Chapter One
The Truth about Opera Ghosts

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November 1880
Several Months Earlier

The young blond singer walked forcefully down the corridors of the opera house, eager to reach her dressing room and quickly shut the door behind her, to relish the heavenly peace of her own room. After the turmoil of the day, she thought, even the busy streets of Paris would seem like a haven of rest.

Entering the room, she quickly slammed the door and then stood inside for a moment as she regrouped her thoughts. She looked at her right hand; saw that it was still shaking as it gripped the doorknob, the knuckles white from the effort. Christine Daaé squeezed her eyes shut tight, took a deep breath, and emitted a sound that might have been something between a moan and a scream. Allowing the tension to slowly take leave of her body, she gently shook her head to clear the cobwebs. Heaving a second, softer sigh, she slowly released the doorknob, flexing her hand to restore circulation. Now that normalcy had returned she began making preparations for this evening's activities.

She walked across the windowless room and turned up the gaslights. A small smile played across her mouth as the lines on her face relaxed. Tonight she was joining Erik for supper, and after the tumultuous day she had just experienced, the pleasure of her maestro's company could not come soon enough.

Opening the closet door, she picked out and old but comfortable dress – very prim and demure as befitted a young woman little more than six months shy of her twentieth birthday, and quickly changed. Fastening the last of the buttons, she moved over to her dressing table and sat down to brush her hair. She glanced at the clock on the wall as she pinned up the last stray strands of her honey-colored hair. Either the clock was fast, or she was over an hour late. A little laugh of amusement escaped as she pondered the mood Erik would be in after waiting so long, but decided it wasn't worth brooding over. After all, there was nothing she could have done about what had happened today.

Changed and refreshed, she set about turning down the lights back down. A quick check of the door to her dressing room reassured her that it was locked. The last thing she needed was for a curious colleague to come in her room as she was returning from one of her nocturnal visits below the opera house.

More composed now that everything was in order, she grabbed her wrap and walked over to the full-length mirror on the back wall. She pressed the mechanism as Erik had taught her, causing the mirror to pivot around and open the doorway to the labyrinthine passages that led down into the bowels of the building. Once on the other side, she reached for the lantern that hung from a hook. Next to the lantern, tucked into a niche in the wall, was a box of matches. Both had been provided for by Erik, for those times when he wasn't available to escort her below. As she held the lighted match to the oil lamp that was the only illumination for her path, she couldn't help wonder why, with all his talents, Erik had never laid in a gas line along the passageways. After all, she mused, he had gas laid in his house, and that was five levels below.

Shrugging away the thought, Christine proceeded on her way, her mood improving with each step.

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"You're late."

A man's voice challenged her in the dark, surprising her. She had been walking with her head down, carefully watching her steps while letting her mind wander as she made her way deeper towards the subterranean lake. Feeling foolish for letting his voice startle her, she looked up.

Her lantern spilled only a weak pool of light around her feet, and it took a moment for her vision to adjust to the permanent darkness that shrouded this place. Even with a lamp, the gloom of the lowest levels always took getting used to. Reorienting herself, she was able to make out the faint glimmer of a second lantern hanging from the bow of a small boat that bobbed every so slightly at the water's edge as its occupant stepped ashore.

Drawing closer, she could see him as he stood by the little dock, next to the boat – tall and lean, dressed in his customary black. To those above, he was a fleeting shadow rarely seen and known as the Phantom of the Opera or, more commonly, the Opera Ghost; but to Christine he was simply Erik – the reclusive, sometimes temperamental, man who covered the right half of his face with a mask, the man who for more than a year and a half had been her mentor, her friend, and her teacher. Though prone to moodiness, Erik was always the gentleman where she was concerned. Even though he sounded perturbed tonight, he extended his hand with courteous decorum to facilitate her getting into the boat. Seeing to it that she was comfortably seated, he stepped in himself, picked up the pole, and began ferrying the two of them to the other shore.

"Well?" demanded Erik, his rich voice breaking the cavernous silence. "What took so long?"

Christine was used to her teacher's seeming harshness, and wasn't intimidated. "I'm sorry, Erik. It couldn't be helped. A rather unpleasant incident occurred during rehearsal today. If you wouldn't mind, though, I'd rather not to talk about it just now." She continued to unwind as she allowed herself the luxury of enjoying the short journey to Erik's home.

She knew of the other entrances to the fifth level cellars, to Erik's domain; ones that did not involve revolving mirrors in dressing rooms or boat rides, but she preferred the fairy tale feeling she always experienced when coming this way. To her, taking the secret route from her dressing room down to the lowest levels below the opera house, and being conveyed across a black, glassy lake by her Angel, was like descending into a mysterious fantasy realm, where wonderful things could happen. As the boat glided with seeming effortlessness, Christine leaned back and swung an arm over the side, lazily dragging her fingers across the surface of the water, watching the tiny ripples reflect the lantern's light.

"If you aren't careful, some water creature could swim by and nip at those delicate fingers," Erik cautioned.

She looked up in time to catch an all-too-brief smile on his face, and then as quickly as it had come it was gone. In that moment, he had reminded her of a little boy who liked to play tricks on little girls.

After a few minutes, the ride was over. Erik stepped out and secured the boat to its moorings, then reached out and assisted Christine from the vessel. A few steps took them to the concealed entrance to his house. The barest glimmer of light picked out the outline of the door, so faint that if she hadn't been looking for it, she would have missed it altogether.

Undoing the lock, he opened the door for her. Stepping inside the familiar room, Christine couldn't help but be cheered by the glow of candle and gas light that greeted them. Behind her, Erik took his black cloak and the lightweight wrap she had worn and hung them both on the hooks by the door.

"What happened? You're upset." Now that they were inside, he noticed the troubled, tired look on her face. "Did something go wrong at rehearsal?" he inquired kindly, chagrined at his earlier brusque behavior. He directed her towards the comfortable confines of the room he referred to as his parlor, with its upholstered wingback chairs, cozy fireplace, piano and shelves of books. "Did Carlotta give you a difficult time again?"

Christine sighed. "No, it was nothing like that. There was a terrible accident today." When he said nothing, she gave him a puzzled look. The idea that Erik was unaware of what had transpired above ground was puzzling. Normally, there was little that happened within and around the confines of the Opera House of which he was not cognizant. "Surely, you heard about it?"

"No," he admitted, "I'm afraid I am not aware of anything that took place up there today. I was composing all afternoon, and only left my house to bring you here. I was becoming concerned when you were so late, and was about to come upstairs and look for you." He paused, and then asked, "Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?"

Christine nodded and took a seat in her favorite chair by the fireplace, while Erik excused himself and went to the kitchen where he prepared a soothing herbal tea. A few minute later, he returned bringing the teapot and a set of bone-china cups out on a tray. She made to get up and help, but he simply motioned for her to remain seated. Setting the tray on the small, lace-covered table that stood between the chairs, he presented Christine with a cup. After seeing to her need, he took his own seat next to her, the two of them sitting together like the friends that they were. After taking a few sips of the soothing brew, she felt better able to discuss her day.

"You remember Joseph Buquet, the senior scene shifter?"

Erik nodded that he did, recalling a 50-plus-year-old man with graying hair and a penchant for drink.

"He really was a decent sort of person," Christine continued, sounding as if she was trying to excuse the man for some unknown transgression.

Erik recollected the man a bit differently, but decided now might not be the time to bring up this up, as he noticed that she was speaking of Buquet in the past tense. Yes, he thought, something most definitely happened today. He waited for her to continue.

She set her cup down and went on with her story. "I know he drank too much on his lunch breaks, but no one really complained about him. He was inoffensive and generally reliable. I mean, he never drank on the days there was a performance. I guess we all were willing to overlook his small, clumsy accidents." She paused thoughtfully before continuing. "But I guess there won't be anymore accidents..." She said, shuddering. "He must have had a bit too much at lunch today, and while he was making his way across the catwalk, he lost his balance." Her face grew pale and her voice softened as she relived the tragedy in her mind.

"As he fell, he became tangled up in the ropes. He strangled to death. We were all on the stage when it happened, the accident taking place in front of most of the company! Everyone was screaming and … and …" Her hands started shaking as she picked up her cup and took another sip of tea. She closed her eyes, composing herself before continuing. "Several of the stage hands tried to rescue poor Buquet, but they were unable to reach him in time. It was awful, seeing him hang there."

Erik said nothing, but simply nodded in understanding. It was better just to let Christine say what she needed to say.

"By then, everybody was in an uproar! It was absolute pandemonium. Everyone was pretty badly shaken. And Carlotta!" Christine rolled her eyes here, her features becoming animated once again at the mention of the difficult diva. "You should have seen how she carried on. One would think that poor Buquet hanged himself on purpose, to upset her rehearsal!" Her small snort of displeasure told Erik more than any words could what Christine thought of opera's prima donna!

"Someone finally had the good sense to send for the police. Thankfully, someone had taken the body down by the time they arrived. They interviewed everyone who was present, and even some of those who weren't. We were told that this was purely routine procedure, that it was done to rule out any suggestion of foul play. And that," she concluded, putting down her tea cup back down, "is why I was late."

"I am so sorry that you had to witness such unpleasantness," he said sympathetically. He wanted to put a gentle arm around her shoulder and give her a hug, or gently squeeze her hand in comfort, but was afraid that she would rebuff his efforts, would find his touch unpleasant. So he remained sitting quietly in his chair.

Christine looked over and smiled at him, watching the reflection from the fireplace play across his face. In this light, it was easy to ignore the tan piece of leather that fit over the right side of his face like a second skin. Not for the first time did she find herself wondering about this enigmatic friend of hers. "Thank you for listening, my friend, and for the tea. You are such a dear, and I'm feeling better already." Her usual cheerfulness returned, and she leaned and said, "You know, people are already hinting that Buquet's death is the work of the 'Opera Ghost.'"

Erik threw back his head and laughed. It was such a beautiful sound; Christine wished her teacher, who was usually so solemn, would laugh more often. "Let them think what they want. They will be less likely to bother me if they think I am some sort of vengeful specter."

She frowned. "I still don't like it."

"You don't like what?"

"People thinking you're a ghost. One of these days, someone's going to try and exorcise you from this place! Then you'll be sorry," she said, shaking a finger at him in mock anger.

Erik got up walked over to the fireplace and looked in the flames. "You needn't worry about me, my dear. I know how to take care of myself."

"I did receive some good news today. Before the accident, that is. I was informed that I shall be Carlotta's new understudy. I should even be getting some roles of my own."

Erik was pleased to hear this, but could not resist teasing her. "You know, of course, that this means you will have to have much more contact with her, and you know how volatile she can be."

"I'm certain I can handle it," she answered with confidence. "My foster mother taught me how to deal with difficult people, and besides, I've had plenty of practice with you," she arched her eyebrows back at him as Erik chuckled at her retort. "And, if not, I can always come to you for another cup of tea and sympathy."

"You are always welcome in my home, Christine. And your promotion is certainly well deserved. It is a long-sought improvement over the anonymity of the chorus. Your lessons and hard work are beginning to pay off, bringing you one step closer to achieving the breakthrough you so richly deserve."

"Any success I may enjoy is due solely to my teacher and Angel," she said, glowing under her teacher's praise.

"Well, now, are you ready for some supper?" Erik asked, leading the way to the small kitchen. On the table, there was a light supper was set out for two. By the time they finished eating and cleaning up, the clock was striking ten.

"Oh!" said Christine, startled at the lateness of the hour, "I had best be getting home. Accident or no, I still have rehearsals and practice tomorrow."

"Then I shall take you home."

"That's awfully sweet of you, but you know I only live a couple of blocks away. I can easily walk there myself."

"Nonsense," Erik insisted, "you have no idea what kind of predatory creatures might be stalking the streets at this hour."

Acquiescing to his wishes, she allowed Erik to help her on with her wrap, then watched as he donned his cloak and hat, pulling the brim down low to obscure the masked side of his face. They walked up the five levels to the Rue Scribe entrance of the opera house. Outside, he was able to hail a cab after only a few minutes wait, and rode with Christine to her apartment.

Getting out of the cab, she thanked him once again for the pleasant evening, and called to him from the doorstep as she prepared to enter her apartment. "Good night, Erik."

Waiting until she was safely inside, Erik instructed the cabbie to take him back to the opera house, whispering into the night air, "Good night, Christine."

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revised July 15, 2006