[Writer's Note: Old readers, welcome back! New readers, welcome! Welp, I've fallen through with it after all! I'll be re-writing the story that's been sneaking around the back of my mind for the past 5 years! After that long, it ought to be good, right? Well...let's find out! Not to start out as a nag, but reviews always encourage me, so please leave a little somethin', somethin', yes? :]

PREFACE

Merciless beams of light smothered and exposed the young soprano on stage, sending a trickle of sweat down her brow. Her body shook, almost as if the stage lights radiated waves of arctic, contradicting temperatures. Fear-induced nerves threatened to revive her breakfast, so she closed her eyes and clutched her clammy palms around the threads of her costume. Frantic fingers created therapeutic patterns in the elegant garment in attempt to relax before the music starts. For ten years, this stage was the only thing Christine Daaé could ever call home since her father took his place amongst Heaven's angels. It was one of few things that brought her comfort, excitement. But not like this. Not center stage. Not alone, vulnerable, and most importantly, not singing…

Her father had promised her he would send her an Angel of Music when became a Heaven Child and, to Christine's belief, his promise upheld. The mysterious voice came soon after arriving to her present day home, the Palais Garnier, those many years ago. Her Angel of Music, whose supernatural voice both uplifted her and haunted her, relaxed her and alerted her. She immediately became obsessed. Through the Angel, she sang like she had never sung before...through the Angel, she, too, sounded angelic and ominously out of this world. Nothing made her feel as wholesome, as beautiful, as worthy as she did when she sang for her Angel of Music. She knew the only way to ever please him would be to sing for Paris that night; solo, as announced.

Christine hadn't realized she'd been watching the maestro's wooden baton rhythmically sway up and down at the pit, until soft notes of the orchestra began to flood her inattentive ears. Heart racing, she tried to clear her mind and remember the lyrics. It was no use. The music was playing too rapidly, and her brain was muddled from her nerves, concentrating too hard on how horrible she was feeling. Her first note was approaching quickly, but which note? What word? She didn't know anymore. The formidable feelings of shame and disappointment washed over her. She knew she had failed before she could begin.

"You were made for this. To sing and be heard."

The Angel of Music spoke softly in her mind, knowing, always and all knowing. The words wound around her like a warm blanket, massaging away her panic. The spirit alone gave her enough courage to open her mouth…but nothing emerged.

"Face your fears, Christine, always. And remember…breathe!"

Her name echoed; each repeat softer and sweeter than the one before it. In all the majestic years of the Angel's magnanimous teachings, never had it spoken her Christian name. And suddenly she sang. She sang with confidence and talent that surprised even herself, granting the song more justice than it was worthy of. She sang for and from her Angel, whose voice coated her own in a unison duet.

It seemed as if the song would never end, and she hoped it wouldn't. The crowd no longer mattered, only her Angel. All pervious fears vanished. The spirit was right—this is what she was meant to do.

All too soon her moment was over. The awesome, ear piercing sound of applause invaded her ears, replacing the last of the radiating music she had just made. She'd been told nothing compared to the sound of thousands of satisfied hands clapping together, knowing you're the one they're cheering for—and that proved true. It was a powerful roar that brought pride and inspiration, thrill and fulfillment.

She bowed in appreciation, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. As she rose, her arms raised toward the orchestra, respectfully sharing her victory with her talented accompaniment. It was then that she fully took in the maestro's appearance. The baton that had had her hypnotized, whilst fear held her in its grip, was clutched by thin, parchment-white fingers—what she had first assumed were white gloves. Christine's eyes moved quickly up towards his face. Immediately, she fell hard from her high.

His face was a shade reserved only for the dead, and patterns of the deepest depths of black spotted his features and limbs. His eyes were glassy and yellow, staring too far off to possibly view the living world. She looked to the nearest musicians and her stomach churned. The pit was lined with victims of the Black Death; members scattered over their instruments, music stands holding up some of the deceased, wrapped in requiem sheet music. Few appeared to be just barely living as they grasped their bows and horns in their hands—clearly having been the only source of music she'd heard. Come to think of it, she wondered if she had heard any actual music at all. She had been so absorbed by her fear, and her music and her Angel, she didn't notice the notes playing out of tune, nor the lack of melody. In fact, she noticed nothing of her audience, but she would soon see nothing else.

The lights began to rise, but she didn't need to see them. She heard them. Reality set in and her fantasy unclouded as the applause morphed into screams. Tears washed over her face before she knew they were even brewing in her eyes. The Opera Populaire was in utter chaos. Masochistically, her eyes scanned the crowd. They were dead; all of them. All their eyes adverted towards her as if her music had been the cause of death. The same deadly ebony rings plastered the crowd in a disturbing trend. Stiff bodies filled every seat, deeming the Populaire a full house—or in this case, tomb. Their mouths were stretched unnaturally wide as the sound of death screeched silently from every pair of lifeless lips. Soon a breathless aching in her lungs told her she was the source of screaming. She grasped for a breath, but no air returned to quench the thirst of her desperate, dried out lungs. Her stomach convulsed with settling suffocation, and her hands reached to her throat. As death stalked her, she became aware of her own body resembling the audience's chalky flesh and contrasting black rings. Before her fluttering heart could skip another beat, her knees gave out. Body bent low, and with one last glance towards the quiet audience, she took her inevitable last bow. Before she became another number on the Bubonic Plague's death toll, Christine's eyes widened in a permanent stare, gaping at what would be the last thing she'd ever see…

There, laughing inside box five, was the Red Death—bright and hungry amongst the victims of the Black Death.

Christine surged awake, completely drenched in sweat from her strangely vivid nightmare. Ever since the first sightings of the plague, horror stories spread through the cast and crew even faster than the gossip mill. It had only been a month and a half since Europe's rapid spreading, fatal outburst, and a mere day ago France witnessed its first poisonous taste.

Stories produced with various versions that the managers and leading roles would never come back from their celebratory holiday. A holiday the rising star was invited to, though it pained her not to attend—despite the silly rumor filled tragedies. Some claim that they never made it to the de Chagny estate, due to their late arrival returning home. Even worse, they fear that they'll bring the disease back with them. These stories still worried her, of course, for Raoul was amongst them. But, like the plague itself, its stories were impossible to escape. These were the living nightmares of the Black Death.

This story will be based off of Edgar Allen Poe's magnificent short story, "The Masque of the Red Death".

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