Welcome, welcome and welcome! I have been a 'phan' of The Phantom of The Opera for many years, and finally, pen has been put to paper, well more precisely fingers to keyboard and I have finally begun to write my own Phantom story. Feel free to skip this bit – as I do digress a little, but I would just like to throw a few things out there before we begin!
First off – disclaimer: I do not own anything in belonging to The Phantom of The Opera and have no affiliation with the works of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Frederick Forsyth and do not have permission or copyright to any of their respective works. This is purely a work of fanfiction meant only to be shared with other fans, no profit will be made from this story. All publicly recognisable characters, settings, creative works and songs are property of their respected owners.
Now, I would also like to add that inspiration for the title of my story comes from another talented user's story 'Rekindling of The Music of The Night' by KC Vaillancourt (who probably doesn't know I exist!) If you adore the Phantom I would seriously recommend checking out her story! It's so beautifully written with an exquisite original plot that manages to retain the essence of the movie/musical. It's utterly fantastic and the first phanfic that I read on this website.
Forewarning – This story is currently rated T but that might change as it progresses. There will be mentions of abusive situations, profane language and explicit situations.
When sentences are in bold it means it is being sung by the characters, when they are italicised it means they are internal thoughts.
And lastly, this story differs greatly from that of the movie. It is set in present-day Paris, with my own OC. There will be mythical and magical elements that might seem a bit absurd, but this is a story I've been wanting to tell for a while, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it!
Chapter 1 - Overture
The Opéra Populaire never thought it would open its doors after the events of 1871. It had lay in disrepair and destitution for nearly two hundred years. During the French Revolution, it had been used as a base for the proletariat rebels to plan many of their conquests of Paris, to shelter arms and supplies. During the reign of Napoléon, attempts had been made to repair the once jewel of the city, but alas, work could never be completed – tales of shadowy figures haunting the long corridors, and a series of mysterious and horrific accidents left the endeavour abandoned. In the late stages of world war one, cattle were kept in its foyer, and in the war that followed decades later, a terrible dictator walked amongst its ruins, marvelling at what once had been. Then in 1991, plans were drawn up by a stout American architect who fell in love with the building upon first glancing it on a tour of the city. However, lack of sufficient funds and interest left the plans to gather dust in a storage box in an old government building. The American architect returned to Paris three years later, and has never been seen since. Then, in 2015, these plans resurfaced, and in a time of prosperity and plenty, it was decided that the Opéra would be pulled out from the shadows and restored to its former glory, and its light would once more be a beacon of culture and beauty. Well, when it was, a place of culture and beauty. In its final year, the Opéra Populaire came under new management, two men who had made their fortune in junk, forgive me, in scrap metal. Under they're guidance the Opéra suffered misfortune after misfortune until, after one disastrous evening there was a terrible fire in which seventeen people died. To this day, little accounts remain of that fateful night, and still historians are unsure of what exactly caused the fire. Some people to this day still claim, that a curse haunts the ill-fated building, a spectre known as
"Are you still writing that?" Zoe questioned, interrupting Aria's train of thought. The young woman looked up from her keyboard, glasses falling to the brim of her nose. "Well, it does need to be submitted tomorrow", she huffed in return.
Zoe rolled her eyes, brushing her short dark hair to the side of her neck, "You think they'd get an intern to do that crap", she mused.
Aria glared, "I am the intern".
"As I recall your official title is assisting supervisor of historical enquiry and restoration", she quipped with a sly smile.
"Which is just a fancy way of saying intern", Aria retorted, closing the laptop screen before her. She groaned as she stretched her creaking limbs, pushing her glasses up to rest on the top of her nose. "A brief summary of the Opéra's history for our esteemed curator Dr Burgan".
Zoe scoffed, "How that man ever achieved a doctorate, let alone a university degree, is beyond me".
Aria smirked, "According to M. Brodeur, Dr Burgan was a talented historian – that is before he discovered the joys of scotch and weed".
The two women shared a quizzical look before erupting into melodious laughter. Aria rose from her chair; her auburn hair fell loose from its braid. Zoe flicked her hair, it's dark tendrils seemed to glow in the setting September sun. "Are you coming out with us or what?" she finally asked her friend.
Aria gave her friend a small smile, "I do have to finish this for tomorrow".
Zoe rolled her eyes, "You need a life outside these dusty books and papers, you're twenty – not sixty-five".
"I also need a pay check", Aria retorted, "Paris isn't a cheap city to live in".
"Neither is London", Zoe raised an eyebrow, "You know I can always lend you the money".
Aria's lips drew into a thin line, "No", she replied firmly, "I can pay my own way".
"Why do poor people have to act so bloody noble?" Zoe laughed, critiquing her reflection in the mirror, she grimaced, and reapplied a fresh coat of lipstick.
"Why are rich people always so bloody carefree?" Aria shot back.
Zoe rolled her eyes, and threw up her hands, "I yield", she laughed, "Just try not to work too hard, okay?"
"Okay", Aria smiled, "Have a good time, ring me if you need me".
"Love you sweetie!" Zoe called, and threw on her jacket, the door slamming shot on the backs of her heels.
Aria shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. She breathed a long sigh, and then reopened her laptop. She stared at the word document, scanning quickly over her own words.
Some people to this day still claim, that a curse haunts the ill-fated building, a spectre known as
She laughed, deleting the last sentence, "There's no place for superstitious nonsense". Aria typed quickly, finishing the report within an hour and a half. The sun had set over the city, and Paris light up just outside her window. Aria finally closed her laptop in triumph, tucking it away in the bottom drawer of her desk. She walked briskly over to the dusty old fax machine that hid in the corner of her apartment study – she'd given up on calling it a living room, no living was done there. Just mountains upon mountains of work. She retrieved the document from the printer, scanning it once more with eagle-eyed precision, and slipped it into the outdated machine. It roared to life as its old bolts began churning, loud guttural moaning emitted as it worked. She picked up the attached dial phone, punching in the numbers carefully. The dial tone hummed in her ear, and she wrapped the cord anxiously around her forefinger. There was a crackle, and then a gruff voice spoke, "I told you already you damn bitch stop phoning me unless your willing to suck my cock".
"Dr Burgan!" Aria gasped quickly, "It's Miss Bell".
"Miss, uh, argh", he slurred, "Ah yes, Miss Bell, the ah, new girl", a prolonged coughing fit interrupted him.
"Sir?" Aria managed to whisper, her face drained of all colour.
"Yes, ah yes Miss, uh, Fell. What, what do you want?" he finally managed to moan.
"I was just phoning to let you know that I faxed you the report that you requested", Aria spoke gently.
"What report?" Dr Burgan snapped irritably.
Aria felt a pang of dismay. She quickly closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "The report on the history of the Opéra Populaire. You requested that it be sent before the outing to the site tomorrow".
There was a moment of silence, and what Aria thought she heard was a loud slurp and a swallow. "Oh, yes, yes to test your knowledge, to see if your worth the effort. Can't have halfwit doe eyed girls bumbling around", he murmured.
"No sir, you can't", Aria answered expressionlessly.
"Well, well that will be all Miss, uh, Fell, isn't it? Yes. I, uhm, expect to see you early in the morning".
"Yes sir", she replied, and she heard the monotonous dialling as his response. Aria paused, blank expression, and placed the phone gently on the hook. She walked forward gazing out onto the city below her. She could faintly see her own reflection out the window, slightly glowing in the warm lights of Paris. She leant forward ever slightly and sobbed. Aria quickly clamped her hand around her mouth, hoping to silence her own cries. She tried to get a handle on her breathing, a deep breath, hold, exhale.
Mustn't cry, mustn't fret I know it seems hard But I must not forget, Must not forget.
I'm here for a change Here for a fresh start To others it might seem strange But not to my heart.
Aria turned from her reflection, pounding to the centre of the room. Her room. Her home.
Here, despite my trials, Here despite my fears Here I will find freedom Erase all those darkened years
Here, in this city Here in this place A warmth I've never known At last a smiling face
Here! All what was disappears I'm not that girl anymore! I left her at the door!
Here! Finally, I have peace No more barring doors No more losing sleep
Here I can breathe, here, I can live.
No matter what that man does No matter how he treats me He will never hurt me Because, I am here
Aria smiled, feeing herself renewed. The tears had dried on her cheeks. She gazed upon the framed pictures on her mantel. Of her, Zoe, her University class – the new life that she had begun for herself. This is my chance, she thought. Years working at her university degree. Studying from dusk till dawn, forging rest, fun and leisure. Doing everything to ensure that she would stand out – that someone would notice her, and see the potential she had, and maybe, give her the opportunity to make a life for herself. Aria brushed her cheeks and went to her little bedroom. Small, cramped, but cosy, and with one of the most beautiful views that you would ever behold in your life. She dressed quickly for bed and lay down on the soft mattress. "Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I will be going to the Opéra House", she told herself, and turned out the light. In the dark, as sleep began to take hold of her, Aria thought for a moment, what was it that they called the supposed ghost again? I read it in one of the newspaper clippings … Oh yes, The Phantom of The Opera.