Inmate: –noun.

A person who is confined in a prison, hospital, etc.

Intimate: –adjective
Associated in close personal relations

Chapter One: To Catch a Ghost

"All I'm saying is that this whole situation is absurd, Meg," my mother grumbled, bringing over a tea kettle just at the point of boiling and pouring the scalding hot water into my teacup. My hair, still unbrushed and slightly tangled from bed, framed my face which was twisted down in an argumentative frown.

"I don't think you're getting my point. If the managers of the opera had listened to him, we might not be stuck in this predicament. We had a home there, and all we have now are a few belongings that weren't singed. If they'd only-," I began, but my mother cut me off.

"I see your point clearly enough," she said, walking with her own cup of tea and sitting down at the table. "I even agree with it! Those managers were fools and knew nothing of the theatre. I'm only agreeing that this is all absurd."

"Right," I nodded, picking up one slice of toast from my plate of breakfast foods. "But if we could have prevented their ignorance, would'nt we be in a better situation?"

"Yes. But the past can't be changed. We can't travel back in time and change the outcome of this... tragedy." Mother chose her words carefully, adding a lump of sugar to the hot tea. "I can't imagine why we're even arguing over this."

"Can't you see what I mean? We can't prevent that, but we can prevent further tragedies. Just imagine it, we can help organize a team to rebuild the opera, and we can make sure that some fools don't waltz in and take over again!" I proposed. My mother looked at me as if I were mad.

"You expect the two of us to rebuild and manage the Opera?"

"No, I expect the two of us to find people to rebuild the Opera for us. You don't understand, that place has been my only home!" I reasoned.

Mother looked down at her tea and sighed. "I know that you spent your whole life in the Opera, and that it's been your only setting. But maybe we can make the best out of this. You're nearly eighteen years old, and it's about time you had a change of scenery. Leaving everything behind will let us start over again."

"But I don't want to start over," I whined. "I want to rise up from this, not abandon an unfinished job."

"Listen, it's a good idea, Meg. But it's not possible. No respectable architect or construction man would speak to a poor widow and her daughter about rebuilding a half-burned, expensive building, even the Opera." My mother reached out and patted my hand, smiling a sad smile at me. "But it was a wonderful idea."

"Yes, mother," I only mumbled and took a small bite of my toast.

It was approximately two weeks and three days after Christine and Raoul had fled France, the Opera House was burned to the ground, and the Phantom of the Opera had perished beneath it. The whole matter was awful. Scandalous, even. I had'nt received word from any of my ballet friends, or anyone else from the Opera besides my mother, for that matter. The fire hadn't completely ruined the Opera, but it had burned enough to be deemed unusable and unsafe. Our rooms had been mostly untouched by the flames, but only so much of it was worth taking, or we could bare to carry ourselves. It wasn't as if we could hire labour to help us; We were poor as it was, and now with the extra cost of a small apartment, our financially stability wasn't the best.

My mother dropped the subject completely, and started talking about some scandal about a lawyer in England that she'd read in the newspaper. I didn't really mind losing the argument or having my proposition rejected. I had a Plan B anyway, that was going to be carried out against my mother's wishes or not. As my mother smiled, speaking of gossip and news, I thought of the newspaper in my top drawer, rolled up beside the mask. I'd found the mask when I'd followed a search party down to the lair of the Phantom. I couldn't dream of anyone I could trust to tell, and had wrapped it in my shirt until I found a baby-blue handkerchief to wrap it more formally in. It was now placed in the bottom of the top drawer of my dresser beside the newspaper, my only reminders of what happened that night. The article still burned fresh in my mind.

End of the Phantom's Story?

"As many of you may recall, there was an uproar at the Paris Opera House weeks ago, ending with the building burning nearly beyond repair, and rumours floating around of a vengeful Phantom who had been the cause. Some claim that he had appeared at the Opera that night, and had murdered the famous Tenor, Ubaldo Piangi. Those rumours can neither be confirmed or denied, though Piangi's body was found underneath the rubble of what used to be the crown jewel of France.

"Just two days ago, a team of investigators decided to put an end to the vicious gossip of that of a Phantom, venturing down into what seemed an unscathed area beneath the Opera house. They reported back that they were surprised to find a lake, and a few hurried to cross it.

"Not much else is known about the investigation, other than that policeman George Beaure was the one to discover a seemingly lifeless body.

"'It was a body, for sure, but it seemed dead at first,' said Beaure on the topic. 'I would have believed it to be an unfortunate chap who perished that night, but the body wasn't covered with all that nasty stuff that covers the dead. So I called to the others.'

"He shouted to the other men, and to their immense surprise, the unconscious man was barely alive. How he had survived so long under the rubble and ash is mind-blowing, and a mystery to all. The man was unusual, and one side of his face looks utterly destroyed. It shows flesh, bone, and deformity to it's highest extent. The man was identified as the very Phantom who had caused the uproar and burning of the Opera House just two weeks ago.

"This 'Phantom' was immediately arrested, but did not make any attempt to stop it from happening. He said nothing, and was reported to have been extremely weak. Who this man is, Phantom or not, is still under investigation, and the man is meanwhile being held in the La Santé Prison until further notice. Officials are deciding if this man will be hanged or to let him live, and say by the end of the month they are likely to have a printed statement. No word on whether repairs will be made on the Opera have been released."

I had kept the article to myself. It seemed almost personal, the topic of the Phantom. I used to have a crush on him when I was a little girl, and my mother told me stories about a brilliant man who was terribly treated and misunderstood. I'd pictured him as some heroic, mythical prince that no one but me could understand. Only when I grew up did I realize that my prince was real, not some bedtime fiction. Not only that, but he was far from a prince. He took the appearance of death, and was a selfish, rude man who demanded pay for using an Opera that was by no means his. I'd developed more of a fearful respect for him over the years. I knew my mother had some sort of trade with him, but I'd never dove into that kind of personal matter.

When I'd first learned of some mysterious angel singing to Christine, her rise to stardom, and her kidnap, my dreams of a prince were dashed to pieces, and a new horror story unfolded itself. Time passed, and as the horror grew, the more interested and intrigued I was. I wanted to know the whole story, and make sure that I played a role in designing the fate of it. When the Opera burned, only repulsion and hopelessness filled me. My only home was gone, and I'd have to start from a completely new slate. I'd thought the Phantom had died in the fire, or in some of the collapse, and it wasn't until I saw the article that I had any hope of restoring the Opera. I had a plan, and I was bound to see my plan work.

From the stories my mother told, I knew that the Phantom was an amazing architect, and had helped design some rebuilding and renovating by passing plans through my mother, who got them from a 'reliable source'. She used to speak of him as some angel, but from what I've seen, he seemed more of a devil to me. But who am I to say that? I've always been curious about crimes and criminals. Not only was I fascinated by the man and his tragic love story with Christine Daae, who hadn't returned any of his feelings, but I thought he might be able to help me.

Of course, getting him to help me might be a bit of a problem. I'm the daughter of my mother, so at least I have a bit of respect or acknowledgement from him. I also know a lot about him. His eyes gleam emerald when he's pleased, and seem to glow gold when he's furious. He composes Operas, that are often written under different stage names, then preformed by us at the former Opera Garnier. The Phantom is quieter than a ghost, and if he was in the same room as you, you wouldn't have noticed. That always gave me chills, to think that a strange man could pop up behind me at any given time. I also knew that he was lonely down there, stuck in his own little world. There was a good chance he was mad, but I was willing to deal with insanity.

Supposing I got him to agree with rebuilding the Opera, where would we find the means or materials? Could we find cheap labour? Surely, even if the plans are brilliant and some of the most well laid out, work won't be free. All of this under my mother's nose seemed impossible, but it was merely improbable. With dedication, I thought I had a good chance. And then, there was that crazy idea I'd come up with... helping the Phantom escape prison.

Don't get me wrong. I've never been one to break the law, or even my mother's rules (too often). But all the excitement that had been caused in this past month alone couldn't just end. It felt like I was alive for the first time, always fearful and never knowing what could happen next. Maybe I didn't want to move to another home than the Opera, but living on the edge like that felt... good. Adventurous, exciting! I'd loved it, even the horror that had come from it. Only a very well written horror novel could top a romance, and I believed this story had both. I didn't want it to end. So why not urge it to continue? We could open the Opera again, and the legacy of the Phantom might continue on.

"Meg?" my mother asked.

"Hmm? Sorry, what?" I replied, shaking my head from my own thoughts.

"I asked if you had any dreams last night," my mother repeated with a curious smile.

I smiled back. I kept a dream journal by my bedside, and my mother knew I recorded everything my whimsical mind thought up. "Nothing last night, sorry to disappoint." It was the truth, although the night before that, I'd had a dream of my mother turning into a snake and trying to suck the life out of me. She'd only laughed at that and pretended to squeeze my arm.

I wasn't too much of an exciting girl, other than that. I danced, which was maybe my best feature. I was skilled in ballet, and other sorts of dancing were a bit foreign to me. I had straight blond hair that became slightly wavy in the heat and didn't tangle easily, and I didn't want to sound arrogant, but I rather liked the shape my body took. I was an avid reader, and preferred horror, romance, and mystery to medical or non-fiction stories. I knew just a bit of Latin, not too much, but I could maybe read one or two children's books in the language. I was working on my English, but French was much easier than the two. I was so thankful that I could recover my dream journal, and continued writing down my dreams. Other than that, there wasn't anything exceptional about me. My voice was only so-so, but I was usually good enough at dancing that my voice could be overlooked and I'd be cast in the chorus.

I did have dreams outside of my unconscious mind, though. I dreamed about my future, about what would happen when I finally reached adulthood. I was nearly eighteen, and was still living with my mother. My mother is kind, and won't force me into marriage or kick me out, but I knew in my heart that she'd love nothing more than to have some rich man sweep me off my feet and take me away. Personally, I couldn't see myself in that sort of future. Although I was a bit of a romantic, I was always much too independent for my own good that I always shied away from suitors or men who showed interest in me. I'd love nothing more than to become a famous dancer, or an author. My mother knew I loved to read, and knew that I wrote a bit, but I don't think she knew quite how much I wrote. I'd been working on a novel for three years, but only occasionally worked on it since I barely had any time to myself, or I'd put it out of my mind. It was a mystery novel, and the tragedy at the Opera had only inspired my creativity. If I could get to know the Phantom, or at least get him to open up, it would help my stories immensely. Imagine Meg Giry's account of The Phantom's Terror! I'd be a best-seller! My mind was already set that I was going to see the Phantom, and I'd scheduled that appointment with myself for today.

I had plans for after breakfast. I'd brush my hair, put on a suitable dress, and tell mother I was going out for a walk. I'd then catch a cab and make my way to the La Santé, where he was being held. The least he could do was talk to me. Sure, I was terrified, but I knew that a few minutes of being scared would be worth it if I could get him to help rebuild the Opera house. I'd bring his mask, to show that I intended no harm and hopefully as some sort of peace offering.

I was utterly mad. I kept telling myself that. Most of the world who'd heard of him concluded him to be a criminal, an utter vagabond and scum that deserved to be hung. But I knew there was more to the Phantom's story, and knew that if anyone could get the whole story, it'd have to be me.

With a slight sigh, I stood up from my chair and brought my now-empty plate to the sink where one of us would eventually do the dishes. My mother raised an eyebrow. "Not going to finish your tea?"

"I'm in the mood for a walk, actually. If you'll excuse me," I said, walking off towards the bathroom to wash up and get dressed. When I'd finally taken care of myself and looked presentable, I laced up a pair of dainty boots and slipped on a warm coat. I left my hair down, since it was chilly and I knew my ears would be cold if I didn't let my hair be their blanket. I smiled in the mirror, and found a young woman full of hope and ideas, half of which were impossible, staring back. It was a long shot, but I'd never have a chance at achieving my dream if I didn't take a risk or two. So with that, I made my way to the front door, hugged and kissed my mother a quick goodbye, and slipped out the door.

I hurried on my way, quickly hailing a horse-drawn cab to take me to the prison, where I was about to try to talk a criminal into escaping from jail. The driver that sat atop the cab wore a top hat and was dressed as finely as a poor cab driver could. His eyes sparkled with some sort of mischief, and asked in a confident voice, "Where to, mademoiselle?"

"The La Santé, if you'd please," I responded, and climbed in. I closed the door, and with the crack of the reigns, the horses started off, their hooves clopping against the stone road. I pulled my coat closer to my body and shivered, though I wasn't sure if I shivered from the cold, mid-Feburary weather or my heart pounding with nervousness and thrilling excitement of breaking the rules.