Chapter Nine – The Rise of the Opera Ghost

Paris Opera – Early July 2005

Rehearsal had gone well that day. Christine, as she leaves the costuming room to get her things out of her personal dressing room, is well aware that André, Carla, and Webber were watching the chemistry onstage between herself and Richard very intently. They had rehearsed Music of the Night, that day, and, after her encounter with Erik, Christine wasn't eager on performing an erotic scene such as that one. But she did it anyway.

She opens the door of her dressing room and walks inside, closing the door behind her. Christine decides to relax for a little while, so she drops her bag and sandals by the door, going over to the small recliner by one wall. As she lies down, she sees a single white rose on her coffee table. Picking it up, she notices a small note tied to it.

Meet me for dinner at 8 PM.

Your love,

R.D.C.

Christine smiles. She hasn't been out for dinner in a long while, and Richard's invitation is very welcome to her. She looks at her watch; 7:35. She has time to take a quick nap. Her eyes flutter closed as she sings quietly to herself, "Father once spoke of an angel. I used to dream he'd appear. Now as I sing I can sense him and I know he's here. Here in this room he calls me softly, somewhere in sight, hiding. Somehow I know he's always with me, he the unseen genius…"

"Christine? Are you getting ready?" Richard's voice comes through the closed door, and Christine goes to answer it. Locked. She hadn't locked the door. No matter.

"Yes, I'm getting ready. I'll be out in a minute." Richard leaves and Christine, a little angry that she now cannot rest, goes over to her wardrobe where she keeps some spare clothing. Feeling like she wants to make an impression, she immediately reaches for a sexy red dress, but stops. No. It's summertime- she needs something more subdued and light. White.

Christine draws the knee-length, fluttery white skirt and matching, loose, feathery sweater, then pulls out a tight-fitting white tank from her drawer. Yes, this will do. She slips off her casual clothes and puts them in a neat pile on her table. In turn, she slips the tank top over her head and steps into the skirt. As she is fastening the sweater in place, she hears a voice, soft and almost inaudible. "Christine…"

She ignores it blankly, going to her bureau to put on some jewelry. Her second earring is just being clipped into place when there is a knock on the door. Christine jumps. "Christine? Are you coming?"

"I'm on my way!" She hurries to the door and moves to open it. Still, it is locked. "The door's locked!"

"Locked? What about a key? Don't you have one?"

"It locks from the outside!" She's almost panicky, thinking of being locked in a room all night.

"Christine, I'll go get a key from Madame Garnier. Stay calm! I'll come back and get you in a minute."

"Hurry, Rich! I hate enclosed spaces…" Christine wishes she was not claustrophobic.

"Christine…" That voice again. It comes to her ears and she shivers. What on earth?"

"Hello? Is anybody there?" No answer. "Hello?"

"Come to me, Christine…" The sound seems to be coming out of nowhere. She walks around the room, pressing her ear to each wall in turn, even the cold glass of her mirror. It vibrates. "Christine..." This reminds Christine oddly of one Easter she'd spent with her father's family. They'd been in church listening to the priest reiterate how Jesus had risen, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, when she'd thought she'd heard a voice like this one, a quiet but vocal wind. Reincarnation, she'd thought.

Reincarnation. Hit with a sudden jolt, she realizes what this could be. They say he'll return now that there's a place for him, a place where he belongs. She remembers Elle's words clearly in her mind and begins to sing. "Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory! Angel of Music, hide no longer! Secret and strange angel …"

"Christine," the voice says, growing clearer and clearer still, closer and closer to her. "Why is this boy coming to call upon you? Do you not owe allegiances to your music before him?" She is utterly confused at the statement.

"I…well…I…I love him." That, she realizes, is a mistake.

"Christine!" The voice shouts angrily. "This boy holds nothing for you! Come to me, angel of music. Come to me!" She looks around, wondering what on earth he could mean, when a face appears in the mirror beside hers. "I am your Angel of Music, Christine. Come to me…" The face…it appears as if out of nowhere. There is a mask covering the right side of his face, cold and unwelcoming, but his brown eyes draw her in. His dark hair, slicked back, looks soft to the touch, and his figure is well-muscled and masculine.

Scared now, Christine sees the mirror move, opening on one side, and a gloved hand stretches out of it to her. Wondering what could lie beyond the mirror, she reaches out for the hand and it clasps itself around her small appendage, leading her out of sight of her dressing room.

Torches line the stone hallway, leading down many flights of stairs, and, as the two figures pass, they burst into flame. Christine's hand is clammy in the coolness of the masked figure's gloved hand. He leads her down many staircases and out onto a dock leading into a cold, greenish underground river. By the dock, there is a gondola, and the man urges Christine towards it. "I…I really should go back now…"

"No, my angel. You must continue." She steps into the boat, her bare feet making soft creaking noises on the wood, and sits on the seat, the man propelling the boat forward with a pole. They reach a large gate, and it opens, revealing an underground lair. There is an organ set aside in a little area Christine is sure is his musical studio, and off to the side there is a little bedroom. It is simple but purposeful, Christine realizes. "Welcome, Christine, to my home."

He steps out of the gondola onto the shore and helps her out behind him. The man pulls her along towards his studio, and, throwing out his cape behind him, he sits at the organ bench. "Sing for me!" He shouts, pounding out the opening arpeggios of The Phantom of the Opera. "Sing!"

"In sleep he sang to me! In dreams he came, that voice which calls to me and speaks my name. And do I dream again, for now I find the Phantom of the Opera is there inside my mind?" How can he know that tune? The idea of reincarnation hits her again and frightens her, as he begins to sing, the voice unfamiliar to her, though beautiful all the same. No, not beautiful. Magnificent and heartbreaking.

"Sing once again with me our strange duet! My power over you grows stronger yet! And though you turn from me to glance behind the Phantom of the Opera is there inside your mind."

She continues with great trepidation. "Those who have seen your face draw back in fear. I am the mask you wear."

"It's me they hear!" As she sings her own part, she listens to his duet with her, his voice shattering the cold, unfeeling air around them. "My spirit and your voice in one combine! The Phantom of the Opera is there inside your mind!" They continue for one more verse, and Christine begins to sing her descant, harsh yet strangely beautiful. She hears him cry to her. "Sing!" She sings louder, more clearly. "Sing!" Again, she extends her voice, farther even than fortissimo. "Sing for me!" Again. "Sing, my angel of music!" Louder. "Sing for me!" She hits it, the high E that has so long eluded her. It was done.

In a moment of weakness mixed with tiredness, Christine slumps against the organ, using it to hold herself up. She's half asleep when she feels his arms around her, lifting her up and walking with her. "Sleep, my angel," she hears him say as he lies her down on what must be a bed. In moments, she is fast asleep.

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