The opera house was silent and dark.
Odd, Gaston thought. Where are the live-in staff? The stagehands, scene-shifters, ballerinas, singers...? Not a creature was stirring. He went to the front doors, hoping to find a security guard to let him in. But hope drained away as he peered in through the windows and saw no one about. He raised his fist to knock softly, but just as he cocked his forearm back, the door swung open slowly.
Mon Dieu, he thought. Is this an opera house or a haunted house?
Something inside told him it was both.
There was something downright eerie about the unlit foyer. The sickly-pale moonlight fell on the golden cadelabra statues, who just now looked hideously contorted in their half-nakedness. The dark balconies were like the staring eyesockets of a skeleton, and the stairs themselves looked twisted, mocking.
Gaston shook his head. Such thoughts were ridiculous! Here he was, a distinguished journalist, afraid of the dark! He, who had stood upon Vesuvius as it erupted. Who had watched the riots in Fez, and the Black Sea mutinies! He held his head high, and moved toward the manager's office, refusing to give in to a childlike fear.
He changed his mind as he saw a flash of old black taffeta in the moonlight. Instantly, his heart began to beat erratically as he followed it, compelled as if by magnetism. He couldn't tell if it was Madame Giry or not, but doubt never entered his mind. After several strangely-long minutes, he recognized his path as the one that led to Dressing Room Six.
When he reached the French doors, he gasped. They were painted cherry, fresh-looking, with polished brass and ivory hardware, and a key tied with a heavy tassle lay lodged in. He took a deep breath before pushing the door open.
He was instantly bombarded by a wave of floral perfume. The room was lit by glowing candles, giving it a deceivingly warm appearance. But what they illuminated shocked the reporter.
Everything looked new, from the burgundy wreath wallpaper to the various containers of makeup on the vanity table, the velvet seat, paintings, trinkets, the changing screen...But almost every bit of free space was occupied by flowers. There were massive bouquets of soft pink, peach and white roses, lilies, carnations, and many other floral arrangements. The air was filled with their heady scents. Cautiously, Gaston stepped down into the room, the flowers almost making him nauseous.
His eyes were drawn to the full-length mirror, where he noticed, lying at its foot, a single long-stemmed red rose of a marvelously-deep shade of crimson. Among its delicate green leaves was a black satin ribbon.
Gaston was compelled to pick it up. It was so immensely lovely, he felt he simply could not let it lay on the carpet, discarded and forsaken...
Just as his fingers were about to touch the shining black ribbon, he felt a breath of iciness on the back of his neck. She was here.
He straightened and looked over his shoulder, prepared to ask, "Who are you, Mademoiselle?"
But his voice would not function when he saw her. He was struck by her beauty, hypnotized when she captured his gaze with her deep brown eyes. She stared at him as blankly as he stared at her, then she moved. She walked past him as if he wasn't there; she bent, and picked up the rose, bringing its silken petals to her face, and inhaled its rich perfume. Gaston didn't dare breathe as she brushed the blossom against her cheek, and smiled to herself. It was the same secretive smile he had seen in the Hannibal ensemble portrait. He looked back at the mirror, feeling like a voyeur watching her stare at the ribbon-bound rose.
Then she screamed.
A horrid, anguished scream that pierced all courage in the famous reporter, Gaston Leroux, raced down his spine. He jerked his head toward her, just in time to see the scarlet petals of the rose crumble, as if by an invisible hand, and fall to the carpet. Horror swept over her features, and she dropped the stem, backing away. Tears filled her eyes, and she brought both hands to her mouth, whispering, "No ...no...I—"
Gaston wasn't completely sure why he was back here, in this cold and lonely little place, that all at once made his throat ache with desolation.
But an icier fear washed over him when she turned her dark eyes on his trembling form.
He swore there was something like pure fire in her eyes when she shouted, "Get out―forget me, forget all of this! Leave me alone, forget all you've seen. Go!"
"Mademoiselle, I—"
"Leave me here; swear to me never to tell the secrets you know of the Angel in Hell! Go!" she cried, her voice full of wrath; she snatched his portfolio away fiercely. "Go now, go now and leave me!"
He stumbled as he tore into the hall. He gasped for breath, but found the air thick and dense.
All around him, the opera house seemed to burn. Flames licked the walls, and smoke filled his nostrils. Blazing heat chased his back as he burst out the door and ran into the dark streets. Breathless, he spun around and stared back at the grand building.
It was silent and dark.
