All right people. I own none of this. Nada. Not a thing. AND YES! I HAVE CHANGED HUGE CHUNKS OF "THE OPERA"! JUST TO TAILOR FIT IT ALL INTO MY STORY, LIKE NAMES AND SUCH!!! SO SUE ME!!!
I am also the wrong person to be writing this, as I have never even SEEN the movie The Phantom of the Opera. Yeah, don't get too mad, I would have to make changes anyways, these two stories' compatibility only extends so far . . . Anyways, hope you enjoy, and if you don't, don't flame too hard!
The Poltergeist of the Opera
Chapter 1
At the opera house . . .
A figure was working busily in the gloom, emptying out his pockets. Finally, he found what he was looking for. His beautiful, antique violin. It hearkened back from over six hundred years ago. Back to when he was alive . . .
The opera house was the place for him right now. He would haunt them, play his violin music in dead silence, scare them all, and pull pranks on stage. It would be fun, and he would also be exposing his talent to the world. He remembered one face in the crowd, one that struck him as something special. He slowly pulled out a mask, and stuck it on his face, remembering his deathly pallor, unattractive teeth, and the death circles around his eyes. She wouldn't have to see that, not at first. Not until she'd be able to understand.
He grinned and shrieked like a maniac, and then disappeared.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The large Opera House was a bustle of activity. The stage was being set, the choreography was being tested, and several people were practicing their vocals. One girl, however, stood out.
Lydia was a beautiful young girl, black hair, pale skin, dark clothing, and an interest in the bizarre. She was a dancer in the Opera House, but she wanted more. She wanted a lead role, she wanted to be appreciated. Thinking this, she lost her concentration, and stepped out of the choreography.
The choreographer, Miss Shannon, noticed, and cried out, "You! Lydia! Concentrate, girl!" Lydia obediently stepped back into place, dancing again. She noticed two strange men standing almost directly in her way, and it took a lot of complicated maneuvering to avoid slamming into one of them. She heard them speaking with the director about her.
"Lydia? Curious name," one of them said.
"Swedish." The director answered.
"Any relation to the violinist?"
"Her daughter, I believe. Always has her head in the clouds, I'm afraid," he sighed.
Lydia frowned and concentrated harder. She wasn't sure she liked these two, and was wondering what on earth they were doing here. Just then, the ballet ended. She finished gracefully, swooped a curtsy for good measure, and then resumed listening.
The
chorus began singing, and eavesdropping became impossible
Bid
welcome to Hannibal's guests -
the elephants of Carthage!
As
guides on our conquering quests,
Dido sends
Hannibal's
friends!
A giant elephant was rolled onstage. Claire, the lead singer began a duet, singing with Bobby Piangi. As the notes rose and fell, Lydia did her best to not feel jealous. Feeling jealous of Claire was . . . well, degrading. But if only she did not have the lead part. If only it belonged to herself.
Just then, the director strode forward and cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen – Miss Shannon, thank you - may I have your attention, please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles Andre."
Lydia curtsied elegantly. Naturally, however, Claire elbowed her way to the front, 'accidentally' jabbing Lydia in the side.
A wild, white blonde head, almost hidden in the shadows of the rafters, saw this all. Eyes turned from yellow-green, to red, and glowed slightly. Several choirgirls could have sworn they heard faint, demented laughter, but dismissed it as their imagination.
"Gentlemen,
our leading soprano for five seasons now." The Director said.
"Of
course, of course. I have experienced all your greatest roles, my
dear." Andre said. "If I remember rightly, you have a rather fine
aria in Act Three of "Hannibal". I wonder, Miss, if, as a
personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition. Unless,
of course, you have any objections . . ."
"Of course not!" Claire cried gleefully. She ran out to the middle of the stage, cleared her throat, looked around haughtily, and launched into her piece.
Think
of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye.
Remember me
once in a while - please promise me you'll try.
When you find
that, once again, you long to take your heart . . .
Lydia, watching resentfully, saw something stir above Claire. Before she could even blink, a backdrop crashes to the floor cutting Claire off from half the cast. Lydia stumbled back, feeling faint. The choir girls start screaming, "The Poltergeist! The Poltergeist! He has returned! We are all doomed!"
"Claire! Claire! Are you hurt?" Piangi screamed
"Signora! Are you all right? Joseph!" the director howled. "Where is Joseph?"
"Is no one concerned for our Prima Donna?" Piangi yelled back.
"Please monsieur don't look at me: as God's my witness, I was not at my post. Please monsieur there's no one there: and if there is, well then, it must be a ghost . . ." Joseph said, poking his head over the rafters and shrugging helplessly.
Again, that demented laughter, so faint as to be barely heard.
Andre held Claire's elbow as he helped her up. "Please, Miss, these things happen."
"Oh really!" she cried. "These things, like happen, do they? Well, all I've got to say, is that you better make these things stop happening, or this whole production will 'stop happening!'"
Piangi rushed over to her with her furs. She snatched them and walked out stiffly. "Amateurs," he hissed, stalking out.
The director grabbed his hat. "Well, I don't think you people need me anymore!" he said merrily. He opened the door and went the opposite way Claire had gone.
"Claire will come back," Andre said doubtfully.
"You really think so?" Miss Shannon asked. Well, I have a message for you from the Opera Ghost."
"Good Lord, you people are obsessed with this thing!" Firmin exploded.
"He merely welcomes you to his opera house and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due." Miss Shannon said innocently.
"Salary?" Firmin inquired in a quiet, dangerous voice. "Does this monster have a job around here? Is he, say, the janitor?"
"Mr. Lefevre paid him twenty thousand francs a month. Perhaps you can afford more, with Mr. Chagny as your patron." Miss Shannon continued, oblivious. "He will be attending the performance tonight."
Andre sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Where is the understudy?"
"There is none."
"Lydia could sing it, Mr. Andre!" Bertha piped up. "She's been taking lessons, from a great teacher!" Lydia's eyes grew as wide as saucers. Could it really be? Did she really even have the right?
"Who have you been taking your lessons from, girl?" Andre demanded.
"I'm not sure," Lydia admitted, a brilliant blush coloring her face.
"Oh Lord, not you too! Can you believe it Firmin? A full house - and we have to cancel!
"Let her sing for you, monsieur. She has been well taught." Miss Shannon coaxed.
"From the beginning of the aria then, miss," Andre said grudgingly.
Lydia twisted her hands together, and then opened her mouth and sang as well, as pure as clearly as she possibly could
Think
of me think of me fondly,
when we've said goodbye.
Remember me
once in a while -
please promise me you'll try.
"Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves." Firmin hissed "
Don't
fret, Firmin." When you find that, once again, you long
to
take your heart back and be free -
if you ever find a
moment,
spare a thought for me . . .
On opening night, Lydia stood in front of the audience, singing her soul out.
We
never said our love was evergreen,
or as unchanging as the sea
-
but if you can still remember
stop and think of me . .
.
Think of all the things we've shared and seen -
don't think
about the things which might have been . . .
Think of me, think of
me waking, silent and resigned.
Imagine me, trying too hard to put
you from my mind.
Recall those days look back on all those
times,
think of the things we'll never do -
there will never be
a day, when I won't think of you . . .
The young man, Raoul, looked hard at the singing vision on stage. "Can it be Lydia? Bravo! What a change! You're really not a bit the gawky girl that once you were... Boy, I sure remember her now! She sure has filled out.
Is it really Raoul? My childhood friend? Will he even remember me? Lydia wondered as she sang . . .
