Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera in any way, shape, or form. I've had this story bouncing around in my head for about a year now, so I've finally decided to write it down. This is my first fanfic ever, so please read and review! Any constructive feedback would be warmly appreciated.
Christine was wandering the halls beneath the theater of Beaumont Preparatory Academy, and she couldn't remember why. Each twist and turn brought her into another section of empty hallway, the dim corridors familiar yet strangely unrecognizable. Something tugged at her memory as she took another turn, quickening her pace. She was…looking for someone. Yes, that was it. Someone had been calling her name, but the voice had faded quickly into a strange, lilting kind of music, like the strains of a piano, only sharper and clearer. The music echoed down the hallways, teasing her forward with notes that seemed discordant and harmonious at the same time. She swerved down one hallway only to double back again, confused; the music was enchanting yet elusive, fading away again just as she thought she was about to find the source.
She was looking for someone. Of that much she was certain. But who? There was a sudden surge in the melody as the music grew louder, and Christine began running to keep up. She turned another corner and found herself in the hallway that housed the choir room, even though she knew that the choir room was on the other side of the theater. Yet there was the door: Room 211. The music, throbbing and painfully sweet, was definitely coming from inside.
Slowly, Christine nudged the door open. The room was spacious and circular, with a wooden floor and a high, vaulted ceiling to enhance the sound quality. Rows of built-in benches followed the curve of the wall on one side of the room, while a raised platform stood on the other side. Various instruments and equipment were scattered around the edges of the platform, but the grand piano stood in the center, its smooth, polished surface shining in the light. A man was sitting at the piano bench, his long fingers trailing over the piano keys faster than she could follow.
Christine was suddenly inside the room, drawn by the hypnotic melody. The man was dressed in a trim black suit that seemed both old fashioned and stylish at the same time, and he was playing with his back to her. Breathlessly she moved towards him, afraid to break the absorbed intensity with which he played. The music pulsed all around her, filling her soul with a sensation that was glorious and heartbreaking at once. Without knowing why, she stretched out her hand, wanting to touch him, wanting to tell him—
At that moment the music abruptly stopped and the man twisted around to face her. Christine fell back in shock, her eyes wide, her hands flying to her mouth to muffle a scream. Although the man seemed normal in every other respect, there was only an empty, gaping black hole where his face should have been.
***
Christine awoke with a start. She froze, staring into the darkness in confusion. The only illumination came from her digital clock, broadcasting 2:49 AM in an eerie red glow. Slumping back against her pillows, Christine pressed a hand to her feverish forehead, trying to calm her breathing.
Another dream. From her very first week at Beaumont Prep, she had been plagued by dreams almost every night. Usually, her dreams would start out normally enough—which for her meant that they were bizarre. But ever since Meg had told her that stupid story, her strange, nonsensical dreams would always end in the same way: she would find herself in the hallways beneath the theater, led by otherworldly music, searching for someone unknown. Normally, she just wandered in the dreams, waking up before she could find the source of the sound. Christine shuddered, remembering her most recent vision—tonight had been the first time that she'd actually found the mysterious musician. It was not an experience that she would like to repeat.
Turning over, Christine peeked at her roommate, who was just visible by the glow of the clock. Meg's arm was slung across her head, her short, cropped hair in wild disarray. Sleeping soundly, as usual. Christine made a wry face in Meg's direction. After all, it was Meg who had insisted on telling her all of the juicy details of the theater haunting, eagerly gushing about the fact that their new home was rumored to have its own resident ghost. Sinking into a whisper for effect, she had enthusiastically informed Christine that several of the dorm's former residents boasted that they had seen the ghost themselves. Some described seeing a skeletal figure with a pale, smooth face like a skull, which could appear and disappear at will. Others simply described an ominous dark shadow moving freely down the corridors. Christine had pretended interest for Meg's sake, but the truth was that she didn't really believe it; those girls had just been trying to scare new residents of the dorm, and Meg had fallen for it.
With a sigh, Christine gazed into the darkness, her eyes catching on the barely visible features of the room. The room that they had been assigned had once been a classroom of the theater department, but the Academy had transformed the floor beneath the theater into a girl's dormitory for lack of space. Meg had been elated over their room assignment; as an irreclaimable "theater kid" whose mother worked for the school's drama department, Meg was delighted to be one step closer to the place she called her "true home." Christine hadn't been so sure; the theater was a place of constant activity, and the walls of the two-hundred-year-old building were paper thin. More than once she had been driven to search for a quieter place to study because she could hear the drama students rehearsing a play, the dance team practicing a routine, or the choir belting it out down the hallway.
Sighing again, Christine risked another glance at the clock and groaned. 3:05 AM. She would pay for her sleeplessness in the morning.
Settling back onto her pillows, Christine had just closed her eyes when she heard it. She sat bolt upright in bed, her breath caught in her throat, her ears straining. Silence. There was nothing. No…no, wait…there was something. Sitting perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, Christine could make out the faintest strains of music from beyond the door. The melody was so thin she could hardly believe she was hearing it, but just as she thought it was only her imagination the sound would come again, unmistakable this time.
Oh God. Was it possible? Was she still asleep? Christine vigorously pinched her legs and arms. She stared around the room again to make sure everything was in its proper place. No, she was definitely awake, yet the song played on, soft and sinisterly beautiful. The strangest part was that, although she thought she could hear a slight echo of the music coming from the hallways, the majority of the melody seemed to come—impossibly—from below the floor.
Christine fought the sudden urge to get up, yank the door open, and storm through the theater until she discovered the real source of the melody once and for all. To prove that she was awake, to prove that she wasn't going crazy. But just as she was about to climb out of bed, the terrifying images from her recent dream came flooding back to her—the empty hallways, the music leading her onward. The man with no face. She froze, torn by indecision while the music whispered on, as if to mock her. In the end, the memory of the dim corridors ending in that blank, staring face proved too much for her. Flopping backwards onto her bed, Christine squeezed her eyes shut, pulling the covers up over her ears to block out the lilting, hypnotic sound.
***
Someone was calling her name.
"Christine. Christine. Oh for heaven's sake, Chris, wake up!"
A worn stuffed animal bounced off the top of Christine's head. She groaned, squinting in the glare of the morning sun. Meg stood at her bedside, looking down at her with an amused expression. As usual, she was dressed to the height of her quirky fashion sense: her ears were studded with multiple piercings, her wrists heaped with bangles, her school uniform accessorized by fishnet tights, combat boots, and pins spouting messages like "Hug Trees" and "No Meat." Meg winked at Christine over her rhinestone-studded glasses.
"Morning, sunshine. You better hurry up, or you're going to be late for class."
"What time is it?" Christine mumbled blearily.
"Time for you to get up," Meg chirped. She did a spin, throwing out her arms and striking a pose. "Well? How do I look?"
"Fabulous, as always."
Meg smiled. "Thanks. Auditions for the school musical are today, and I need to look my best." Her eyes widened with excitement. "Hey! You should come try out!"
"Um, I don't think so Meg. Performing isn't really my thing…I get too nervous. And I don't sing."
Meg waved her hand dismissively. "Sure you do. Everyone can sing. Here—sing me something. The first song that comes to your mind."
"No, really, I—,"
"C'mon! Just one song."
Christine hesitated, then shrugged. "You asked for it," she warned. Then she began a tentative, wavery chorus of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." As she sang Meg's optimistic smile faded into a kind of politely blank grimace. She winced as Christine's voice cracked on the last note.
"Well," she said finally. "I stand corrected." Christine tossed the stuffed animal back at her and she ducked, grinning playfully.
Midway through a stretch and a yawn, the events of last night came rushing back into Christine's thoughts. She glanced quickly at Meg, wondering if she should confide in her, ask her if she heard anything, any music—but Meg was busy applying her lipstick in the mirror, humming a snatch of some show tune. Christine shook her head and threw the covers back, moving deliberately in order to clear the strange night from her mind. She needed to focus on the day, on reality rather than dreams.
Smacking her lips, Meg flashed Christine a smile. "Well, I'm off. Wish me luck!"
"Good luck. You'll do wonderfully."
"Thanks. I sure hope so." With a final glance in the mirror, Meg flounced off to her first morning session in the theater classes above.
Christine checked the clock and sighed. She doubled her speed as she washed and dressed, praying that she wouldn't be late to Professor's Najafi's class; she didn't want to ruin her perfect attendance record. She paused for the briefest moment in front of the mirror, scrutinizing her reflection. As usual, she could barely manage the dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders, bunching into halfhearted waves rather than complete curls. Her hazel-green eyes looked tired and slightly glassy from lack of sleep. Frowning, Christine straightened her uniform: a white, collared shirt under a mauve sweater stamped with the school insignia, complete with a grey pleated skirt. She thought that the requirement of school uniforms was somewhat ridiculous; she could study just as easily in a simple T-shirt and jeans. Contenting herself with the thought that the weekend's approach meant that she could wear her normal clothes, Christine grabbed her backpack and headed out the door.
Her several minute walk to the English building in the crisp autumn air helped to clear her head. The morning sun shone brightly on the neatly manicured lawns, the stylishly restored campus buildings. Mrs. Giry had told her that construction crews had been working all summer to update and preserve the centuries-old structures, and that they looked better than ever. The only building that had not yet been renovated was the theater, which Christine thought was strange, considering the fact that it functioned as a dormitory as well as a performance space. It was probably just her luck.
All around her, students were hurrying to their classes, laughing and chatting as they walked in groups of twos and threes. A pair of blond girls in perfectly pressed uniforms brushed past Christine, commenting animatedly on one of the girls' new Prada bag. Christine cringed inside, fighting a sudden wave of loneliness as she watched them pass.
Even though several weeks had passed since the beginning of school, Christine couldn't shake the feeling that she was out of place in the pristine settings of Beaumont Prep. The two main differences between herself and the majority of Beaumont's student body were simple: most Beaumont students had money and lots of it, and most had a family to support them. Christine had neither. She knew that it was only by the influence of Mrs. Giry and the extremity of her own social situation that she had even gained admittance to the Academy in the first place. Although Mrs. Giry and Meg had been wonderful, taking her into their family and setting her up at a new school, they simply could not compare to what she had lost in the past year, how her father—
Christine clenched her hands into fists. No. She would not do this. It was a beautiful day—a new day, a new start. She would not dwell on the past, not now. Forcibly blanking her mind of anything but her upcoming class, she reached the newly revamped English building and stepped inside.
Professor Najafi's journalism course was without doubt Christine's favorite class, as well as her hardest. Ever since she was a child, she had dreamed of becoming a hard-hitting journalist, the kind of intrepid and savvy writer that could get the real story behind events that most people only heard about on TV. She fantasized about traveling from city to city, interviewing everyone from politicians to construction workers about their lives and perspectives, and reporting the most current, breaking events to the public.
She smiled self-consciously to herself as she walked up the stairs, then grimaced as she thought of the article she was about to turn in. She could already imagine the headline: "Campus Switch to Eco-Friendly Light Bulbs Saves Energy." Not exactly riveting material. Aside from the new renovations and a few incidences with bathroom graffiti, almost nothing of importance had occurred on Beaumont's campus so far. It was a fact that Christine found incredibly frustrating; she needed to report real news if she was going to win the S. F. Warner Journalism Competition. S. F. Warner was the most prestigious contest for high school journalists in the nation, and the winner would not only be awarded a one thousand dollar scholarship, but would also be offered an internship at The New York Times. Christine's heart thrilled at the thought of it, her ultimate dream.
She just needed a story, a good story.
Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Christine strolled into Professor Najafi's classroom, experiencing again the fleeting sensation of being under an unpleasant spotlight: after weeks she still hadn't shaken the stigma of "new girl," a fact that was verified by the curious and appraising glances thrown at her from several students. She slipped quickly into her seat, concentrating on rearranging her class materials as conversations floated easily around her, without her.
Beside her, a handsome boy with dark curly hair—what was his name? Raoul? Yes, maybe that was it—was laughing at something the attractive blond next to him had whispered. As he shifted in his seat to get closer to her, his elbow knocked into Christine's carefully organized notebooks, nearly sending the whole pile into her lap. Several pencils went skittering to the floor, but his gaze barely flicked over her in acknowledgement. Throwing a quick "sorry" over his shoulder, he turned back to the blond girl. Christine stared at his back, one eyebrow raised, but he didn't turn back around. Well. Okay then.
As she picked up her pencils and straightened her books for the second time, Professor Najafi walked to the front of the room, motioning for silence. Christine felt fairly certain that if she hadn't already been dead-set on journalism as a profession, Najafi could have convinced her. With his dark, long-lashed eyes, his easy smile, and his Middle-Eastern complexion, he was without doubt the most handsome teacher in the school. Although he was not much older than his students—twenty-six or twenty-seven, at most—he had already worked for the Times as well as for CNN. When he spoke, his voice had an air of authority that commanded attention. It was in this voice that he turned and addressed the class.
"I've graded your articles from last week and made my comments on them. Revisions are due to me by Friday, so you should start working on them as soon as possible. Also, on the board I have written the names of the three students who received the top scores, as examples of excellent work."
Najafi gestured to the white board, where three names were scrawled in his neat, looping handwriting. He tapped the name at the top of the list. "And even though she has made the list consecutively for several weeks, one student has moved up a spot to become the new class champ: Miss Christine Daae, for her exemplary article on the renovations being done to the administration building, which we will feature on the newspaper's cover." He offered her a warm smile. "Congratulations, Christine."
Throughout the room, brief though encouraging applause accompanied his words. Christine returned his smile fully, although she could feel her cheeks warming. As she looked down at her hands in pleased embarrassment, she caught Raoul staring at her out of the corner of her eye; his expression was caught somewhere between disbelief and cold irritation. Surprised, she returned his stare fully, wondering what his problem was. Clenching his jaw, his eyes moved back to the board. Christine uneasily followed his gaze, and realized: for the first time since school began, her name was written above his. She looked back at him, torn between savoring her victory and the strange desire to apologize. But Raoul refused to look at her, his eyes pointedly forward, his hands folded to hide his agitation.
Before Christine could think about Raoul's reaction any further, Najafi was standing in front of her, ready to collect her current article. After all of the writing had been turned in, he moved to the board, snapping open a marker as he did so.
"Alright then. The next issue of the Beaumont Chronicle is coming up, and we need fresh ideas for the paper. Any stories out there?"
The blond girl raised her hand. "What about the annual Fall Ball? It's just a couple weeks away, and I know someone who's on the planning committee."
Najafi scrawled her idea on the board. A boy in the back row spoke up about a string of bike thefts that had occurred recently on campus, which Najafi duly noted.
Christine sat silently while possible stories were discussed, staring into space. A strange notion was forming in the back of her mind, spurred by her sleepless night, by her mysterious dream. The more she thought about it, the more fascinating the idea seemed. Finally, she raised her hand.
"Yes Christine?"
"What about...the theater ghost?" Side conversations halted abruptly, and a few appreciative ooh's slithered through the room, accompanied by a couple snickers. Najafi blinked.
"What theater ghost?"
"You know, the 'ghost' that supposedly haunts the campus theater. There's a whole legend about it. It might be interesting to find out how the legend got started, or if there really is…" She paused, thinking of last night, uncertain of her word choice. "…something there. I live in the dormitory down below, and I've heard—"
"Please," Raoul cut in, his voice thick with disdain. "The 'theater ghost'? You want to do a story about some urban myth?"
"It's a part of school history, right?" Christine retorted defensively. "What's the problem with it?"
"The problem is that it's an unfounded story that's been floating around for years. It's old news."
"Its old news that hardly anyone knows a thing about," she shot back. "I think it would make a really intriguing interest piece."
"Well, personally, I think it would be a disservice to our valuable readership," Raoul drawled coolly. "The journalistic integrity of our whole newspaper could be jeopardized if we start printing rumors."
Christine's eyes narrowed. Her voice grew cold. "Are you actually suggesting that I would want to publish rumors in the paper?"
Raoul raised his eyebrows at her. "Hey, it was your story idea. Not mine."
Christine stared at him in disbelief, feeling her fury build. She had just opened her mouth to speak when Najafi interrupted.
"Stop right there." His voice carried the authority that seemed to outweigh his years, stilling them instantly. He strode to the front row.
Turning to Raoul, he said, "Mr. Charwell, I would like to remind you that this is a constructive class setting. We are here to support one another's creativity, not to belittle each other's ideas. I expect you to have more respect for your classmates in the future."
Raoul nodded once and shifted his sullen gaze to the floor. Najafi turned to Christine. "Miss Daae, I appreciate you sharing your idea with the class, but I'm afraid that Mr. Charwell's point—no matter how poorly expressed—is correct: the Beaumont Chronicle is simply not the place for urban legends."
"Yes, I appreciate that, but—"
"The answer is no," Najafi said firmly. He shot an appraising look over the two of them. Lowering his voice so that only they could hear, he said "And I would like to speak with both of you after class."
Turning around, he resumed his post at the white board, and after a tentative silence the students began offering other story ideas. For Christine, the rest of the hour passed in a slow, infuriated blur. She fixed her eyes silently to the board, her hands pressed to her burning cheeks as she concentrated on not looking, not even glancing at the boy next to her. More than once, she curled her fingernails into her palms, fixating on the pain and anger that was welling up as she dug them into her flesh, briefly imagining what it would be like to dig her nails into Raoul's head. At last, the bell tower that capped the administration building tolled the hour, and the students gratefully fled from their seats. As soon as the last person had disappeared, Christine and Raoul approached their professor's desk, still steadfastly avoiding each other's gaze. Najafi leaned back in his chair, surveying them for a moment before he spoke.
"There is one story that was not discussed in class that still needs to be worked on. The fall musical is coming up—Jekyll and Hyde, I believe—and I think we'll do a feature. One of you will need to interview the crew: delve into the technical aspects of producing a play, the behind-the-scenes parts that the audience usually doesn't hear about. The other will need to interview the cast and the directors. The two of you will collaborate on a final review."
Raoul's eyes widened. "You want me to work with her?" he spat incredulously.
"You want me to work with him?" Christine echoed, matching his expression. Najafi nodded, his face unreadable.
"The play goes up in a month, and I expect a complete feature story on my desk the following week. I'll warn you," he continued, "your grade depends on this article. You'll need to work closely together if you're going to do it right. Are we all clear on that?"
"Fine," Raoul ground out. "Is that all?" Najafi nodded demurely. His face a mask of hardened anger, Raoul swerved around, snatched up his backpack, and strode through the door without a second glance.
Christine was slower, taking time to collect her books and papers. She paused as she slipped the last item into her bag, the idea of the "theater ghost" still nagging at her mind. Maybe it was just her pride that made her hold onto it, or maybe she wanted to validate herself after she had been all but accused of wanting to spread rumors. But deep down, Christine knew that there was more to it than that. Something about the way Najafi had dismissed her story so quickly irked her in more than a personal way—it simply wasn't like him to turn down article ideas so completely, especially one with mystery potential. And then there was last night; she had heard music, she was sure of it. Strange dreams aside, there had been something or someone there, in that theater.
Suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to find out what. Or who.
She slowly approached Najafi's desk.
"Umm, Professor?"
He looked up from the stack of paperwork he'd been working on. "Yes, Christine?"
Christine faltered, but pressed on. "Look, I'm sorry to keep going on about this. I'm not trying to be a nuisance, I'm really not. But…I have a strong gut feeling about this "theater ghost" story, and you always tell us to go with our gut instincts as journalists. I don't know why I feel this way…but I do." Najafi was watching her closely, and Christine struggled for the right words. "It's just that…I live beneath the theater, and I've heard about all of the strange things that go on there. And then last night—I thought I heard—music. Music, coming from beneath the floor at three AM."
She shifted uncomfortably under his steady gaze. "I know it sounds silly, crazy even, but I really think that something is going on there."
Najafi leaned back in his chair. When he spoke, his voice was weary. "Christine," he sighed, "you're an excellent journalist. Really, in all my years of teaching here, you're one of the best I've seen. But this story—," he paused, shaking his head. "It just won't work, Christine."
"Why not?" she demanded, but he held up a hand to silence her.
"It just won't. We don't print legends, no matter how interesting. We print news, facts." Turning attention back to the papers in front of him, Najafi forced a laugh. "Besides, if there is a theater ghost, I'm sure he doesn't want to be found and interviewed."
Christine stared at him for several seconds. "He?"
Her professor froze. When he looked back at up her, there was a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes, which was quickly replaced by an intensity that she had never seen in him before. He leaned forward, as if were trying to impart a message to her in his gaze.
"Don't pursue this, Christine." His voice held all of the command that he had used earlier, but there was something else there too, something that was almost pleading. "Let it go. Stay in the proper parts of the theater, and write the story that I assigned you. Do you understand?"
Christine nodded, taken off guard by his expression. After a moment's awkward silence, she bid him goodbye, picked up her things, and gratefully made her escape.
Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think!