Chapter One

"Dreams"

She ran across the wet, uneven floor, desperately trying to stay on her feet. Every once in a while, her hand would brush up against the rough stones of a wall, alerting her to the fact that she was in some sort of tunnel. Other than that, she might as well have been blind. There were no lights to guide her through the unfamiliar windings and stretches of this place.

Once she could no longer hear her pursuer's footsteps, she slowed to catch her breath. She leaned against a foreign wall, trying to steady her shaking body. Knowing that it was only a matter of time before he returned, she began to look for somewhere to hide. She walked slowly, allowing her hand to feel along the wall.

She did not go far before she felt the wall end. In truth, the wall didn't end. She had found the entryway to one of the many doors under the Opera house.

She backed into the space, watching for any movement that might catch her eye. Suddenly, a hand flew out from behind her to cover her mouth while the other hand went around her waist. He pulled her closer to him. "I've been looking for you Isabella" he breathed in her ear. "But you knew that already, didn't you?" He removed the hand that covered her mouth to drag a finger down her cheek and neck, gently caressing the exposed skin of her shoulder. She felt the hand around her waist begin to loosen and took the moment to wrench herself away from him.

He had already predicted her move and forcefully grabbed her around the neck. "Where do you think you're going?" he literally spat in her face. She slapped him hard across the face, successfully causing him to drop her. She tried to run, but it didn't take him long to overtake her. He jumped on top of her and began beating her mercilessly, calling out obscenities all the while.

He grabbed her hair and began throwing her head into the hard stone floor, over and over…

She sat up in bed, panting breathlessly. Her hand was clasped to her chest, as if she were trying to keep her heart from beating out of her chest. Little Meg Giry stood wide-eyed at the end of her bed.

"Isabella, are you alright? You've had another one of your dreadful nightmares." She moved to sit next to her on the bed. "What is it that scares you so?" Isabella simply shook her head, not ready to let her in on the subject of her night terrors. Meg sighed and stood up from the bed. "Rehearsal starts in twenty minutes. Do you need help getting ready? You know how mother gets when we're late."

"No, you go ahead. I'll be there shortly. There's no sense in both of us being late." Isabella sighed. At that Meg began to move towards the door, but stopped as a thought came to her. "You wouldn't be dreaming about the Opera Ghost, would you now?" she asked. Isabella could not help but laugh. "No, but didn't you ever hear that curiosity killed the cat?" Isabella playfully pushed her towards the door. "I'm going I'm going" giggled Meg. And with a quick smile over her shoulder she was gone.

Isabella closed the door behind Meg, leaning her back up against it, her hand resting limply on the doorknob. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying desperately to rid herself of the images in her dream.

Trying to think of anything else than the man that had beat her into unconsciousness mere moments before, she allowed her thoughts to drift to Meg's mention of the Opera Ghost.

It had been three years since the performance of Don Juan Triumphant and the devastation that followed. Christine did not return to the Opera house. She did, however, still correspond regularly with Meg and Madame Giry. That was how all the Opera's inhabitants knew that she was now a viscomtess with a two year-old son named Charles. They also knew that they were currently residing at the DeChagny estate in the Parisian countryside.

It literally made Isabella sick to listen to all the chatter about Christine's painstakingly perfect life.

It wasn't that she was jealous; No, not in the least. She would rather marry a beggar than an airy-headed fop whose pockets were lined with gold. She simply shuddered at the thought. She was just irritated that Christine could so easily leave behind her life at the Opera house.

She knew of course, that it was for the best. She couldn't exactly live a normal life with all the rumors about her involvement with a certain Phantom swirling around. But she could have at least had the decency to pay everyone a proper goodbye before she left. Instead she had just run out, never to return again. And what agitated her further was that she never mentioned any of her fellow ballerinas, for that was what she had been before the Phantom had attempted to make her the resident diva, in any of her letters. Did she just think that all the memories would dissolve if she cut off all contact with her friends, excluding the Girys?

She shook her head as she moved towards her wardrobe. No one knew better than Isabella that horrid memories could not be wished away. Instead, they were etched into one's memory bound to taunt you the rest of your days.

But even with that night having been three years in the past, the ballerinas and chorus girls still prattled on about the infamous Phantom of the Opera, sure as day that he still resided in the bowels of the Opera, watching the performances from either the rafters or box five, waiting for his next victim.

Isabella had never quite bought into the idea that he was a complete monster. She had seen a monster, lived with one in fact. And if her memory served her correctly, he didn't fit that profile. He had never laid a hand on Christine, and in the end, he had let her go hadn't he?

And as for Joseph Buquet and Piangi, well, her feelings could best be described as indifferent. Buquet was a horrid man, always spying on the ballet girls and always sloshed. He would wait in the dark hallways, lewdly grabbing any girl that came his way. He had deserved to hang.

But as much as she believed he had deserved it, she wouldn't approve of it. Murder was murder, whether just or not.

On a second note, why was her mind on the Phantom? She shook her head again, and proceeded to open the wardrobe, pulling out her practice attire.

She dressed quickly and in less than five minutes was on her way to the practice room, not bothering to shut her wardrobe door or lock the door to her bedroom in her haste.