Author's Note: I received a very helpful email from a reader containing invaluable pointers for a newcomer like me. First off, I did not have a disclaimer, something that will be fixed from this chapter on and holds true for the previous chapters. Secondly, I did not introduce mysef, and for that rudeness I do apologize, it was unintentional. I'm new to the world of fan fiction, and this is my first attempt at a story. I hope you enjoy it. I know it is a little slow in starting, but I want to make sure I have all the characters set up perfectly for the main action. Any comments or suggestions are welcome. I am only too glad to hear what you think as I have never done this before.

Thanks to all of you who have read thus far!

Disclaimer: Despite my repeated efforts to have him as my own, I do not own anything of the Phantom of the Opera.

The Phantom of the Opera

I could not sleep that night. The image of that room bathed in the warm light of candles, the fragrance of the roses, the beauty of the instrument, and the sheer terror that accompanied all of it, kept me from all but the lightest doze.

I know it might seem silly, but I had not paid much attention to the first paragraph of the first note I received. When I finally abandoned all attempts at sleep, I turned up my lamp and reread the notes. I had been so convinced the whole thing was a practical joke, and was so preoccupied trying to decide what role Christine played, that I had not given the slightest credence to the remark about having the piano replaced.

I had thought there was a practical joker on loose. Madame Giry's remark about "accidents" had made me wary. To see the new piano made me think there was a true criminal on the loose. That piano was beyond costly, and it would have been an exacting labor to get it safely to that little cell off a cramped corridor. All in all, it would seem that the management of the Opera Populaire was in the clutches of an extortionist. I did not understand why that person would want to utilize their power where I was concerned or where Christine was concerned, but that was what he had done.

Perhaps it was because I was finally becoming exhausted, but I began to think that, if this extortionist continued to exercise his power to my advantage, maybe I should just enjoy it. I longed to play upon that beautiful instrument. It would be the loveliest piano I had ever touched, but I could not swallow the fear that seized me in that room. It was silly to believe in ghosts, but I just knew I was not alone in there. The fact that I did not believe in ghosts meant that there was a maniac concealed somewhere watching me, and that did nothing to stem my fear.

I heard a small commotion in the hallway outside my door. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just after five. Somehow the knowledge that it was morning gave me the courage to open my door a crack and see who had made the noise. I saw that one of the cleaning staff was rummaging through a closet cattycorner to my door. I again closed and locked my door, and knowing that the cleaning staff was up and about put my mind to such ease that I laid down and fell fast asleep.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

I awoke with a start and the sickening feeling that I had overslept. Indeed, I had overslept, it was now nearly noon, but I was fortunate that today was the day I would not be needed until the one o'clock warm-up.

I dressed and made it to the rehearsal with time to spare. I had thought about trying to get something to eat, but I would most definitely have been late if I did. I would simply have to wait until supper. It seemed an only just punishment for allowing myself to be kept up all night by useless fears.

Christine was the first one after myself to enter the room. She blushed when she saw me, and turned an even deeper shade of red when I asked after her health.

"I am quite well today, thank you," was all her reply. She then walked further into the room and began some stretches.

This seemed odd behavior, but then I had only known her a couple of days. Perhaps she was often evasive. If it were not for the strange occurrences of yesterday I would probably have taken no note of her behavior. Soon other girls began to fill the room, and Madame Giry began at one o'clock precisely.

The warm up was over in under an hour, at which point the girls all filed downstairs for a full costume rehearsal with the rest of the cast.

Madame Giry had told me the night before at dinner that I could come to the full cast rehearsal if I desired, but I did not have to. I was actually looking forward to attending even though I would not have an active role. I loved opera; I loved the whole process of production, even if I did not particularly care for the opera in question.

I followed the girls down the spiral iron staircase that lead directly to the backstage area. Madame Giry told me I could watch from the wings provided I kept out of the way of performers awaiting their cue or I could watch from the auditorium if I preferred to have a seat. I decided to watch from the wings. It made me feel like a real part of the whole process.

The rehearsal was fifteen minutes late in starting, and I smiled when I noticed the look of disapproval on Madame Giry's face. When it finally began I was enraptured. Being back stage was simply exciting. Moreover, I was being included in the camaraderie of the theater. I spoke, quietly, of course, to more people than I had since I arrived. I shamelessly collected as much of the theater gossip as I could.

I, naturally, heard several stories about the Opera Ghost. I took note of all of them, for I felt that I had a right to be interested considering resent events. Some of them were silly (Jammes claimed that the Opera Ghost had stolen her left pointe shoe: honestly, what would a ghost want with a pointe shoe!), I gave no credit to these ridiculous tales. Others were slightly more intriguing. For instance: one of the scene shifters had seen a man in evening dress up in the rafters above the stage. He hailed the man, thinking one of the patrons was taking too detailed an interest in the running of the theater. On hearing him, the man climbed one of the counterweight ropes and then simply disappeared. I thought that if Madame Giry really did find notes just appearing in front of her, they would have to be dropped from above. A man in evening dress in the rafters was as good a suspect as any. I did notice that none of them seemed to have any experience with notes from the Opera Ghost. I did not mention mine. I wanted to gather information, not give it out.

The most interesting tale I heard concerning the Opera Ghost, or the Phantom of the Opera, as some called him, was that he had put so much pressure on Monsieur Lefèvre, the hapless manager, that the poor man was considering retirement. Nothing official had been announced as yet, but there were those who seemed in daily expectation of the event. The manager's retirement would, I thought, be a reasonable indicant of the amount of pressure he was under, for he was still a youngish man to be considering retirement otherwise.

Of course, I also heard many tales of love affairs, career moves, and combinations of the two, but these did not hold the same interest for me.

I do not want to give the impression that I was not paying attention to the rehearsal itself. I was fascinated by what was occurring on stage. Unfortunately, one thing that particularly stood out was that the lead soprano was quite awful. She could not act at all, and her voice did nothing to make up for the lack. Her pitch was decent, although she had a tendency to sharpness, her tone was about average for an aging soprano, but it was her pomposity that killed her performance. She would add her own flares and touches to the music that would have harmed the performance of much better singer. I was surprised that no one stopped her: she was truly terrible at points. I had heard of her, of course. Carlotta Giudicelli was a renowned soprano, she had not been having good reviews of late, but I had still been looking forward to hearing her. What a disappointment!

I had another wave of anger towards Christine Daae's teacher. The man had no right to shut her away. She was rather young to start her career as a dramatic soprano, but her voice was ready. Perhaps she did still have things to learn, but most sopranos had vocal coaches their entire career. Besides, even with talent like hers, it would most likely take years for her to be playing the lead roles in the foremost opera houses of Europe. Better to start her early if her voice could take it. But no, because of her overprotective teacher we would be listening to La Carlotta instead of an angel. Moreover, every day Christine was kept from her true calling, was a day longer the Carlottas of the world would rule the stage.

I glance at Christine who was now on stage with the rest of the ballerinas. She was paying more attention to her dancing today than she had when I first saw her. She was quite good when she could keep her mind focused.

I had to contain my laugh when I saw the "elephant" Madame Giry had been talking about. It was a wheeled platform with a dusty grey blanket thrown over a wooden skeleton that roughly resembled an elephant.

I did let a small chuckle escape my lips when I saw the tenor, who was nearly as wide as he was tall try to mount the thing. The only result was the scene ending with the lead tenor buried under a dusty grey blanket at the skeletal elephant's feet.

Monsieur Reyer, the conductor, who had stopped the act multiple times and already seemed strained, allowed the orchestra to finish the final bars before his head sank into his hands. He then shouted for the person responsible for the elephant. A miserable looking lad presented himself. I suspected he was an under-carpenter of sorts sent, as the junior member of the department, to take the beating for all.

Monsieur Reyer seemed to come to the same conclusion for he was gentler with the boy than I expected. He merely asked what had happened with the elephant, and what the cast might expect for the gala the next evening.

"We didn't know, sir, that Monsieur Piangi would be riding the thing." The boy replied. "The one we had been working on was all paste and papier-mâché, and would never hold him. This is as far as we got on the more solid one. But don't you worry, sir, it'll look right as rain for tomorrow's rehearsal."

"With no blankets?"

"With no blankets."

"Right then, off with you. And bring that musty horse blanket with you!"

The lad was off like a shot, and Reyer turned his attention to other aspects of the performance.

The rest of the rehearsal passed with little incident. Excluding Carlotta's fit at finding that one of her act three costumes was still not finished. I heard a couple of chorus singers behind me sneering that if she had not refused to wear the costume she originally approved she would have had all her costumes last week. I smiled, glad I was not in a position that demanded I have any contact with the acrid soprano.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

That night I determined that I would go to the piano room. I could not resist that beautiful piano. I had reasoned with mysef all day, and had finally decided that if there were a lunatic who wanted to kill me, he could have done so without going through the trouble of bringing in such a glorious instrument.

I entered the piano room. I noticed that fresh candles were burning in the gothic style candelabrums, but there was no new note. I was glad of it. I sat at the piano and simply played for a half hour. It was exhilarating! The piano was perfect in pitch and feel and tone. All thoughts of crazed extortionists left me as I allowed the perfect sounds to take me away from the grim realities of existence.

I came to the end of the piece, one of my own, and nearly fainted when the roses seemed to speak to me in the most perfect voice I had ever heard.

"Brava! That was of your composition I suppose?"

I held perfectly still staring at the roses; the blood thundered in my head.

"Oh no," the voice said again this time from the candelabrum to my right, "the roses cannot speak, don't be silly."

"Who are you?" I finally found my voice.

"Your obedient servant, madam."

"The Phantom of the Opera!"

The voice gave a small laugh, this time from the far corner of the room.

"Some do call me that. Rather flattering, really, it is so dramatic, so musical if you will. I humbly refer to myself by the less grand title of the Opera Ghost. You, of course, may choose whichever form you like best."

"Where are you?" These were simple questions, but they were the only words that came to my mind. Indeed, if I had more presence of mind I would probably have left the room, but that voice…it was exquisite; it was drugging. In that moment I believed in the Opera Ghost, not in a masquerading criminal.

"I'm here, and here, and here." This was said first from inside the piano, then from the candelabrum on my left, and then whispered in my right ear so convincingly that I jumped.

The voice laughed again, clearly pleased with itself.

It was this self-satisfaction that brought me to my senses. I stood haughtily, and began to gather my things.

"You are going already? Surly you are not still afraid?" The voice came from the back wall of the room.

"I was never afraid!"

"Oh yes you were, my dear; you were terrified. It really was quite amusing! But do not worry: it would be foolhardy recklessness not to be afraid of The Ghost. It is one of the ironies of existence that those who fear me have nothing to fear from me; whereas those who think themselves brave and disregard my wishes must be made to feel my power."

This speech came from several places in the room, and really gave the effect that the ghost was pacing as he spoke. There was a commanding arrogance in the tone of that wonderful voice that recalled me to the fact that he was not, could not be, a ghost.

"You are nothing but a mean extortionist!" I held my head high as I said this. I believed I had pinpointed the real location of the voice. If I was not mistaken it came from behind the back wall. The fact that this person most likely had no direct access to the room made me braver than I might otherwise have been.

"Tell me, Mlle. Sauvon," the voice had a sound of strained patience to it, "when you eat in the opera café, when you sleep in your opera bed, when you collect your salary, do you consider yourself a mean extortionist?"

I was about to answer, but he continued: "No, you do not. For you think all those things your due, and so they are. Well this is my opera house, and all I take is my due. How is taking one's due extortion?"

Now I was somewhat incensed, this man considered what he did to be nothing worse than the honest labor I and countless others did. "You do nothing for your keep!" I exclaimed. "You merely threaten and cause accidents…"

The voice cut me off. "Without me this opera house would not exist! Without me it would not be great or even continue in existence! And yet, if I did not remind those fools who run my theater, I would not receive my due. And so I threaten; much as you would threaten legal action should the opera pretend it owes you nothing for your services. Oh no, my dear, I am no extortionist!"

I did not understand what this "ghost" meant by the opera not being able to exist without him, but the tone of his incredible voice left no room for questioning. I wanted to deny what he had said, partly because it could not be true and partly because I wanted him to go on speaking: there was a power to him that I found exhilarating, and an arrogance that I found infuriating, but I was completely fascinated. Instead of challenging him, I stood by the table speechless.

The Phantom broke the silence. "Well, my dear? Do not just stand there looking foolish. You may either continue to make use of my generous gift or you may be on your way."

"Why did you object to Christine singing my music?" It occurred to me that, even after having spoken to him I still did not see how Christine fit into all this.

"Mlle. Daae must keep her mind on what is immediately before her, not chasing around singing any new music that should fall in her way; not even yours, which I must admit, is better than most."

"So you take a particular interest in Mlle. Daae, then?"

"I take a particular interest in most things that go on in my theater, particularly when excessive talent is involved. You, as a fellow beneficiary of my generosity to underappreciated talent, should realize this."

"I suppose I can understand any musician, which I am assuming you are, taking an interest in Christine. She has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard." I almost added 'accept for yours,' but I stopped myself just in time. I had to admit, I would love to hear the Phantom sing.

To cover my abrupt stop I continued on in a half jocular fashion: "Good luck if you do have any plans for Christine. I tried to encourage her to follow her natural vocation, but it seems she has an arrogant, talent-hiding, tutor who will not let her perform. From the look of intimidated terror on her face when I gave her advice contrary to his, this tutor's influence will be a match even for the infamous Opera Ghost!"

The ghost chuckled at this. "My dear, I wish I could tell you how amused I am by your assertions. I believe we will talk again; but at the moment, I have another appointment, and shall leave you with your muse. Good night."

"Good night," I replied, disappointed he was going, although I knew I shouldn't have been.

I supposed he really had gone. In any case, he said no more. I sat at the piano bench to digest what had passed between me and the Phantom of the Opera. I had no doubt that I just had more interaction with the ghost than the ballerinas and stage hands who had discussed him backstage.

I found that after having talked to him I could not be terrified. I was not sure why I was not scared. It had hardly been an ordinary conversation. It seemed that there was a sort of natural sympathy between myself and this person who masqueraded as a ghost. I thought about what he had said concerning underappreciated talent. I wondered if perhaps our ghost felt his talents were neglected. It seemed unlikely, and I smiled at the thought, but there was occasionally a certain bitterness in his voice. At the thought of his voice the color rose to my cheeks. He really had the most incredible speaking voice. I wondered if he studied mesmerism, as I was sure he studied ventriloquism. I would have loved to have heard him sing.

With a flash of annoyance I realized that, while claming to cater to my talent, he had in fact banished my muse. All inspiration had been pushed aside by thoughts of him. I gathered up my papers and extinguished the candles.

I returned to my room determined to have more conversation with this Phantom.