Once his survival was assured and his daily routine in place, Erik suddenly found himself with time for thought. Unbidden, thoughts of his past would reverberate through his tranquil moments. His mother's cold voice, Hannah's warm hands, the shrieking of the crowds, Leslie's happy giggle and Herroux' glazed, blackened eyes clamored for dominance in his memory. He sought escapes from his past anywhere and everywhere.
As precocious as he might be, Erik was still a little boy. Specifically, he was a little boy-genius without any sort of adult supervision. Once he decided that this place of music was his, he set about making it conform to his standards. In that first year of the Ghost, the Opera Populaire had sunk to a historic low in terms of prosperity and quality. Though some of their resident performers were true artists, others were hired thanks to friends in strategic places. The amateur performances of these unskilled individuals dimmed the brilliance of the truly talented. Erik's sensitive ears quickly sorted the chaff from the wheat.
If the managers would not take it upon themselves to improve their staff, Erik could think of a certain Phantom who would be overjoyed to do their duty for them. Those not in his favor soon found their lives haunted by a poltergeist who hid their costumes, dripped ink in their music, and interrupted their rehearsals with falling scenery. This harassment continued until its victim fled the Opera.
Erik's little practical jokes made the lives of some performers miserable, but the favors he showered on his favorites displayed the kind, lonely child he truly was. They found flowers in their beds after performances, their dressing rooms were cleaned and straightened, and purloined sweets from the kitchens appeared on their bedside tables. Among these was a young dramatic soprano, La Carlotta, who had joined the Opera Populaire a few years before.
Erik's second past-time came from a serendipitous discovery. In the basement two levels above his lake, Erik found storage areas filled with ancient odds and ends in disuse. One room in particular was filled with box after box of metal pipes of differing lengths and sizes. A box behind these contained the body of an organ. If Erik had had loving parents, they probably would have gently told him that little boys couldn't build pipe organs. As it was, he was woefully uneducated about the limitations of children. His birthday present to himself that first year was a day spent dragging the pieces of the organ down to a room just above the lake-level where he lived. The body of the organ was far too large for him to move on his own, so he began carefully disassembling the sound boards, marking each piece as he went.
In the opera's chapel, there was a beautiful pipe organ, reserved for use during mass. The religious aspects of mass bored him, but the soaring voice of the huge pipe organ and the soft chanting of Latin enchanted him. He watched the Opera children squirm in their seats, get reprimanded by their mothers, only to start fidgeting again moments later. He watched the adults sit, stand and kneel as they were commanded by ritual. Most of all, he watched the organist as he wrung thrilling melodies out of the majestic instrument while a chosen altar-boy pumped furiously at the billows. Erik's hiding place beneath the silk drapings on a statue of Saint Cecilia allowed him to note exactly how the man moved his hands, used the knobs, and pressed the foot pedals. It did not look so very difficult…
When he slipped into this room in the quiet of the night, it still seemed to hold the magic of the day's music. He approached the organ with trepidation, half-believing that it might cry out in its powerful voice, breaking the silence and bringing the entire Opera down on his head. When it maintained its silence, he dared to creep up and sit on the stool. A moment later he ran his hands reverently over the keys. Gaining courage, he began to examine it closely, trying to determine how it was put together and what made the beautiful sounds. There were no books in the library on the making of pipe organs. The intricacies of pedals, keys, knobs, sounding boards, and pipes challenged his best thinking. He knew it would be years before his pipe organ breathed its first notes. Undaunted, the small boy continued his examination of the instrument.
Erik had nothing but time on his hands. In fact, he was oblivious to its passing. His days were filled with pet projects, reading books, and eavesdropping on music lessons. The secrets of Opera singers became Erik's secrets. He learned to support his voice from his diaphragm, to avoid depressing his tongue, and to use his head and chest space to produce a rounder, richer sound. He practiced singing while he improved his home, while he contemplated the mess of pipes, and while he walled up the main entrance to the lake-level basement. In this way, the years slipped by, marked only by the yearly Masquerade party and the cycle of traditional operas.
Erik had read enough to know that one day his voice would begin to disobey him. He had long ago lost track of his age, but certain changes in his body signaled the approach of the inevitable. One day he was singing the Ave Maria when his normally angelic voice broke and crumbled. He started again, with similar results. This was disaster! He couldn't sing more than a bar or two before his voice squeaked or dropped unexpectedly. A midnight trip to the library and a quick consultation with one of the voice training books alleviated his fears. His voice would stop breaking in a little while. Then he could sing again with confidence, and enjoy a deeper range and more powerful voice. For now, he would have to accept the breakage and mutation of his voice. The book warned that a male's transitioning voice could be damaged if used incorrectly, but it did not tell him how to train it correctly.
With his voice in disarray, Erik desperately sought other avenues for his music. He was a wellspring of music; it demanded release. One night, in desperation, he let himself into the most remote of practice rooms and approached the spinet piano. The small instrument inspired none of the awe he felt with the pipe organ. Its voice would be thinner and weaker than the glossy grand piano used in the orchestra. The acoustics of this tiny, heavily soundproofed room would be flat and harsh. But there would be music. His music.
The first touch of his fingers to the piano keys issued only a whisper of sound. He was not expecting the tight play of the keyboard or the awkwardness of his own fingers. The pianists' and organists' fingers moved so lightly over the keys! Erik growled under his breath and tried again. This time he only pressed one note; middle C. The sudden sound cracked through the deep silence, making Erik jump in spite of himself. Surely the entire Opera house and several people on the streets outside had heard it. Soon they would come running and…no, that was ridiculous. This room was soundproofed so that one lesson would not interrupt another. He could have sung at the top of his voice without the sounds carrying more than a few feet down the hall.
For two hours, Erik fought the stiffness of his fingers, the weakness of his hands, and his own ignorance. He was only able to mimic the actions of the performers he observed. More than once he stood up in disgust, knocking over the piano stool and driving his fist into the (thankfully) padded wall. By the time he sulked from the room, he had identified several scales and chords. He had discovered the importance of fingering and hand position. He had even tapped out a few simple melodies. The raging fires in his musical soul were damped enough to give him a peaceful sleep. The rest of the opera remained undisturbed. No one came to oust him from the room. This piano and its voice were his.
