Author's foreword : Based primarily on the original novel by Gaston Leroux (not to be confused with Susan Kay's, 'Phantom') this was a very rudimentary story that started as a daydream one afternoon. I have started and stopped several Phanfic ideas, so if this doesn't satisfy... Well, let's just say I have quite a few more fics hidden up my sleeve.
Make no mistake - this is by no means appropriate for youngsters or for those of the faint of heart. I plan for this fic to progress in such a way that most people will probably find disturbing to say the least. But very satisfying for the avid 'Phan'. Especially if you're a fan of the 'Leroux Erik'.
Don't say I didn't warn you...
And now:
Estate Sale
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Christine and her best friends Meg and Raoul were out for a late afternoon drive when Christine saw a sign outside her window, which read:
Estate Sale ~ Antiques
E 666th PL, Lot #666
What an odd address, Christine thought to herself; I wonder who lived there…
"Hey guys," she said to Raoul and Meg who had been fighting over the radio for the last few minutes, "can we go check that out?"
"Check what?" Both of them answered her at the same time. Sighing, Meg turned in her front seat to look at Christine.
"What'd you see, Chris?"
"That estate sale right over there – hurry, look before we miss it!"
Immediately Meg nudged Raoul's shoulder, telling him to turn. Annoyed, brushing off her hand, he veered off the main road and onto something like a private driveway.
"Women," he muttered under his breath in feigned exasperation.
The driveway was surprisingly made of only dirt like a country road and was sublimely sheltered by rows of tall deciduous trees that lined the path.
Christine appreciated the respite from the hot mid-July sun by closing her eyes and reveling in its coolness.
As their car pulled up to the house, everyone gaped at the structure before them. It was a small but uniquely impressive mansion that had a strange mixture of Gothic and Edwardian architectural styles.
Raoul parked and the three of them exited the car, standing in front of the house still staring at it.
From inside the house, hiding from view behind a curtain, a figure clad in black gazed out the window at the newest arrivals, a corner of his lips quirked upwards into a devilish smirk.
Down below, the three friends entered the open house, following the signs and arrows marking the areas that were permitted to visitors.
The interior was opulently furnished with all the trimmings and furniture you would likely expect to be in one of those period BBC dramas.
Plush, vibrant oriental rugs covered gleaming all-wooden floors and in the formal living room there were shelves and shelves lined with a priceless collection of leather bound books.
A massive globe stood in one corner; it's surface hand painted exquisitely and looked more like a piece of art than merely a map of the world.
In another area was a dining room fit for a royal family! A whole set of the most expensive and exotic looking porcelain dishes – rimmed with what looked like real gold – and flatware that was undoubtedly pure sterling silver.
A charming bone china tea set was out on display in a warm-colored sitting room, a playful pattern of butterflies were hand-etched into the china.
"Finding everything to your liking, mademoiselle?"
Christine's head jerked up out of her quiet contemplation towards a middle-aged man wearing a modest business suit.
He smiled politely at her, showing rows of teeth yellowed with age, his eyes twinkling brightly.
Laughing nervously, she figured this must the organizer of this sale and decided to ask the question at the forefront of her mind.
"What was the owner like?" She couldn't help herself. She had never been inside such a breathtakingly beautiful home.
"Ah, yes," he cleared his throat, "the owner of this estate was a very…particular man, with very particular tastes."
He stopped, his eyes searching around the room for a moment.
"He was a patron of all the arts… He also traveled quite extensively," the man smiled again as if apologizing for that fact.
"He must have lived a very full life," Christine replied somberly, the idea of such a wondrous man being lost forever to the world was painful to think on.
The man seemed to sense her discomfort and came a step towards her, clasping her hands comfortingly in his for a moment before he letting them go. He smiled a most reassuring smile.
"Would you care to see the rest of the house? You may go anywhere you wish, and if you need any assistance, please don't hesitate to ask."
Christine smiled graciously at the man, nodding her thanks of his small kindness and proceeded up the grand staircase unaccompanied to the floors above.
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He perceived her presence before he could see her willowy form as she gracefully ascended the stairs towards his hiding place.
It was the most ridiculous game of cat and mouse he'd ever deigned to play, yet here he was, traipsing about like a ghost – in his house – spying on the loveliest creature he'd ever laid eyes upon.
She was adorable! Peeking into rooms and poking around like a naughty little thing, which made it unbearable to repress the chuckle that threatened to bubble up like a spring.
Her soft, layered platinum hairstyle framed her face angelically, the ends gently brushing her shoulders. The creamy white of her skin complimented her crystal blue eyes nicely, those heavenly pools framed by dark, winsome eyelashes.
He could guess that she was of middle height, perhaps on the tall side for a woman, but that was inconsequential since he towered over most at nearly five inches over six feet.
Her upright posture indicated that she was disciplined in either singing or dance, or both, since the girl she had come with was most definitely a dancer.
Forcing himself not to be overeager to spy on her, he brought out his mobile and inadvertently sent a devilishly delicious text; the next part of his game.
She practically jumped out of her skin when her phone suddenly vibrated! Having remembered which century she was in after loosing herself in room after room of priceless antiques, she dug her cell phone out of her purse.
Unknown: Enjoying yourself, mademoiselle?
Her blood ran cold. It had to be that man playing tricks on her! Immediately, she responded with a still-polite but terse reply.
Christine: Sorry, but, who is this?
Instantly she received a reply.
Unknown: Certainly not who you think I am, I assure you.
Christine: Then WHO ARE YOU?
With that kind of response, he couldn't hold back his chuckle – obviously she was more than a little surprised by his impromptu chat.
Unknown: No one to fear. You will meet me soon enough…
He was standing right behind her in the two-way mirror and she didn't even know it! Only he could see her while she blissfully remained in ignorance.
When she didn't text back, he decided to giver her a little push.
Unknown: Christine, I am your Angel of Music!
That did it! She ran out of the room, practically flew down the stairs and almost collided with the man whom she had previously spoken to.
"Mademoiselle! Are you all right? You're as white as a sheet!"
She ran past him and out of the house, opened the car door and slammed it shut, alarming both Raoul and Meg who were still inside and they rushed outside to see Christine huddled in the back seat of the car, shaking from head to foot!
Meg opened the back seat door and sat down calmly by her friend's side, noting the telltale signs of another episode.
Ever since her father had died, Christine had been frail and weak-willed, seeming to lose herself for hours at a stretch to her grief.
It was understandable after all that, since she and her father had meant the world to each other – two halves of one soul fitting perfectly together – and she had seen the worst of Christine's grief, unlike Raoul who had only just returned from studying abroad.
Meg wrapped her arms around the poor girl's shoulders and calmly asked her what had upset her.
Christine merely handed Meg her cell phone in admonition, her eyes as vacant as they were wide.
"Who sent you these texts?" Meg asked, knowing that her friend never saved anyone's number – unless they input their number for her.
Christine shook her head as Meg read the messages, her face darkening as she read each one.
"Let's go, shall we?" Meg offered cheerily, trying to hide the anger boiling inside her. How dare someone toy with her friend, and when she's still grieving no less!
Raoul, who had just stood there, dumbly watching the girls' curious exchange, mouthed his concern to Meg as he started the car. She dismissed him with a stern look that commanded his cooperation.
As they drove off, the 'ghost' peered from his position by the window, gazing languidly after the car.
He had never been so close to her as he had been in those precious few moments before letting her go.
I will see her again.
"Yes," he breathed, feeling his heart constrict with all the foolishness of a lovesick schoolboy, "we will be seeing her again."
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Christine leaned her head against the window, the blur of traffic and scenery rushing past just like her life. She felt as though she'd been aged in such a short period of time following the death of her beloved father.
No, let's not go down that path…
Once the car finally stopped, she slowly came out from her daze and realized that Meg and Raoul were at present deep in conversation. She didn't need to listen to know whom they were talking about.
If she were going to behave like a deranged mental patient, she would no doubt be treated as one!
Did she secretly wish to be locked away from reality?
When she'd said goodbye and watched as the car drove off into the dim twilight, she almost wished she'd taken Meg up on her offer to stay with her for the night.
Almost.
As much as she needed her friends' support, she also needed her space. She would never be able to just break down and cry in front of Meg or Raoul, not like she did after her father's death.
But the panic attacks…
Maybe she should consider the medication her psychiatrist had recommended.
Maybe it would numb the pain for a few hours…
No.
Her father would have never condoned it and so she certainly wouldn't either.
Feeling a brief rush of resolve wash over her like fake confidence, she walked up the front steps of her aging, lower middle class rambler.
Upon entering the home she had shared another lifetime with her father she let out a long sweet sigh.
"I'm home."
Silly, she knew, but she tried to keep as much of her familial habits as possible. It made her feel at least somewhat normal. Somewhat.
Locking the door behind her she entered the quaint little kitchen with a small wooden table and two chairs, an ancient refrigerator and a retro-looking stove.
The cheery yellow tile back splash wrapped around half the kitchen, the other half was painted a matching creamy yellow that even at night was a comforting sight.
E 666th PL, Lot #666
That address remained branded into her mind. Her father had once told her that a triple six was the Devil's number, and was almost always accompanied by nothing but bad luck.
She had laughed at him then, but she didn't laugh now.
Whoever sent her those texts knew her or had at least come in contact with her before.
Going over to the little writing desk in their dark sitting room, she turned on the old computer her father had salvaged from a roadside junk sale.
He had always been so clever with his hands. His violin playing was exquisite, his position as first violin of the local symphony proof of his genius. He was always so handy around the house as well – always fixing and tinkering…
How she missed him.
The screen turned on in the same time it had taken for her to take off her shoes and turn on the floor lamp residing immediately next to the writing desk.
She brought up a search engine and typed in the address, silently praying that the internet wouldn't cut out before it loaded the first few results.
There!
Clicking a link to Google Maps or whatever it was called, her eyes fervently scanned the webpage for the exact location of the address. Finding it, she entered in her own address up at the top to map out the distance between them.
Five miles.
That was the distance separating her from whatever it was she had encountered in that house. Or whomever had been living in that house.
Whoever it was could probably run that distance! Her head dropped to her folded arms atop the desk in despair. Should she get help? Would anyone even believe her? Or would they think she was just an over paranoid little girl suffering from grief at the loss of her dear father…
She didn't want to think anymore, she just wanted to sleep. Feeling a nice hot shower would do her good; she sluggishly made her way upstairs, turning on all the lights as she went.
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It had been simple enough for him to find her pathetically small dwelling with the GPS tracking device that old doddering fool had so reluctantly placed on her sleeve. Well, at least he had been capable of at least that.
After substantially paying off his accomplice, he took down the sign and the ropes around the house, returning everything to how it had been.
Excitement fired through his veins, at last! His plans for Christine Daae were underway!
He felt so giddy he nearly tripped down the stairs leading into the garage.
Whistling a sharp, upbeat little tune, the car door silently swung upwards to allow his lofty frame to glide effortlessly into the driver's seat. A design he had very much appreciated.
Zooming down the street, he uttered her address out loud, the screen on the dashboard panel automatically inputting Christine's house number and street.
A holographic map was brought up on his side of the front window, the route playing itself out in realtime. He would be there in seconds.
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Christine dallied in her shower much longer than she intended, fresh tears washing away along with the hot steamy water cascading down her face. It was in these moments that she did not have to put up a brave front, that she could simply dissolve into her pain.
If someone was stalking her, she wouldn't have cared for these precious moments, deciding instead to remove herself completely from the mundane aspects of reality.
It wasn't until all the hot water had run out that she finally left the warm confines of the bathroom.
Toweling herself dry and slipping into her well worn bathrobe and nightgown, she returned downstairs to fix herself something to eat.
As she opened the fridge, revealing its shocking sparseness, she decided on a light cup of soup from the pantry, opening up a can of tomato bisque as carefully as her injury prone finger could and emptying half of its contents into a coffee mug.
Wrapping the top with plastic, she shoved it into the microwave as if wanting to forget about it entirely, and pressed the flimsy number pad for a minute. The familiar chime rang and the rumble of the plate going around on its carousel soothed her.
Sitting down in her father's favorite chair, she took the remote from its residence on the coffee table beside her and pressed the 'on' button.
Static ensued and she had to rush out of the cozy recliner to turn down the blaring distortion and switch it to cable. Had she watched a movie the last night?
Unable to remember and unwilling to force herself to think any more on it, the microwave dinged, signaling that her food was done.
Letting out a huff of indifference, she commandeered a spoon from the dishwasher and retrieved her mug of soup, retreating once again into her father's chair.
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He parked the car around the back by some bushes, not wanting to create any sort of alarm. Hidden in shadows he had spent most of his life and in shadows he would at last find some modicum of happiness.
Gathering his toolkit from the backseat, he languorously slid out of the car and sauntered fiendishly towards the double doors, which led into the basement.
Oh, how he loved these little old houses!
So typical, and his Christine was anything but.
He had to stop himself from whistling in his overly cheery state, the knowledge that his love would be in his very arms tonight was making it rather difficult to contain his glee.
But she did not know him.
What does it matter? He thought. She will know me very soon…
With that, he effortlessly picked the lock and deftly jumped down into Christine's basement.
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Earthquakes. Hurricanes. A young boy shot in the crossfire between a gang and the police. A mother abandons her three month old in a sweltering SUV and a man guns down several people at a coffee shop.
The world was mad.
Eventually she grew tired of the ridiculously inappropriate shifts in the news and turned on the travel channel. Where in the world would the show's sprightly host go to today?
After an hour's program on Turkey and a brief history Istanbul, she retired upstairs to her bedroom to get ready for bed.
Once making the rounds of all the windows and doors – her father had always said you can't be too careful – she turned off the lights one by one. She had never been able to completely quell her fear of the dark…
Tucking herself in under the soft cool sheets, she breathed in the comforting scent of her room, the window cracked open just enough to admit the fresh night air. She felt safe and relaxed.
As she began to nod off into sleep, she caught a glimpse of a crimson red rose, proudly leaning against the rim of the glass vase.
Meg perhaps? Or possibly Raoul, wanting to cheer her up in any way he could.
She sighed, not wanting to think the opposite.
Finally drifting off into a pleasant slumber, a shadow that did not conform with the rest separated itself from the wall.
Two amber eyes glowed golden in their intense gaze at the innocent girl.
Tonight, she will be mine.
Tonight, she will be Erik's!
. . .
Note: The next chapter will be posted IF there are enough positive reviews to warrant a continuation, so if you enjoyed this first chapter then make sure you review!
Obediently yours,
Yours Anonymous
