Authors note: This is one of my older works, and in desperate need of revision. I am revising it, (go figure) and so there may be inconsistencies with the style of writing whileI update. I own nothing, and I am making nothing from this. That is all.
Wait, not quite.
Just below this note is "Erik's Perspective." This means that the point of view is primarily Eriks at this point, though it will focus on others as well. The point of view will change from chapter to chapter depending on the material. Okay! That's it! Enjoy.


Erik's Perspective:

Down, down, and down again. Past the giant boiler rooms, the dressing chambers, the stables and the rat catcher. Further still, threw the ancient catacomb that served as the foundation of the opera house itself. Down into hell in all its grotesque glory, to my realm, the devils realm. Into the darkness...
My mind and soul stranded in overpowering turmoil, the viscount's words ringing in my ears. Oh I wished vainly with all my being that I had not returned to the upper world, to that empty stage. That stage forever rang with the tattered remains of my Don Juan Triumphant, It had detoured me in the past, should have given me pause tonight. I should have remained in the safety of the shadows...

"Dead... She's dead..." I let the door hang open behind me, closing it required too much effort. So did standing, and I slowly slid back against the wall of my tomb, my form contorted, shivering. Sobbing too, unless it was raining. How could I feel this loss, through my numbness? I was forced to remove my mask to keep from choking on my tears. One would think that over time I would have become accustomed to pain, but how could I? How, when for the past three years the thought that she was happy was all that kept me living? All that kept me living... "...What is there to live for?.."

I heard the clock chime; the hands were set at twelve. It was now midnight, the witching hour, my hour. Slowly, shakily, I rose to my feet and walked across the room to my organ. "...Christine..." My hands aimlessly wandered over the keys. Somehow I had known I was not in the mood for music. My sense of humor is tragic, and ironically strikes me at the worst of moments. I cloak myself with it as best I can. I will be numb, or I will die. There is no medium, there has not been anything else for three years. Three years... How long, how long had he said she had lived? Was the pain terrible? Had she suffered? Please no...

Let it have been gentle, the blood loss taking her languidly, sleepily as she rested happy and warm. Let it have been gentle... I turned my head toward the table where my dinner sat untouched, the sight turned my stomach.
As she usually did, Meg had brought it at precisely six this evening and had departed. A bad habit to support, she had been doing this with all my meals for two years now, more or less. It began when she discovered me in a passage where I had expected relief. There I had collapsed from weakness, ready to die after several weeks of almost pure starvation. Unintentional, of course.

I had simply forgotten that food was required, it happens to the best of men...
She seemed to have pitied me in some way, much as I loath that sentiment, for she had fetched her mother and the two of them had helped me back here. I had lost the strength to fight them and so both decided to care for me until I regained my feet.

It did not take long for Giry to realize I had, unintentionally, allowed that meeting to happen. Since that time Meg has frequented my dungeon, bringing food and news when she believes I am in the mood to listen. More often then not I could care less about what goes on in the world, and the majority of the food I throw away...
I lean against the organ. The days events have taken their toll on my diminished strength. There is a noise, I jerk around to face it, cursing the open door. Meg stands timidly in the threshold, her eyes grow wide with terror; I have not replaced my mask. To her credit she stands her ground while shame takes me, though she looks flighty and she may faint.

"Monsieur... I.. I only wanted to tell you, the yearly auditions are tomorrow!"

Her courage deserted her and she swiftly quit my presence. What does it matter if the auditions are tomorrow? Does she not know the sun is dead? I wonder that the world is still spinning. Tomorrow... wait, tommorow? That cannot be right. I turned to the calendar and mentally berated myself for having fallen behind. "Oh for the love of god." A low growl, I have little love for him, and it is decidedly mutual. "I've completely skipped a month!" A sigh escapes me. I have never missed the yearly auditions, and I do not intend to start now. I must find that calm I have held for so long, If I am to find something, anything else to live for. The Opera. I will live for the Opera, for they are dead without me. My grief... will pass... must pass... I am not the weak man she fled from, I am not the broken beast in need of 'pity' or a kind word.

Her last words to me had broken something inside me, forcing me to heal anew.

She had saved us both from my growing madness. It was the painful truth. I had wrestled with that thought for years, for I never doubted my failing sanity, but never thought I would hurt her even if all sense abandoned me. She had seen the truth that my adoration blinded me to. I would have killed her for love, smothered the life from her in the dark. She needed light, and scenery, she was still young...

Now she was gone, and I numb, and alive. There is a twisted humor to life. I would live for the theater, I would keep that madness at bay. She would want that, I think... She would want me to live without her.

...Besides that, knowing my managers we are all doomed if I do not go to weed out the talent from the bravado. And besides, it is always entertaining to see the fresh meat; if you understand the expression.
I turned back to the cold meal and quieted my stomachs protests, I'd eaten worse, far worse. I would need the strength for tomorrow. I take my seat, somewhat amused to see that Meg considers breakfast rolls dinner food, and that she had somehow burned them. "It's very fortunate that one doesn't have to cook well to dance ballet..."

I hear chuckling from behind me and take a steadying breath, my eyes narrow at the thought that I have been snuck up upon twice in one evening. With annoyance and an aggravated sigh I turn just enough to catch him in the corner of my sight. Daroga. He smiled at me. I did not return the gesture. "I thought you returned to Persia to handle several private affairs?"

Daroga raised an eyebrow, "That was a month ago." Once again I glared daggers at my calendar. "I was wondering if you would be attending the company auditions, they are tomorrow you know." His expression grew concerned; he had noted my quiet tone, my low shoulders, the absence of my mask. This last discovery startled him, all ease left him. He knew my mood now. Few things could so distract me from my self loathing that I would remove that covering."I had heard you were not well."

I attempted a laugh, "You worry too much my friend." I moved to reclaim the cursed thing, replaced it over my shame, adjust my calendar. "Of course I will be attending." My mood grew darker. "Is there something wrong with this?"

Daroga did not answer me at first. His eyes struggled to avoid mine. "Are you sure that this is wise?'" I turned to him, my sarcastic expression seemed to unnerve him."I am only concerned about you..."

He could tell that I no longer wished to speak. "I am always here if you need me Erik, do not forget that."

The morning came without a warning, and I woke to find Madam Giry hovering over me. She had become too comfortable with me these last two years, but as much as that though plagued me, I had taken no action to stop it.

"The day has begun O.G. Will you be attending the auditions?"

I nodded and reached for my cloak. Madam Giry turned and left me to prepare myself. The cloak secured, I donned my felt hat and opera gloves, buttoning down my shirt as I reached for my boots. Lastly, I slid a dagger into the sheath on my belt and taking the Punjab lasso, placed it within the folds of my cape. Now, armed and dressed, I left my home and ascended into the light.

No one saw my shadowy figure pass by them, no one noticed the masked man climbing toward the surface. I made my way un-noted to the grand foyer and past the stage. There were many people running about, it was a simple task to blend with the crowd. Even for one who stood out as much as I could.

"...And did you hear there is an opening on the choir?"

"I wish we had remembered to bring my other shoes..."

"I want to see the ghost!"

It seemed the whole world was present, squeezed into the halls, all talking and moving... the shear wave of humanity moving and swaying at once could have made the most experienced sailor nauseous. It was working on myself.
A little ahead of where I stood I could see the crowd migrating toward the oak doors that held off the ballroom. So, that's where those fools are holding the auditions... Quietly I slipped inside.

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Andre looked over at his partner Firmin and stifled a yawn. This was the thirteenth flute player they had been forced to endure. Worse than this, just like the twelve that had preceeded her, she was awful... Firmin nudged Andre and made a sharp gesture. "If I never hear another flute player as long as I live it will be to soon!"

Andre laughed and patted the exasperated man on the shoulder. "I understand, I know; don't worry my friend. This can't last forever."

Meg Giry and her mother also watched the auditions with bored expressions.

Seemingly deflated, the jumpy flutist retreated behind the curtain of the ricochet stage that had been set up that morning. Behind the curtains, (which were actually window shades,) different members of the choir attempted to encourage the hysteric new actresses and actors. The individuals in question attempted to practice trills, breath technique, and walking without falling over. Others pushed the ones who had yet to audition onto the stage

Near the back of the group two young dreamers sat and spoke in quiet voices, their eyes dancing with excitement and nerves. One was Peter Grey. At age twenty-three he was older than his companion, and slightly calmer. The other... she is his sister Diana. She is also turning twenty-one in a months time, giving Peter just enough of an age gap between them to name himself head of their family. Both siblings wanted to be a part of the Opera Populaire, but in vastly different ways. Where Peter wanted to work with the sets and props, Diana wanted to dance.

"Peter Grey?"

Peter turned to the stagehand. "Yes?"

"The management will see you now." The stagehand departed.

Peter rose to follow but Diana grabbed her brothers hand, her eyes were wide and hands shook though she was smiling. He smiled back to her, "You'll do just fine Diana, remember to breath." With a reassuring squeeze he disappeared around the shades to speak with the management.

Erik, who had been moving about near the back, noted absently when Peter emerged. He weighed the man, appraising him with cold, golden eyes. He focused, cast his voice softly to Madam Giry. Quietly he whispered in her ear. She nodded and spoke to the managers, suggesting that they hire the man. Satisfied, Erik retreated back to the shadows.

"Next!"

A young woman appeared from behind the drapes. Erik studied her as well, surprised at how similar she was in appearance to the young man. Siblings, perhaps..? Cousins in the least. She had her head down, but her face was calm. Her small, pert mouth took on a determined tightness.

"And what is your name, mademoiselle? For what are you auditioning?" The orchestral conductor had a loud, clear voice, which was an asset at any time and seemed to be serving him well today. Beside him a few members of the pit sat at the ready to provide music for the breaks throughout the day. And accompaniment for any vocal performances, of course.

The woman looked up, allowing the audience to see a flash of green in her hazel eyes. "Diana Grey." Nervously she pushed away a strand of her dark hair, scanning the audience. "I would like to dance, monsieur."

"Have you already spoken to the ballet mistress, mademoiselle Grey?"

She nodded, causing the braid she had put her hair into to bob. "Yes monsieur, I have. I was told that I must vocally audition as well, and Madam Giry directed me here for that." Her voice was soft, probably from nerves, but it was gentle on the ears. Erik weighed her odds. If she was here, it was indication that Giry found her dancing bearable. That made the vocal audition almost a formality. If her voice was as pleasant on the ear when singing as it was speaking, her odds were solidly good. Though the Opera Populaire prized itself on perfection, the dancers were not all members of the chorus, and so were not demanded the same vocal pristine as their dual companions.

"Your range, mademoiselle?"

"Second soprano, monsieur ."

The conductor made a note in a small booklet, "And so you will be singing for us today?"

"I will be singing the Latin Reprise in act three, second soprano chorus, from the opera Don Juan Triumphant."

Several people in the room began to whisper, their voices low and frightened. Meg covered her mouth, eyes wide. She knew that the composer was in attendance, and she knew that his mood, if the previous night was any indication, was not a good one. The atmosphere in the room riveted with unease, and the conductor cleared his throat loudly, cueing that the whispering die down into an eerie silence.

"...Please begin, mademoiselle."

And so she did.

Erik's eyes narrowed as her soft soprano tone caressed his work, his reprise. She is taking it too slowly, too softly... His hands clenched. Her tone is good, breath support... decent, but she has misunderstood the mood. It is mournful, but not a lament! There should be a hint of irritation there, but there is nothing! It had been three years since he had heard these notes, three years since the chorus had practiced them. They had never reached the stage, and this was not the way the world was meant to hear them... My music... who has published my music? How did she get her hands on that music?

The audience seemed to have relaxed, and Grey's confidence seemed to grow from the change of energy. Now there was an edge, now there was guile and guilt.

"Now, it is sufficient." His voice was in her ear, in the conductors ear, and the words were out of his mouth before he knew in full what he had done. The conductor jerked about to see who had spoken to him, the musicians abruptly ceased to play. Diana Grey jerked as well, looking about.

With a Snarl the Ghost vanished from the scene, but not before the conductor caught him in a glance. The man gave a wheeze of shock, as if the air had been knocked out of him.

"Ph...phantom!"

That word was all the audience needed to turn an eerie moment into a frightful one. They reacted with jumping from their seats, looking sharply about, fear etched in every face. Diana too searched the Audience in a stunned silence.

"That voice... that beautiful voice..." Her hands were suddenly en-folded in another's as her brother removed her from the stage.

Diana and her brother were hired and welcomed into the theater, seemingly with open arms. Yet behind their backs lay a train of fear as wide as the theater itself.

Madam Giry approached Diana with the patience of one who has dealt with young performers for years. Both introduced themselves for the second time, and Giry led Diana away to show her the washrooms, dressing rooms, and where the dancers slept.

"This will be your dressing room, where you prepare with the troupe before, during, and after practices. I will be easy to find at these times should you need anything." They left the backstage area and moved further in, past a costume closet and several prop storages, as well as a large expanse where backdrops were in the process of being painted and strung. They turned again, and up a group of staircases. Diana hesitated, her hand reached out to brush a discolored stone on the outside of the railing.

"There was a fire several years back."Madam Giry looked over her shoulder, prepared when Diana turned to her with wide eyes at the unasked questions answer. "You are not the first to be curious... Much of this wing was redone, at no small expense." She turned and continued to the bedrooms, motioning to a cot near the south wall with a small bed table and warm woolen blankets. "This is where you will sleep. Trust is important among the girls, if you have anything of value that you feel will not be safe, give it to me at the first available time. I will place it in safekeeping for you." Giry motioned to the bed beside Diana's. "That cot belongs to Kirsty, she is several years your senior in the opera, has been with us since she was a little girl. Try to get along with her, as you and she will share some basic amenities while you are here."

Diana nodded, tucking the information away for safekeeping. "I have nothing I need confiscated."

Giry nodded. "That is always for the best. I expect respectful behavior on the part of all my girls, they will treat you properly, you will do the same. You will not behave in a manner that is inappropriate in the eyes of your peers, and you will not cause trouble with the stagehands or your fellow performers, is that clear?"

Diana nodded. "Yed madam."

Giry turned to go, paused. "Your brother, he is a stagehand now, yes?" Diana nodded again. "I am sure that is some comfort, to have family here. He seems good to you. Understand that not all men in this building will be, there are some I personally dislike. If you are... bothered, by any man in the theater, I urge you to tell me." Giry sighed. "One last word, this one is also of caution. Every opera has its stories and superstitions. This opera has an active legend. Beware the Phantom of the Opera." Without another word she was gone.

Diana looked after her a few moments, silently thinking. Then excitedly she looked around her new home.

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Peter was as jumpy as a puppy as the older stagehands showed him the ropes of the job. "These ropes tie off sandbags, and those sandbags are heavy, so be sure you know who, or what, is below you before you let one drop. These particular sandbags are used to hold up heavy props. A makeshift bridge, last season, sometimes little buildings, can be anything really. All depends on whats going on below."

"So this is what its like to work at the opera," Peter looked over the complex network of ropes, levers and cranks. "I wonder how my Diana is doing..."

The stagehand behind him raised an eyebrow, "Diana? You have a girl?"

Peter laughed, shook his head, "She's my sister, and very talented. I think she could have a great future in store for her."

The stagehand nodded, a smile on his face. "She may do well, this place... that stage, a good show for the truly talented. Course it's all up to the ghost in the end." Other stagehands gathered around to listen. Peter's stunned expression caught everyone's attention. "Don't tell me you haven't herd of the ghost?"

Peter shook his head in confusion. "What ghost?"

The smiling stagehand grew as cold as stone, his eyes picked up a nervous twinkle. "The ghost is one of the quirks of this theater. You need to know every man who works these ropes, for one night you may encounter a stranger up here. If you do, you'll know not to bother 'im. He's a man who prowls the theater, owns box five on the grand tier. His eyes are like fire, and they burn your soul. He has the reaper's face." The others all nodded in agreement. "When the ghosts orders are ignored, strange things happen."

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Before the week was out, Diana and Peter had gained the respect of the opera house. She was honest and hard working, he was honest and hard working. Good things seemed to happen when they were about, good things being the absence of bad things, that is. Both had cheery dispositions besides, and so it was pleasant to have them near. "It's the gift of the ghost," was whispered when they were not about. And perhaps... it was. Andre and Firmin were given nothing to gripe about, the threat of the phantom that had loomed over their heads since the years auditions seemed to fade with time.

"Diana, Diana, Wake up!"

Diana rolled over and whapped Kirsty, her newly acquired, surprisingly close friend, in the face with a pillow. They had taken to each other almost instantly, sharing many of the same interests. It didn't matter that most of those interests involved dancing, that was, after all, why they were here. "Kirsty, what is it...Isn't it Sunday? Let me sleep..." Kirsty ignored her friends plea and sat on the end of the bed.

"Fine, if that's how you want it. But Madam Giry is the one who sent me, so I suggest you get up!" For her efforts, Kirsty received an annoyed moan and a threatening wave of the pillow. "Alright! If your going to be so grumpy I'll tell her you didn't want to see her."

Diana sat up wit a groan and fumbled around for her hairbrush. "I'm up Kirsty, I'm up..."

Madam Giry paced the stage as she waited for Diana and Kirsty to arrive. She glanced with agitation at the time and scowled, they were very late. It was her Sunday as well, and she had no great desire to spend it waiting on them.

Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps shattered the still air... However it soon became apparent to the Ballet mistress that she was not hearing the footsteps of either of the girls. The steps were too evenly paced, to heavy. They were distinctly masculine. And then, as he rounded the corner, she saw his eyes. Piercing gold, eyes that glared from the heart of the shadows.

"...Madam, I believe we have certain matters that we must address."

Giry shuddered, there was an agitation in that voice that she had not heard in some time. Recently the ghosts behavior had worried her. Months of silence had separated them, a distance she had not minded. Then Meg's discovery, that long walk through the tunnels... Two years after that of watching him steadily decline. It was not a decline from neglect; she had seen to that, more it was a simple loss of interest in the world itself. The fiery spirit that had held the Opera Populaire by the throat faded into little more than a glowing coal.

He had secluded himself within himself, his voice had lost much of its tone, he spoke less and less. The last year he had spent below the floors, not bothering with the trips above.

Truth be told, she had expected him to wither up and die shortly, like a neglected plant in the dark. His sudden revival disturbed her, she worried what it would mean for the present, and the future. In the present moment, his irritation sent her into an uneasy state.

"O.G. I do not understand what there is that we should discuss. I have followed all your orders and serve you faithfully..."

The ghost seemed to consider this and discard it immediately. He advanced, anger in his step, and she responded by backing away. "We must discuss our present situation, my dear Giry. Your comings and goings out of my sanctuary at all hours that I have foolishly allowed. I am afraid I no longer trust you, as I once did."

Giry backed up until she reached the stages end. "It must cease, it is bad for our strait forward relations. This level of comfort where my person is concerned has made you forgetful. Did you not fail to inform the management of my recent requests? I instructed you to do so, yet it seems that you have gone out of your way to avoid it.

I have some new instructions for you, and I expect them to be carried out to the smallest detail!" The form in the darkness seemed to relax, and pulled back, allowing her to move back into the center stage. The ghosts voice turned gentle. "I wish for you to investigate the girl, mademoiselle Grey, take her under your wings. I desire to know where she acquired that song, and further than this, if you could recover it for me? The child is still young besides, and a motherly influence would do her good." Madam Giry nodded, a trace of confusion in her expression. "Secondly, I want the management informed of those neglected instructions. Thirdly, my salary... it is long overdue."

For the first time in a long time Giry and Erik were face to face, and mentally mind to mind. Giry could not help but feel a mixture of fear and worry run through her. "...It will be as you wish, is there anything else?"

Erik nodded, looked to the grand tier. "My private box, have it returned to me." Both tensed when they heard footsteps in the distance. Erik turned his head back to Giry, "Do not, forget." With a swish of his cape the opera ghost vanished, leaving Giry alone as Diana and Kirsty rushed onto the stage.

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"I tell you, it wasn't my fault! It was the ghost again, he startled me as he ran by!"

The other stagehands turned and gave Joseph scornful glances as they raised the backdrop that had crashed to the stage. "I don't care if no one here believes me!" He growled it, shook his fist at them. "I've seen him on the catwalk, and it must be him! He has eyes like hells fire, And a white mask instead of a face!"

Someone snickered, "I think Joseph was getting an eyeful of the chorus girls, instead of paying attention like he's paid to." Several rowdy laughs erupted from the other workers, Peter smiled and picked up a cable.

"Common people, some of us enjoy our pay and have work to do to earn it!"

The other stagehands moved off, leaving Joseph alone. Seizing the opportunity he reached into his coat pocket and removed a flask of old whisky. He regarded it dubiously, sniffed it, as if he could tell by scent if it had somehow gone bad.

"You are aware that accomplishes nothing?" Instantly a cold hand touched his shoulder and Joseph whirled around to face two golden eyes glowing in the dark."Now, apparently your carelessness was the work of... a ghost?" The tone was velvet-tine, but the menace was unmistakable.

Realizing the danger, Joseph backed away, his hands making the sign of the cross in front of him. "No...wa.. wasn't anything but an accident!" The specter smiled, his expression shifted, turned to one of quiet outrage. "Yes...but you blamed me." He advanced, forcing the cowering man back against the ropes. "I will not have the lazy, the stupid, or the liar in my opera... and so I fear... we will have to let you go!" With that snarl the Phantom lunged forward, grabbing the other man by the shoulder, wrenching him about and pushed him from the catwalk.Joseph's scream was caught in his throat as thin, powerful hands held him aloft by his neck alone. Legs kicking he struggled, flailed, and attempted to pry away the fingers... His head was twisted savagely, and with a loud snap...

He was dead before he hit the stage.

Erik walked slowly across the rafters, his grace gone. He seemed suddenly old as he paused to pant, resting his weight on a rope. In hindsight, he wondered, why that man had to die. At the moment he had felt no doubt, it was a necessary evil. He would not tolerate such vermin on his ground, he had to restore the full glory of his Opera... and yet, now, with the deed done, a strange dread stoll over him. A necessary evil, he had told himself that before. It had been a necessary evil in the little Sultans court. I was insane then, that was the only way to stomach such, necessary evil. Have I gone mad again..? He snarled, his grip on the rope turned cruel. No, not mad, I am not Mad! I am... disturbed. He quieted. I am disturbed, and I am a killer. I am grieving... and so I over-reacted. I am not mad... but I will be if I cannot find control. I must have control of myself.

It will not be easy with my temper... But I have stood against greater monsters. I can manage, myself... Hearing a noise behind him Erik turned his head, narrowed his eyes, and looked strait into the stunned face of Peter Grey.

"My god... your all take this ghost story seriously, don't you?" Peter had obviously not yet seen what rested below them, and he laughed under his breath as he regarded the apparition before him. "I should have been expecting something like this, I'm sure you've done this to every new crew member. I'm not frightened."

Erik braced, stood his full height and looked down his nose at Peter, a deathly stillness filled the air. Slowly, the ghost smiled. "We are people of the arts, superstition... is an important part of our lives."

Peter chuckled. "So I see. I will admit you almost had me. Are there any other superstitions I should expect to encounter? And If I do, any specific way to safeguard myself against them?"

The smile fell from the Phantoms lips. "I have one to suggest. One day, this may serve you well... In this building, if you are ever in doubt of your safety, keep your hand," He demonstrated. "At the level of your eyes." And then there was laughter. Erik's cold laughter as he passed Peter and vanished into the shadows.

Below them both, from the box just off of the stage, the Persian cursed under his breath. Erik has broken his promise...

When last they had spoken, there had been nothing about Erik that had hinted at murder being on his mind. Perhaps then this had been done on a mad whim? That was troubling. The thought of what must have run through the stagehands mind in those final moments... a shudder of unease ran up Daroga's spine.

From behind he heard a low moan, and whirled about to see Madam Giry gazing with some indescribable emotion at the sprawled corpse. "Why did this happen..? Poor Joseph... He was a good man... a pig, and a fool, but a good man!"

The Persian sighed, shook his head in sudden anger. "Why must anyone die? Forgive me madam, but I try not to pity the dead when I must still pity the living!"

Giry glared at him, abashed by his outburst. Her eyes regarded him with a steely indifference. "Forgive me for being human monsieur, I will not trouble you further with my pathetic emotions!"

Daroga could only watch stunned as she hurried off to get help. A pang of regret coursed through him; he had not meant to be so sharp... perhaps if he hurried he could still catch her. With a calming breath he turned and sprinted towards the office.