A/N: This is my first Phantom story and is set several years before the 'incident' with Christine Daaé and the Phantom of the Opera (Erik). The story is based around the relationship that builds up between the unfortunate Opera Ghost and a little girl who manages to find herself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I am a thirteen-year-old girl with an eager interest of the mystery of the Phantom of the Opera. This story is largely book-based (the Leroux original) but accessible to those who've never read it as well, hopefully. Please read and review!

Disclaimer: I own nothing at all. Apart from Ellisa, the plot, and various other characters I have created for this story.

Prologue

Deep in the bowels of the Paris Opera House, the Opera Populaire, there existed a shade, a ghost, a phantom that those among the cast of the opera spoke of, in hushed whispers and broken sentences. The girls in the ballet giggled as they heard of his absurd feats of magic – how he managed to be everywhere, and nowhere, all at the same time. The adults, meanwhile, were torn between concern for either their own wellbeing or that of their children's, or open scepticism.

And yet, despite these rumours, and despite the solid belief that it was little more than fairytale created my minds too inebriated by liqueur to either see or think straight, this phantom did exist, yet he was neither ghost nor shade, but a man, flesh and blood like the best or worst of us. And he was a human being with passions, emotions, tears to cry and smiles to smile like all of us, yet no one saw his cry, or smile, heard him sing, or watched him coax gently from the ivory keys of a piano the true beauty of music. He was a man, condemned not for any choice or action he had ever made, but for the cruelties of Fate, a thing far beyond even his control.

And so he basked in the shadows, flitted through darkness and glorified himself in the only way he knew how – by immersing himself in music, beautiful and glorious. And as he sang, and played, the tears ran, trailing a face hidden from the world and the darkness by a mask, a vanity surely unneeded in such a dark, dismal place as his terrible playground was.

But then, something happened which brought, for a time, light into his dark world. Light, in the form of a child's innocence…

Chapter One

Paris Opera House, 1873

The little girl – little older than five years – danced and sang as though concentrating just as hard as any of the girls in the ballet class, yet, in truth, she was not. Her eyes were fixed upon the piano, played by old Mme Enies, the ballet teacher. The girl was fascinated by the way the piano, old and tarnished though it was, managed to sing so beautifully, and be manipulated so expertly by the woman's wizened fingers.

The girl's name was Ellisa, and she had been sent to live – and perform – in the Paris Opera House by her parents who were too poor to care for her yet too proud to send her to a workhouse for food and money. And so, these contradictory pair, these respectable paupers, sent her into the care of their old friend, the prim but kindly conductor at the Opera Populaire. He, in his turn, handed young Ellisa into Mme Enies' expert tutelage and care, though he still kept a weather eye out for the child, who, even at five years old, was proving to be somewhat precocious.

Ellisa was small for her age, though still tubby with the puppy fat that makes so many babes so adorable. She had bright blue eyes that sparkled with childlike curiosity and delight, and with a mop of dark, almost red, curls atop he merry little face.

She was, she knew in that simple, honest way that children have, not made to be a dancer. She studied diligently, and probably worked harder than most of the girls in the dormitories. It was because of this hard work, and her sweet nature, that she had been noticed by the dear old Comte de Gricia, who was now working towards becoming her sponsor. The little girl knew she should be grateful – overjoyed, even, for few girls were noticed by so respectable a gentleman, so early on – but all she could feel was sadness. Sadness, because she knew, deep in her heart, the longer she remained a ballerina, the harder it would be for her to follow her true – and only – love.

Music. Well, you might say, she was surrounded by music every moment of her waking day, but what she wanted – truly wanted – was to play music, to learn how to coax from an instrument - sublime and temperamental - the sweet singing of angels. She knew it was possible, for she had heard if with her own ears. She had watched, unbeknownst to him, her friend the conductor as he whiled away his spare time with his violin or his piano. She had also heard the way the flautist's note flew high above the rest when playing in harmony with other instruments, and how the oboe played so pure a note that the whole orchestra tuned itself against it.

And so, while the little girl danced the day away, she dreamed of the evening, when she crept quietly down into the orchestra pit, and would look up at the conductor and place a finger to her lips. He would smile and nod indulgently, before motioning secretively, playfully, to the stool before the grand piano. Ellise's face would then light up, and she would climb up so that she was sitting on the stool, her chubby little legs swinging with delight. It was simply in fun, the conductor thought. Harmless, really…

And yet he would watch her, wondering, listening as she banged away in ecstasy on the keys, knowing that, one day, her dreams would be crushed. For the orchestra was no place for a girl – especially not one like her. Young women, the conductor thought, in his old-fashioned, elderly way, belonged in ballet – not in music school.

But little did he realise that, soon, the girl would have more than one incentive for following music… little realising that her curious nature would put her in more danger, and show her more delights, than anyone could ever have dreamt.

Later that night, after her daily 'lesson' with the conductor, Ellisa was wandering, as she was wont to do, among the towering sets and backdrops stored in the cellars of the Opera. To an adult, these scene-pieces were huge, but to a child, little more than a toddler, they were towering, dark, exciting things that fascinated her almost as much as the creation music did.

One thing that little Ellisa loved to do, as she pranced about in her pink ballerina's clothing, was to explore every rivet, every block of the place. She had determined, in her childish scrawl in her diary, a gift from the Comte de Gricia, that by the time she had turned seven, she would 'no al abowt the opra' she could discover – and alone, she could do it – nay, she would do it.

And so, that night, it was hardly a surprise for her to come across, at last, something of interest. She had been leaning against the wall – built with big stones almost the size of her – when suddenly one of the stones disappeared from behind her. Letting out a brief, high-pitched shout of alarm, she fell back, hitting her head hard as she did so. When she had finished sobbing and drying away her tears of pain and annoyance, she found that she was in a huge, dark room, and the only light was coming from the hole she had managed to make in the wall.

The stone that had fallen out behind her was nowhere in sight, and then, just as she was about to clamber back out of the hole, as far away from that cold darkness as possible, the hole began, mysteriously and impossibly, to seal itself… and then, with a resounding clank, the chamber she had found herself in was thrown into darkness, pure and terrifying.

Slowly, the little girl began to cry.

A/N: Please review - tell me what you think. Erik will appear – quite literally – in the next chapter. I was at first apprehensive about writing this story, for I believe that the Phantom did exist, but anyway, tell me whether you liked it or not!