authorette's note: I'd like to thank all those funkier than groovy people who've given me such great reviews, I love to get feedback from my work, (positive or otherwise!)! Secondly, I want you to ignore the any references in the previous 'authorette's note' about 1869, the action takes place in 1870! Which brings me on to this chapter. I've dated the Masquerade as being on the 31st of October, and in case you were wondering, in this fic, Erik has the Leroux 'full corpse face' deformity, rather than the ALW 'bad sunburn'! However, the events here are mainly ALW film based, with perhaps a few additions of my own! Anyway, enjoy and please review!

The Ghost Was Resurrected

1870, October 31st

My mind was in a state of disarray and madness. In was clouded by the two most powerful emotions that exist, immense hate and immense love. I loved Christine with all my soul, with all my being and more than loving her; I was obsessed by her. When I drew, I drew only of her, I would spend hours ensuring that all my pictures of her were as perfect as she was. When I composed it was her and my adoration of her that was my artist muse. Or at least that had always been the case until three months ago when a new emotion came into play. Hate

It happened on that night, that heart wrenching night when I saw my beautiful angel and that, that idiotic fool who new nothing of arts but how much they were worth, together on the rooftop of the opera house. Of course, any man would have been smitten with my Christine as soon as they saw her, her beauty excelled that of all others, and then of course there was her voice. As soon as she sang her debut I saw the eyes of that buffoon become clouded over with adoration. It was like a spell was cast over him and from that moment he pursued the one which until then had been in a strange sense, mine.

My young 'bella diva' tried her hardest to resist all his romantic advances towards her from that childhood play friend who insisted on visiting her, and bestowing her with lavish gifts when she refused to see him. However, the fact was that to her young eyes, he was a hero that had come from a distant land of light to rescue her from darkness and the creature who kept her cloaked in it. She'd already forgotten me as her angel of music, the figure that she admired, respected and maybe even loved the most. I used to enchant her and capture her imagination with my voice. She used to dream about meeting me in person you know. I suppose her visit to me has now become the subject of her nightmares.

I tried so hard to prove to her that I was still her angel. I sent countless notes to those two bumbling imbeciles that run my theatre that gently persuaded them that it would be better for everyone's health if Miss Dáae played the countess in the new production of Il Muto. They originally intended to comply but when that ridiculous goose in a frock threatened to leave for good, ( which I believe she has tried to do countless times before,) they changed their minds. So, of course I had to give them a little reminder of why it's better to agree with the ghost's demands, in the form of a sound. A sound like, I don't know; co-ack perhaps?

After a little breath spray replacement and ventriloquism I intended to find a spot, since that dandy of a patron had taken my box, and then watch my rising star enjoy her moment in the limelight. However I had been followed by a particularly beastly opera worker named Buquet. I would have been quite happy to let this incident pass and carry on as normal but he insisted in proceeding to anger me. Not that it was the first time, I had heard him giving his little speeches on my ugliness to all the chorus girls and cheap whores that my poor Christine had been forced to live with. I will remind you that at that time in my life I saw very little wrong in murder, and besides, as they say in Indian philosophy, 'everyone gets what they deserve'...

So I killed the man, strangled him and tried to tie his lifeless body to one of the rafters and hoped that it would remain undiscovered until the end of tonight's performance. But then something disastrous happened. The body slipped, the rope came undone and the corpse fell from the rafter, to be dangled above the stage like a prize meat by my Punjab lasso. That was my big mistake and that directly lead to the events that followed and the plan that I had conjured up to win back my star, my angel, my love. My Christine.

In a moment of impulse, I set about gathering months worth of supplies, which for a creature with a small an appetite as me, isn't much. Then I shut myself away in my little 'lakeside manor' with the intention to finish my life's work; my Don Juan Triumphant. It then began. Three long months of solitude that allowed me to create, if I say so my self, one of the most magnificent operas what this world has ever seen. It was a deep, sensual, almost lustful ( but tasteful) tale inspired by those two dreadful emotions, love and hate. I soon discovered that the pair combined spectacularly to create the emotion that was the very essence of Don Juan Triumphant. Passion.

It was as I worked that my grudges and resentments began to fester deep in my soul and the sight of Christine and that, that dreadful boy together on the roof of my opera house kept playing over and over in my head until I was physically sick. That's when a came up with the second phase of my plan.

Being a man of impulse I'd been writing my masterpiece with out a single proper thought as to what was to be done with it when it had been completed, but one night as I attempted to get some rest it came to me like a vision and I knew what I had to do. The only question was, when? I had some choice words to give to not only those two incompetent fools who manage my opera house but La 'ridiculous sow' Carlotta, that fat, pitiful excuse for a tenor Piangi and of course Christine. But the question was where could I be certain that I'd have all of them, plus various other important figures of the opera house and perhaps a few high status members of Parisian society in the same place at the same time. I pondered this for a few minutes and then my eyes fell on my mask that lay on the organ bench beside me and the answer flew into my mind. The masquerade.

Ah yes that ridiculous affair where guests attended an otherwise rather dull party wearing a pitiful excuse for a mask and pretending to be unrecognisable by everyone else. I rather resented public festivities being held in my opera house but I quickly realised that this would be the perfect opportunity to present Don Juan Triumphant and naturally, wish everyone good tidings for the New Year...

I'd already nearly finished my opera and now all I had to work on was my costume. It needed to be festive, ( after all this was my official musical debut was it not!) yet at the same time needed to give me a essence of menace, whilst maintaining my mystique as the infamous Phantom of the Opera. It had to show that I was powerful, that I was to be respected and that I was a thousand times greater than that ridiculous clown who had dragged my angel away from me.

I became quite caught up in designing my costume, until I remembered something that I felt was quite important. The fact was, even if I wore the most fashionable suit in Paris, as long as I was cursed with my hideous face, no garment in the world would make people respect me. I swore with frustration. I cursed my face, my wretched, monstrous, face. This disgusting, rotten mound that I carried on my shoulders was the sole reason that I remained a cold, untouched, hated, feared, creature that was so repulsive that the world rejected it and flung it down to hell. I was a genius. I was of superior intelligence to any professor or scholar. I was one of the greatest architects and artists to ever grace France. Most of all I sang like no creature on this earth. Christine had once believed that I was an Angel of Music, and on occasions I ever wondered if I really was just that.

However, the fact remained that so long as I remained such a corpse as I was, I would always be confined in this cold, unfeeling pit of never ending despair, awaiting my descent to hell. I suppose you could say that my life was a form of death . Then like a blow from my poor unhappy mother, an idea hit me; and Red Death was born.

It was quarter past ten exactly when I left my dwelling to join the party. Everything was ready. The trap door was prepared, I'd create and donned my Red Death suit and ignoring the temptation to complete my outfit by going, 'bare faced' I'd placed my cold, white, porcelain cage over my repulsive excuse for a face. The plan was set and now it was time for the Opera Ghost to be resurrected and claim back what was rightfully his.

author's note: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please review! Sorry if I don't update really often, but I'll do my best! Thanks x-x-x-x-PoisonousPoppy-x-x-x-x