Hey everyone! So, this is my first fanfiction and being a new writer and all, it's nerve-racking to post. But, I'm pretty excited about it at the same time. But, if you are too, you can always tell me what you think! Reviews would be awesome! If you like it, tell me! And if you don't, then tell me what I can do to make it better. Critiquing is everything to me. I may have changed some wording and scenes in the story, but nothing major. It simply just made it easier to work with when not everyone was singing their words. But without further ado, I give you my story! Enjoy lovelies!
Chapter 1
The room was quiet with nothing but soft footsteps scuffling as the passed the old items left in the run-down Opera Populaire. The tall, slender auctioneer led them to the 660 lot. A man being wheeled around by a young nurse wearing a long, black dress with a white headpiece glanced slightly at the covered objects. A slight pain ached his frail heart, forcing him to look away. The auctioneer tipped his black top hat to the bidders who passed by. The group stopped in front of a crate. The auctioneer had started counting the bids, but the man wasn't listening, for he was pushing back the memories that had haunted him all these years.
"Sold!" the auctioneer yelled out, slamming down his gavel on the crate, causing the man to look back slowly. "Your number, sir? Thank you," he mumbled, scribbling down the number on a sheet of paper. "Lot 663 then. Ladies and gentlemen, a poster of this house's production of 'Hannibal' by Chalumeau."
"Showing here!" a young porter called out, throwing open the large, old poster of the age-old show, causing dust to fill the air. A few people close by coughed into handkerchiefs and waving it away from their faces. After the dust had settled, the bidders walked up to it and examined it before making up their minds.
"Do I have ten francs?" he asked, scanning the crowd. Not a single sound was made. "Five then." With that, a single paddle raised up in the air. "Five I am bid." More paddles went up into the air. "Six, seven. Against you, sir, seven." Just as the auctioneer was going to call sold, the man in the wheelchair raised up his paddle slightly. "Eight. Eight once." Nothing. "Selling twice. Sold, to Jackson, Vicomte de Chagny." Everyone gave a slow, sarcastic clap. "Lot 664, then: a wooden pistol and three 'human' skulls from the 1831 production of 'Robert le Daible' by Meyerbeer. Ten francs." Again paddles went up into the air. "Ten francs, thank you. Ten francs, still. Fifteen, thank you, fifteen I am bid. Going for fifteen. Your number, sir?" He scribbled down the number on the same piece of paper.
"665, ladies and gentlemen: a paper-mache musical box in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey dressed in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working condition."
Another porter came out, setting down the wooden pentagon-shaped golden box. "Showing here," he said, pressing a small button on the bottom of it, causing the top to open and spread apart and fill the silent room with soft, sweet music. The monkey moved, causing Jackson to get lost in the familiar melody. It quietly came to an end and closed back up.
"May I start the bidding at twenty francs?" Nothing. "Fifteen, then? Fifteen I am bid." The bidding kept climbing slowly until Hans had raised it to thirty francs. "Sold for thirty francs to the Vicomte de Chagny. Thank you, sir." The porter picked it up and as he was about to walk away with it, Jackson made a small noise and touched his arm.
"Please, leave it there," he muttered, gripping his chair as he tried to stand up from his chair, using his dark wooded shiny cane to help him to his feet. The young woman grabbed his arm but he just waved her off. As he walked over by using his cane, he slowly took off his black top hat and fixing his silvery-white hair. "A collector's piece indeed," he whispered, running his hand slightly over the box, "every detail, exactly as she said. She often spoke of you, my friend; your velvet lining and your figurine of lead," he muttered, his voice cracking at the end of the sentence. "Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?" The porter slowly picked it up again, glancing at Jackson before leaving.
The auctioneer coughed, trying to bring the attention back to the front. "Lot 666, then: a chandelier, in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair with the Phantom of the Opera; a mystery never fully explained." The Vicomte's jaw was clenched as he leaned against his cane. "We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in that famous disaster. Our workshops have restored it and fitted up parts of it with wiring for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of what it may look lie when reassembled."
"Oh no," Jackson muttered, his eyes flickering up to the chandelier attached to the ceiling. "Dear god, no."
"Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination? Gentlemen!" he yelled, pointing to the men to rip off the cover on it. Suddenly, it was lighten up, causing the slightly lit room to be filled with bright light. But just as it was starting to settle down, sparks started flying off and the lights started to flicker on and off repeatedly. Everyone ran out screaming, covering their wives with coats so the sparks wouldn't catch anything on fire. Well, everyone except for Hans. He stared up at the shaking chandelier, causing memories to fill Jackson's mind. He bowed his head down and leaned against his cane, squeezing his eyes shut as tears filled them quickly. The nurse rushed back in, pulling the man behind her as he started to resist and yelled out for everything to stop. As the final screech from the last burning light bulb was made, the Opera Populaire was thrown into complete and utter darkness.
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