Prologue
The streets of Paris, France were dark; a harsh wind blew. A lone oil lamp brought forth its last burst of heat before flickering and becoming extinguished. The only moving form for miles scurried along, keeping as low to the ground as possible. The tiny shape halted periodically to preen its whiskers in the shelter of an unmoving carriage before hurrying on in the frigid cold. The mouse scampered across Rue Bonaparte, narrowly escaping the sweeping eyes of the menacing owl that was perched upon a fearsome gargoyle overhead; its unforgiving eyes gleamed through the winds of the gale. With a nervous squeak, the tiny creature fled into the shelter of the frame of a monstrous building as its thankfully untouched doors were opened.
Two men sauntered out of the Opéra Populaire and into the vehement wind. Walking as swiftly as possible, the pair made their way towards the awaiting carriage. One of them blew into his gloves before clapping his hands together as they wordlessly boarded the coach. The driver cracked the whip, making the sound pierce the gale and reverberate across the square. Two gray horses leaped into motion, and the carriage was underway.
Smoke encircled the inside of the cabin as one of the men, Monsieur Firmin, lit a cigar methodically. His companion, Monsieur Andre, turned his face away in mild discomfort. After a few puffs, Firmin struck up a conversation, ending the silence and voicing both of their thoughts.
"André...I believe I must be forthcoming. Have you noticed an unusual discontentment in the demeanor of Miss Daaé?"
Both Firmin and André co-managed the Paris Opera House; what was left of it, anyways. Miss Daaé was their current prima donna. André turned his head from the window, removing his gloves as he nodded emphatically and replied.
"I have been meaning to speak with you on this matter. It seems that her arias have not been quite as ethereal as they used to be before the...incident."
Firmin reclined in his seat, thinking about what had happened just half a year ago. Miss Daaé -- Christine -- had been kidnapped by a mysterious cloaked figure. The dancers, singers, and general employees had taken to calling the man the Phantom of the Opera; Firmin hadn't personally believed until the fatal event happened.
He had slowly and secretly succumbed to belief beforehand, but his belief in the man's existence became open when, at the advice of the Viscomte de Changy, the company had performed the opera score that the Phantom had entrusted to them at an annual gala. His opera, Don Juan Triumphant, had progressed smoothly and without much incident until a certain scene towards the opera's end. At the scene's climax, Christine had removed her opposite character's mask to discover the carcass-like face of the Phantom himself. The man who was supposed to play the role, Ubaldo Piangi, had been murdered by the man. The audience had erupted into screams of terror as the Phantom sliced through the ropes that upheld the grand chandelier, grasping young Christine and disappearing into an open trapdoor.
Firmin shivered as he remembered the rest. The chandelier came hurtling down , landing in the orchestral seats and causing, as he soon learned, a few fatalities. The beautiful seats had burst into flam; the fire had spread until the entire opera house had been engulfed. All that remained of the house was its great frame, inside was an echo of nothingness. Christine had returned late into the evening, a cold, sorrowful expression etched into her features. The Viscomte, Raoul, had accompanied her. It was well known that the two were lovers; it would appear he had rescued her from the clutches of the madman.
In the present time, construction on the renewal of the Opéra Populaire was underway; the company still performed at a lesser house in the Parisian countryside. André and himself had just left the original house after negotiating with the manager of construction.
"Ehm...Firmin?"
The co-manager was harshly brought to some degree of alertness as André prodded him with his cane.
"Oh, yes, of course. Do forgive me, André. Indeed, I have noticed this development in recent months. But surely that young Raoul could cheer her somewhat?"
André inclined his head in a quizzical fashion.
"Do you not think he has tried? I have spoken with him on my own account. He seems convinced that memories of the affair of the Phantom of the Opera still haunt her thoughts."
His companion nodded slowly in solemn agreement as their conversation briskly changed subject. Neither felt too comfortable speaking of the Phantom. They felt that he was always with them; always inside their minds. Always listening; never too far away. Once this strange man found something to hunt, it was hard to escape his traps.
A lantern bobbed in the night as the winds died down. A coach quickly sped over a bridge, the light of the cabin reflecting on a sullen pond. Its driver grinned violently as a burst of wind threw back his hood. The full moon shone through from a clearing in the clouds. A white half mask on the driver's face was illuminated as the coach rambled off into the night.