Disclaimer: I own… Nothing. Satisfied? …I thought you would be.
Tammy: I'm glad you find Satan… erm… nice… I, personally, wouldn't want to be kissed by a stranger, but then again, you know him, don'tcha? -Wink.- And I'm not sure about the kelpies. I've read about 'em, but the book never said anything about singing… so I wonder… And here's the next chapter. So now you can stop bugging me to update, okieday? …At least for another week. Gimme another week.
savetheduckplz: Thank you for reading it! I only hope I can continue to keep your positive feelings.
Lady Taevyn: Danke Sie! I hope further chapters will stay good for you.
Vanessa wrung her hands in agitation, staring around the waiting room of the Realtor's office with big, haunted eyes. She continually stole glances at her watch, groaning each time she saw that only a few minutes had passed by instead of an hour. Time positively crawled, much to her dismay; it was already three o'clock in the afternoon, and she had promised the Phantom that she would sell it today. If she didn't, well… She didn't want to think of the consequences.
Conscience was having a screaming match with Common Sense. The first wanted her to run away, run away, RUN AWAY, while she still had the chance. The latter continued to scream back, If I do, I'm dead! I won't be able to take three steps beyond where He wants me to without being killed! She was getting a veritable headache from the two of them.
"Well, I simply see no easy way out of this. I do, fail, and die; I don't, and just plain die anyway."
She pretended not to notice the way the woman two seats away was staring at her.
She chewed on her lower lip and sat in relative silence for another agonizing five minutes, trying to block out the shrieking of her inner mind before her brain imploded on itself. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out the scrap of paper, reading it once more for the umpteenth time.
Vanessa,
I have found a likely buyer for your quest in the selling of the Opera House. His name is Jasper Jackson, an American, who's looking for a spacious place to move in with his newly-graduated daughter and wife.
S.
Who was this mysterious S.? She hadn't the faintest clue. Underneath the single-letter signature was a phone number, and then a post-script. "Tread carefully in the underworld, for there are unseen pits," she murmured, running a small thumb over the red-ink text. She sighed, folded it back up, and shoved it into the pocket again.
At length, she picked up a magazine from the table next to her and thumbed through it restlessly, trying to bypass the ever-sluggish time.
She paused, and read over an article, snickering, her momentary panic forgotten. It described an affair between the Mayor of Paris and one of his subordinates. She turned the page and froze. There was a large picture of the mayor with a dark-haired, very beautiful woman, whose eyes were quite easy to see. They were amber-red. The same peculiar color of the boy's eyes.
"Coincidence," she said dismissively, quickly turning the next page so she wouldn't have to continue looking. She flipped through the rest of it, aimlessly, then put it back and sighed.
Vanessa seated herself calmly enough an hour later, making sure to straighten her flowered skirt, trying to hide the fact that she was trembling. She quietly brushed off non-existent dust from her white blouse, re-arranged her purse, and when she had pacified herself enough, looked up at the real-estate agent.
He was a somewhat pudgy man, with thick spectacles, and a rapidly receding hairline, although he couldn't have been more than forty-five. His face was clean-shaven, but she could see with the perception of a hawk (or so it seemed to her) that he had a small cut in one spot, just under his lip. A small network of almost imperceptible scars crisscrossed in that spot and that spot alone. She marveled at the way she could see even the minutest of details, but she suspected that was adrenaline and fear, for blood pounded determinedly in her ears.
"Good day, Monsieur Beaumont," she greeted, glad to find that there was no infirmity in her voice; it was as if someone was steadying it for her. "I've come to see you about the Opera House…"
Pierre Beaumont chuckled good-naturedly. "Ah! Interested in owning the fine estate, are we?"
She smiled a little, but it didn't touch her eyes. "No… I, ah, know someone who would, however. His name is Jasper Jackson – he lives in America with his wife and daughter." All of this was just coming out of her mouth in a rush. "He's been considering moving out to Paris for some time, and asked me to look into it for him. He wanted something, eh… big." She was saying these words without even thinking; no trace of them appeared in her mind's eye before they popped out of her mouth.
"I see," Beaumont murmured. "Well, do you have the number?"
She laughed, nervously, and recited the number she'd been reading over and over all day. "562-613-3577."
M. Beaumont picked up the phone and dialed the number meticulously, and as he held it up to his ear, her heart began pounding again. What if Mr. Jackson wasn't at home? What would happen when he contradicted her story? They'd never come to Paris and she'd never live to see another bright, shining August day.
"Yes, Mr. Jackson?" He listened for a moment. "My name is Pierre Beaumont, of Beaumont Real-Estate… Uh-huh. Yes. I'm calling because I have a property you may be interested in." A pause. Vanessa could make out a male voice saying something, but the words were too fuzzy for her to understand. "Yes, it's the Opera Populaire, the famous Paris Opera House? Yes, monsieur." Her eyelids fluttered shut and she took deep, calming breaths. Somehow or other, he was interested in the building!
At length, M. Beaumont hung up and smiled across his desk at the girl. "He loved the idea. He's flying out with his wife and daughter at the end of the week." She sighed in relief. He eyed her curiously, then rose from his chair, his manner brisk. "Thank you very much, Mademoiselle, for bringing me a bit of business." He smiled wide. "If I can just show you to the door…"
She rushed in the doors of the Opera House, overflowing with excitement. "Sir! Monsieur! Sir!" she shouted, twirling around inadvertently as she searched for him. She paused before the grand staircase and twisted at two of the fingers on her right hand, thinking for a moment. "Monsieur Phantom?" she asked finally, the corner of her mouth twitching into either a frown or a smirk, she wasn't sure which. She was Irish, but having lived in Paris for thirteen of her sixteen years, many French words were embedded in her vocabulary. Not to mention the extensive lessons of her native language, German, and some minor Italian.
"So, what… He's not going to show up?" she muttered, after waiting fifteen minutes and getting nothing. "Wait'll Patrick hears about this…"
"You will tell no one," hissed a voice in her ear. She yowled like a cat that had been stepped on and jumped away from him, turning at the same time and managing to bruise her backside quite well on the stairs when she tripped.
"Don't do that!" she yelped, hurriedly standing back up, rubbing the offended area. Marble hurt, dammit! "You scared the bejesus out of me!"
"That's rather the point," he grumbled. He let her arrogance slide – as long as it took to figure out whether or not she lived. "Were you successful?"
All of his past offences were immediately forgotten, and her face glowed happily. "Yes! The man who's buying it is flying in at the end of the week with his wife and daughter." She looked quite proud of herself.
"That's, erm… Good, I suppose," he said at last, evasively.
"So I'm free to go now? No obligations or anything…? I just go?"
He shrugged a little. "Well, there is the secrecy bit – tell even one person and you die. As well as the person you told. No one must know I'm here."
She swallowed a little, but nodded. "Gotcha, chief. Mum's the word."
He blinked at her choice of words (not quite understanding all of them), but continued nevertheless. "Also, I may at one time or another require your services again. When that time comes, I will contact you and you will follow my orders. Understood?"
She didn't like the idea of that, but she had no choice but to agree. "Yes, I understand, monsieur."
He gazed down at her for a moment, then turned away in a swirl of cloak – and was gone. Just like that. She gaped at where he had been, and, all sense of previous joy gone, she fled the Opera House (making sure to lock it again behind her, however). She hoped to God it was the last time she'd have to look at it. Or him. He scared her… maybe a little too much.
Ellen Jackson hummed quietly as she packed her bags. Boxes were stacked in haphazard towers all around the room, some looking as solid as a real stone tower, while others appeared ready to tip at the slightest provocation. The humming quickly turned into a dark buzzing as her temper flared again, then she smoothed it out to its light, happy tones. Her parents were forcing her to move away from her childhood city, the neighborhood she had grown up in, played in, loved in – they were moving to Paris, where they would take up residence in a run-down old Opera House. But she didn't want to think about that. Right now she wanted to pretend she was only going to Paris for a few weeks – she could flirt with the boys, sample the lovely French fashion designs, maybe even visit a few exclusive clubs. Her parents had money, after all; what good was it if it just sat in a bank?
She finished the last suitcase and zippered it, suddenly hating the finality with which that sound announced the change. She stopped her humming abruptly, and snatched the bag by the handle. Then she stormed out of her room, shooting a glare at anything that looked like it needed it. She suddenly paused, turned back, ran into her room, grabbed her pet rat, and resumed her angry course. Annemarie squeaked indignantly from her cage.
She burst out the front door, dead, dried leaves crunching under her expensive black stiletto heels. The flashy navy blue miniskirt showed off her shapely curves, the long, tanned legs attracting the gaze of a jogger who was going by. The muscles she did have in her arms stood out as she gripped the suitcase and cage tightly. She was wearing a lighter blue halter top, which gladly showcased her buxom upper-torso. Her red hair was pulled up on top of her head in a messy bun.
"Daddy, do we have to move?" she whined plaintively to her father, Jasper Jackson (JJ to his friends and generally his wife). He smiled down at her. She was quite a bit shorter than he was, at only 5' 4".
"Sorry, cupcake," he said, as he took her suitcase from her and wedged it in where it would fit in the car; the moving vans would be along presently to take the extra things where they would be loaded on a separate plane. "But we really need a change of scenery."
"But I don't," she simpered, her lower lip pooched out and trembling. Her eyes filled with false tears. "All my friends are here, Daddy! I don't want to leave Thomas, Greg, Barry, Eric, Louis…" She went on reciting the names of her numerous 'boyfriends'.
JJ raised an eyebrow. "Just how many boyfriends do you have?"
"Only one," she said sweetly, then spewed out a half-dozen girl's names for good measure. No need for him to get overworked. The only girl friend she had was Irene, who she'd known from birth.
"Oh, yes. Irene. I'm hiring her on as housekeeper for us, you know."
Ellen gaped at him. "You – you – you're not serious, Daddy… You wouldn't make her leave her family and friends and –"
"She seemed rather glad to leave," he said mildly. "Said she was sick of her bickering parents and siblings and didn't much care for the way her friends were turning out. Plus she said she'd get to spend more time with you that way."
Ellen's mouth formed words but no sound came out. JJ, however, had moved on. Michelle, his wife, was already in the passenger's side seat, and was simply waiting for the rest of the family to get moving along. Her head poked out of the tinted window as she rolled it down.
"Ellen, honey, let's go! We're going to be late for our plane!"
The first thing Irene Saunders did upon hearing the screeching voice that was Ellen from the telephone was to hold it away from her ear. She waited until the screaming had subsided, then brought it back.
"Are you quite finished?" she asked crossly. "I'm almost finished packing and could have been done by now."
"You can't come," sobbed Ellen pathetically over the crackle that was undoubtedly the eighteen-year-old's cell phone. "I need you there to talk them into bringing me back!"
Irene sighed and stretched her spine, which crackled a little. She flipped her brown-haired ponytail behind her shoulders and readjusted the phone against her ear so she could continue packing. "Look, Ellen – I know you don't really like the idea of Paris as much as your parents do, but really…" She floundered for a moment aimlessly as she tried to come up with an argument. "Think of all the new territory," she said finally. "All those fresh boys… Not to mention their sexy French accents."
The only thing she heard for a few minutes was a few despairing sniffles. Then – "I – I guess you're right, Irene. But – they'll be so heartbroken…"
Irene rolled her eyes. Ellen was talking, presently, about her fifteen-some boyfriends. That was the one thing she'd never been able to tolerate about her friend – the persistent flirtatiousness and the way she used boys and tossed them aside.
"I'm sure they'll just die with grief," she muttered. More than likely they'd each be dating some new girl day after tomorrow.
Ellen sobbed again. "I feel so responsible for their unfortunate deaths!"
Irene was at the point where she really wanted to say "Screw it," and hang up, but she restrained herself. If she said that now she'd never get out of this house. "I'm sure they'll be fine, hon. Who knows, maybe one of them will go long-distance with you…" She shuddered at the idea.
"No," Ellen said softly. "No, it's better if we didn't."
And happier, Irene thought, but didn't say. She felt rather guilty about it, actually. "Probably so," she agreed, closing her last bag. She'd need to hurry to the airport now so she could catch her plane. "Listen, Ellen – I have to go. Got to get to the airport. I'll call you when I get to Paris, okay?"
"Okay," she sniffed. "Thanks Irene."
"You bet, sugar." There was a click and a small beep as Ellen hung up. Irene replaced the phone in the cradle and cupped her chin with her right hand, studying the room she'd lived in her whole life, through kittens and Barbies, horses and bands. Now it was bare. It left her feeling rather empty; but it gave her a feeling of freedom, as well. Free from the arguing parents, free from the childish younger siblings, free from the neighborhood that had gone to Hell. She rubbed her forehead a little, to release some of the pent-up tension, and shouldered her luggage. She wasn't taking much; two bags of clothes, a box with her models in it, and a few other boxes containing some of the things she couldn't bear to leave behind, plus her guitar. Everything else was to be donated.
"Good riddance," she muttered.
Irene stood with her flashy friend Ellen before the huge Opera House. Ellen seemed mightily indifferent, but Irene was just blown away by the craftsmanship.
"It's beautiful," she breathed, stepping back a bit further so she could admire the gold statues that adorned the roof.
Ellen shrugged. "It's a musty old building in serious need of repair," she surmised.
"Let's go in," Irene said quickly. She was quite eager to see the inside. "I wonder what the interior looks like…"
"I dunno," Ellen said doubtfully. "There might still be a chance to talk my parents out of it…" But Irene had already bounded up the circular steps and was searching for the spare key Jasper had given her. Finally she found it and fumbled with the lock, dropping the key twice in her excitement. Finally she got it unlocked and pushed open the big double doors, gasping with amazement.
The huge marble staircase, fitted with an (admittedly) worn red carpet with gold edgings, stretched up to the second floor, with more statues flanking either side. She turned, delighted, and took in even more statues that clung to the fancy balconies that lined the wall for at least three floors. The ceiling was a painted mural, breathtaking in itself.
Ellen noticed none of this. All she could see was the chipped floors and the worn carpet and the extremely dusty quality of the figures. "Somebody obviously liked nude statues in erotic poses," she said dryly. "I can't live in this environment… It's degrading."
Irene wasn't listening. "This place is fabulous! I can't believe I'm going to be living here!" She turned to Ellen, her hands clasped underneath her chin. Her face positively glowed. "C'mon, Ellen, let's go explore the stage!" she begged, giving her best friend huge puppydog eyes.
"Alright," she conceded, grudgingly. "Let's go explore the stage. Daddy said he was going to make it into a home theatre system."
"Yay!" Irene squealed, and skipped off in that direction. Suddenly she felt like she was five years old again, visiting that grand theater in New York…
Erik watched the whole thing silently from his unseen perch on a third floor balcony, just out of sight of the girls. He felt sure that the daughter of this Monsieur Jackson was the brown-haired girl, and that the redhead was just a friend or housekeeper or something. After all, the way she was critiquing everything reminded him of one. He couldn't help but smile a little as the taller of the two pleaded with the other to go see the performance area, and as they went on their way (the brown-haired one positively brimming with joy), he moved in that direction too.
"Irene, slow down!" called the redhead. She sounded rather annoyed. "You know I can't walk that fast in heels!"
"Sorry, Ellen!" the one called Irene apologized, grinning sheepishly. "It's just so… so amazing. Don't you agree?"
Ellen yawned, covering her mouth with a well-manicured hand. "No, not really."
Irene looked a little put-out at that, but she didn't say anything. Erik watched, still quiet, from Box Five.
"Well… anyway…" Irene's voice was soft. "Say… Do you remember reading the Phantom of the Opera in ninth grade?"
Ellen rolled her eyes. "The most singular boring book I ever read? Yeah, I remember."
"Any book you read you find boring," Irene muttered under her breath. Judging by Ellen's silence, the girl hadn't heard. "Well, I did some research at my hotel room last night. They had internet over there, you know. And this is the same Opera House as in the book!"
Ellen's eyes were hooded. "Your point, Irene?"
"Wellll… What if the Phantom's spirit is still here?"
"Don't be silly," Ellen scoffed angrily. "There was no such thing as the Phantom. It was some dip's idea of a heartbreaking story."
"No, it really happened," Irene insisted. "I mean, there's so much proof it's hard not to believe, Ellen."
"It never happened," Ellen growled firmly. "Period."
That's where you're wrong, Mademoiselle, Erik thought, but kept still. He didn't want to show himself – at least not yet.
Irene looked down at her shoes. "Okay Ellen. I guess you're… you're right. Silly." She made a face and then giggled, but to Erik it sounded as false as her statement. It apparently pleased Ellen, for the girl smirked and examined some sort of 'flaw' in her fingernail polish.
Why do you let her bully you? Erik wondered, curious. It's obvious you don't agree, but you go with what she says…
Irene sighed, almost inaudibly. "I'm going to go get my stuff, okay, Ellen?"
"Whatever," Ellen mumbled, examining one of the chairs.
Irene tried to push down the lump in her throat at she left Ellen's Esteemed Presence. She didn't need to cry, not now. She savagely swiped at her eyes as she went back to the entrance hall. She had no idea of why she was getting so worked up – hell, it was only a small argument compared to others they'd had, but for some reason this one held importance. Something Irene had found marvelous, adventurous, even spooky, Ellen had been indifferent about.
She was so involved in her thoughts, she didn't, at first, hear the singing. When she did hear it, she froze in her tracks, head cocked, heart suddenly in her throat in place of the lump. It was soft, wordless, and melodic, and seemed to just float on the air like mist. Then it was gone. Just like that.
She shivered. "Just your imagination," she murmured, rubbing her bare arms. They had broken out in gooseflesh. "You were so worked up about the 'spirit of the Opera Ghost' that you're hearing things." Still, all of a sudden she felt the eerie sensation one gets when they're being watched. Irene shuddered again and went outside to gather her possessions.