Watched

Christine sighed happily as she examined her initial efforts from the comfort of her shabby couch. The theater had such good bones. Before she would even begin to add the sweeping and graceful decor, she wanted to fully capture the solid foundation, uncracked and strong. The art of its basic build would be invisible by the final edition, but she would know what was underneath. And who could ask for a better studio than the silent street and tenantless opera house? True, the curb was uneven and hard, but she'd sat on worse.

The longer she looked at her work, she more sure she was sure this would be no sketch. By the time she was done, this would be art. Real art. If only she could figure out what it was about the theater that stuck in her mind like a song half-remembered. It was beautiful in design and build, but so were thousands of other buildings. It was wild and abandoned, but that wasn't special. No, there was something unique about it. There was a lingering sense that there was more there than even appeared to her practiced eye. The place just seemed…aware. That was the word. It was present in away other deserted buildings simply were not.

"There is no such thing as ghosts." She muttered to herself, firmly. "Christine Daae, stop being such a precious artist and get over it."

Life was calling her attention. There were messages from her mom and her best friend to be answered and a mountain of housework to do. But as she dragged herself off the couch and tucked her barely-begun creation away, her mind lingered on the cracked windows. As she did the dishes and folded her laundry, the weather-swollen front doors and marble staircase beckoned her. By the time her teeth were brushed, a plan to thoroughly explore the entire property was hatched. At no point in her conversations with either mother or friend did she mention a haunted opera house.

The next day was Sunday; she was not scheduled to work. The carryall bag was stuffed with her usual weapons of choice, but today she also carried a lunch and her tall thermos of water. She would get to know her subject today, intimately. Soon, she stood on the curb, staring nervously at the edifice in front of her and talking herself up to crossing the street.

"After all, how am I supposed to get all those textures down in detail if I don't get close to them? It's not really trespassing, is it? I mean, no one owns it. No one goes there. Nobody cares about the place, but me."

She looked warily around, but the streets and sidewalks were empty, as usual. She set her shoulders and stepped into the street. Soon, her feet were standing shakily on the time-smoothed marble steps. It bothered her that she kicked old leaves and trash with each step. This place deserved better.

The Phantom had been patient, even curious. But this was too much. She was trespassing on its territory and had even stepped on its sacred ground. It would dispose of her, and quickly. Even her first appearance should have been a warning this its influence, it reputation, was waning. Allowing her to return, to remain, was foolishness. The Phantom donned its mask and hat, retrieved its little toy and went out to defend its home through a side-door. She'd never even hear its approach. She would be a reminder to other invaders. She… was cleaning the front steps with her bare hands; picking up trash and putting it into discarded plastic bags she'd found in the weeds.

It remained hidden, again utterly nonplussed, derailed. Slowly, its skeletal hand returned the strangling loop to a deep pocket. It was impossible, of course, that she could care for this place. There must be something the Phantom had missed, some indication of other intentions. She did not necessarily have to be removed immediately. It could watch and wait. As the play said, the truth would out.

After the last cigarette butt was removed, she set to clearing the steps of years of leaves. She worked methodically, pushing the growing piles from the top step down, one step at a time. When all the debris was finally cleared away, Christine descended the steps and looked up at her handiwork. The leaves had been left to decay for years; there were yellow and brown stains from the tannins that discolored the dignified white and gray marble. Still, it looked better than it had, and she was satisfied for now.

Christine took in her subject again, her focus broad and soft. Her easel was out and her sketchbook rested on it, displaying the broad lines of her work so far. Her charcoal pencils were ready. But she needed music. The precise music for this building in this moment. Not Chopin. Not Liszt. It felt like Schumann. Schumann's Adagio, maybe, to start. She hunted through her song files and soon the sad, sweet music moved her hand over the page. Every now and then, she stopped, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. There was no one around, but she could not shake the feeling she was being watched.

The Phantom forbore. For now.