DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything even remotely affiliated with the Phantom of the Opera including but not limited to: Gaston's book, Susan Kay's book, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Musical works, etc.
Erik arrived at his manor on the outskirts of London, England just after midnight. As he steered his carriage toward the desolate looking place, he realized that he had forgotten just how large the house was. The rusted gate showed no traces of its once splendid visage as it shuttered against the blustery wind. The trees in the front yard had grown tall and overgrown with age almost entirely covering the roof of the three story manor. The once plentiful and immaculately groomed shrubs and gardens were now covered in weeds and remnants of the once glorious rose bushes. The path too had grown weary with age as the once brick-lined entryway was now covered with piles of leaves and dirt. It had once been such a grand place.
Erik shuttered as he remembered his childhood home. Even though he was forced to live away from his uncaring and ashamed family in a small, desolate room in the west wing, he had a full knowledge of this house. He would sneak out after everyone had gone to sleep and roam the gardens. His family cemetery lay just beyond his mother's backyard gardens. He remembered how he felt that it was the only place that he could run to.
Their voices trailed through his mind. He remembered the mornings when his younger sisters would observe their music lessons in the music room just below his own dreary bedchamber. Secretly, he would attend their lessons with them through a small hole in his floorboards. He could hear his younger brother screeching to get is way so that their wealthy father would buy him a new toy. Erik hated his siblings for getting the love and attention from his parents that he only dreamed of having. He remembered his mother pushing him away as he begged for her to hold him as she yelled that she was not his mother. The voices kept growing and growing until Erik let out a deranged scream into the unyielding night.
He had half a mind to turn around and leave this place, but he knew he had nowhere to go. He was a wanted fugitive in France, and even if he could find another house to buy with the substantial savings he had inside the carriage, he knew that he had nowhere to go tonight. The weeks of travel had taken a toll on his worn-out body. He yearned for nothing more than a soft bed to sleep in with or without the painful memories of his past.
His thoughts were once again filled with emotion as he remembered the fateful day when he received an unsigned letter, during his stay in Persia, informing him that his family had been killed in a shipwreck off the coast of Scotland. Although his heart felt no sense of loss for his wretched family, he was left with confusion as to why he had received the letter at all and how the sender knew his whereabouts. The envelope contained no return address or crest informing him of the origin. It merely noted the death of his family and the announcement that Erik was now the new Lord of Devonshire. Cursing his family for selling him as a slave to the gypsies, he vowed that he would never return to his childhood life. With that promise, he tucked the letter away in his private box and never thought about it again except on the night of the Opera fire.
He held the tattered paper in his hand as he once more looked upon the property. Even the abundant apple orchard to the east did not lift his spirits. He knew that no matter what horrid memories he had of this place, no one would ever find him here for this place had been long forgotten.
So, he geared his horses toward the stables knowing that he would never escape his past.
