Christine Daae is 16 years old. She is on the shortish side of tall, the goldish side of blonde, and she can't see very well without her glasses. She enjoys many things, but three things more than any others: Music, spending time with her father, and all things halloween. Tonight she will meet her friends at the old, abandoned theater at the edge of town.
"Hey, Dad?"
"Yeah?" Her father looks up at her from his easy chair, violin in his lap and a dry cloth in his hand. A gameshow of some sort plays quietly on the tv, jack-o-lanterns positioned near the contestants podiums. "What are you this year? A bank robber?"
"I'm not wearing a costume," Christine says as she adjusts her black beanie self-consciously. "I'm heading out now. A few of us are going to investigate the old theater before the reconstruction starts."
"Are you sure you aren't going trick-or-treating? Or would you rather try sneaking out of the house?" Her dad cracks a smile and winks. "Investigating abandoned ruins is usually the sort of thing kids lie about."
"Maybe other kids. But I knew you'd let me go." She presses a kiss to the top of his head and makes her way to the door.
"Be safe," she hears her father call. "Don't break anything!"
Christine's father is a very nice man. He is on the tallish side of short, his once dark hair now peppered with grey, and the two of them are very happy. Or as happy as they can be. Christine thinks of her mother as she works her way down the street, weaving her way between the trick-or-treaters. Vague, hazy sort of thoughts. Pumpkin seeds and a pointy princess hat and the taste of Tootsie Rolls.
The streets grow dimmer as she nears the edge of town. There are no more children, and the jack-o-lanterns are few and far between. The wind smells cold and carries the scent of burning leaves. Christine hears a sound.
She pauses and looks behind her.
The street is empty. She is alone. Somewhere down some other street she hears the high pitched laughter of children. She starts walking, and again…that sound. Like footsteps. Christine picks up her pace, but doesn't look behind her. She doesn't want to look scared. She only has a little ways to go until-
The footsteps are loud now. Running. Christine turns just in time to catch sight of a shadow before it slams into her.
"CHRISTINE!" The screeching shadow disentangles itself and holds out a hand. The streetlight illuminates Meg's face, and Christine pulls herself up to the sound of laughter. A few other kids from school are emerging from the trees and alleys, and Christine gives a little bow before swatting Meg on the arm. Meg just laughs, loops her arm through Christine's, and the group makes their way to the theater.
The parking lot is warped and cracked, grass and tree roots laying claim to the concrete. The fall moon, huge and orange, hangs behind the dilapidated building, gilding the edges of the domed roof. It looks like a painting or something from an episode of Scooby Doo.
One of the boys lets out a whoop, and the group pushes forward. Christine clicks on her old flashlight, and near her Meg pulls out her phone and does the same. Two of the boys wrestle the doors open, and Christine has to duck under their arms to slip through the narrow opening.
"Hey Christine," one of the boys says, and Christine feels her face blush. Oh my gosh. It's Raoul. Raoul, the quarterback on the tall side of tall and handsome side of strapping.
"Hey…" she says. Meg winks at her and scampers off to join the others as the boys let the door fall shut behind them.
He walks close to her, this tall and handsome boy she's had a crush on since that day in kindergarten when her red scarf got lost in the sandbox and he was the one who found it. She has many things she wants to say, but no words to say them. So she smiles, and he smiles back.
The friendly eye of the moon illuminates great chunks of the grand foyer through the holes in the ceiling. Up ahead, someone gives a shriek and a colony of bats takes off into the night. Marble statues of women in Grecian robes glow dimly in the shadows, cobwebs shrouding them like veils of gossamer. The group splits, some going here, some going there, and Christine looks excitedly at Raoul before throwing open the doors to the auditorium.
"This is incredible!" Christine flings her arms wide and spins beneath the domed roof. The stars and the huge, orange moon peek through the holes time has torn in the frescoed ceiling, their light glinting off the few remaining pieces of cut glass that dangle from the stripped chandelier. She cups her hands around her mouth and yells "HELLO!"
The sound echoes around the room, bouncing off the chipping gold paint and peeling wallpaper.
"So, you're like, super into singing or whatever?" Raoul says.
"Yeah, how'd you know?" She smiles, and he shrugs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his letterman jacket and looking at the ground.
"I was at the last choir concert, and you were, um…you did really good. Singing. You're a good singer."
She blushes, thankful for the dim light. "Thanks-"
"Raoul," one of the guys yells from the door, "you gotta check this out!"
"You wanna…" Raoul tilts his head towards the door as he backs toward his friend.
"I'll meet you out there…I want to look around here a bit more." He nods and jogs up the aisle. She hears the boys run off somewhere into the dark maze of halls as she makes her way slowly to the front. The moon casts a perfect circle of light center-stage and she steps into it, imagining away the shadows. She listens for a moment, but cannot hear her friends.
She sings, a few notes of some song or other. Floats them out into the dusty air. They reverberate around her, sounding more grand in this empty room than any choir solo she had ever sung. She continues, gaining confidence, gaining volume, and perhaps that is why she doesn't hear the wood creaking before it breaks beneath her.
o…oOo…o
Christine Daae is 19 years old. She's neither too short nor too tall, wears her hair in a very sophisticated bobbed cloud of curls, and she prefers contacts to glasses most days. She is studying music at the school where her parents met, and doing quite well, thank you. Christine enjoys many things, but two things more than any others: Music and spending time with her father. Tonight will ruin Halloween for her at the no longer abandoned theater at the edge of town.
"Hey, Dad!"
"Yeah?" Her father answers the phone quietly, and she can hear the sound of a crowd on the other end of the line. She knows he doesn't have much time to talk before he needs to warm up. "Did you make it?"
"GPS says I'm about five minutes out," she says, turning on her blinker as exits the freeway. "So, I just go to Will Call for my ticket?"
"Yup, they're under my name. Did Meg come with you?"
"No, she has a Halloween party she wants to go to."
"And you didn't want to join her?" She can hear that worry in his voice, the tone he gets when he thinks she's not spending enough time with other people.
"And miss your first show? Never! Plus, I love Faust."
"If you say so, pumpkin. Well, I gotta go. We can meet up afterwards and I'll give you a tour."
"Sounds great, dad," she says as she pulls into a parking spot and grabs her purse from the seat beside her.
"Oh, and enjoy your seat! I still have no idea why it was available, but it's a good one."
They say goodbye and Christine gets out of her car. She stares across the parking lot, well-lit and paved smooth and full of cars. Golden light pours from the windows, and the fall moon, huge and orange, hangs behind the gleaming dome of the roof, looking for all the world like something from a fairytale.
She lets out a shaky sigh and pushes away the memories of dust and breaking wood and that other thing she won't let herself remember. She walks towards the glow of the newly rebuilt theater at the edge of town.
"Hi, Mrs. Giry!" Meg's mother is seated behind the glass of the Will Call window, and Christine gives her a wave. "My dad said he has a ticket for me?"
'Oh, sure thing sweetie! How are you? How's Meg?" Meg's mother is a sharp looking woman, tall and thin, almost regal in her all-black attire, but she has Meg's warmth and sense of humor. Christine answers the questions while marveling at the changes in the room around her. The grand foyer is all warm light and marble, gilt edges and gold. The statues look almost alive in the glow, their veils of cobwebs long since lifted.
"Daae…Daae…yes, here we are. You'll be seated in…" Mrs. Giry looks up at her sharply, "hmm."
"Is there a problem?" Christine asks.
"No, not at all. I thought we weren't selling these particular seats, but it looks like I was mistaken. Just go over to that gentleman, and he'll take you where you need to go."
Christine shows her ticket to an usher, and he leads her up a set of stairs and down a short hallway.
"Box five, miss." He says, opening the door.
Christine was not expecting this. She thought she looked chic and fashionable in her long, blue dress, but the red velvet and gold and the grandeur of the place makes her aware of every cheap, cotton thread. She tucks her hair behind her ears in an attempt to tame the wild curls.
"This is…thank you," she says to the usher, who nods and shuts the door behind him. She sits slowly in the chair closest to the stage and looks around her. A glorious chandelier casts fractured beams of light across the restored ceiling, paintings of men and women, or perhaps a man and one woman…she studies the ceiling until the story makes sense. The ceiling tells the story of Faust. She looks down to the stage, and sees she has a perfect view into the pit. A small pumpkin sits at the base of the conductor's podium, and from there she finds her way to the stringed instruments. She spots the top of her father's head. After a moment, he turns towards the box and waves when he sees her.
The opera begins. Christine loses herself in the music, as she is wont to do. She loses herself in the music. Almost. There is a slight rustle behind her and she turns.
There is nothing there.
She focuses on the opera again, but before long she hears the same sound, a sort of moving in the walls. She listens very carefully until it seems silly to do so, but the music is loud and the rustling is soft and after a while she turns back to the music. She sings softly to herself as Marguerite begins the Jewel Song.
Only then does the rustling stop.
The box is silent but for the sound of her soft singing for the rest of the show, and she stands and claps with the rest of the crowd as it ends. She makes her way down to the lobby, looking for her father.
"Can you tell me where the musicians exit?" She asks one of the ushers.
"Go through that door."
Christine is not sure which door they pointed to, but she doesn't want to be a bother. She pulls open one of the doors, and starts down the staircase she finds there. Down, down, down she goes…much further, really, than makes sense.
She comes to a door, the small square window showing only darkness beyond. But under the stage would be dark, wouldn't it? She leans against the push bar and the door opens. The space is thick with shadows, but…yes…there's music coming from the right direction. She starts off toward the noise, jumping when the door slams shut behind her.
The music stops.
"Hello?" Christine calls into the dark. She looks back at the door to the stairs, the blue glow of the fluorescent lights pouring through the square window. Maybe she should head back.
"Hello?" A voice calls softly back.
"I'm looking for the pit?" There is a long moment of silence.
"I'm looking for the pit?" the voice says, in the same tone.
"If you could just tell me which way…"
"If you could just tell me which way…" the voice repeats, too long of a wait for an echo. An excellent mimic, closer now.
Christine's breathing turns short and choppy. It is dark here and she has heard this voice before. A voice almost like hers, but off. She turns towards the light from the stairs just in time to see the window go dark.
"Dad..." Christine whispers nonsensically.
"Dad…" the voice whispers in her ear.
Christine runs. Runs away from the voice and towards the door, or what she hopes is the door. Her foot catches cloth, something rips and she goes down with a strangled cry. The strangled cry repeats all around her, and the voice picks up without prompting.
"Hello? Dad? I'm looking for the pit? Hello? Dad? If you could tell me…"
Christine stumbles as she stands, grabbing at the cloth that pools around her feet, and slams into the door. Almost crying, she feels for the handle and rushes into the staircase. The lights turn on as she enters, motion activated, and she can barely hear the sound of the door banging shut over the sound of her feet on the stairs.
She makes it to the lobby and releases a shuddering breath. Her dress is torn up to her knee, and somehow, in her hand, she now holds a black beanie. Something cold and tight forms in her belly as she turns the hat over in her hand, feeling for the tag.
The tag that reads C. DAAE in sharpie.
The tag of the hat she hasn't seen in three years.
She needs to find her dad. She needs to get out of here. There is a commotion by the front of the lobby, and a set of paramedics rush by her and through a door labeled employees only. She hurries after them.
She needs to find her dad.
She needs to get out of here.
The paramedics go through another door, and Christine catches a glimpse of chairs and cellos, and she pushes after them, pushes through the crowd of people circled round something at the center of the room.
Circled around her father.
"DAD!" Christine screams, shoving past the startled orchestra members and collapsing next to him. "Dad! Dad! Wake up!"
The paramedics gently push her away, and Christine feels someone's arms from behind.
"Shhh, shhh. It'll be alright, Christine." Mrs. Giry whispers in her ear.
But it's not alright.
It's not alright as she rides in the ambulance. It's not alright as she hears the diagnosis. It's not alright as she stares at the stupid, cartoon jack-o-lantern pinned up by the nurses station as the night goes on and on with no sign of morning.
o…o0o…o
Christine Daae is 22 years old. She is an average woman of average height, and wears her blonde hair in a long braid because that is what's easiest. She recently achieved all her dreams and sings professionally in an opera chorus. Christine enjoys few things, but one thing more than any other: spending time with her father. This is difficult to do, as her father is now dead. Tonight she will meet the Angel of Music at the once old abandoned theater at the edge of town.
"Hey, Dad?"
"The voicemail box you are trying to reach is full. Please hang up and try calling again."
Christine sits in her car during the dinner break before the show. She pulls her dad's phone from the glove compartment, deletes a slew of voicemails from herself, and returns it. The sun sets early at this time of year, and the dusk that has gathered dissipates into night. The dinner hour goes by more quickly than she feels it should, and before she is ready, it is time to go in. The parking lot is nearly empty. She picks up an empty fast food cup near one of the street lamps and tosses it in a trash can. The fall moon has waned almost completely, the night is darker than most. A thin orange sliver hangs over the domed roof of the opera like a toenail, or a frown. A line of jack-o-lanterns march up the stairs leading to the grand front doors. She gives one a soft kick as she climbs the stairs.
She ignores the grand foyer because she is used to it now. If the statues still glow softly in the light, it is of no consequence to her. The opera is still new enough to dazzle, but the sheen is starting to wear off.
She dresses, does her makeup, and reads the letter one more time. Her father had written her several, toward the end, but this one is her favorite. The cancer had worked its way through him slowly, the doctors had said. It felt pretty quick to her. She puts the letter in the drawer of the vanity and makes her way to the stage.
The show passes by in a blur, quickly, without any lasting effect. Music has been like that lately. After the show she picks her cell phone up from behind the sandbag where she had hidden it and makes her way to the staircase that leads to the cellars under the stage. She sits on the bottom step by the stage door and dials her dad's number.
"Hey, Dad," she says softly.
"Yeah?" Her father's voice, warm, small, and tinny, sounds in her ear. "Hello? Hello? Ha! Gotcha! This is Gus, leave a message."
"I did another show tonight." She says into the phone. She doesn't know if these calls help but she just keeps making them. "Faust again, just like that one Halloween. Today's been…"
Christine is silent for a long time. She hangs up. The door above her opens, and she hears laughter.
"Christine!" Meg calls down to her, leaning over the rails with a few of the other ballerinas. "Come out with us!"
"No thanks, Meg." Christine says.
"Come on, Christine! It's Halloween. Draw some whiskers on your face and let's get spooky!"
"No really, Meg. I'm fine. You have fun." Christine gives her a wave and pushes into the dark area under the stage before her friend can reply.
As a rule she doesn't speak when she's down here. It seems safer that way. She knows the stories about the opera ghost, of course, but she doesn't care. The ghost is a prankster, a scapegoat, a convenient excuse. The voice she heard, the voice she hears, is real.
The voice has been changing lately.
She's been hearing it in other places.
Christine makes her way through the dark. She has a dressing room all to herself, though she doesn't know why. She is new here, and the room is off on its own. Down these stairs and under the stage are the quickest way there. She no longer lets the dark bother her.
She works here because she doesn't know what else to do. She tried to get into other places. The Met, the LA Opera. Anywhere that would get her away from this town and this building and all these memories, but she lost whatever spark she had the day she lost her father. The only place that would take her is the theater at the edge of town.
The voice in the dark doesn't copy her any more. Or maybe it isn't even the same voice. All she knows was shortly after starting here, a voice had started singing in the darkness beneath the stage. Singing like it is now. It scared her at first, but it's nice, actually. And that was it, for a while. She wouldn't hear it once she made it out of the dark. Lately though, the voice is in other places. Backstage as she waits for her cues. In the lobby if she is the last one to leave. Following her down the hallway and into her dressing room, night after night, just as it is doing now.
She feels like she is going crazy. But then maybe crazy feels better than nothing.
The letter from her father is on the desk. She thought she had put it away. She is always leaving things in strange places lately.
He'd written it months ago, shortly before he passed. He'd written out her favorite bedtime story, the one about the Angel of Music. Her eyes trace the last words on the page, words they have traced so many times before, drawing comfort from the familiar loops and scrawls.
When I am in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.
A beautiful sentiment based on the beautiful story from when she was a girl.
Christine isn't a girl anymore. She is washed up. What talent she had is gone.
The voice is still singing. Singing in her head? The phone buzzes in her hand. A text from Meg.
You looked pretty bummed just now, you ok? Try and have some fun tonight! Even just Christine Brand™ fun. Haha. Eat some pizza and take a bath or something. Love you.
Meg is sweet. Meg is fun. Meg is right, but Christine doesn't know what to do that would be fun. She can't be with people. She doesn't want to be alone. The voice is singing, singing, singing wordless sounds.
Sometimes she thinks she hears her name in the song, but she can't be sure.
Christine pulls her old black beanie from a drawer and holds it in her other hand. All this time she's been ignoring the voice, running away. Running away from whatever had found her under that stage all those years ago, when she'd been happy and the moon still shone through the holes in the ceiling. What would happen if she stopped? She knows it's stupid. She knows it's impossible. She runs her fingers over the words again.
When I am in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.
When I am in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.
When I am in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.
She holds the black beanie for a moment more before sticking it back in the drawer, along with all the doubt and fear and common sense telling her to walk away, to stop listening. Christine takes a deep breath, and for the first time since she heard the voice, she acknowledges it.
"Who's there?" she whispers.
And the voice whispers back. Responds. Says all the things she wants to hear. Sings and sings and sings, long and loud enough that she can ignore the wood creaking beneath her feet.