OKAY!! Chapter Six finally written! I'm getting oddly into this; considering I don't always even know what's going to happen until it does!!! (don't worry I do have plans for all our much-loved characters. :P) But I seriously have nothing else to do now, since everyone's out of town...and after all, if my dream is to be a writer, it's good practice for setting & keeping deadlines for myself!! See, I love writing, but I have absolutely no self-discipline. (Same story when it comes to eating candy. :P) So, it gives me something to work for by putting it on Fanfiction: your REVIEWS!! This is a warning—review, or I won't finish the story!!! LOL. ;) You know I'd never do that to ya. Anyways- enjoy!! (PS thanks again AngelCeleste85 for the big long review!! ;) didja get the email??)



6

As Lise straightened up after crawling under the gate, she looked around her. To her right was just fog and mist- but she could make out dark shapes in the distance. She was just about to step that way when, with a low hiss, a panel in the wall to her left slid aside, revealing yet another tunnel.
Somehow Lise thought this was some kind of sign- surely she was meant to go through. She was growing ever more confident, for she had not yet encountered danger of any sort. But that's ridiculous, Lise scoffed. Of course there's no danger. This is just an old, abandoned underground cellar. Nothing to worry about.
Still, in the back of her mind lingered a sense of foreboding, telling her to go back. Unfortunately that was the part of her mind she always ignored.
Lise stepped lightly into the tunnel. Along the walls were torches about five feet apart, that ran as far as she could make out down the long, dark hallway. But as she passed by the first torches, on either side, they lit up as she breezed past. She gasped, and stared, dumbfounded, at the torches.
Then, just when she had shaken herself and turned to move on, she heard a familiar sound of escaping air—and turned to find that the panel in the wall had closed behind her, leaving her with no exit.



Christine burst into her room in the grand suite, threw herself upon the bed, and crumpled the letter tightly in her hand as tears silently trailed down her pale cheeks. How could he!? She, who had been the only one to trust the poor man, while the world laughed at him.
For a while she simply lay there, and tried to clear her mind and relax. Not such an easy task, though. Then she slowly smoothed out the letter on the bed, and reread it:

To the pretentious Christine Daaé- or should I say, Christine de Chagny,

It seems the opera has been a rather dull place since you've been gone from it, and upon hearing news of your arrival, I assumed it might be rather entertaining to have a little, should we say, 'revival' of the good times? Surely you can still make time in your perfect, passionate life with the dear Vicomte to come and pay me a visit—I believe a reunion is in order to discuss a certain...deal, shall we call it? Let me just say it involves a certain girl, a specific daughter who might be the main material of a secret of yours?... I look forward to seeing you, Christine.

From yours truly (but of course only second place after your
precious Raoul),
The "Phantom of the Opera"


Blackmail! It was blackmail! Erik; her dear, poor Erik; was implying that if she did not comply to a certain deal, he would let slip the truth about Lise!
Christine couldn't even believe the bitter, sarcastic tone of the letter. She had thought he loved her—she wouldn't be able to bear it if he hated her so, as it seemed in the letter! But she hadn't exactly let him know how she felt...after all, she had run off with the Vicomte when he let her—she had been relieved then, but had soon come to realize the mistake of her choice. And, well, Christine was still a little reluctant to admit how she felt. After all, it was torture to admit it and yet know nothing could be done about it.
But the point was, she had to meet him. She would go back down, into the darkness, and revive the memories...
It's all for the best, Christine thought, sighing. I'll die if I don't see him again while I'm here. And anyways, if I don't...I'll no longer have Raoul, should he know about Lise. It would kill him. He loves me so.
Christine thought about that for a moment. She had a home, safety, a wonderful, talented daughter—and a man who loved her more than life itself. She was, all in all, being rather selfish: for here she was, contemplating giving her 'perfect' life away and running away into hiding with her secret lover—
NO! Christine shook herself. I'm not running away, she said firmly. I'm not going into hiding. And he's certainly not my 'lover'—well, not anymore, at least.
Yet she knew things might turn out differently. After all, she was about to see the man who had changed her life, gave her her voice, haunted her in her dreams...and then taken from her the most precious, protected thing a woman ever has.
But, after all... Christine knew she couldn't lie when she saw him down there. Oh Erik, she said in her mind, her heart aching with longing and anticipation. Erik...I love you...
Any chance of a calm, resolved meeting dissolved in her mind. Christine now imagined a passionate meeting, a loving embrace once more—
You must stop! she shrieked in her mind. This won't get you anywhere. You can't do that! Your life would be ruined!
But my life is already ruined, said a voice in the very back of her head. It's just a cover.
Christine tried to think of a way she convey a message to Erik concerning when and where they would meet—but then she laughed aloud. It would be ever so ironic: she would go to the dressing room at eleven-forty- five, which was when she had always gotten back to her dressing room after a performance: the time she had been in her dressing room and had gone through the mirror the night she first saw his face, his true face behind the mask.



This is working out much better than I thought it would, thought Erik to himself, grimly satisfied. Though it pained him to have to do this to Christine, he had learned—after all the years of being scorned and turned aside and judged for his appearance—to numb the pain; ignore it and think only of the most logical solution, or what would be best for him. After all, the world was selfish with its compassion for him- why shouldn't he be selfish about some things too? He certainly deserved it, after all he had been through.
But as he said these words to himself in his head, he sobbed silently inside. I am not a selfish person! his soul cried. I am good! If only people could see past the scars...see me...
So far, however, the only person who had been able to do that had been Christine. It had started with admiration, with he as her dearest Angel of Music and teaching her to sing, then fear as he took her to his underground chambers and she saw his face—but soon to respect, for being strong while the world damned him, and then—
No. He would not allow himself to go on and get his hopes up. She respected him, and that was all. No, wait—she also pitied him. Pitied him! As though he needed her sympathy to get by. He was doing well enough on his own, terrorizing the opera.
But...all that he did...all he had done—the sole thing he had had in mind was Christine. All he wanted was to be with her, all he wanted was...her love.
But the idea was preposterous. She would never- could never- love him. And all because of his horrible face. The only thing about him she loved was his voice, the one that taught her and guided her as her Angel of Music, giving her the greatest pleasure of her life: the ability to sing, and sing astoundingly well.
I could give her better pleasures, he thought to himself. I could give her whatever she wanted, anything at all; whatever she wished in her wildest dreams...and of course, that was the only reason that he had...well, that he had done 'that' to her the night of 'Don Juan Triumphant': he wanted to make her see, although he was ugly he was the same as any man, just with scars. All he wanted was her love. That was all he had ever wanted, from the start. That was why he had taught her. That was why he hated Raoul so—he was competition. That was why he had released the chandelier, to make her know he was always there and knew what she planned to do; that was why he had killed the stage hand, that was why he had written the opera—and killed Piangi just to have that one precious moment of emotion in the song; he could act and touch her and caress her, and she would touch him back—she could not see his deformity hidden in the hood, and she had to go through with it because that was what acting was about. Even if something's not quite right, you keep going and ad-lib.
Which was exactly what Erik had done: he had never planned to do what he did that night. It was just...when he had felt Christine touch him, run her hands along his arms and his chest, without flinching—especially when she knew it was him all along and not Piangi. He didn't know why she had done it—she could have always not acted so intensely, kept her distance more—but she had shown true passion on stage there. And the vibes he felt from her were suffocating him; he had to do something; to leave behind proof that he had been there and loved her and since she didn't love him back she had had to pay. Well, he had never meant to hurt her, or make her suffer: he realized his grave mistake soon afterwards. And after all, that was the Phantom's trademark, as it were: leave behind proof of his existence; no matter how unbelievable it was: proof was proof. And he was so desperate for her love...it was all he had ever wanted.



Lise stood stock still, staring in horror at the now closed panel in the wall. All this ridiculous adventure business had been such a mistake...now she would never get out! She shivered, and thought she felt something brush past her quickly. Glancing nervously around again, she turned her attention back to the wall.
Although...if the panel had opened and closed, it certainly wasn't some magic act. There was definitely a button of some sort somewhere; an operating panel which controlled the secret doorway—
"You are Lise, I presume?" A low voice came from the darkness behind her. She whirled around: and saw a figure in a black cloak and a dark top hat hiding his face.
Lise involuntarily took several steps backwards. But even as she staggered back, the man stepped forwards. Finally her back met the wall behind her: and she was left helpless against this mysterious man.
"I do not intend to harm you," the man said coolly, examining one hand idly. "At least, I will not if all parties involved comply to , one might call them."
All parties involved?
"There are more yet to come," said the man off-handedly, as if reading Lise's thoughts. "There is a certain rather delicate matter we need to discuss with...well, I do believe you know this other individual."
Lise was utterly perplexed. Who else was this Phantom going to drag down here and intimidate, as he had done her? And why was she of any concern to this stranger?
"You have no idea who I am, of course," the Phantom went on. "But we both share a...an acquaintance. I shall divulge no more now—soon we'll settle this...properly."
As the Phantom finished his last word, Lise caught sight of something gleaming in his hand. The Phantom grinned.
"You needn't worry about this," he told her, pulling out a silver dagger. "I've no use for it—yet."

Eleven-thirty. Christine, dread growing in the pit of her stomach, slowly started off for the dressing room. She was excited to see Erik again, in a way...but still scared. After all, this man had blackmailed, killed, and—Christine decided to stop thinking about it the moment she started.
All too soon she had reached the dressing room door. Glancing around her cautiously, she reached into the front of her bodice and withdrew a small brass key. She pushed it as quietly as she could into the lock, and turned—only to find that it didn't turn.
Desperately, Christine shook the key in its lock. Had they changed the lock? Would the key not work? Would she not be able to get in? Christine looked up at the clock ticking a little down along the hall: eleven-forty-two. Desperate, Christine wrenched the door knob—only to find that it turned easily, and so the unnecessary force of her push threw her inside.
Why is it unlocked? Christine wondered, bewildered. She felt suddenly uneasy—and her doubts were confirmed as she turned slowly around.
The mirror was open.
Clearly someone had already gone in—perhaps they had discovered the Phantom! They might be finding out her secret! They—
Christine felt faint, and was about to rush out in horror—but a sudden sight brought a new wave of shock and utmost fear upon her.
On the ground, in front of the mirror, lay an embroidered handkerchief. The embroidery read one word: "LISE".
Without stopping to think, Christine slammed the dressing room door shut, locked it, then bolted into the tunnel.