Author's Note: Whilst this story is based upon Leurox's original novel, it is primarily influenced by the 1990 Mini-Series starring Charles Dance as The Phantom and also contains elements of other adaptations of Phantom including (but not restricted to) Webber's stage musical and 2004 film, the Mystery Legends (Big Fish) game, the 1989 'modernised' adaptation starring Robert Englund (the original Freddy Krueger) and The Phantom of the Mall AKA Erik's Revenge.

The More Things Change…

Sometime in the early 21st century…

People always tell you not to go to Paris in the spring. Or in the summer for that matter. Tourist season and all that. So I didn't. Originally, I had aimed for the end of summer and missed. Now, I wonder why more people don't purposefully visit in autumn. The gale force winds might have something to do with it. All things considered though, there is no better place to write a novel than Paris.

Mother had wanted to visit France for as long as anyone could remember so unsurprisingly, my itinerary had years of subconscious Mum, Mum, Mum influence all over it. I'm not just talking about the usual tourist traps mind you, but if your publisher is braying for a new best seller and you have writers block a mile wide, tourist traps are a pretty safe place to start inspiration hunting. In the first week I dragged myself to hilly wineries where you have to take a packed lunch with you just to get from the gate to the distillery. Then art deco alfresco cafés swarming with roly-poly pigeons who had given up flying milling around the feet of foreign plus size chimney stacks pretending to be Coco Chanel reborn and making you wish, as my Dad would have put it, that you could be a WWII zombie purely for the benefits of a gas mask. In a word – hectic. In another word – unproductive.

Finally, one Thursday morning after two weeks of pointless wanderings, of croissants, tea and take-away Chinese, I figured it was high time to go somewhere I wanted to go and if the muse struck, so be it. If not, then no biggie. Only three places came to mind; one in the Rue Plumet that had been converted to units sometime in the eighties (strike one); one in the Rue Valette that had been turned into a Maccas restaurant (strike two) and the third; well, it burnt down in the 1870s… and was rebuilt.

Only one option then.

Autumn leaves of gold and brown littered the avenue beside the river. The tall maples glowed as the mid morning sun danced among the branches. The sharp stinging wind of a southerly change made the tall trees groan and I along with them. Aside from the distant background hum of car engines and the sounds of industry, this slither of Paris could be from any era. Convenient setting for a novelist and her novel. The ash and coal cobblestones stretched unevenly, seemingly forever, before your feet. The brick edging slightly crumbled. It was a place where you expected to see horses and carts, road side stalls selling lucky heather, ladies in bonnets carrying wicker baskets of bread. All was peaceful. Serene…

"Ahahaha! You're such an idiot! Ahaha! Ehehehehe! LOKI'D!"

…Quiet.

Since the invention of the mobile phone, the noise of civilisation is never far away.

Publishers wanting an update on the manuscript situation. Or lack thereof.

An icy jolt ran right up my spine as I dropped the phone back into my coat pocket. It seemed two jackets and a jumper was not enough for autumn weather. Back home I'd be cursing the heat right about then… The feather wool scarf wound tightly around my neck seemed determined to flap along the breeze with its leafy counterparts and was silently determined to take me with it. Its soft length sulked in the pocket of my coat for the remainder of the trot up the inclined avenue. At the end of which rose the imposing façade of the Opera Populaire.

I was greeted first by an impressive set of stone steps leading up to impossibly vast wooden doors. A few side steps around some green leafy plants in terracotta pots and I was inside the main foyer. The ceiling was so far above the floor that if you were brave enough to tilt your head right back (without falling over) you still just couldn't make out the mosaic paintings around the crystal chandelier. Believe me, I tried. None of the productions seemed particularly interesting (i.e. no Faust) and the theatre appeared to be open to the public anyway so I took it upon myself to conduct a solo guided tour of the place. Guided, that is, by a music player full of Webber, Sondheim and Schonberg. Do you hear the people sing?

The central staircase, carved of marble so wide that fourteen people could stroll comfortably beside one another down it and so tall that you needed a mountaineering certificate to get all the way to the top in one go, was much more impressive from the second floor landing. The landings had halls and the halls had doors and almost every inch of wall had paintings or statues or pot plants. Or all three. All in all, the restoration was tastefully done – only a few tacky items of 'restored' art remained. Though the same could not be said for some of their limbs… Remarkably though, I had inadvertently ended up where I wanted to be; the grand hallway via which served as an access point to the up market opera boxes.

The hallway itself comprised of a huge expanse of oak panelling and gold leaf gilding with a full length red velvet runner atop pine floor boards. Along the left wall stood, at evenly spaced intervals of about twelve feet or so, solid oak doors with brass handles, each bearing plates engraved with a number. In the gaps between the doors hung an assortment of Renaissance and Restoration era oil paintings in matching frames. On the opposing wall sat a George IV sideboard, sixteen feet long playing host to - among other things - an assortment of decorative (wax) fruit in a silver bowl, a pair of silver candle sticks, a lace table runner, and a rather large Victorian vase of sunflowers. Above said sideboard hung a rather large arched mirror framed in the same gold as the paintings. A passing art student made some remark to his partner about the Edwardian nature of the mirror and , if you looked carefully, you could see the tiny scratch marks down by the edge where young ladies would test whether their engagements rings were real diamonds or not. Obviously he watched Antiques Roadshow too. In my opinion the designer of the hall was going for look rather than continuity in era. Twin wooden doors bookended the hall. One led back to the grand staircase, the other, well, somewhere else.

The only door I was interested in was the one marked Box 5. Okay, so maybe the many stories I had heard over the years had somewhat affected my curiosity but honestly, it was more the fact that out of all the boxes in this hall, Box 5 was not only the only one unlocked but the door was slightly ajar. And who can say no to a mysterious, unlocked, ajar door?

The brass of the doorknob froze the skin on my hand as I tentatively pushed into the room. I snaked first my hand around the door frame, then my head and I peered into the fabled box. The sight that met my eyes was both splendid and a little disappointing. All that was in the box was velvet and wood. Four wooden chairs with red velvet cushions. A black velvet covered footstool. Red velvet drapes. Red velvet carpet. The only thing that wasn't red or velvet was a single pair of silver opera glasses resting on the balcony ledge. Smirking a little at my own flight of fancy I hissed "Psst! Oi, Erik! You in here? Errrrrik…"

"Where are you looking for?" A light baritone voice with a heavy French accent inquired from somewhere behind by left shoulder. In my surprise I squeaked like a cornered rat and nearly slammed the door on my fingers. Turning around I caught sight of the cause of my mini heart attack. Not a ghost; just a common–or-garden Frenchman. Mid to late twenties by the look of him, sporting a pair of worn Levi jeans, Doc Marten sneakers, white T-shirt and a dark woollen overcoat. He smiled the way people always do after they've scared someone witless.

"Geez!" I snapped, anger replacing fright. "You enjoy sneaking around giving tourists heart attacks?" It was hard not to notice the mischievous twinkle that flashed in the depths of blue eyes.

"It is nice to have a hobby." He joked. "So what are you looking for?"

I stuck my head into the box one final time, attempting to make my answer seem as normal as the weather forecast for Bordeaux.

"Oh, just looking for Erik. Box 5 was always his favourite, you know? Always sat in Box 5 and God help you if someone else nicked it first."

Satisfied that the room was indeed empty, I closed the door with a snap and turned to face the stranger.

"And what would happen if someone sat in this… Erik's… box?" The man raised a bleached eyebrow.

"Oh, well," I started gesturing, "Sometimes he'd chase them out. Scare the living daylights out of them. Sometimes if he really got pissed he's smash stuff. You know – people's legs, mirrors, chandeliers…"

"OH!" He exclaimed. "You're talking about the Opera Ghost. Le Fantome de l'Opera."

I gave him my best 'well duh!' face. Surely tonnes of people came to the opera house for that very reason. His expression became puzzled. "Why do you call him 'Erik'?"

"That's him name," I shrugged, "Even ghosts have names…" I added softly. "He's a man, no worse than any man…" I began to sing before my brain caught up. "No, wait, that's… sorry, wrong musical. So you work here or what?" I made a move towards the door to the grand staircase, assuming he would take the walk and talk hint.

"Well… yes and no." He began "My family have been patrons of the opera for generations so I don't so much work here as partially own here, if you take my meaning…"

Neither of us noticed the man shaped shadow creeping out from under the door of Box 5…