Author's Note: This is a retelling of the story of Erik's life, based on
the ALW version of Phantom. It begins with a Prologue set in 1881, written
from Christine's point of view, and then goes back to the time of Erik's
birth in 1847. I began to write this story before I read Susan Kay, and I
have tried to keep it as different from Kay as possible. This is the first
story I have posted on Fanfiction.net so please read and review. Any
comments or criticisms would be very welcome. Thank you and I hope you
enjoy this story.
Disclaimer: I do not own Erik, Christine, Raoul or MME. Giry. However, Marie (not Susan Kay's character), Philippe (not Gaston Leroux's character of the same name), Cecile and any other characters you haven't come across before belong to me.
Phantom Child
Prologue. Christine, 1881.
I gazed at the mirror in trance-like wonder. Gradually, as the voice reached a crescendo, a dark shape became visible through the glass, becoming more and more discernible as the light brightened. Then I jumped back in shock as I beheld my Angel of Music.
He was tall, very tall, taller than Raoul and much taller than me. He was imposing, but his height didn't intimidate me. His body was thin, and wrapped in a black silk cape that shimmered in the light of the lantern that he held in his hand. On his head he wore a black fedora hat which was tilted at a rather rakish angle. He stood straight, very straight, with one big white hand tucked into the folds of his beautiful cloak. But it was the sight of his face that made me jump back in shock.
A ghostly white mask, made from porcelain, concealed one side of his face, matching the contours of the other side perfectly. He cocked his head on one side, as if wondering how to react to my apparent shock, and the mask reflected the light, becoming yellow, then pink, then blue, as expressive as a real human face.
The uncovered side of his face was very pale, but handsome in an unconventional sort of way. He had a sleek black eyebrow that was pointed sharply at the end, but the contours of his face were soft and gentle. He had a dimple on his cheek, and the mask gave the impression that he had a large, Roman nose. His mouth was soft and delicately formed, rather pretty, and showed no signs of hostility. Overall, he had a quite soft, gentle countenance. But those eyes.
His eyes were large and unbelievably expressive. They were deep set, which gave the impression that they were dark, but as I leant forward I realised that they were not brown but gold, a deep, rich, incandescent gold. His eyes met mine and I felt a thrill of fear, along with a sensation that I could not comprehend. For a moment he simply stared at me with his piercing, golden gaze, but then a shadow passed over his beautiful eyes and they suddenly showed me an acute sadness, along with a flicker of fear and apprehension.
I stared at him expectantly, although in truth I had no idea what to expect. I saw his expression change to one of determination, as though he had shaken off the last of his doubts. Then he unfurled himself elegantly, revealing a beautiful evening suit, and stretched one of his large pale hands towards me. The look in his eyes became almost conspiratorial, and the corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. Come with me. You know you want to.
I was hypnotised, entranced. Then I heard the commotion at the door of my dressing room; someone was furiously working the handle. I could not remember locking the door. "Christine?" The voice was desperate, pleading, but I paid it no heed. My Angel gazed at me, his eyes burning into mine. "Christine!" Come with me, follow me.Trust me. "Christine!!!" Then I heard myself speak, very, very quietly: "Go away, Raoul."
My Angel, my beautiful, glorious Angel gave a smile of satisfaction. I watched in amazement as the mirror began to slide away. I stepped forward and put out my hand, and my Angel took it.I shivered. God, his hands were as cold as ice! Slightly bony around the knuckles, but otherwise smooth.I looked up at him, met his eyes, and stepped into the unknown.
I gasped with shock. I had expected light, celestial light and warmth.but instead I found myself surrounded by total darkness. A cold draft struck me in the face. My Angel had let go of my hand and I felt around for him desperately. Surely my Angel had not brought me into this dreary abyss and abandoned me! Suddenly, I heard a grinding noise. The mirror was closing. I dived towards where I remembered it to be, but it was too late. I hit the rectangle of light as it closed with a thud, and stood there, gazing through the glass into my dressing room, in which the oil lamp still glowed on the table. In the same second, the door of my room suddenly flew open, and Raoul dived across the room, landing several feet away from the mirror. I watched him get to his feet, dazed and confused. He looked around the room, found nothing, and then turned his attention to the mirror. He raised his hands, ran them over the glass. I stood frozen with shock in the darkness beyond the huge mirror. Mirror.my Angel had appeared to me by way of a two-way mirror. Surely angels did not go in for such trickery! Angels didn't need to. Angels appeared to you in a blaze of light, and took you into yet more light.not darkness, surely! Alarm bells began to ring in my mind. Whoever he was, he was certainly no angel! How could I have been so stupid? I cried out "Raoul!" but he didn't seem to hear me. I reached out in order to beat my hands against the glass, but two hands took mine and restrained me. The hands, although gentle, were strong, and I knew that I would not be able to break free. I turned and beheld the apparition that stood behind me. He held up his lantern, and the glow illuminated his masked face, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. I looked at him imploringly, and then I remembered that the Angel of Music was not the only supernatural being associated with the Opera House.
My God.
The Phantom of the Opera!
I must have mouthed the words, because the apparition smiled strangely. He gently released one of my hands but held on tightly to the other in a way that indicated he was not going to let go. Then he began to lead me through the darkness.
My mind was racing. The Phantom of the Opera! The Phantom had spirited me away and no one knew where I was! What did the Phantom want with me? I thought back to the tales we had told with such relish in the Corps de Ballet. Very dark and Gothic tales; Meg was especially good at those. Maybe the Phantom wanted to kill me, or keep me prisoner forever. I struggled violently.
"Let me go!"
I dug my fingernails into his hand and tore at his cloak. I heard the Phantom wince and he turned to look at me in.hurt bewilderment? Then he sighed, tightened his grip despite the pain, and continued walking. I walked behind him, my fingernails still embedded in his palm.
The Phantom of the Opera!
As I followed him down into the Abyss, I was aware of vague shapes all around me. The glow from the Phantom's lantern danced over old discarded props and set pieces; an Egyptian mummy, a castle, the façade of a country house. We continued to walk through the darkness, and I noticed that I was being led down a spiral stairway. After a while I noticed that we were no longer passing any set pieces. The lantern simply revealed dripping walls at either side: a tunnel. Cobwebs. The floor was flat and moist. I wondered how long we had been walking, it seemed like hours. We must have been miles under Paris!
Suddenly, another blast of cold air struck me in the face, and the tunnel opened out onto a narrow stone jetty. A strange blue mist swirled around us, but the most wondrous thing was stretched out before us. I gasped. The underground lake!
I had heard about the artificial lake from several of the ballet girls, who were forever daring each other to go down into the basements and find it, but had never plucked up the courage. I looked out across the black, inky water, which stretched as far as I could see into the darkness. The Phantom glanced at me, and smiled proudly.
I wanted to strike him.
Without a word, he helped me into a little boat, a gondola, which was tied to a post on the shore. I had no choice but to sit down on the cushions within. The Phantom jumped in behind me, took a long pole, and began to steer the vessel through the dark waters.
I studied him as we continued our mysterious journey. He was very attractive, so elegant and tall and sleek, his clothing so fine, the cloak so romantic. He was a magnificent figure, strangely beautiful in the darkness, which increased the aura of mystery and power that surrounded him. I smiled in spite of myself. So this was the ugly Phantom of the Opera who had a death's head and ate rats in the cellars! I felt almost smug. No matter what the ballet girls said, they had obviously never seen him! Suddenly I realised that he was studying me from behind the mask, and his fantastic eyes once again burnt into mine. I shuddered, and averted my gaze.
The lake was becoming increasingly lighter as we moved along. This was mainly due to the huge candelabras that lined the edges, jutting out of the water.black, intricately carved, and Gothic. I could make out the detail of the brickwork here; the walls were still wet and dripping.
The Phantom steered the boat along a narrow avenue of water, and then stopped. We appeared to have reached a dead end. However, he suddenly leaned forward, did something with the bricks, and a doorway simply swung open in the wall. I was momentarily blinded by light. The Phantom leapt out of the boat, took my hand, and helped me through the opening. I had no choice but to follow him.
I did not notice any of the details of the room that night. I remember the soft glow of candlelight and the exotic scent of incense mixed with the smell of gentleman's cologne. The atmosphere was one of pure seduction, warm and soothing. The Phantom tore off his cloak, swirled it, and laid it down. He then approached me with elegant, delicate little steps. I suddenly found that I could not take my eyes from him. I watched, hypnotised, as he approached me. Surely he had cast some sort of spell over me, the Curse of the Phantom, perhaps! Then he opened his mouth, and then he sang.
His voice! It was even more beautiful than I remembered it to be. Maybe he really was the Angel of Music. My Angel of Music. Oh, I don't know what he sang. He seemed to sing for hours. Operatic arias, many of which he had taught to me, folk songs, and strange, outlandish songs that I had never heard before.
Throughout these strange events I was in a trance. Maybe we both were. I remember him walking, almost dancing around the room, such was his grace. I remember him bending at the knees, running his hands down his legs, stretching himself against the portcullis as if he were some sort of erotic statue in a garden. And still he sang. After a while I got used to the coldness of his touch and allowed him to hold me as he sang, my body pressed lightly against his, my head on his shoulder, his face buried in my hair. I felt his hand creep around me.I thought he was going to rest it on my breast, but instead it came to rest, very lightly, on my collar bone. Dimly, I was aware that my hand had moved to his face and was caressing his mask, and I felt his heartbeat accelerate. I had no desire to remove it, not at that point. I just wanted to touch it, to run my hand over the smooth porcelain. And I found myself wondering why he wore it. He was the most attractive man I had ever seen. Surely his face must be even more beautiful than the rest of him! Yet maybe he thought I was not ready to see such beauty yet. Maybe he considered me, a mere mortal, unworthy of witnessing the extreme beauty of the Angel of Music, or the Phantom of the Opera, or whoever he was. At that point, I was still undecided about which he was. I am still not completely sure. Maybe he was both, in a way.
Dimly I was aware of him smiling as I stroked his mask. There was no malice in the smile, just pure pleasure. I looked up and saw that his beautiful eyes were warm and soft and peaceful, and he closed them sleepily. I felt his chest expand beneath his shirt and he uttered a sigh of contentment.
He was timid, I knew that from the start. He held me gently, scarcely even touching me, merely caressing the air in front of me. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself leading him, much like he had led me, to a sort of divan in the centre of the room, piled with beautiful Asian cushions. I fell onto it with a laugh, my long brown hair falling over my face.
The Phantom looked worried, as though he feared that he had gone too far. I was having none of that. I grabbed him by the satin lapels of his dress coat and tried to pull him towards me. He struggled violently. I raised my hands and stroked his chest, and he froze at my touch. My hands continued on their journey downwards, towards his abdomen, and he was unable to repress a shudder of delight, his eyes glowing with heat. My hands were on the buttons of his shirt when the trance suddenly broke and I realised what I had been about to do. I immediately sprang up from the divan in fright, shocked by my shameless emotions and actions. What had got into me? I had been about to.
The Phantom was now back in control. He took my hand, and I offered no resistance. Slowly, almost fearfully, he led me towards a huge shape covered with a dust cloth. He pulled it away with a great sweep of his arms, and I gazed at the object before me. It was a mirror. A shattered mirror. And behind it.an exact replica of me.in a wedding dress.
I looked at the Phantom in confusion. He no longer sang. Instead he was kneeling before me, his hands clasped together as though he was begging for something. His eyes met mine, sad, pleading and desperate.
Marry me.
I fainted away.
1. Bag of Bones Antoinette Giry. 1847.
The peculiar bag of bones lay on the dirty sheets. It did not cry; it was far too weak for that. It just lay there silently. I walked over to the tiny creature and picked it up. Carefully, with a trembling hand, I tore the cruel bandages away from the tiny face.
It was pale and a greyish colour. This creature was half-dead. I reached out nervously to touch it and its tiny body didn't even react to my cold touch. Maybe I was too late. Maybe it had gone.
"Please don't die on me."
I picked it up in my arms and nursed it, where it lay totally unaware of the ruined condition of its face and head. I heard a little gasp escape from its swollen lips and I turned it upside down, shaking it gently and rubbing its back. It still did not cry, but a tiny hand closed around my finger as if to reassure me that it was still alive.
"Hello, little fellow. Are you going to open your eyes now?" I tried to sound cheerful, but tears were beginning to flow down my cheeks as I looked sadly down at the bundle in my arms.
"Antoinette, where is it?" came a shout from the room opposite. "The child. Let me see it." She hadn't yet got over the shock. I could tell by her trembling voice.
"It's here."
"Bring it to me."
I put the tiny creature in her arms where it gazed innocently up at her.
"What is it?"
"It's a little boy, my dear."
"No.I mean WHAT is it?"
"It's a monstrosity, that's what it is," said the doctor, entering. " I am sorry, Madame, it's just one of those things."
"What should I do about it?"
"You could give him to me. I'd find a way to dispose of him for you."
"Dis.dispose of him?"
"Put him out of his misery. Whatever you like to call it. It's for the best. He's probably in pain, and he'll have a hard and miserable life."
"How will you do it? Will he suffer at all?"
"Not at all. Just a little prick, that's all he'll feel. Then it'll all be over."
"Drown him," said the housekeeper, "Or burn him. A more suitable fate for a monster!"
"Couldn't we just.you know.let him die naturally?"
"No. It'll be kinder this way."
The doctor was already wetting a spot on the child's arm and preparing his needle. Everyone fell silent, waiting. The needle touched the surface of the skin, and.
"NO!!!" I shouted, making a dive for the needle and knocking it out of the doctor's hand.
"Antoinette! What is the meaning of this?"
"It.it's wrong!" I gasped, "It's murder! Look at him! He wonders why you're crying, and why you won't hug him!"
Indeed, the look on the little creature's face was almost one of bewilderment.
"Well, I'm not caring for it!"
"But look at him! I know that he wants you to love him!"
"Oh, Antoinette! Don't be so silly! It's only a baby! How do you know?"
I clenched my fists. "I just know!" " Well, it's not his choice, is it?" She replied, angrily. "Cecile! Give him to the maid!"
The little maid hovered by the bedroom door, looking absolutely terrified as the housekeeper placed the child in her trembling arms.
"Please Madame. I'm frightened of it, and I've never looked after a baby before, Madame."
"Would you prefer to send in your resignation instead?"
The girl fled the room in tears.
I saw nothing of the child for two days, at the end of which I resolved to go and look for him. I finally found him lying in a box by the maid's bed in the servant's quarters, covered by a filthy sheet and, to my great anger, with a handkerchief over his face, enough to suffocate him. I tore it away as the maid entered.
"What is the meaning of this?" I asked, glaring at her. She looked ashamed, and gazed down at the thin creature in the cardboard box.
"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," she said, " I'm scared of it. I don't know how to look after it, Mademoiselle." I looked at her. She was no more than a child herself, a girl of fifteen.
"Very well, I forgive you. Just give him to me."
"Thank you, Mademoiselle."
I took the child downstairs and showed him to his angry mother.
"It isn't supposed to be down here!"
"I found him in a box upstairs," I said, "We need someone to take care of him." I hung my head, shyly. "Can I take care of him, Marie?"
"You! Why would you want to take care of a baby? You're a ballerina at the Opera House, aren't you? Just think of all those rehearsals! You haven't the time."
"Please! I would take good care of him!"
"No. I want him to be raised apart from this family completely. He must never be permitted to come down here or play with the girls. He's an orphan. I've just decided. He's an orphan whose mother died giving birth to him. We took him in. He should count his blessings. That's what I want you to tell him, when he's old enough to ask. He doesn't have a home or a family, and he has to sleep in the attic, where orphans belong! Understand?"
"Marie! Why are you doing this? Why are you being so cruel?"
"It's not a question of cruelty, my dear Antoinette. I have my position in society to consider."
Chapter 2. Music
My family had lived for many years in the large country house just outside of Rouen. Our family had consisted of me, my sister Marie, who I have already mentioned, and our father and mother. My parents had sent us both to a large boarding school for the performing arts. I had shown promise as a dancer from an early age, and Marie, with her beautiful soprano voice, had soon decided that she wanted to become a singer or actress. My parents had spoiled Marie terribly. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes, and I always considered her to be far more attractive than me.
My father had been a very great master mason, who owned his own construction company. This had proved to be so successful that my family had managed to purchase and maintain the huge house and live quite comfortably in rich surroundings.
It was on one sunny afternoon when Marie and I happened to visit one of my father's construction sites when she met her husband Philippe. He was a young apprentice working under my father who, he said, showed great promise. He was tall, dark and handsome and Marie, who always went for the most good - looking of young men, fell in love with him.
By the time my parents had died, Marie and Philippe had married and had their first daughter, Celine. They inherited the huge country house and my father's business, and I stayed on, making frequent trips to Paris to dance at the opera house. Sometimes Philippe and Marie also went on business trips to Paris, and they would come to the Opera to watch me perform.
Two more children soon followed, both daughters, Michelle and Louise. All three children were very beautiful, and their parents spoiled them as my father had spoiled Marie. However, Philippe and Marie remained desperate for a son, and the result of their next attempt to have a child was the young man who I have already mentioned and about whom more will follow.
Marie's apparent fear and loathing of her fourth child upset me to say the least. I also wanted a family of my own, and I was deeply hurt when Marie showed her distaste at me taking care of her now unwanted son. She appeared to think that she could treat him how she wanted, and lock the infant away while she bestowed her favour on her three beautiful daughters.
I knew that it wasn't right from the beginning.
Marie decided to place the new born in the care of her housekeeper Cecile, a hard- hearted and stern woman who had neither the time nor the patience to care for a child, never mind a congenitally deformed one.
As soon as Marie gave the housekeeper her orders, she turned her nose up at him and declared that she didn't know how, but Marie threatened her with dismissal, so she had no choice but to do as she said.
From then on the tiny child slept in a cradle in a dirty old cupboard beneath the attic staircase. The housekeeper would never play or talk to him, and during his first months on Earth the poor little thing didn't even receive any kind words or compassion.
I watched him grow from a safe distance. He became extremely comical in appearance, with his little stick body and large, gentle hands, which seemed to be everywhere. His face, although deformed, always appeared kind and gentle despite the difficult situations he often found himself in. With his curious, dragging step he blundered around the house's upper storeys with bright, interested eyes.
He was soon too big for the cupboard, and was moved into the servant's quarters in the attic, a sad, dull room which was cold even in the hottest summer months. Still the little boy, believing he had nothing better to look forward to, welcomed the wardrobe and the battered old chest of drawers, the worn carpet, and the little window without glass which he would often gaze out of and see other little children playing below. He tried to get accustomed to the hard bed and he remained in that room, doing what he could to entertain himself, and every now and then he would stop, stare into space, and wonder what it was all about.
He was three when I heard the music start. I was peacefully reading a book late one evening in my room when a strange, beautiful sound began to issue through the ceiling. It sounded like a violin. The tone was perfect and the sound rich and deeply moving. It seemed to be playing an old folk song, very touching and sad, but delightful to listen to all the same. For a few moments I simply laid there, with my eyes closed, allowing this strange, eerie music to wash over me.And then my eyes opened wide with shock at the realisation that no one in my family had played the violin for years. I sprang up and made for the door of my room, but then froze. The violin had not ceased.but someone had begun to sing.
The voice was one of the sweetest and most angelic I had ever heard, and it only took me a second to realise that it was not the classical soprano voice that Marie possessed. No, this voice was a bell-like treble, beautiful, delicate, harmonious.but obviously untrained. However, this only served to add to the beauty of the voice. It had not been moulded or twisted by modern training. Instead, it remained pure and natural, musical beauty in its sweetest and most divine form. It also occurred to me that the voice did not know the words of the song. Instead, it followed the melody perfectly with smooth, soothing sounds. It intoxicated me.
I suddenly felt a desperate need to discover the source of this extraordinary music. Slowly, I opened the door of my room and walked down the hallway. I followed the voice, as though hypnotised, up the attic staircase and along a narrow passageway. The music seemed to be coming from behind the door of the attic bedroom. Surely it couldn't be.
Slowly, being careful not to startle the creature, the musician, whom I knew occupied this room, I pushed the door open. I immediately caught sight of the small boy sitting on a stool. He had his back to me, and he appeared to be playing the violin. I crept closer.I could scarcely believe the sight which had met my eyes.a tiny, three year old child, wearing an old grey suit, playing the violin as if it were a cello, and..singing. My God.the music.the music.it seemed to come from the depths of the soul. He was so young, so delicate, and yet he was producing sounds the like of which I had never heard in my lifetime. I felt myself being irresistibly drawn towards the sound of the voice and the violin.and I began walking slowly across the room.I wanted to stand beside this mysterious virtuoso.I wanted to become lost in his music, put on my ballet shoes, and dance as though I was on the stage of the Paris Opera House. The music.
A floorboard creaked under foot, and the spell was instantly broken. The child spun around and looked up at me, his eyes wide. Then he dropped the violin with fright and fled into the storeroom beyond.
"Wait!" I cried, but he was gone.
I returned to my room feeling greatly surprised and puzzled by what I had heard. Who had taught him how to play that violin? I knew that Cecile wasn't in the least bit musical, and she always avoided spending time with him unless she really had to. He must have taught himself.And as for that voice.
I decided not to tell anyone about my strange discovery. I thought it might have been a one off, a fluke, but deep down inside I knew it couldn't be. Sure enough, it happened again, and again, usually late at night or in the early hours of the morning. It was stunning music, rather eerie in its heavenly beauty. I kept telling myself that I must inform Marie of her son's talent, and then realised that she probably wouldn't care. In any case, I suppose I was being a bit greedy. I wanted this strange child prodigy to make music for me and me alone. I'm still not sure why.
Author's Note: Please review! I will update my story soon.
Disclaimer: I do not own Erik, Christine, Raoul or MME. Giry. However, Marie (not Susan Kay's character), Philippe (not Gaston Leroux's character of the same name), Cecile and any other characters you haven't come across before belong to me.
Phantom Child
Prologue. Christine, 1881.
I gazed at the mirror in trance-like wonder. Gradually, as the voice reached a crescendo, a dark shape became visible through the glass, becoming more and more discernible as the light brightened. Then I jumped back in shock as I beheld my Angel of Music.
He was tall, very tall, taller than Raoul and much taller than me. He was imposing, but his height didn't intimidate me. His body was thin, and wrapped in a black silk cape that shimmered in the light of the lantern that he held in his hand. On his head he wore a black fedora hat which was tilted at a rather rakish angle. He stood straight, very straight, with one big white hand tucked into the folds of his beautiful cloak. But it was the sight of his face that made me jump back in shock.
A ghostly white mask, made from porcelain, concealed one side of his face, matching the contours of the other side perfectly. He cocked his head on one side, as if wondering how to react to my apparent shock, and the mask reflected the light, becoming yellow, then pink, then blue, as expressive as a real human face.
The uncovered side of his face was very pale, but handsome in an unconventional sort of way. He had a sleek black eyebrow that was pointed sharply at the end, but the contours of his face were soft and gentle. He had a dimple on his cheek, and the mask gave the impression that he had a large, Roman nose. His mouth was soft and delicately formed, rather pretty, and showed no signs of hostility. Overall, he had a quite soft, gentle countenance. But those eyes.
His eyes were large and unbelievably expressive. They were deep set, which gave the impression that they were dark, but as I leant forward I realised that they were not brown but gold, a deep, rich, incandescent gold. His eyes met mine and I felt a thrill of fear, along with a sensation that I could not comprehend. For a moment he simply stared at me with his piercing, golden gaze, but then a shadow passed over his beautiful eyes and they suddenly showed me an acute sadness, along with a flicker of fear and apprehension.
I stared at him expectantly, although in truth I had no idea what to expect. I saw his expression change to one of determination, as though he had shaken off the last of his doubts. Then he unfurled himself elegantly, revealing a beautiful evening suit, and stretched one of his large pale hands towards me. The look in his eyes became almost conspiratorial, and the corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. Come with me. You know you want to.
I was hypnotised, entranced. Then I heard the commotion at the door of my dressing room; someone was furiously working the handle. I could not remember locking the door. "Christine?" The voice was desperate, pleading, but I paid it no heed. My Angel gazed at me, his eyes burning into mine. "Christine!" Come with me, follow me.Trust me. "Christine!!!" Then I heard myself speak, very, very quietly: "Go away, Raoul."
My Angel, my beautiful, glorious Angel gave a smile of satisfaction. I watched in amazement as the mirror began to slide away. I stepped forward and put out my hand, and my Angel took it.I shivered. God, his hands were as cold as ice! Slightly bony around the knuckles, but otherwise smooth.I looked up at him, met his eyes, and stepped into the unknown.
I gasped with shock. I had expected light, celestial light and warmth.but instead I found myself surrounded by total darkness. A cold draft struck me in the face. My Angel had let go of my hand and I felt around for him desperately. Surely my Angel had not brought me into this dreary abyss and abandoned me! Suddenly, I heard a grinding noise. The mirror was closing. I dived towards where I remembered it to be, but it was too late. I hit the rectangle of light as it closed with a thud, and stood there, gazing through the glass into my dressing room, in which the oil lamp still glowed on the table. In the same second, the door of my room suddenly flew open, and Raoul dived across the room, landing several feet away from the mirror. I watched him get to his feet, dazed and confused. He looked around the room, found nothing, and then turned his attention to the mirror. He raised his hands, ran them over the glass. I stood frozen with shock in the darkness beyond the huge mirror. Mirror.my Angel had appeared to me by way of a two-way mirror. Surely angels did not go in for such trickery! Angels didn't need to. Angels appeared to you in a blaze of light, and took you into yet more light.not darkness, surely! Alarm bells began to ring in my mind. Whoever he was, he was certainly no angel! How could I have been so stupid? I cried out "Raoul!" but he didn't seem to hear me. I reached out in order to beat my hands against the glass, but two hands took mine and restrained me. The hands, although gentle, were strong, and I knew that I would not be able to break free. I turned and beheld the apparition that stood behind me. He held up his lantern, and the glow illuminated his masked face, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. I looked at him imploringly, and then I remembered that the Angel of Music was not the only supernatural being associated with the Opera House.
My God.
The Phantom of the Opera!
I must have mouthed the words, because the apparition smiled strangely. He gently released one of my hands but held on tightly to the other in a way that indicated he was not going to let go. Then he began to lead me through the darkness.
My mind was racing. The Phantom of the Opera! The Phantom had spirited me away and no one knew where I was! What did the Phantom want with me? I thought back to the tales we had told with such relish in the Corps de Ballet. Very dark and Gothic tales; Meg was especially good at those. Maybe the Phantom wanted to kill me, or keep me prisoner forever. I struggled violently.
"Let me go!"
I dug my fingernails into his hand and tore at his cloak. I heard the Phantom wince and he turned to look at me in.hurt bewilderment? Then he sighed, tightened his grip despite the pain, and continued walking. I walked behind him, my fingernails still embedded in his palm.
The Phantom of the Opera!
As I followed him down into the Abyss, I was aware of vague shapes all around me. The glow from the Phantom's lantern danced over old discarded props and set pieces; an Egyptian mummy, a castle, the façade of a country house. We continued to walk through the darkness, and I noticed that I was being led down a spiral stairway. After a while I noticed that we were no longer passing any set pieces. The lantern simply revealed dripping walls at either side: a tunnel. Cobwebs. The floor was flat and moist. I wondered how long we had been walking, it seemed like hours. We must have been miles under Paris!
Suddenly, another blast of cold air struck me in the face, and the tunnel opened out onto a narrow stone jetty. A strange blue mist swirled around us, but the most wondrous thing was stretched out before us. I gasped. The underground lake!
I had heard about the artificial lake from several of the ballet girls, who were forever daring each other to go down into the basements and find it, but had never plucked up the courage. I looked out across the black, inky water, which stretched as far as I could see into the darkness. The Phantom glanced at me, and smiled proudly.
I wanted to strike him.
Without a word, he helped me into a little boat, a gondola, which was tied to a post on the shore. I had no choice but to sit down on the cushions within. The Phantom jumped in behind me, took a long pole, and began to steer the vessel through the dark waters.
I studied him as we continued our mysterious journey. He was very attractive, so elegant and tall and sleek, his clothing so fine, the cloak so romantic. He was a magnificent figure, strangely beautiful in the darkness, which increased the aura of mystery and power that surrounded him. I smiled in spite of myself. So this was the ugly Phantom of the Opera who had a death's head and ate rats in the cellars! I felt almost smug. No matter what the ballet girls said, they had obviously never seen him! Suddenly I realised that he was studying me from behind the mask, and his fantastic eyes once again burnt into mine. I shuddered, and averted my gaze.
The lake was becoming increasingly lighter as we moved along. This was mainly due to the huge candelabras that lined the edges, jutting out of the water.black, intricately carved, and Gothic. I could make out the detail of the brickwork here; the walls were still wet and dripping.
The Phantom steered the boat along a narrow avenue of water, and then stopped. We appeared to have reached a dead end. However, he suddenly leaned forward, did something with the bricks, and a doorway simply swung open in the wall. I was momentarily blinded by light. The Phantom leapt out of the boat, took my hand, and helped me through the opening. I had no choice but to follow him.
I did not notice any of the details of the room that night. I remember the soft glow of candlelight and the exotic scent of incense mixed with the smell of gentleman's cologne. The atmosphere was one of pure seduction, warm and soothing. The Phantom tore off his cloak, swirled it, and laid it down. He then approached me with elegant, delicate little steps. I suddenly found that I could not take my eyes from him. I watched, hypnotised, as he approached me. Surely he had cast some sort of spell over me, the Curse of the Phantom, perhaps! Then he opened his mouth, and then he sang.
His voice! It was even more beautiful than I remembered it to be. Maybe he really was the Angel of Music. My Angel of Music. Oh, I don't know what he sang. He seemed to sing for hours. Operatic arias, many of which he had taught to me, folk songs, and strange, outlandish songs that I had never heard before.
Throughout these strange events I was in a trance. Maybe we both were. I remember him walking, almost dancing around the room, such was his grace. I remember him bending at the knees, running his hands down his legs, stretching himself against the portcullis as if he were some sort of erotic statue in a garden. And still he sang. After a while I got used to the coldness of his touch and allowed him to hold me as he sang, my body pressed lightly against his, my head on his shoulder, his face buried in my hair. I felt his hand creep around me.I thought he was going to rest it on my breast, but instead it came to rest, very lightly, on my collar bone. Dimly, I was aware that my hand had moved to his face and was caressing his mask, and I felt his heartbeat accelerate. I had no desire to remove it, not at that point. I just wanted to touch it, to run my hand over the smooth porcelain. And I found myself wondering why he wore it. He was the most attractive man I had ever seen. Surely his face must be even more beautiful than the rest of him! Yet maybe he thought I was not ready to see such beauty yet. Maybe he considered me, a mere mortal, unworthy of witnessing the extreme beauty of the Angel of Music, or the Phantom of the Opera, or whoever he was. At that point, I was still undecided about which he was. I am still not completely sure. Maybe he was both, in a way.
Dimly I was aware of him smiling as I stroked his mask. There was no malice in the smile, just pure pleasure. I looked up and saw that his beautiful eyes were warm and soft and peaceful, and he closed them sleepily. I felt his chest expand beneath his shirt and he uttered a sigh of contentment.
He was timid, I knew that from the start. He held me gently, scarcely even touching me, merely caressing the air in front of me. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself leading him, much like he had led me, to a sort of divan in the centre of the room, piled with beautiful Asian cushions. I fell onto it with a laugh, my long brown hair falling over my face.
The Phantom looked worried, as though he feared that he had gone too far. I was having none of that. I grabbed him by the satin lapels of his dress coat and tried to pull him towards me. He struggled violently. I raised my hands and stroked his chest, and he froze at my touch. My hands continued on their journey downwards, towards his abdomen, and he was unable to repress a shudder of delight, his eyes glowing with heat. My hands were on the buttons of his shirt when the trance suddenly broke and I realised what I had been about to do. I immediately sprang up from the divan in fright, shocked by my shameless emotions and actions. What had got into me? I had been about to.
The Phantom was now back in control. He took my hand, and I offered no resistance. Slowly, almost fearfully, he led me towards a huge shape covered with a dust cloth. He pulled it away with a great sweep of his arms, and I gazed at the object before me. It was a mirror. A shattered mirror. And behind it.an exact replica of me.in a wedding dress.
I looked at the Phantom in confusion. He no longer sang. Instead he was kneeling before me, his hands clasped together as though he was begging for something. His eyes met mine, sad, pleading and desperate.
Marry me.
I fainted away.
1. Bag of Bones Antoinette Giry. 1847.
The peculiar bag of bones lay on the dirty sheets. It did not cry; it was far too weak for that. It just lay there silently. I walked over to the tiny creature and picked it up. Carefully, with a trembling hand, I tore the cruel bandages away from the tiny face.
It was pale and a greyish colour. This creature was half-dead. I reached out nervously to touch it and its tiny body didn't even react to my cold touch. Maybe I was too late. Maybe it had gone.
"Please don't die on me."
I picked it up in my arms and nursed it, where it lay totally unaware of the ruined condition of its face and head. I heard a little gasp escape from its swollen lips and I turned it upside down, shaking it gently and rubbing its back. It still did not cry, but a tiny hand closed around my finger as if to reassure me that it was still alive.
"Hello, little fellow. Are you going to open your eyes now?" I tried to sound cheerful, but tears were beginning to flow down my cheeks as I looked sadly down at the bundle in my arms.
"Antoinette, where is it?" came a shout from the room opposite. "The child. Let me see it." She hadn't yet got over the shock. I could tell by her trembling voice.
"It's here."
"Bring it to me."
I put the tiny creature in her arms where it gazed innocently up at her.
"What is it?"
"It's a little boy, my dear."
"No.I mean WHAT is it?"
"It's a monstrosity, that's what it is," said the doctor, entering. " I am sorry, Madame, it's just one of those things."
"What should I do about it?"
"You could give him to me. I'd find a way to dispose of him for you."
"Dis.dispose of him?"
"Put him out of his misery. Whatever you like to call it. It's for the best. He's probably in pain, and he'll have a hard and miserable life."
"How will you do it? Will he suffer at all?"
"Not at all. Just a little prick, that's all he'll feel. Then it'll all be over."
"Drown him," said the housekeeper, "Or burn him. A more suitable fate for a monster!"
"Couldn't we just.you know.let him die naturally?"
"No. It'll be kinder this way."
The doctor was already wetting a spot on the child's arm and preparing his needle. Everyone fell silent, waiting. The needle touched the surface of the skin, and.
"NO!!!" I shouted, making a dive for the needle and knocking it out of the doctor's hand.
"Antoinette! What is the meaning of this?"
"It.it's wrong!" I gasped, "It's murder! Look at him! He wonders why you're crying, and why you won't hug him!"
Indeed, the look on the little creature's face was almost one of bewilderment.
"Well, I'm not caring for it!"
"But look at him! I know that he wants you to love him!"
"Oh, Antoinette! Don't be so silly! It's only a baby! How do you know?"
I clenched my fists. "I just know!" " Well, it's not his choice, is it?" She replied, angrily. "Cecile! Give him to the maid!"
The little maid hovered by the bedroom door, looking absolutely terrified as the housekeeper placed the child in her trembling arms.
"Please Madame. I'm frightened of it, and I've never looked after a baby before, Madame."
"Would you prefer to send in your resignation instead?"
The girl fled the room in tears.
I saw nothing of the child for two days, at the end of which I resolved to go and look for him. I finally found him lying in a box by the maid's bed in the servant's quarters, covered by a filthy sheet and, to my great anger, with a handkerchief over his face, enough to suffocate him. I tore it away as the maid entered.
"What is the meaning of this?" I asked, glaring at her. She looked ashamed, and gazed down at the thin creature in the cardboard box.
"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," she said, " I'm scared of it. I don't know how to look after it, Mademoiselle." I looked at her. She was no more than a child herself, a girl of fifteen.
"Very well, I forgive you. Just give him to me."
"Thank you, Mademoiselle."
I took the child downstairs and showed him to his angry mother.
"It isn't supposed to be down here!"
"I found him in a box upstairs," I said, "We need someone to take care of him." I hung my head, shyly. "Can I take care of him, Marie?"
"You! Why would you want to take care of a baby? You're a ballerina at the Opera House, aren't you? Just think of all those rehearsals! You haven't the time."
"Please! I would take good care of him!"
"No. I want him to be raised apart from this family completely. He must never be permitted to come down here or play with the girls. He's an orphan. I've just decided. He's an orphan whose mother died giving birth to him. We took him in. He should count his blessings. That's what I want you to tell him, when he's old enough to ask. He doesn't have a home or a family, and he has to sleep in the attic, where orphans belong! Understand?"
"Marie! Why are you doing this? Why are you being so cruel?"
"It's not a question of cruelty, my dear Antoinette. I have my position in society to consider."
Chapter 2. Music
My family had lived for many years in the large country house just outside of Rouen. Our family had consisted of me, my sister Marie, who I have already mentioned, and our father and mother. My parents had sent us both to a large boarding school for the performing arts. I had shown promise as a dancer from an early age, and Marie, with her beautiful soprano voice, had soon decided that she wanted to become a singer or actress. My parents had spoiled Marie terribly. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes, and I always considered her to be far more attractive than me.
My father had been a very great master mason, who owned his own construction company. This had proved to be so successful that my family had managed to purchase and maintain the huge house and live quite comfortably in rich surroundings.
It was on one sunny afternoon when Marie and I happened to visit one of my father's construction sites when she met her husband Philippe. He was a young apprentice working under my father who, he said, showed great promise. He was tall, dark and handsome and Marie, who always went for the most good - looking of young men, fell in love with him.
By the time my parents had died, Marie and Philippe had married and had their first daughter, Celine. They inherited the huge country house and my father's business, and I stayed on, making frequent trips to Paris to dance at the opera house. Sometimes Philippe and Marie also went on business trips to Paris, and they would come to the Opera to watch me perform.
Two more children soon followed, both daughters, Michelle and Louise. All three children were very beautiful, and their parents spoiled them as my father had spoiled Marie. However, Philippe and Marie remained desperate for a son, and the result of their next attempt to have a child was the young man who I have already mentioned and about whom more will follow.
Marie's apparent fear and loathing of her fourth child upset me to say the least. I also wanted a family of my own, and I was deeply hurt when Marie showed her distaste at me taking care of her now unwanted son. She appeared to think that she could treat him how she wanted, and lock the infant away while she bestowed her favour on her three beautiful daughters.
I knew that it wasn't right from the beginning.
Marie decided to place the new born in the care of her housekeeper Cecile, a hard- hearted and stern woman who had neither the time nor the patience to care for a child, never mind a congenitally deformed one.
As soon as Marie gave the housekeeper her orders, she turned her nose up at him and declared that she didn't know how, but Marie threatened her with dismissal, so she had no choice but to do as she said.
From then on the tiny child slept in a cradle in a dirty old cupboard beneath the attic staircase. The housekeeper would never play or talk to him, and during his first months on Earth the poor little thing didn't even receive any kind words or compassion.
I watched him grow from a safe distance. He became extremely comical in appearance, with his little stick body and large, gentle hands, which seemed to be everywhere. His face, although deformed, always appeared kind and gentle despite the difficult situations he often found himself in. With his curious, dragging step he blundered around the house's upper storeys with bright, interested eyes.
He was soon too big for the cupboard, and was moved into the servant's quarters in the attic, a sad, dull room which was cold even in the hottest summer months. Still the little boy, believing he had nothing better to look forward to, welcomed the wardrobe and the battered old chest of drawers, the worn carpet, and the little window without glass which he would often gaze out of and see other little children playing below. He tried to get accustomed to the hard bed and he remained in that room, doing what he could to entertain himself, and every now and then he would stop, stare into space, and wonder what it was all about.
He was three when I heard the music start. I was peacefully reading a book late one evening in my room when a strange, beautiful sound began to issue through the ceiling. It sounded like a violin. The tone was perfect and the sound rich and deeply moving. It seemed to be playing an old folk song, very touching and sad, but delightful to listen to all the same. For a few moments I simply laid there, with my eyes closed, allowing this strange, eerie music to wash over me.And then my eyes opened wide with shock at the realisation that no one in my family had played the violin for years. I sprang up and made for the door of my room, but then froze. The violin had not ceased.but someone had begun to sing.
The voice was one of the sweetest and most angelic I had ever heard, and it only took me a second to realise that it was not the classical soprano voice that Marie possessed. No, this voice was a bell-like treble, beautiful, delicate, harmonious.but obviously untrained. However, this only served to add to the beauty of the voice. It had not been moulded or twisted by modern training. Instead, it remained pure and natural, musical beauty in its sweetest and most divine form. It also occurred to me that the voice did not know the words of the song. Instead, it followed the melody perfectly with smooth, soothing sounds. It intoxicated me.
I suddenly felt a desperate need to discover the source of this extraordinary music. Slowly, I opened the door of my room and walked down the hallway. I followed the voice, as though hypnotised, up the attic staircase and along a narrow passageway. The music seemed to be coming from behind the door of the attic bedroom. Surely it couldn't be.
Slowly, being careful not to startle the creature, the musician, whom I knew occupied this room, I pushed the door open. I immediately caught sight of the small boy sitting on a stool. He had his back to me, and he appeared to be playing the violin. I crept closer.I could scarcely believe the sight which had met my eyes.a tiny, three year old child, wearing an old grey suit, playing the violin as if it were a cello, and..singing. My God.the music.the music.it seemed to come from the depths of the soul. He was so young, so delicate, and yet he was producing sounds the like of which I had never heard in my lifetime. I felt myself being irresistibly drawn towards the sound of the voice and the violin.and I began walking slowly across the room.I wanted to stand beside this mysterious virtuoso.I wanted to become lost in his music, put on my ballet shoes, and dance as though I was on the stage of the Paris Opera House. The music.
A floorboard creaked under foot, and the spell was instantly broken. The child spun around and looked up at me, his eyes wide. Then he dropped the violin with fright and fled into the storeroom beyond.
"Wait!" I cried, but he was gone.
I returned to my room feeling greatly surprised and puzzled by what I had heard. Who had taught him how to play that violin? I knew that Cecile wasn't in the least bit musical, and she always avoided spending time with him unless she really had to. He must have taught himself.And as for that voice.
I decided not to tell anyone about my strange discovery. I thought it might have been a one off, a fluke, but deep down inside I knew it couldn't be. Sure enough, it happened again, and again, usually late at night or in the early hours of the morning. It was stunning music, rather eerie in its heavenly beauty. I kept telling myself that I must inform Marie of her son's talent, and then realised that she probably wouldn't care. In any case, I suppose I was being a bit greedy. I wanted this strange child prodigy to make music for me and me alone. I'm still not sure why.
Author's Note: Please review! I will update my story soon.