Okay... let me clarify here... Allena is not half-vampire, she is a vampire, she just did not bite Dracula so she's still got her soul. Sorry about the confusion...

Stillness... silence.

An echoing silence.

A frightening silence.

The world of silence is known to those taunted by others, shunned by others, tortured by others. It is a silence so deep that none can penetrate it, a loneliness so horrible that a weak man who has found himself within it is likely to feel death's icy grip upon him and welcome it. The stillness eventually drives one to insanity, and causes attempts to persue and conquer death. There is none in the silence who aids, none who offers a comforting arm. When one is trapped in silence unpenetrable, one is alone. Alone. Alone...

Erik would not allow this to happen.

He would not allow himself to lay down at the mercy of silence and stillness. Though he was shunned and hated by others, he was alive, though not quite sane, as some would say.

Erik had once been known as the Phantom of the Opera at the infamous Opera Populaire in Paris. After the famous incident of the chandelier, of which no one quite knew the details, he had left the Opera Populaire forever. No more would he haunt those halls... no more would he cry out to his angel of music in his loneliness for comfort and happiness.

As an aimless wanderer, hiding out in empty, abandoned buildings by day, walking deep shadows' paths by night, he had slowly made his way to Bordeaux. One chill night, not knowing or caring of his location, Erik had somehow made his way onto a city street. The lights had been dim, and the street deserted, for it had been well past midnight.

Careful to keep his face hidden in the shadows, Erik had studied the street's buildings with little interest. There were rows of houses on either side. They had all looked as if they had quite wealthy owners, and had been well tended to. Erik had turned his eyes to the other side of the street, the cold, brisk wind causing his cape to swirl around his ankles.

There were houses here too, but on the end of the street, a dark, wooden building loomed up out of the street, high as treetops. It looked no smaller than a fair-sized mansion, with two huge, wooden doors, five stories of windows, pulled shut at the time, and a small balcony on the roof. An elegant sign above the doorway read: Bordeaux Opera House.

Erik had gazed at the silent, sturdy building and silently nodded his approval. Then something on the ground had caught his eye.

A rusted, golden chain ring, attatched to a wooden board, was hidden on the left side of the opera house by moss and weeds.

Erik had known where this trapdoor led. It was quite obvious, considering the Paris Opera House had had the same sort of thing, which had led down to Erik's lair.

At this point, Erik had been starting to long for the sound of the opera, the sights of an opera house. He had not known if he could go back to the life he once had.

Looking out at the empty city streets, and then to the dark, shadowy road he had just traveled, Erik had decided that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. If he did not disturb the managers, maybe...

His decision made, Erik had easily picked the lock of the trapdoor and, oddly enough, had found that it had a ladder descending down into darkness, just like the Paris Opera House.

Erik had found that this opera house also had an underground lair. It looked to have been made long ago, then abandoned and forgotten.

For the next two years, Erik had stayed there, aquired a few things from the opera house... and had been terribly lonely. Though he would not bring himself to admit it... it was daily torment. Slowly he slipped deeper into despair, nearly all hope of bringing him back was gone...

Now, Erik was at work composing an opera. Using the old organ he had taken from the opera house, he was scribbling down notes without pausing for the span of a breath. He was sitting on the organ bench, bent over, using the top of the organ as a desk on which to write. All was still and silent... the way things always were in the accursed lair. No winter's chill came wafting down to meet him, no breath of wind ruffled the sleeves of his shirt. The only sound was that of the scratching of Erik's quill.

Suddenly he looked up, his face expressionless, his eyes sightless. After a few moments he stood up and laid down his papers. He walked to the next "room" and retrieved his cape. After putting it on, he began to walk toward the trapdoor.

I have been working all night, he thought with a bit of pride, I need to get air. He turned his head towards the ceiling. Those fools do not even know what haunts their opera house.

Erik climbed up the ladder and disappeared into the night.