A/N: Hello! This is my first Phantom story, so please be nice. It is based off the 2004 movie with Gerard Butler as the Phantom, though I will address him as Erik (because I am reading the novel by Gaston Leroux). I have also seen the Broadway musical, so I guess that adds to the . . . uh . . . whole gist of things.

My story is set in the present, and I'm terribly sorry, but I haven't done much research on this, so I'm just going to say that the Opera Populaire had been abandoned for many, MANY years (since I don't know if it's being used; most likely it is). But for the purpose of my story, it is abandoned! I would describe this prologue as being written in the "romantic" style, but, then again, what do I know?

Please review with as much constructive criticism as you can possibly give, because I'd like to know what I can do to improve my writing. Flames will not be appreciated.

Disclaimer: I do not "own" The Phantom of the Opera, technically, but I do own the DVD, the soundtrack, and a copy of Gaston Leroux's 1911 novel.

I dedicate this to my father, who passed away October 21, 2008, for he was truly my very own Angel of Music. I love you . . . Forever and for always.

Fixated Superstition

Prologue

Late was the hour when the noises ceased, when the silence finally won over the night. Every tiny speck of life that ever called the Opera Populaire "home" shivered in fear and fall quiet. A cloud of dread lingered in the hair, hovered over the Opera house, tense with anticipation.

With a lingering, decisive click, the minute hand overlapped the hour hand and rested upon the large, elaborate number twelve on the antiquated grandfather clock's withered face. At once, a resonating chime echoed throughout the halls of the Opera Populaire, reverberating through the grand theatre, up in its highest peaks and down in its lowest dungeons. Once, twice, thrice . . .

With each resounding peal of bronze, the darkness lengthened and spread. Mist bubbled up from the deep recesses of the Opera house, coating it in foggy wonder and mystery. This miasma was so thick that it was a living, breathing thing, utterly dreadful and perpetually perplexing for it rose from the void with no caveat whatsoever.

Even more mystifying was the fact that the time keeper had worked at all, for the gears were all rusted and covered in dust and cobwebs, choked of the life they once held. The timepiece should have forever been silent, yet it rang out this night, desperate to be heard in the still of these hours of darkness, and in a place where no one would hear it, no less.

Just when the twelvth knell ceased and it appeared that the old clock would be muted, it gave out a thirteenth chime-and what a chime it was!-a dreadful peal that echoed terribly through the house, loud and clear, fading distantly. All was hushed and tense, like the tightly drawn string of a bow fixed with a steel-tipped arrow, ready to be let loose. The energy remained; the murky haze lingered.

Suddenly, from a distance-if one strained his ears to hear the ghastly vibrations of the dead and dying in the stillness that was the abyssmal night-there came a low murmur, soft, indescribable, and world-weary. This despondent sigh of sound, this whisper of wind, was so utterly heart-breaking in its entirety; that of a lovelorn soul with memories fresh of betrayal and hatred, of longing and lost hope.

The apparition gave out shuddering moans and great sighs, as though all the sadness of the world rested upon his shoulders. Despair engulfed this specter, rooted him to where he now stood. Regret. The chains of his past had long ago taken hold. Here in this dark haven, this kingdom of music, what had once been his home was now his prison. His only hope for salvation laid in the secrets that slept within the heart, the insufferable, accursed organ that no longer beat in his chest. So long as those secrets were unknown to him, he would continue to suffer in eternal damnation. Repetition at its worst.

His home-

His Hell-

-They were one in the same.

The sands of time no longer mattered; time sped by in a matter of seconds. Dawn brushed rosy fingers along the horizon. With an anguished wail, the wraith faded away to nothing. The drafts stirred the tiny motes in the air, caught in the radiance of the first sunbeams. The atmosphere lightened with the day's gift of light . . .

But the shadows lingered in that dreadfully majestic place. A long forgotten whisper of something-something that had laid quiet for a long time-remained, unseen, haunting. The Opera Populaire had long ago been abandoned . . .

But every night, when the dead clock chimed thirteen, the Phantom returned, searching for the keys to his soul's freedom . . . .

A/N: Wow. Finally done with the first chapter. And, ugh, I have a physics lab tomorrow (Friday). (sob) I wanna go to Creative Writing!!! Oh well . . . Please review! I own NOTHING!