Thank you for reading my phiction! I started this about 12 years ago, before I even knew fanfiction existed or had the internet. This is my own take on the "Phantom" story. I do not own the Phantom characters, but I do own the original characters in this story.

Thank you for reading and PLEASE review! Your Phantom authoress…

PART I

At last I stood on the stage of the grandiose Paris Opera House. I surveyed the spacious auditorium dizzily as the huge chandelier glittered regally from above, and I choked back tears as I stared at the thousands of velvet seats.

The shining brass trimmings and lush silk curtains seemed to gloat as they framed the stage in elegance. Beauty surrounded me on every side. "This can't be true," I whispered to myself. "This isn't possible."

Seeing the mop in my hand, I realized that it was. I tossed it aside in disgust and sat glumly on the edge of the stage. "Why?" I sobbed. "Why?"

I would never sing in this opera house. The thunderous applause, curtain calls, and enthusiastic patrons could never be mine. The program would never feature an ordinary house maid.

The sound of distant voices and authoritative footsteps became audible, and I hastily went back to mopping. Pushing back a straying curl of my dark hair, I sighed. There was no use complaining; it only made everything seem more miserable.

"Christine Daae, why haven't you finished mopping? The auditorium must be swept as well, and the curtain goes up in three hours." I turned to see Madame Giry, the head mistress, and her pretty daughter Meg, a ballet dancer.

"Forgive me, Madame," I pleaded. "I've tried--"

"Obviously, you did not try hard enough. Get back to work. Oh, and be sure to tidy the dressing rooms before the artists arrive. They abhor clutter." She left the stage in a showy, overly dramatic fashion and told her daughter not to be late for rehearsal.

I shuddered involuntarily. Madame Giry was a creepy personage, dressed from head to toe in a dingy black with frayed feather trimmings. Her pale face gave her a ghastly appearance, accentuated frightfully by the dark red lip color she used.

I glanced at her daughter, who was absently doing a few dance steps on the dry part of the stage. She was lightly complected as well, but her curly golden hair and freshly powdered pink cheeks lent her a warm, glowing look unlike her mother. She was about my age, perhaps maybe eighteen, but her poise and manner made her seem years younger.

"Don't worry about my mother," she said suddenly, wanting to start a conversation. "She's always on edge before an opening. Nothing can go wrong."

"She looked rather upset," I said.

"I assure you that you're not to blame for that. The managers just gave her another list of duties that can't possibly be accomplished by nightfall. Knowing her, though, she'll find some way to get them done."

I was glad for the conversation, as I seldom had the chance to speak to anyone. My life had grown to consist of merely eating, sleeping, and working. No music, no friendship, no family, no love...

Meg came closer and sat down on the stage. I began to put the mop away but stopped when she started to speak again. A chilling ambivalence had crept into her eyes, and I wondered what she was about to say. Meg was notorious for spreading tales throughout the ballet chorus.

"Are you going to clean the dressing rooms now?" she asked in a dark, foreboding tone.

"Yes," I said, nervously awaiting her reply.

"I'd avoid number five if I were you," she said eerily.

I shivered. "Why?"

"It's haunted by the opera ghost," she explained, eager to terrify me. Meg suddenly reminded me of her mother as she whispered to me about the legend.

"Dressing room number five is in a lonely corridor far from the others," she began in a low tone. "No one ever uses it. They say the Phantom lives there. Opera scores are sometimes found on the table, and no one ever admits to putting them there. There's even been candelabras lit which were never brought into the room."

"Musical scores and candles? They seem rather trivial to have started a rumor about a phantom," I remarked with false bravado.

"Christine, no matter what you may want to believe, there is a phantom. I've seen him. He darts around the backstage area. Sometimes it is possible to hear his music coming from deep below the opera," Meg insisted.

My hands had turned to ice, and I quivered. "So what does this 'Phantom' look like?" I inquired with numb sarcasm, trying to hide my fear.

"Nobody has ever seen his face because he always wears a mysterious white mask. Usually he'll wear a black hat and a long cape, but it's hard to tell since he's always in the shadows."

"Meg!" a voice called. "Are you coming to rehearsal?"

Meg flushed and gathered her things. "Remember what I said, Christine. Phantoms can be dangerous."

I laughed nervously and handed her a toe shoe, which she had dropped in her haste. "Thanks for the advice," I said wryly.

When she had left, I decided to pay a visit to the mythical fifth dressing room. I was overwhelmed with a powerful curiosity, and I knew I would not rest until I possessed the truth. Ever since Father died, I had been terribly superstitious but did not believe all ghosts were evil.

My heart leapt as a thought occurred to me. Perhaps the Phantom was the spirit of my father, coming to rescue me from my gloom at last! I put the mop away and headed quickly to the abandoned hall, where number five loomed ominously ahead.

I crossed myself as I placed my hand on the doorknob, not knowing what I was about to discover. Then, with a deep breath and trembling hand, I opened the door and walked into the room.

The fragrance of rose potpourri filled the air, taking me aback for a moment. The infamous candelabra were lit and gave off a soft, friendly glow, and I knew that the Phantom, whoever he might be, was not as menacing as described.

My eyes wandered to the dressing table, where I noticed several large librettos. I cried out with delight as I recognized several famous operas. They were my old companions, consisting of arias which I had learned to love and perform at a very young age, and I flipped through them hungrily. I found a few of my favorites and sang a couple of bars.

I was interrupted by a voice that dazzled me. It was a beautiful tenor which slowly enveloped me in its gentle majesty. I had never heard anything so glorious, so irresistible. I wanted nothing more than to locate the source of the voice and keep it with me forever.

"Christine," it whispered, "I have waited for you to come. Ever since you came to the Opera, I have followed you. I heard you at the auditions and knew that you were the voice I had longed for all of my life. I promise that you will sweep the Opera no more, as you will be the greatest singer who ever lived!"

The passion in the voice was astounding, and I trembled. "Who are you?" I entreated breathlessly. Magically, the full-length mirror on the far wall pivoted slowly to reveal a man in a long black cape and glimmering white mask.

"Some call me a ghost, others the Phantom. But alas, I am Erik," he declared. Blackness swirled around me, and I remembered no more. I had fainted in the arms of the Opera Ghost!