EXPLINATION OF THE STORY:I've said before, this is my own personal rewrite of Love Never Dies. I feel that it does more justice to the original story than the official musical does. When you read this, don't expect any drunken Raouls or half-thought-out-plots-to-win-Christine's-heart or topless Girys.
What I will try to do, however, is follow ALW's general plot as closely as I can without harming the characters. Because, at the end of the day, I am not absolutely opposed to the idea of a sequel. Do I think Love Never Dies was necessary? No. But my main gripe about LND was always that it destroys the original characters without any reason or any background. I'm going to try and remedy that.
SUMMARY: This is going to follow lots of different characters from the LND musical. As of right now, I'll be concentrating on Meg, Madame Giry, and Fleck as the three main characters. (This may change later, though.) The story is going to be about Erik, as always, but told in a style that better reflects the original musical. Erik will remain a seclusive figure; he'll retain the mystery that made him the Phantom. I do not want to give away too much of the plot, but I will say that the first half of the story could work as a sort of 'prequel' to the official LND musical. Everything will be compatable to LND up until the point where Christine comes into the picture. From then on, I'll swerve far away from ALW's plot (although you may see the occasional nod to the LND plot).
But now I feel like my author's note has gotten really, really long and wordy. If you guys are still ready to read the story, awesome! On with the show!
From the diary of Meg Giry:
Dear God. He's here.
Just in the other room! It's a presence, and aura. That corpse, that monster, within our walls, our home!
Mama has gone mad. We are housing a murderer.
I - I have to get the facts down on paper before my head explodes under their weight. I have this awful, nagging feels that this is my fault. Perhaps if I hadn't – But no, Meg. You must write down only the facts. Oh God! I fear I'm going mad!
Tonight was the opening night of the Ghost's opera – Don Juan Triumphant. Mama and I knew there was to be a plan to capture the Ghost, but the managers made it clear that they did not want Mama's help. 'Not that I would offer any to those fools,' Mama told me. It was, however, difficult to miss the plethora of policemen running around the theater. But Mama had told me to keep my head down, so I did.
Mama was right to say so. For the second time in my memory, the Phantom chose to reveal himself to the crowd. Not that I noticed at first. Instead of the spectacular death's head costume he famously wore to the masque ball, the Ghost made his entrance in a far more subtle, more sinister manner. During Christine's final arias, he chose to take up – God! Do I dare write it? No, Meg. You must.
The Phantom took Piangi's role. The Opera Ghost took the stage as Don Juan himself.
Did Christine know, then? Did she know it was him? The Ghost had us fooled until the end. But when I remember Christine's eyes, frightened, enraptured, I think she must have known who her Don Juan truly was. But I shudder to think: if Christine knew, what dark force kept her from running?
God. Christine. I do not even know if she's alive.
I can't let myself stop now. I must finish this.
My focus had strayed from the stage, but soon I heard screaming come from the stage. I ran toward the stage, fearing the worst, and – God! – I found Piangi's corpse. His neck was broken, head lolling aside uselessly as he turned slowly in circles. His eyes were bulging, set in his clammy face, a thread of saliva hanging force his gaping mouth –
I screamed. Oh, God! When the gendarme cut Piangi down, a horrible thud! Crunching, dead weight! And he had been a man! I had spoken to him not an hour before, danced for him on stage! Dead, horrid weight!
I must remember not to make a noise. He might hear my tears. But the door is locked, and this is not the Opera. He can't reach me here. He can't.
But I must stay quiet. And I must finish this.
I ran away from that horrible place where the police were – Well. I ran onstage, right into the Vicomte de Chagny. I nearly knocked him over. Mama was with him, speaking quickly, her hands white on her walking cane that she uses when her arthritis flares. The Vicomte spared me no glance, simply set me right on my feet. His eyes were only for my Mama.
'Monsieur, I know where they are!' she said, turning her back to him and hurrying away. He darted after Mama, catching her by the sleeve. 'Can I trust you?' was his question. Dazed, I half expected Mama to hit the Vicomte for grabbing her so brashly. Instead, she patted him roughly on the hand that held her sleeve.
'You must,' was her husky reply. It suddenly struck me what they were talking about. I had glanced around and noticed that, among the chaos and screams and wails of Carlotta, Christine was missing! He must have taken her, I thought! My friend! Taken by that creature!
I turned to Mama and the Vicomte and saw Mama simultaneously trying to show the Vicomte how to properly defend himself against the Ghost's lasso and pull him off of the stage and towards his love. A rage gripped me, like I had never known. I rushed up from behind the Vicomte and grabbed his other arm, ready to help Mama pull him down, beyond the third cellar, and rescue Christine.
'Like this, Monsieur!' I cried, raising my hand up to show him the defense. Mama spun around, her eyes flashing. 'No!' she snarled at me. 'You must stay here!' I recoiled, as if stung by some horrible insect with black satin wings. She -
I – I thought I heard something, from the room where he is. But I dare not unlock the door. God, what am I going to do tomorrow? I can't stay in this room forever
I feel the details spilling away from me now, so I'll try to push forward quickly. I was horrified, caught. I desperately wanted to help, but found myself useless with fear and rage. For the first time I can remember, I decided I would go against Mama's wishes. I started down towards the cellars, alone, initially, but I was soon joined by stagehands, chorus members, dancers, actors, gendarmes, costume makers, musicians, all manner of men and women, all sick with rage and ready to push the Phantom off of his throne of terror. The Ghost had ruled our minds for too long; we were starting a revolt, a rebellion, a revolution against him. And I – somehow – found a way to guide them through the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the cellar. Mama and the Vicomte were nowhere to be seen. When we reached the horrible, slimy gate before what could only be the Phantom's lair, I was able to quickly slip through. I was bold, bolder than I have ever been; I pushed aside papers, hand raised, eyes watchful as I searched the room for any sign of my friend.
I saw nothing. Soon the - mob, I suppose, would be the right word – the mob grew restless. One stagehand cried for a sweep of the sewers to find the Ghost, and the idea was met with roaring approval. They rushed away, down the passage, leaving only me standing at the Ghost's empty lair.
I never saw Mama standing in the shadow outside of the gate until she spoke. 'Did they find him?' she asked. I spun around, holding back a cry. My earlier boldness was fading quickly. I now felt nothing more than wet, dirty, and sick. I still feel like that, and I wonder if I will ever be able to truly cleanse myself. 'No,' I told her.
Mama slipped under the portcullis with a deftness I did not know she still possessed and – without a word to me - began searching the room. She muttered to herself as she ran her hands over every surface she could reach.
'Mama?' I asked timidly. She shushed me, her rough hands rasping across the prominent, throne-like chair in the far corner of the room. I waited a moment before repeating myself. Mama ignored me, crouching beside the throne. I saw her wince visibly as she grasped her hip.
'Mama!' I cried. 'You aren't well! What do you mean by it?' Mama groaned as she turned to me ruefully. 'Meg, my love,' she said. 'I am looking for something, something that he must have hidden here somewhere. I must find it, for both our sakes.' She turned back to the leg of the throne and frowned at it for a moment before running her hands over the dark ebony again. I don't know how long I stood there, watching her methodical search of that throne. Every ounce of brashness and courage that I had possessed seems to have melted away into the shadows of the darkness surrounding the candlelit lair. I could do nothing but stand.
Suddenly, there was a horrible click and a popping noise. I looked up to see Mama's hands on a panel on the back of the throne. She eased the wood away slowly, cautiously, only to drop it when she saw what lay inside. I cried out, nearly falling backwards on my feet.
There, curled inside the secret compartment in the back of the throne, was a corpse. But if was far more horrible than anything else I had seen that evening. The corpse was breathing, wearing the wet remnants of the Don Juan costume. When Mama had pulled away the panel hiding the corpse – for I can hardly use the word man to describe this sight – its hands seems to twitch quickly, an almost imperceptible jerk, and its watery, mismatched yellow eyes flicked up toward Mama. But then the corpse did not move again, other than its chest rising and falling in quick, jagged motions.
The corpse wore a mask.
The corpse was the Opera Ghost.
I wanted to scream; I wanted to curse, to run, to flee, to throw something at that horrible sight. But something kept me from making a sound. I couldn't move; I could barely breathe. I was held in my place by the horror and wretchedness of the sight, the corpse before me.
And then I became quite sure that Mama was mad. She reached into that dark compartment, hooked a hand on the Ghost's forearm, and pulled him out.
I don't know how we managed to sneak him out of the Opera, from right under the gendarmes' noses. When Mama pulled his body out, I saw that he had been curled up in a bed of francs. Mama had me take those as well. She hasn't spoken a word to me since we've left the Phantom's lair. He hasn't moved again, or made any sound that I know of. He would be dead, if not for the fact that he still breathed.
And I am now locked in my room in Mama's flat. The sky is starting to lighten; I believe it is nearly dawn.
The corpse is sitting just outside of my door. The Phantom of the Opera, thief, kidnapper, murderer, criminal wanted by all of the Paris police force, is in my home. I have heard no word from Christine; I have not seen the Vicomte. They might both be dead. The man sitting outside of my room might have killed them.
Mama has gone quite mad. I fear that I may be, as well.
Okay, guys! Please, please review! I don't want to hound for reviews, but I would like to judge the reception of this story. If you would like to hear more, please click the little button and drop a comment! If you have some time, I love constructive criticism! Whatever you can do - You friendly neighboorhood starving writer would appreciate it!
