I gasped at the writing. It was in a careless, childish hand, and the ink was blood red. Could it have been the Ghost?
…No, that was impossible. The legend of the Opera Ghost and Christine Daaé had occurred almost 150 years ago, not to mention in the world renowned Paris Opera House. It was the twenty first century now, and the Opera Ghost, if he had indeed become a "ghost", would have had no reason to waste his time at a public high school.
Relax, I thought quietly to myself. It's probably just a techie just playing a joke on you. I promptly slung my backpack over my shoulder, grabbed my car keys, and walked out the dressing room door.
I was the last one to leave the theatre, but that wasn't a rare occurrence. Because theatre was such a passion of mine, I spent every moment I could on or near the stage. I was never afraid to be in the theatre alone.
Did I just hear something?
I looked up instinctively. No one there…
It's just those long rehearsal hours getting to me, I thought to myself, sitting down in one of the house chairs in the front row. I looked straight ahead. The set wasn't half bad— it wasn't quite finished, but was certainly very good for a high school producing Phantom on a limited budget. My gaze rested on one particular item— a vintage dressing mirror. It was cheap, I'd heard, but it was exquisitely beautiful; no doubt it was at least seventy years old. The gold frame with its intricate detailing was a bit tarnished, but the mirror itself shone as brightly as it must have when it was first made. Truly, a mirror among mirrors.
"Bravi, bravi, bravissimmi…"
There it was again! Nervously, I brushed a lock of my vibrant red hair out of my face. I couldn't pinpoint the location of the sound, but I was drawn to the mirror still. I slowly climbed onstage and stood in front of the mirror.
I couldn't help seeing my reflection. I looked as I normally did, plus post-rehearsal syndrome. My hair was in a loose ponytail, and my hazel eyes were outlined by black eyeliner. I wore my street clothes— a fitted vintage t-shirt, a pair of boot cut jeans, and a pair of low-top pink Converse. When I grew tired of surveying my appearance (and felt vain for doing so), I went around to the back of the mirror.
The back of the mirror itself was rather ordinary. It hadn't been cut out for the big "Angel of Music" scene, a job that needed to be done soon. Absentmindedly, I began to sing the words.
"Angel, I hear you, speak, I listen.
Stay by my side, guide me!
Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me…
Enter at last, Master!"
Suddenly, I felt a hand grasp my shoulder.