lungs all consuming. Nearly all the bones in his body were broken-his chest, a bloody pulp. To any poor soul forced to look upon his face, it would be difficult to tell which side had marked him as the "Devil's Child," his left side now bloody and equally misshapen by the mob's beatings, as his right side had been by the design of God.

He wanted to die. It was all that was left for him.

Christine had gone.

He had loved her. With all of his being. He had wrapped her tenderly, in his velvety, dark music of the night. But she had gone. And now it was over. She had made his song take flight, but she had also allowed it to plummet to the depths and shatter on the ground. She had chosen to abandon him, her angel, for that insipid, but beautiful, fool Raoul.

And why? What was the reason for her rejection-for her turning her back on the one who had once molded her voice into perfection? Of course, it was his face. He might be the greatest genius to ever live-architect of great buildings, healer of terrible maladies, composer of magnificent music-and still, to Christine, as to all, he was defined by his face. That wicked countenance which stole from him every happiness-deprived him from ever experiencing a mother's affection or a lover's caress; his face, which poisoned his soul, twisting his heart until it too reflected his grotesque visage.

When the mobs had come, he had not fought. Oh, the great Phantom of the Opera could have saved himself. There'd been countless ways for him to disappear into the darkness. And, of course, he'd held the Punjab Lasso. But to what end? His dream was over-his music gone. He had no soul. The mob's cruelty would be his release, and he would finally ache no more.

But still he breathed.

'Oh why, Death, have you not come for me?' he wondered in his torment.

As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard a chilly voice say "I have come."

Erik struggled to open his swollen eyes. Before him stood a tall, imposing figure enveloped in a long black robe, the hood entirely concealing any face it might possess. An unearthly glow emanated from that hood, and one skeletal hand gripped a large scythe.

"I am ready," Erik gurgled, bracing himself for the fires which would surely now consume him-fires that could never sear as painfully as Christine's icy betrayal.

The presence laughed, and the sound was cold as the grave. "I have not come to take you, 'Angel,'" he whispered, mockingly. "I have come to inform you that, even in Hell, you are not wanted." The laugh was louder now, and filled with all the scorn and derision Erik had suffered his entire life.

"I don't understand," he coughed, blood bubbling at the surface of his lips.

"Oh come now, you must know that Heaven has barred its gates against your crimes. It is no place for an 'Angel' such as yourself-the self appointed 'Angel of Death.'" There was that mocking laugh again. "And as for the Devil," the voice darkened as the glowing hood turned to focus directly on Erik, "He has no use for one more son." The words were biting, cold, as the hood receded to reveal a face. Erik recognized the dark countenance in front of him. It was a perfectly symmetrical reflection of the face that had been his own foul torment, except with glowing red orbs peering out from behind the spectral eye sockets. Even in death there appeared to be symmetry. "Especially not a son who might discover Hell's own secret passages, and be the first to escape from its eternal confinement." The figure replaced the hood around its own head. "Besides," it continued, "The inferno would practically be a mercy compared to this chilling crypt you have created for yourself."

The apparition turned to go, but Erik protested, "Please. . ." he reached out feebly with a shattered hand, "I am soulless . . . broken. I cannot continue to live."

The figure looked toward him once more, and the glow from his robe grew somewhat more intense. "And yet. . .'Angel'. . .'Death's Own Snare'," there was ridicule again in the ghostly voice, "Unless you can find a way to snare death for yourself, you will not die." This last proclamation boomed loud in his lair, making the very stone vibrate with its power.

"When?" Erik begged, weakly, the voice which had once soared into the heavens, now cracked and dry "When will this torment end?"

Death looked at him, as if considering. "When you have a life to lose, I shall come and relieve you of it. Perhaps," the specter once again laughed with derision, "When love has found you. . ." The unearthly laughter grew and boomed as Death exited the Phantom's Lair and left Erik alone once more in his agony.

Thanks for reading! I would love to hear what you think! Please review!