Haunted

"...If Christine keeps her promise, she will return soon! ..." - G. Leroux.


"I am here to report on the Opera Ghost," the journalist said calmly and objectively, prepared for the onslaught of derisive laughter he had earned at the Academy and on the streets.

But all he received by reply was a curious twinge in the manager's otherwise-friendly smile. "Un fantôme? What makes you think this theatre is haunted, Monsieur?"

"Surely, Monsieur, before the famous disaster …" He had all his documents neatly compiled into a leather portfolio that he clutched for dear life. This was the story of a lifetime, he thought eagerly.

"Yes, but that is all in the past. Now, if you please, I must be meeting with our investors. Excuse me." A cool exterior masked the man's flustered state, but the reporter noted it as keenly as if he had written it upon his little yellow pad.

He was ushered out of the office quickly, and left at the top of the grand stair, looking down into the newly-refinished foyer, empty as a graveyard. He heaved a sigh and glanced down at the case in his hands. Perhaps it was a futile search, as his publisher had said emphatically. Perhaps he should have remained a political article-writer and abandon these silly stories. Perhaps—

"The Opera Ghost really exists," a voice murmured, like a brush of velvet against bare skin.

"Pardon me?" the startled reporter asked, shaken from his doubtful reveries. He saw an old woman at the foot of the stair, watching him intently with ice blue eyes. Her black dress was faded taffeta, well-worn, and there were grey hairs threaded through her dark plait. When she spoke again, her voice was firm.

"I said, Monsieur, that the Phantom of the Opera is quite real. However, the ghost does not demand money nor obedience nor leave notes sealed in red." The woman's tone was cool and nonchalant.

"But-but the documents—" the reporter stammered unhappily. He had spent countless hours meticulously interviewing former employees, dancers, and servants; he cringed to think that it had all been in vain.

"Surely, Monsieur, you do not believe all that. Why, such material things belong to this mortal world, to mortal men—" Here, her breath caught. "—not to the spirit world. What would a ghost require of 20,000 francs?"

The reporter furrowed his brow. In response, the woman added briskly, "Anyway, that mystery lies buried in the past."

"That mystery, Madame?" he inquired politely, though the prospect of a new mystery intrigued him. He descended the stairs carefully.

"I told you Monsieur, the Opera Ghost really exists." A very sad, very tired smile wavered over her lips before she turned away. "Spend the night in Dressing Room number Six, if you wish to know the truth."

"Is—is it—o-occupied?"

The woman laughed. "No one has used that room in many years."


It was not hard to borrow the dusty brass key to Dressing Room number Six. It looked like an antique. The room looked different from the others, however. All the other dressing rooms had been neatly and splendidly refurbished. Number Six lay in dismal ruins, covered in ash and soot. It looked like a terrible fire had ravaged the room. The reporter smirked at his own ignorance. A fire had ravaged this room. Of course. The chandelier disaster. But why was only this one left to crumble into nothing? The furniture was blackened, and the wallpaper as well. It looked awful. Cursed. The only thing that looked new was the huge, full-length mirror. It was silvery and pristine. The reporter studied his own bewildered expression within the enormous gold frame. It was cold in here, unaccountably icy, despite the warm corridors outside the double doors. He shivered.

The reporter sat gingerly in a corner chair, relieved that it didn't give way beneath him. He settled into it. And waited.


He groggily looked at his watch; it was nearing midnight. A sudden gurgle from his midsection reminded him that he was dreadfully hungry. Absolutely nothing had come to pass in the damaged dressing room. He huffed a sigh; these theatre people were such a superstitious lot. And who was that woman with the authority to assert the existence of a ghost haunting the opera house?

Just as he began to rise from the aged seat, and give up on the tale of the Phantom, he glanced back at the large mirror. And froze.

A girl stood there, swaying like a lily in the wind; a young woman—beautiful, clad in a lovely white dressing gown, her chestnut curls falling in a loose mass over her delicate shoulders. She had the large, dark eyes of a wounded doe…

Wounded?

She slowly pressed her palms against the glass, and leaned her cheek to rest on the smooth surface. The reporter, cowering in the corner, heard her whisper something. She caressed the impassive mirror like a lover.

There was no reflection cast before her.

It was then that he realized she was translucent. He could see the charred wall right through her white gown and her pale face, and a soft glow emanated from her. She whispered again.

"Angel…?"

The reporter's breath caught in his throat. Again, she spoke, her voice slowly gaining volume. "Where are you, mon Ange de la Musique?"

Suddenly, as if a thread in her had snapped, she broke into a heart-wrenching sob. The sound of her anguished cries went into the reporter's own heart like a burning knife. He had never heard such raw sorrow. She pounded her fists against the glass, tears staining her lovely face. Every strike she made grew in furious strength; he was hypnotized by this vision of tragedy. The cacophony reverberated through the room, and seemed to echo down endless corridors.

Finally, when the reporter was sure she would shatter the mirror, she seemed to slump against it, with one last pained rap upon the glass. But she raised her eyes, and began to sing wordlessly. Her voice was dulcet; altogether powerful, clear, and delicate. The reporter held his breath to listen to her. This could not possibly be a ghost—she sounded like she had descended from a choir of seraphim.

What seemed like mere moments passed before she straightened and cried, with her unearthly voice, "I promised you I would return! I kept my word, mon ange! Hear my voice. Why did you not wait for me? Why, why ….?"

Tears stung the reporter's eyes. He felt as though his heart would break from watching her. He took a shaky breath and blinked the tears away. But when he looked again at the mirror, no one was there. The dressing room was dark and empty.

He fled.


A few days later, he went back during broad daylight to thank the manager for lending him the key to Dressing Room Six. On his way to the office, he noticed several members of the opera population watching him, and whispering. He heard a pretty young ballerina say in an urgent murmur, "He has seen her, heard her! L'Ange dans l'Enfer!"

The businessman dismissed the loaning of the key as a trifle.

"I also wished to thank the old woman who aided me that afternoon," the reporter added.

"What old woman?" The manager's gruff voice drew him back to the present.

"A tall, thin lady, dressed in old black, with a long plait of hair. She had very piercing eyes." He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the image of the worn-but-proud woman.

"Monsieur, you are very accurately describing the former ballet mistress, Madame Giry," answered the manager uneasily, extinguishing his cigar in the ashtray on his desk.

"Please do thank her for me."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Monsieur."

"Why not?" The journalist paled at the answer.

"Monsieur Leroux, she died several years ago … And some say, she took the secrets of the Opera Ghost with her."


Disclaimer: I'll put the characters back when I'm done with them, I promise! Leroux/Lloyd Webber's. I took lots of artistic license on the blending of book and movie sources, so don't judge accuracy to canon. It's not supposed to be. ) If you liked this story, may I recommend my short tale "Forbidden." Please review! I love feedback.