Well, here it is. The moment you've all been waiting for. The first chapter of the new edition of Trapdoor is here. Now with better writing and a hopefully less contrived plot.

I hope you enjoy!

Creak.

Amelia Pond startled at the noise that reached her ears through the clamor of the ballet girls, fingers stilling where they were caught in the ribbons of her toe shoes. She glanced warily up at the wall behind her, brow furrowed. Had the noise been her imagination, or…?

Testing the waters, Amelia gingerly pushed her shoulders harder into the dressing room wall –

No, there it was again. The wall gave a faint squeak, and the hard paneling shifted ever so slightly, as though she were leaning against a closed door. The sound made her heart skip in some strange combination of excitement and fear, and she untangled her fingers from her shoes, rising quickly and turning to stare at the wall.

Amelia had never known her parents and had no siblings, and her aunt Sharon was a cross, moody woman with whom Amelia had never gotten along well. Amelia had been dancing all her life, and now, at nineteen years old, she had finally managed to get a place in the corps de ballet at the Opera Populaire, which had been her dream for years. She had always wanted to leave her aunt's flat and dance for the people of Paris, and with her fanciful teenager's mind, she had thought she might have adventures on the way.

It had only been three days since Amelia joined the crew of the Opera Populaire, and she was already discovering secrets about the place. A small smile teased her lips, and her eyes roamed over the seemingly innocuous wall.

"Amy?"

The voice made her jump a little, and she turned, broken out of her reminiscence, to see that the dressing room had emptied save for a petite brunette named Clara. She stood at the threshold of the room in her dressing gown, watching Amy stare at the wall with a quizzical look in her dark eyes.

"Amy, are you coming?" Clara pressed gently. "You know Madame Giry gets angry if we aren't in bed on time."

"Yes, I just… forgot something," Amy lied quickly, flashing a smile at her. "I'll be right along. You go on ahead."

Clara nodded, although her lips were pursed. "Don't forget to blow out the lamps," she reminded her before slipping out and shutting the door, leaving Amy alone in the wide room.

As soon as the door clicked into place, Amy's fingertips were skimming the wall eagerly, feeling for ridges that might indicate the outline of a door. There was every possibility that it had just been the wall that creaked, but she was determined to find out for sure. She pressed her ear to the wall, frowning, and gave it an experimental knock.

The sound echoed, and her frown deepened. There was hollow space behind the wall, she could hear it. But how was she supposed to open it?

She felt along the wall again, searching for a way to open it. Come on, come on, please… she begged silently.

Eventually, her fingers slipped into a shallow groove that was a little too large and perfectly circular to be simply a nick in the paneling. She pressed against it, and with another loud creak the wall opened up into an inky black corridor.

Amy stood just inside the mouth of the tunnel, her pulse jumping in her throat. Her eyes widened as she peered into the darkness, but there was nothing there. She didn't even know how far it went.

This is stupid, Amelia, the logical part of her brain whispered, the one that sounded suspiciously like her aunt Sharon. It's not too late for you to close the door and forget about it. Stop being such a foolish little girl.

Shut up, she told it fiercely, and took a step.

The first step emboldened her, and she took another, still in her toe shoes. As she walked slowly down the corridor, the back of her neck started to prickle uncomfortably, the fine hairs there standing on end. Her long ginger hair was pulled up in a bun, and she thought she could feel cold air brush against her exposed neck.

It was just her imagination, she reasoned with herself. Or a draft from the open door behind her.

Indeed, she had left the door open, but the dim light from the lamps in the dressing room was getting farther and farther away as she proceeded into the darkness. Her uneasiness was mounting, tensing her muscles and making her palms sweat.

Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her, and she was engulfed in blackness.

Amy stopped dead in her tracks, terror paralyzing her for an instant before she whirled around uselessly in the darkened corridor. There was a curse caught on the tip of her tongue, only held back by a sense of propriety brought about by the near-certainty of the fact that she was no longer alone… if she ever had been.

So who had closed the door?

Her question was answered a moment later when a gorgeous tenor voice echoed around her, coming from everywhere and nowhere, filling the space like no voice she had ever heard before. "You dare come here? Do you know whose realm you have entered, mademoiselle?"

Amy swallowed the lump of fear in her throat, eyes darting around searchingly, though to no avail. "No, I don't, actually," she stated boldly. "Who are you?"

There was a dangerous silence that seemed to last several minutes but probably only lasted a few seconds, in which Amy's heart pounded so hard that she felt it was going to burst out of her chest.

"I am the Opera Ghost," the voice said finally, "or the Phantom of the Opera."

Amy rolled her eyes. God, someone's got a flair for the dramatic, she thought. Aloud, she said, "That's still not ringing a bell for me, monsieur. You'll have to excuse my ignorance. I'm new here, you see."

The silence that followed carried less tension, but it was no less uncomfortable. "Do you not read the papers, mademoiselle?" the voice – the Phantom – asked her, sounding genuinely puzzled and considerably less threatening.

Shrugging, Amy pursed her lips. "No, I don't make a habit of it. Is there some kind of scandal associated with you, Monsieur le Fantome?"

A low growl reverberated through the tunnel, sending chills up Amy's spine. "I should kill you for your trespassing, not to mention your insolence, mademoiselle," said the Phantom. "I have done worse to others for lesser reasons."

"Well, that's true," Amy admitted flippantly, glad her steady voice did not betray her trembling hands. "You won't, though, will you, monsieur?"

The Phantom chuckled darkly. "And just why do you think that?" he questioned, an amused tone affecting his words.

Amy lifted her chin. "For starters, you don't even know my name."

This time, the silence was so drawn-out that she thought perhaps he had gone. Letting out a breath that she had barely even been conscious of holding, she turned to leave, only to be stopped by a leather-gloved hand clamping around the back of her neck.

She yelped, struggling to twist around and face her attacker, but her efforts were in vain. The Phantom simply held her tighter, until his grip was like iron, making her hiss through her teeth in pain.

"Let go of me," she said.

To her surprise, he released her, although not for long. His hand dropped to her waist and slid around until his arm encircled her, and she felt herself being drawn close to him.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked, doing her best not to be terrified.

The Phantom merely sighed, and she felt his breath against her ear in a way that was just slightly unsettling. "Quite frankly, you intrigue me, and I'd like to find out why," he said. "What is your name, mademoiselle?"

She could see no harm in telling him. After all, he had her in a rather delicate position. It was probably best to do what he asked. "Amelia Pond, monsieur," she introduced herself. "In all honesty, I'm actually quite pleased to make your acquaintance, although I'm sorry I can't curtsy."

"I shall forgive you on that count, Amelia Pond," he said, and she could hear the hint of a smile in his voice. "Your transgression, on the other hand…"

Amy bit her lip. "Not still thinking about killing me, are you?" she asked, her voice only trembling slightly on the last phrase.

"Not just now," the Phantom answered, and she might've thought he was teasing her if she hadn't been so on edge.

"Well, let's hope you don't change your mind anytime in the near future. I'm a bit young to die," she said. "And just starting my career, too."

He chuckled again, but the sound died after a moment. When he spoke again, he had grown serious once more. "I do not wish to hurt you, but do not let me catch you here again, Amelia Pond."

The use of her full name, perhaps meant to be unnerving, only served as a boost to her curiosity. "But what if I want to come back?" she asked, a bit childishly.

"I suppose then you would have to disobey me, and then where would we be?" he said, his voice low in her ear.

Amy opened her mouth to reply, but then the Phantom clamped his hand over her mouth and nose, pressing a sickly-sweet smelling cloth to her face. He held it firmly to her face even as she struggled, and she had no choice but to breathe it in.

Her head fell back on his shoulder, her legs giving out underneath her. As her vision blurred and her eyes grew heavy, consciousness beginning to slip away with the effects of the drug, she thought she saw something white, floating in her peripheral vision. A mask, perhaps?

"Until we meet again, Amelia Pond," the Phantom's voice murmured, and her eyes slipped shut.