Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera and I'm not making any money off of this.

Author's Note: This story is based off of the Susan Kay novel. I've tried to stay true to the story that she presented. Reviews are very much welcomed. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter One: Trinkets in the Cellar

Sophia

Italy, 1881

I never ventured into the cellar. My sister, Luciana, had been dead for thirty-six years, my father for thirty-five. Upon his death, my father had left me his home much to the surprise of my four older sisters. However, in his will, he explained his reasoning. The other four had their own homes and families. He understood the loneliness that comes from dedicating your life to one purpose. It was his attempt to make up for what I would never have.

Marriage wasn't an option for me. By the time I was fifteen, I was so immersed in architecture, masonry, and landscaping that I failed to notice the opposite sex. My father tried to warn me what single mindedness could lead to, but he was intelligent enough to recognize passion when he saw it. He told me one time, as he lay dying, that he had seen true passion only once in his life.

That was the first I had ever heard of the strange masked boy that been my father's apprentice for three years. I never understood the way he spoke about the boy he called Erik, with such reverence, pain and pride. He had grabbed my hand and made me promise, should Erik ever cross my path to respect his wishes and leave the mask alone. It was then that I believed Erik to be nothing more than a delusion from an old man who felt the presence of death. But that didn't stop me from asking a question that had been plaguing me for a year.

"Did Erik kill Luciana?"

He started coughing and I calmly waited the attack out. Every time a fit wracked his body, I swore I could feel my own lungs tightening. I had given him a drink of water and he finally settled somewhat.

"No, Sophia, Erik didn't kill Luciana. Her own foolishness, as well as mine, killed her."

I rubbed his hand in support. "Alright, Papa."

"Listen to me, Sophia," he grabbed hold of my arm in a surprisingly strong grip. "If you ever meet him, do not be as foolish as I once was. Allow him his secrets and do not ask him for things he's not willing to give you freely."

"Yes, Papa." I agreed heartily with him and that seemed to soothe him. The morning after our brief conversation about Erik, I found my father dead. I became consumed with funeral arrangements and dealing with estate procedures that all thoughts of the mysterious boy in the mask fled from my mind.

I tried to carry on my father's masonry business with the same efficiency he had, but his men did not want to take orders from a woman, whether she was Master Giovanni's daughter or not. Most quit within the first month. The only men who were willing to work for me where those who were starving or were completely faithful to my father. But soon, those who were faithful soon died from the similar fate that my father suffered.

I thought I had found the answer when a fellow classmate from the university I had attended for architecture offered his services of contractor. I gladly accepted his offer of help and soon my father's once dying business had blossomed once more. The men took their orders from the contractor, never believing that the orders came from me. But the jobs had been getting done. Or so I thought.

It wasn't until I started receiving notes in the mail from customers wondering when their home, restaurant or hotel was going to be completed. I went personally to all the sites and investigated the progress. Little had I known, the jobs that my trusted classmate had told me were completed were far from completion. Personally, I was responsible for nine unfinished buildings. When I confronted him with this breach of conduct, he walked out and took over three-quarters of my workforce.

Trying to save face, I sold my father's treasured house, so I would have some funds to finish the buildings that were promised. I had a two room apartment that was not quite in the poor section of Rome. It would have to do for now. But it was the unfortunate move that sent me into the basement. It was then that I knew the Erik from my father's deathbed confession was real.

Trinkets covered in dust lined the back wall of the basement where my mother had kept her preserves. Putting down the small box I had brought with me, I went over with insatiable curiosity to investigate these strange objects. Bits of coil and metal made up most of the items. There were a few models as well, which I quickly gathered from their stance that they were done in an architecture type experiment. Most likely they were constructed to test support and bracing. They were ingenious to say the least and I knew that neither my father nor my sisters would have the presence of mind to create such detailed things. That only left one other explanation.

Erik.

If he did exist, I wondered if he was still alive. If he was, perhaps he could help me in my current predicament. Whenever my father spoke about him it was always with a reminiscent fondness. As my eyes roved over the intricate specimens, my mind toiled over how to reach him. Deep in thought, I quickly placed all the metal workings into the box I had brought with me. I didn't know what I was going to do with the spinet, so that was sold with the house. Judging from the complexity of the inventions, my imagination could not even comprehend the music that must have been played on the spinet. The cellar no longer felt like a mere cellar, rather it had the atmosphere of a room that had housed a genius.

Carrying the box of trinkets and a bag of my clothes through the piazzas of Rome to my apartment, headlines on a newspaper caught my attention. The chandelier in the Paris Opera House had fallen, killing many Opera goers. The lead soprano and her lover disappeared and were not found again. The instigator of the abduction was sighted as sporting a mask and had the reputation of being the "Opera Ghost." Pulling some money out of my pocket, I bought the paper and read the rest of that article during my walk.

It was filled with eyewitness accounts of the masked menace as well as the fall of the mighty chandelier. The last half of the article was an interview with the managers who spoke of rebuilding the Opera House and carrying on the business as nothing had happened. By the time I had reached my apartment, I was certain that I had located Erik. That night by lamplight I composed my letter and mailed it the following morning. I only hoped that I hadn't been too brash in my decision. I sincerely prayed that the Opera Ghost was indeed the Erik my father spoke so fondly of in his dying days.