It would always be my house.
I had seen it built all those years ago under my careful instruction, and I did not plan on deserting it anytime soon. Here, hidden away from the bustling upper levels of the city, I could think. Here, the music was free to flow from my mind to the paper, undisturbed by screeching divas or chattering ballet girls. The calm darkness that I had used as my architectural canvas eased my mind and blanketed my senses with a feeling of relief after a long day's work at the theatre. While the Palais Garnier was, and always would be, my kingdom, the house on the lake was my castle. It was a sanctuary of solitude hidden away from the Parisian streets.
I never enjoyed having guests, and loathed those that turned up unannounced. Naturally, I was quick to make this much clear when the first few would-be explorers decided to come poking around. I can't remember how long I had been holed up in the lower levels, but it must have been quite some time. I remember a fair amount of dust being thrown into the air upon the arrival of the uncouth visitors, and the spiders had managed to lay their silken traps across several of the unused doorways on the upper level. Having become so used to the complete and utter silence, I was admittedly startled by the sound of the front door giving way under some vicious abuse, and arrived in the foyer to find the two adolescents gawking about in a dumb mixture of awe and disgust.
Of course, I was livid with fury. Never in my life had anyone been so foolish as to intrude upon me in such a manner. I shouted and cursed at them, sending several heavy objects flying their way and sending them fleeing from my presence. Still burning with anger, I watched them disappear into the murky night outside, cursing myself for not setting more traps around the front door.
Why I called it the front door, I honestly had no idea. I hardly used it, and it largely served as a facade to present to the masses; a small above-ground attic that looked very much like any other well-made single-story house on the street. The majority of my dwelling space was underground, made to fit snugly into the catacombs that I frequented far more often than any cobbled street. But while the upper level was, for the most part, unused and empty, it was still my house. And I would not tolerate such intruders.
When I finally had the presence of mind to close the door, I was somewhat surprised by the protesting squeal it gave. I had always been rather meticulous about the condition of the hinges, not wanting to draw any attention on the times when I did venture out onto the streets by announcing my arrival on the surface with a squeaky door. However, upon closer inspection, I could see that the majority of the metal hardware was now tarnished and rusted beyond almost all hope of repair. I gave a small groan as I noticed the thick carpet of dust as well. Sensing the beginnings of a headache, I reached back to loosen the ties of my mask, but found to my horror that it was not in place.
How could I have been so careless? How could I have forgotten?
No wonder they had been so quick to run.
As I turned to return to the blessed seclusion of the lower levels, I noticed a beam of yellowish light slicing through the dust that carpeted the hardwood floor. One of the boys had dropped his lantern, and I instinctively snatched it up for fear of a fire starting. However, upon closer inspection, I found that there was no flame inside it at all.
It was an odd thing, long and cylindrical with a (now slightly cracked) panel of glass fixed on the end to direct the beam of light, which seemed to emit from a small glass sphere. It seemed to be a refined and miniature version of the incandescent bulbs attributed to inventors like Edison. I turned the device over in my hands as I made my way down the dark hallway that led to the wine cellar, already picking out the seams and screws that would need to be loosened in order for me to examine it more thoroughly. It was an ingenious little invention, that much was certain. In the dark, I squinted at the words inscribed along the base of the cylinder.
"Patent No. 617,592 Copyright 1911"
I paused again at that, barely a half-step away from the door to the cellar which would lead me back down to my study, with an expression of mild bewilderment that might have appeared comical had I more comely features. That simply couldn't be right. There was no way I could have been down there for so long. As was usual in my long bouts of composing, I hadn't eaten since I'd shut myself away. I hadn't slept. If I'd managed to survive such conditions so long, then perhaps it was all the proof I needed that neither Heaven nor Hell wished to permit me entry. I could not die. Unless...
Oh God.
The irony.
It was nauseating.