Alrighty then, here is the first new chapter of The Phantom of My House.

This all takes place more in the book's universe, but elements of the movie and musical will heavily influence the storyline.

DISCLAIMER: I do not in fact own Phantom. I would like to thank Andrew Lloyd Webber and Gaston Leroux for letting us play in their sandboxes.

On with the story!


Folds of darkness rippled over me. Black water refusing me light or sight. My breathing remained steady. I had lost feeling in my arm…was it an hour ago? Three? I don't remember. Pain started to pet at the bottom of my lungs, causing a dull ache. She looked strange under water.

"Ma'am."

A voice pierces the veil enshrouding me. That darkness that I had plunged into began to stir violently. She looked better where the rippling could change horns to a halo. Light trickled in just a bit. I cannot do more than mumble a "yes."

"We've landed, ma'am."

I forced my eyes open, allowing the light glinting off the airplane's wing to blind me temporarily. There was no one else on the plane, just the stewards and myself. "Thank you for waking me." I said, slurring a bit of my words.

I groaned as I rose to my feet. My knees had popped along the journey. After being in the same seat, with no movement, for seven hours, standing up felt like landing on a whole new planet. My knees almost refused to bend as I walked down the aisles of the plane. "Thank you for flying with us. Enjoy Paris, mademoiselle." The attendant bowed her head just a bit as she spoke.

I returned the gesture. "Thank you very much. Have a great day." My smile never broke, despite the pin-and-needle kind of pains in my legs, as I dragged my little suitcase off the airplane and onto the extendable bending hallway, despite the pains in my legs. Everything hurt just a bit, and I did not know whether to chalk it up to jet lag or lack of use. Nevertheless, I pushed forward. I could not leave my father waiting for me.

The terminal was packed full of people, yelling farewells to loved ones, greeting visitors, calling out to those missing. It was not hard for me to notice that my dad was not among the throng. Panic drove my heart to beat a little faster before I could truly think about what was happening. We've been abandoned. The little thoughts declared. He forgot that I was coming today.

Calm down. I ordered through a nice deep breath. He probably didn't want to get stuck in security. I weaved my way through the little tickertape that the security had provided. After being scanned for weapons, I emerged in a food court area. The strong scent of bitter coffee clung to the air the way the stench of alcohol clings to the clothes of the local drunk.

A certain figure, with brown hair that matched mine, took my notice from the smell. Christophe Dubois, the man I call father, was walking over to greet me, a paper coffee cup nestled in his right hand. "Bonjour, mon petite fille." He leaned in and laid his lips lightly on my forehead, like a feather's kiss. I groaned. How could I not? A forty-something year old man kissing a seventeen-year-old was a bit of an oddity, though not many people seemed to notice here in the Charles du Galle.

"Dad, I'm not eight anymore."

He twisted his face to show pure sorrow, held his hand above his heart, and declared "I know this, there is no need for you to remind me, my precious child. Oh, you grew too quickly!" To think I let this man show his face in public.

A quick peck on the cheek, and he was as good as new. "Don't worry, Daddy. One day you'll find a way to reverse the aging process. Then I'll be eight and adorable forever."

"Yes, yes, one day." He said, followed by that booming laughter that I had loved since I could remember. "I have missed you, my sweet little Minta." He slipped behind me and grabbed my bag, taking over the duty of dragging it through the airport.

We were quiet while we walked, mostly because the only way we could have heard each other is if we were yelling. Sure, where we met was quiet enough, but outside that little bubble the world exploded with noise. The sheer decibels that the airport put out were dizzying. Dad grabbed my hand. "You'll be alright, Minta." His lips moved faster than the words came out.

My luggage was one of the first to the carousel. A little girl giggled when she saw me tugging at the black suitcase with a pink bow. Dad walked me out to the pickup lanes, where a grey, almost nondescript town car met us. A nice gentleman helped Dad stow the bags in the trunk as I watched on. It was almost embarrassing, just standing there, but I did not move.

Dad opened the door to me, motioning me in. I claimed the left side window, Dad to the right side window, and we used the middle seat as a place to leave open air. He started talking about his job, mentioning the 'petrol' refining process only in the lightest details because, as he put it, "It's very boring, and you've had enough of that."

His eyes lit up as we entered the city proper, and I cannot say that mine did not.

The Eiffel Tower hung over the city like a beacon of strength.

As we entered the arrondissement that held our home, the Arc du Triumph was just barely visible.

Finally, the vehicle pulled into a large circular driveway. I was not disappointed by the façade of the mansion that my father had acquired.

It reminded me of the Rothschild manor, before the decay had taking from its aesthetics. White stone built up the walls and held two levels of windows and a roof that could account as a level all of its own. The blackened tiles that topped the place accented the ivy that twirled up the corners and hung onto the bricks. The roof stretched as far as to hang over the indentation that was the entrance. A fountain, by no means small, sprung comfortably from the center of the driveway. It mirrored the large gothic doors. Somehow it seemed…bigger than the space around it allowed. Yet looking up into its levels and its peaceful atmosphere, I felt the horribly conflicting feelings of tranquility and dread rise into my chest.

The driver halted the car but made no move to get out. Dad pushed himself out. I unclipped my seatbelt and began following him when the car made a resounding click noise. Locked. "Dad?"

He gave me a rather peculiar look. "I need you to stay in the car for a quick minute, Minta."

"Why?"

"It's not important."
"Dad, if there's something you're not telling me- "

"Minta- "

"Dad- "

"Aminta-Rose Dubois," my protest died in my throat, "stay in this car until I come back out. Do you understand?"

Aminta-Rose. I nodded solemnly, watching him scale the steps alone. It was like watching a great hero climb the mountains of the Gods. Why did he have to use my whole name? Despite curiosity, I found myself pressed down into my seat. He slipped through the large doors, and I waited.

A glint caught my eye, just as whatever it was moved to the side of the house. What is that? I wondered.

Minutes passed. The door finally reopened, and Dad came out smiling like a younger man. The driver exited the car and opened my door, allowing me to step out. "What was that about?" I inquired, lifting my carry-on out of the trunk.

Dad turned to look me over before breaking out that smile again. "Nothing, Min-Min." That stupid nickname got me rolling my eyes and Dad barking out laughter. Dad said something to the driver, and since it was in French I couldn't understand it, before guiding me into the house.


No Erik this chapter, but we have met our protagonist! Aminta-Rose Dubois, the name was submitted to me by Child of Music and Dreams and we got to talking about all the nicknames that can stem from the idea. I really liked it, so thank you for that!

Remember, comments are to fanfiction writers what money is to employees.

It lets us know we are appreciated.

Until the next chapter,

Phantom-Lover 312