The Phantom stood at the foot of the bed, watching the girl silently. His expression was unreadable. He had observed her as she explored his lair, concealing himself easily in the shadows. He noted how reverently she caressed the ivory of the organ, much like the touch of a lover. So she appreciated his music. His annoyance at her sudden intrusion into his underground world tapered off to be replaced by intrigue. By the way she had acted, he doubted if she even knew where she was, or how she had gotten there. She had seemed very confused and disoriented.

He had also seen how she glanced at his belongings and had looked curious about what was written upon them. Yet she had respected his privacy, and with some effort it seemed. But her most interesting reaction was to the mask. She had been instantly mezmerized by it, touching it gently, her expression slack with wonder. The porcelain object had seemed to set off a reaction in her mind. She had leapt back from it as if scalded, and ran back to the comforts of his bed. It was almost as if she recognized it...and that scared her.

Erik furrowed his brows at this. Who was this girl? And what was he going to do with her? She is impeding my work, he thought, I should get rid of her. But he didn't really want her to go, not deep down, though he wouldn't admit it even to himself. No one really wanted to be alone. Perhaps...no. An idea was taking root in the genius's head. That probably wouldn't be the wisest choice. And yet... Before he had fallen for Christine, he had wanted her for his own gratification. He had molded her, perfected her voice. He had created a star diva, and he had placed her in a position to succeed. She had been his work of art, and the world was being allowed to witness his genius. They didn't appreciate him. In fact, it was quite the opposite. They feared him and hated him. If he were to fashion another star performer, make her world renouned, then he would have his applause.

In fact, he would ensure that she informed her audience of her tutor, the recently deceased Phantom. If she wasn't to be believed, he would force proof upon them. He would make appearences, and he would claim her publicly. Everyone would know that this rising talent was under the tutelage and management of the Opera Ghost. Erik smirked to himself. Yes, he liked the way this plan was unfurling in his mind, rolling faster like a snowball down an icy mountain, gathering speed and mass.

Everything he had done up to that point was on impulse, the food and clothing, and the lurking about and spying. Now he had purpose. He would not allow her to see him. Not yet. He wanted to remain a mystery to her. He would become her angel of music, and would entrance her with his voice. She would of course fall prey to him. She would allow her soul to be seduced by his song, which would only serve to increase the beauty of her own melodies. Passion was a key element in the success of a blooming singer. He would tutor her daily, but he would not release her from his lair. Not yet. He would provide her with the means to entertain herself, but he wanted to ensure her servitude before he loosed her on the world. And he wanted to learn more about her.

Things would be different this time. He would not allow himself to become attached to this girl. She was a thing, like a lovely composition. He would cherish her for her beauty, both physically and musically. But he would not allow himself to become enraptured with her soul, or let her essence touch his heart. He would be her benevolent yet stern master. He would both coax and force her to be his. She would be well rewarded for her obedience. She would be famous, and rich, but she must remain at the opera house. He would bestow upon her gifts and favors, but if she stepped out of line, his anger would descend swiftly upon her. His mind rolling about with plans, Erik slipped off through his secret passage.

I woke once again to a silver tray and a new gown. Well, if I had been kidnapped, my kidnappers were a little strange. I spent some of my time attempting to play the compositions spread across the golden organ, and the rest of my time searching for a lever of some sort that opened the gate. If whomever it was intended to keep me here, they could at least provide me something to do or else I would go crazy. As the day waned, or at least I guessed it was nearing night, as no sunlight could find it's way down into these caverns, I found myself itching to bathe. I eyed the murky green water dubiously. It didn't look too sanitary.

I glanced around as I had been doing all day. I had the constant feeling I was being watched. Of course, I was probably being paranoid, but my captor had to have a way to observe me and ensure I was asleep before he delivered my food and clothing. I hovered in indecision. Finally, the desire to be clean overpowered me, and I crept down the stairs, disrobing as quickly as possible and splashing into the greenish water. It was rather shallow and I had to sit down to ensure that my body was fully submerged. If there was a peeping tom about, he would have only caught a quick glimpse. Soon I forgot about my pridicament, lounging in the tepid liquid. It didn't feel at all grimy, and the water wasn't, in actuality, that filthy. My strange bath was interrupted however, by a voice that filled the entire cavern. I looked about quickly, causing the water to splash.

It was him, the voice from my dreams. I sank down farther into the pool, my chin touching the surface. He was conversing with me whilst singing. I listened, finding myself sliding into that state of mind in which I had no power over my actions.

"Who are you?" His voice echoed off of the stone walls.

I began to answer, but I was hushed. "Sing," he instructed.

"Adrianne," I answered, attempting to force the waver out of my voice.

"Adrianne..." his reply was somewhere between a hiss and a whisper. I shuddered. He began to sing then, that same song I had heard so many times before...

"Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation...darkness stirs and wakes imagination."

I closed my eyes, enthralled by the song. "Sing," he urged gently, and I obeyed his command, my voice merging with his in a duet. For some unexplainable reason, I knew the words instinctively. As the melody ended he instructed me to begin again, and listened silently as I sang. He would stop me now and again, and give instruction. He was gentle and encouraging, and I felt a magic spreading through me, as if the simple act of his perfect voice touching my ears had heightened my own ability.

This went on for a time, and then he was gone just as suddenly. I called out, but there was no answer. Cautiously, I waded towards solid ground, hugging the wall and clambering up into a corner near the bed. He couldn't possibly see me here. I noticed something laying on the silk covers and reached for it. It was a towel. I wrapped it quickly about me, breathing easier once I was fully covered. Had he been a gentleman and turned his back? Or had he watched me?

I slipped into a beautiful silk night gown that was left for me and jumped into the bed, feeling a bit giddy. Singing lessons? Is that what he intends for me to do? Does he want me to sing for him? I pondered this... Does he even think I'm that good? Still, it couldn't possibly be The Phantom. My kidnapper must have sang to me in the night. That was why the song, and the voice, were familiar. I sighed, both out of relief and sadness. Relief because I wasn't crazy, sadness because deep down I really would have liked it to be The Phantom.

The lessons went on for a few days. I was loosing track of time. The morning after my first lesson, I awoke to find a brand new, leather bound book atop my pile of clothing. There was a quill pen and a bottle of ink as well. I opened the front cover hurredly.

"A journal for your enjoyment, Madmoiselle.

O. G."

This was enscribed in a flowing script on the first page. I smiled. At least I'd have something else to do. I began to write about all of my experiences. I wrote about suddenly being here, and my theories. I wrote about everything.

Each day there would be something new waiting for me. There would also be a letter signed O.G., which I assumed meant Opera Ghost. There was a novel for me to read, which I thoroughly enjoyed, and the next day a few newspapers from the world outside. These I grasped urgently and began to look through. The date read 1871. I nearly passed out. This couldn't be possible. This madman...this kidnapper...he must have thought he was The Phantom, or wanted me to believe he was. I tossed the papers aside.That evening, after our lesson, I asked him to sing for me. I asked him to sing his works. He obliged me, and I would listen to his voice as I climbed into bed and drifted to sleep.

The fourth day I awoke with a thornless red rose lying across my chest. It was tied with a black ribbon. I held it up gingerly, admiring it. Did this man watch me at night? I wondered. I wanted deperately to see who it was. I needed to prove to myself that it was not Erik, and that I didn't belong in the loony bin. I suppose I could feign slumber well enough. Its worth a try.

That night I closed my eyes, listening to his wonderous voice drift through the cavern. I waited for long moments, what had to have been many hours after the last note fell upon my ears. Yet nothing happened. The next thing I knew I was waking with a start. I must have dozed off. I opened my eyes slowly. The room was dark, and only one candle burned next to my bed. I shifted my eyes to its wavering flame, sighing.

My gaze wandered to the foot of my bed, and I gasped in shock. Somone was standing there, clothed in darkness, watching me. I wanted to squeeze my eyes shut and pray that he would go away, but his very presence demanded that I continue staring. The man who stood before me, halfway concealed in the shadows as if he were born of them, was indeed whom I was hoping it wouldn't be, whilst longing it would.

Erik stared back, his face an emotionless mask. His jades eyes glinted in the soft glow of the candle, the flame giving a yellowish cast to his pearly white mask. I sat up slowly, my eyes never leaving his face. After a moment of silent staring, he walked around the end of the bed, approaching me. This couldn't be happening, my mind screamed at me. I shrunk back as he drew near, and he paused, sensing my fear. It wasn't that I was afraid of him, though I was. Though the man was frightening in his intensity, I would have swallowed the hard lump in my throat just to touch his pale skin. I was most afraid of the fact that it was him, which meant that either I was a psychopath, or I had been thrown into the 19th century, with no way of returning to my own.

"Adrianne..." he said, and reached out to touch my face gently, almost reverantly, as if admiring a piece of artwork. This was enough to send me leaping out of the bed. This wasn't just an apparition. His fingers had felt real against my skin. I stumbled clumsily down the steps, splashing through the water and refusing to turn and look back at him. If I saw those eyes once more I would be trapped by my desire.

I threw myself at the place where I knew the gate should be, the dark doing nothing for my sense of navigation. There was nothing there. Had he opened it? Having no time to ponder the particulars I ran through the opening, turning down a dimly lit corridor. I had no idea where I was running to, but I had to get away from him. My mother had been instituionalized, and before she had been locked away I had struggled to keep her with me, and out of that white walled prison. But she had been so completely mad, screaming at nothing, or staring silently into space. She had put herself and others in danger many times, and I had nearly wrung myself dry from all the tears shed over the entire ordeal. There was no way in hell I could be crazy! Not like her...

I heard splashing behind me but refused to turn and look. I wasn't like one of those idiots in corny horror movies. They were doomed the moment they looked behind them. I scrambled left around a corner, and right around a second...and fell flat on my face. Where the hell had that rat come from? And why was it as large as a small terrier?

As I lifted my head, sputtering and flailing to rise, I felt a weight press down on top of me. Hands grappled with me, pinning my arms to my sides. I struggled terribly, kicking and writhing in sheer terror. Erik dragged me up, spinning me around and slamming me up against the brick wall. His grip was like a vice. I stared into his eyes...he looked furious.

"You little wench!" he spat, "haven't I given you everything you require?" His eyes were crazed. If I only knew that he was remembering a past incident, and that it fueled his rage.

I shook my head furiously from side to side. "You're not real!" I screamed, kicking at him with my legs, "you are not real!"

This seemed to confuse him, and his expression softened. He could have reasoned that the story of The Phantom had spread, and that I had heard of him. He could have been described to me, and I could have been running from what I believed to be a ghost. This man was certainly not a ghost, he was solid and real. Or else he simply could have thought I was loony, which at that moment I was beginning to believe was the truth. Not real! I forced the thought to repeat over and over in my mind.

"Listen to me," he was saying, but I would have none of it. I freed one of my arms and lashed out at him, catching his mask with my clawing fingers. It was ripped from his face and hit the water with a splash. He reeled back in surprise, flinging me into the shallow liquid and clutching at his exposed deformity. I sat there, shocked, my rear end throbbing.

His black hair which had been so carefully slicked back was now disheveled. He whirled on me, the visible part of his face even more furious than before. "Damn you!" he screamed, and I gaped at him. He reached down into the water to search for his mask and I scrambled backwards, coming to my senses as he continued to curse me. I had barely even glimpsed the marred flesh...

In seconds I was up and running down the many twisting corridors once again. I could hear the splashes receding as he hunted for his precious porcelain. I began to cry as I ran. He was real. Or I was crazy. What the hell was happening? For some reason I could deal with a kidnapping. But I didn't know if I could deal with this.

A spiraling staircase presented itself for me and I began to ascend it at a rapid pace. Where would I go? What would I do? He was a dangerous man. I couldn't stay with him could I? But how would I survive in 19th century Paris? Would he now kill me in a rage...both for escaping and for looking upon his face? So many things to fret over. I wasn't given the chance. As I barreled up the stairs my footing gave way. I had sprung a trap door in one of the steps and now I was plummeting downwards, air rushing past my ears.

I hit the water hard and sank like a rock. As I broke the surface, gasping for breath, I could see an iron grate descending rapidly towards me. It grated noisely as it approached, a booby trap meant to both drown and crush intruders. Just what I needed...