I grew from a child into manhood in the dark and twisting tunnels that ran beneath Paris. I grew there in silence and solitude, with no voice to guide me but my own. I did not miss the company of man; the company of man had rarely caused me anything but humiliation and pain. Yet, there were occasions when the unbroken silence would suddenly become insufferable. At those times I would make my way to the opera house, and hidden high above the stage, I would watch the activity below me. It was there amidst the catwalks and ropes that I first heard opera.
It was aria from Giulio Cesare, performed by a fairly competent soprano. I stood spell-bound as it was performed, lost in the magic of the sound. Amazing! The music enfolded me, filled me and insinuated itself into my very being. Tendrils of it curled gently into the tips of my fingers, causing a most compelling sensation. I longed to place them on the keyboard of an organ, and reproduce the music, to hear the singing in my head as I played. I stayed there until the end of the rehearsal, each song burning itself into my memory. When I returned to my home, and finally lie down to sleep, I replayed the entire opera in my head. Note for note, word for word, it came back to me, save for the voice of the soprano. My memory played a peculiar trick, for the voice I heard was not hers, but another's. It was a voice of sweet and aching purity, one that I sensed could easily soar beyond the limitations set by the piece it was singing. Its beauty caused my throat to tighten and my heart to pound fiercely in my chest. If I should ever write an opera, I vowed, I would have a voice like that to breathe life into it.
I began to spend more time in the opera house, listening to the music, observing the performers, and vicariously experiencing their day-to-day lives. I knew each one of them intimately. A few amused and intrigued me, most only underscored my feelings of contempt for humanity. I watched Antoinette transform from an awkward young ballet rat into an accomplished ballerina. She was a poised and self-possessed young woman, and I could tell that there was a growing respect for her within the troupe. Antoinette never glimpsed me during my secret audiences, but I believe that somehow she sensed my presence. She never entered the staged during rehearsal without looking upward as if searching for something or someone. When eventually she married her young soldier, Luis Giry, I bitterly rued our long lost opportunity for a true friendship. If I could have trusted anyone with my secrets, it would have been Antoinette. But, the past belonged in the past, however regrettable it might be. Madame Giry had other concerns now than the boy who lived in the cellars of the opera house.
In my fifteenth year, I made a most fortuitous discovery. I was still in the process furnishing my home to my taste, relying heavily on the store rooms which honeycombed the opera house's cellars. It was in one of these places that I found the organ. It was a venerable instrument which had outlived its usefulness to the opera, and had been removed to this room and forgotten. It was in a sad state of repair, virtually unplayable. It did not matter to me. As far as I was concerned, I might as well have discovered the Holy Grail. I carefully began to dismantle my new treasure, and after much time, and not a little labor, removed it to my home beneath the opera house.
In my explorations of my underground world, I'd discovered that many of the older buildings in Paris had hidden escape routes that connected their basements to the sewers and catacombs which ran beneath them. These exits belonged to older and more dangerous times, and had been largely forgotten by the present day inhabitants. Exits, of course, are also entrances, and I readily made use of many of them. One of my most frequented egresses was the small wooden door that opened into a basement of the City Library. Everything I needed to know resided in that building, and many books soon found a new home with me. After the rescue of the organ, I began an avid search for everything pertaining to organ repair. I speedily learned what I required, and began a true labor of love. I hunted for materials and parts, and pilfered tools. With them, I painstaking restored the fine old instrument to what it once had been. I still can remember the ecstasy I felt as the first chords of it thundered through the cavern that harbored my home. At long last, I had music again.
My skills had grown rusty from disuse, and at first I despaired of ever doing justice to the glorious instrument I had recently resurrected. The words of Henri came back to me, however, and I began the long, sometimes painful process of regaining what I'd lost. Eventually I was playing with my former ease, and even better. My music had changed since last I played. It was darker, reflecting the turns my life had taken. It spoke of pain, of solitude, and of a longing, a yearning for something that I, even as I played it, could not identify. It felt wonderful. There was a terrible beauty to the music I made. I knew there was no other music like it.
And so, I began setting what I heard in my head to paper. This time, melodies and lyrics flowed from my pen as well. I was creating a new world with music. The people in this world could only do as I bid them. They only felt what I decided they should feel, and their words were my words. Their lives, deaths, their very destinies were mine to control. It was, and still is, an exhilarating experience.
The years passed for me in this manner. By the time I was twenty, I'd attained my full growth. I was tall, and the mirrors, when I cared to look, reflected back a well muscled body. My years of self reliance had served me well. I was fit and as agile as an acrobat. I had taken a fancy to elegant attire, and had collected a wealth of simple yet well-cut garb. My tastes ran to dark clothing, and most of what I owned was a severe black. I suppose the unblemished half of my face could have been called handsome, but it detested it. The treacherous mirror showed me the face of Etienne whenever I peered into it. We had resembled each other that much. I wonder if my accursed father ever even noticed.
Life in the opera house had moved on, as well. Antoinette, now a mother, had become a widow. The army granted her a small pension to compensate her for her loss, but apparently it was not enough. She accepted the position of Ballet Director at the Opera Populaire, a job that she was quite qualified for. Monsieur LeFevre, the manager, took dreadful advantage of her situation, and shamelessly underpaid her. It enraged me to see her treated so, and I vowed I would rectify the problem as soon as I was able. The opportunity was not so long in coming as I'd imagined, thanks to the ignorant fools that populated the opera house.
My little thefts from the opera house had not gone unnoticed over the years. At first, when things went missing, there was joking about "the ghost". As time went on, and it was apparent that the missing things were not just mislaid, but had actually disappeared, the jokes grew fewer. When my rather eclectic interests turned to ventriloquism and acoustics, the joking stopped altogether. Who was I to practice on but the people who lived all around me? I do have a sense of humor, and it amused me to send "other worldly" messages to the gullible souls. Monsieur LeFevre was no less gullible than his employees, and my whispered messages nearly caused him fits. For him, I added further messages: falling sandbags, missing scores, and cordial, but threatening notes left on his office desk. By the time I left him the message suggesting that Madame Giry be paid her full worth, he was more than willing to comply. At that point, he and everyone else but Antoinette was convinced that the opera house was haunted. Antoinette was never a fool, and she had knowledge that no one else had; she knew about me. She kept her peace, however, and the talk of the restless spirit continued. I must say, that when I found what power the rumor gave me, I used it to full advantage.
And so, the Opera Ghost came into being.