Disclaimer: I wished I owned Phantom of the Opera in all its forms. But I don't. Nor do I own the Majestic Theatre, which will be mentioned later in this fic. Hell, according to my mother, I don't even own the air I breathe. All I own are my characters.

Well, this is my second attempt at writing a phanfic. This is based on the musical, which I might see on June 7, and on the movie, which is AWESOME, and stars Gerard Butler, my love. Although the book is great as well, I just haven't gotten inspiration from it yet.

Anyways, this chapter is rather LONG, but it's fast-paced, don't worry. Also, I'm gonna try and make it a tad humorous. If too many people don't laugh, I'll change it to Romance/Drama. I probably have some dates wrong, and I don't really like this chapter. But it WILL get better. If it doesn't, I'll die. Feh. And I know that the events are very unlikely, just bear with me here. There's also some verbal Leroux bashing in this chapter, but it means nothing. I love the book very much, it's just that I wanted its info to be wrong.

Yes, I know this is a long author's note, but one more thing: To anyone who was reading my original story (Sweet Surrender), I have my inspiration for the next chapter, and I'm hoping to put it up before the end of the month!

I have the strangest feeling that I've seen something like this before, but I'm not quite sure. If there's a fic out there like this, PLEASE tell me! Muchas gracias, and enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Erik's Tale

Erik gazed after his love, painfully enduring the strains of the love song that would never be directed towards him. "You alone can make my song take flight." he whispered brokenly, tears streaming down the scarred face. "It's over now, the music of the night!" He screamed out at the darkness, smashing the mirrors around him, hardly caring whether the shards hit him. He smashed the last one with all his strength, revealing a dark passageway behind it. With one last glance at Christine and the man she had chosen, he disappeared, letting the mirror's curtain fall behind him.

And that is the end of the story.

Or so they all thought.

True, the dreaded Opera Ghost was gone, but not from this earth. He hadn't killed himself from heartbreak, nor had he died in the fire that had reduced the Opera Populaire to ruins. He was very much alive, although he considered remedying that situation quite a few times over the next few years.

He had left Paris, partly to escape from the memories, but mainly to escape from the angry mob that wanted him hung. He escaped to Germany, where he stayed until the beginning of summer. He traveled to Italy, luxuriating in the sounds and sights for five years, then traveled to Spain for a period of two years. After that, he finished his grand tour of Europe with a three year stay in London.

It was an early spring morning in 1880. The sun was shining as merrily as if it were summer, and small green buds were forming on the trees. A few birds were tentatively chirping, and everyone had that joyful feeling that spring had finally returned.

Erik, however, couldn't care less about the changing of the seasons. He was also completely oblivious of what a gorgeous day it was, although he did grimace at the effect the sunlight streaming through the grime-streaked hotel dining room window made. He'd been staying in a seedy London hotel for the past 6 months, hardly ever leaving. The owners never asked why for two reasons. One: this new customer was rather intimidating in his dark cloak and half-mask. Two: he was paying them three times the normal amount.

So he sat there, in that seemingly normal room, on that seemingly normal day, eating his seemingly normal dry eggs. But at that moment, for reasons forever unknown to him, a though struck him that he had somehow prevented from entering his mind for almost seven years.

Christine.

Shivering, he put his head in his hands, trying to eject the memory of that sweet and beautiful face. He had been able to keep from brooding over her for almost all of his self-imposed exile from Paris. Why did those cruel recollections have to return and torment him now, when he was at least reasonably content? He bit his lip, glancing around the practically empty room. Even through his agony, an idea was forming in his fertile mind.

Anything could have happened in the past ten years. That poor excuse for a man Raoul de Chagny could've drowned, or been shot, or left Christine for another woman (although the last one was unlikely, Erik thought, after all he'd gone through to win her). Christine could be completely alone in the world. Maybe, just maybe, Erik thought, she could forgive her Angel of Music.

Of course, the only way he could find out was if he returned to Paris. So, with a small smile on his face and hope in his heart, he abandoned his disgustingly cold eggs and rushed upstairs to pack his clothing.

The next day, he was on a ship heading towards the French coast. The sailors and other passengers were staring at his somber colored clothing, but he didn't care. He felt incredibly optimistic, and it was a nice feeling that he'd never experienced before. Anxiously, he turned in the direction of France. "Oh, God, make this be a quick journey." he muttered, surprisingly praying to the God he believed wanted him to squirm in pain.

Alas, Erik seemed to be cursed to eternal bad luck. After his arrival in the port city of Calais, and asking around a bit, he learned that Raoul and Christine were still happily married, and had 4 children named Katriane, Matthieu, Therese, and Lucien.

"What?" Erik growled, shaking the old sailor who informed him. "Are you absolutely sure of this?"

"Y-y-yes, monsieur." the man stammered, shaking with fear. "I saw them on a visit to relatives just last week."

"Damn it!" Erik shouted, throwing the man against the wall. The man scrambled to get away, stumbling as he went. Erik slammed the wall with his fist and slid down, breathing heavily. Putting his head in his hands, he wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now? Not only was his love happy with the fop, but now he was stranded in France!

Now what!

"Stupid god damn organ." Erik growled, smacking his beloved, rust-covered instrument with his fist.

Yes, Erik was back in his lair, rather reluctantly, though. The Opera Populaire had been completely rebuilt, and now looked completely gorgeous, but it was so entirely different that it made him gag. Carlotta had thrown herself off of a bridge after Piangi's death, so now some screecher named Edmee Delven had replaced her. Mme. Giry had been killed by an angry ballet rat, and Meg's chances of becoming prima ballerina were ruined when she had her foot amputated, so she'd been replaced by Jacquenetta Colville.

"Everyone is dead and gone, and they've left me here to rot." Erik grumbled, throwing his shoe at an emaciated rat. The loud crack of a small mammalian backbone echoed throughout the cave. "Great! Now I have dead rat on my shoe." Erik shouted. "Lovely!"

Needless to say, Erik was not the happiest camper.

Years had gone by. Erik wasn't quite sure how many years, as he hardly left the opera house, but they were certainly passing. Not as many people were coming to the Populaire as once did, and it was in massive debt. On Erik's last visit to the outside, he'd heard rumours of a war, a huge war that the world was participating in. One army, the German army, was marching through France trying to get to Paris. Erik was surprised. The Germans had been so nice when he'd lived there.

Two weeks later, Erik found out that it was the year 1917, and not only that, but it was September 23, his 82nd birthday.

"Well, time does fly." Erik sighed to himself, throwing his cape on the seat of his organ. "Let's see how much I've aged." He slid the velvet curtain off of the group of cracked mirrors.

He stared at himself in the slightly distorted reflection. He had no wrinkles, no gray hairs, no signs of aging whatsoever. Puzzled, he touched the glass.

"Maybe I'm just aging well." he mused.

Leaves skimmed the ground of the empty cemetary, resting for a brief moment on the cold tombstones, then being swept away by the late November wind. Dark clouds were gathering above, threatening snow soon to come. Silence reigned in the cemetary, exccept for the howl of the wind and the swish of a cloak.

Erik slowly stepped forward from the shadow of Gustave Daae's grave, eying a small mable tombstone. He knelt down, his lower lip trembling, tears springing to the clear blue eyes. He reached out to touch the gravestone, on which were the words, "Vicomtess Christine de Chagny, beloved wife and mother."

He lingered there, not wishing to have to say this final farewell. If only he'd been able to see her before it happened, to ask her forgiveness! If he couldn't have her love, he wanted to know that she didn't hold him in less regard than a cockroach. But no...she was dead, gone to a place that he could probably never get to, for he was reasonably sure she hadn't committed any damning sins. His head bent, he placed a solitary red rose on the stone, adorned with a black velvet ribbon and the ring he had taken from her so many years ago.

In the distance he heard quiet chatter. He glanced up to see a man and a nun guiding a wheelchair down the path. He knew who was in that chair: Raoul de Chagny, his old rival. Erik tried to feel the hatred rise in his chest, but for some reason, it wasn't coming. This man was no longer the young, handsome patron of the Opera Populaire that he had fought for Christine's love; he was bent, wizened, probably dying and making his last visit to his dearest. Erik actually felt the smallest pang of pity.

Erik turned back to the tombstone, uttering those words he knew he had to say before he was caught.

"Goodbye..."

It was September 23, 1940, and Erik was in London getting bombs dropped on him.

He had left Paris in July, only a few days before the Nazis had marched in. He'd thought he was lucky then. Now he was hiding like a rabbit in a hole in a bunker with the rest of the boarders at the boarding house he was living in.

His landlady, Mrs. Marjorie Scarborough, was knitting a sweater, flinching every so often at the explosions. Edwin Winchcombe, his fellow boarder, was reading a book, and some strumpet from the street who had begged for refuge with them was looking Erik up and down with a slight smirk on her face.

The only sounds were the click of knitting needles, the turning of pages, and the airplane engines above them. Erik had to break the overbearing tension.

"Um...today's my birthday." he said casually, trying to make light and easy conversation.

"Oh, that's nice, Mr. Destler." Mrs. Scarborough said, not looking up from her knitting. "How old are you?"

"105." Erik said in a low tone.

Everyone slowly turned their head slowly towards him, looking at him in total confusion. "Um...pardon me?" Mrs.Scarborough stammered.

"Nothing. Never mind." Erik returned ro the important business of staring at his feet.The others went back to what they had been doing as well. It was silent for a while. Erik glanced around, his eyes settling on Mr. Winchcombe's book.It was a flimsy little paperback, nothing special about it. Except for the fact that it was titled "The Phantom of the Opera".

"Mr. Winchcombe, could I just see that book for a moment?" Erik asked nervously, his eyes lingering on the book.

"Er...sure." Mr. Winchcombe quickly handed the book to Erik then glanced away nervously. Erik opened the book to the title page. A picture of a tall man with a skeleton mask adorned it, the figure resplendent in a costume and feathered hat of scarlet. Above it, the title, and the author's name: Gaston Leroux.

Erik flipped through the book, glancing over the pages. He turned to the last page, where the last words were:

"Erik is dead."

"What!" Erik roared. "First, the man makes Christine out to be a brainless moron, then he makes me out to be insane, then he says I look like a skeleton, and then he kills me off! That's the furthest thing from the truth! Christine was a very smart girl, I am most certainly NOT insane, I am in no way skeletal, and most of all, I AM NOT DEAD! I've been alive for 70 years since it happened, and I'll probably be alive for 70 years more! DAMN YOU, GASTON LEROUX!"

Complete silence. Mrs. Scarborough was staring at him in horror, Mr. Winchcombe was staring interestedly at his hands, and the strumpet was no longer looking at him with a lustful eye.

The next day, Erik was evicted.

And so, the years went by, with Erik always growing older. He had absolutely no idea why he wasn't dying. If he'd had his way, he would've died in his home back under the opera house, and would be there still, turning into dust.

He had moved to New York City after he'd been evicted from the London boarding house, and had been living in different hotels. At night he'd walk around unseen and watch the happy people pass by in the bright lights of Manhattan.

It was mid-January of 1988, and Erik was walking around in the shadows. He hid in an alley and watched two teenage girls walking down the street. All of a sudden, he caught an interesting part of their conversation.

"Hey, Amy, you'll never guess what's premiering on Broadway next week that I have tickets to!" the first girl giggled, flipping her long, bleached blonde hair over her shoulder. The second girl sighed. "What, Jennifer?" "Phantom of the Opera, the musical!" the first girl squealed. "What! Our favorite book! That's totally awesome! And you have tickets?" "Hell yeah! It's at the Majestic Theatre on West 44th, one week from today!"

Erik stared at the girls' retreating backs. A musical? On Broadway? Wasn't that the place he'd passed where so many people were standing in line for tickets and jumping up and down in excitement like morons? But what if they ruined his story, just like that damn Leroux? He had to see this for himself. He promptly turned around and made his way to West 44 Street to buy tickets.

The next week, Erik was lurking in the box above the stage. He'd ferreted out the fact that the author of the play, a Mr. Andrew Lloyd Webber, had based it entirely on a book of Christine's memoirs, entitled, Memwars ov I, Da 2-Cool-4-Phantom Chorus Grl. Erik had an uncomfortable feeling about that book; almost as if it and it's improper grammar were mocking him.

When the curtains were shoved aside Erik was surprised to see that every event that occured on stage had occured over 100 years ago. He found himself mouthing the words as he heard each song, and tears filled his eyes when he saw Christine and Raoul profess their love to each other all over again. It was almost too much to bear when he saw Christine return to the world of light with the fop, for this time it wasn't just running through his mind.

It was playing in front of his eyes.

It was at that moment that Erik sealed his fate. He decided that he was going to move into this new theatre to make sure that the memory of Christine was kept sacred and that his story was told correctly. Every single detail must be perfect. They would pay if it was not.

He wondered if they had a subterranean lake downstairs.

Erik inhaled the cool April air, taking a break from his task. The back alley was dark even in daylight, but at midnight it was pure black. He looked up and tried to see the stars, but the lights of Manhattan blotted them from sight. Erik sighed and returned to trying to push his new organ through the back door without waking the sleeping security guard who was standing by.

Yes, Erik had made a considerably cozy home underneath the basement of the Majestic. Although they had no subterranean lake, which was a downside, he had been able to make some strategically placed passageways. These were in his new Box 5 (which really wasn't a Box 5, more like a Box A, but he liked to call it Box 5), random hallways backstage, and in various dressing rooms. You never know know when or where you need to appear, he had reasoned.

The organ was halfway through the door when Erik accidentally hit a key. The loud, blasting note of a pipe organ echoed through the alley, waking the security guard. Erik winced as the security guard shook himself awake. Maybe he won't see me, he thought. I am a man of the shadows, after all.

"Hey, who are you?" the guard called, glaring at Erik's huddled form. "And whaddaya doin' with that thing?"

"Uh..." Erik stammered. "What thing?" That's a lovely excuse, he thought bitterly. That'll get me out of this for sure.

"That thing!" the guard walked over, gesturing wildly towards the organ. The stench of alcohol coming off the man was so overbearing, Erik almost gagged. "The large metal organ!"

"I see no large metal organ." Erik said smoothly. "And I don't think you do either." he added, pulling a $100 bill from the confines of his cloak. The guard eyed him suspiciously.

"Whaddaya mean?" the guard said slowly. "And why'd you take that money outta your pocket?" the man glared at Erik accusingly. Erik sighed and put his face in his hands for a moment. This was obviously going to be harder than he thought.

"Look." he said wearily. "I need to get this organ to the basement for...uh, storage. But no one can know because it's a surprise...or something. So I'm giving you this money not to tell anyone. Also," he added on a whim, "I'll stay here and guard for you, while you run off and do what you'd like. Do you comprehend what I'm trying to say to you...sir?"

Recognition dawned on the man's face. "Oh...now I get it!" he cried, snatching the money from Erik's hand. "Awesome! Now I can go get totally wasted with my friends! See ya!" With that he scurried off.

Erik stared after him, completely confused. "Why on earth would someone want to be wasted?" he muttered to himself. "I thought it wasn't good to be a waste..."

He finally shoved his new organ through the door and promptly dropped it on his foot on his way down the stairs.

The years passed, with Erik always growing older and staying just as healthy as he always was. He killed a few people, mystified quite a few policemen, and ruined one performance when he was in a vindictive mood. Everyone in the theatre whispered about him. They called him "the new Phantom of the Opera".

Of course, no one suspected that this Phantom was the actual Phantom. They didn't even know that there'd been an actual Phantom of the Opera. This worked out quite well for Erik, for as long as everyone just thought he was some psycho who thought he was the Opera Ghost, no one worried about him and his malevolent antics too much, and if they did, they kept it to themselves and made light of it.

But one year, almost 17 years after the fateful day he had decided to live at the Majestic, the management decided on something. They wanted an all new cast for an all new Broadway season. Although Erik didn't quite agree that this would attract more tourists, he found it rather exciting. At least there was a change in the monotony that was his life.

Little did he know how much of a change.