Behind Closed Doors
"Mrs de Chagny, do you want to approve the menu for tomorrow night?" Alan, the manservant, asked, holding out a piece of paper. Christine looked up from her desk, scattered with papers and took the sheet. She scanned it briefly.
"That's fine, Alan."
"And a wine?"
"Oh, I don't know… let the chef choose something that will go with the meal." She said tiredly. Alan nodded, eying her rather worriedly as he left. The past three days had been extremely stressful of the lady of the house. Rumours from the opera house were flying everywhere and she seemed to be taking every blow personally.
Christine put her pen down and put her head into her hands. She was currently sat in the study of her home, a beautiful room with light green décor and silver trim. Beneath the desk, she had kicked of her shoes, curling her toes into the thick green carpet as she tapped the oak desk lightly with a fingernail, eying the piece of paper that had arrived in her office three days previously.
Dear Madame Manageress,
So it is to be war between us? It would appear so, and for that you must face the consequences of your unfortunate actions. Let me make my requests absolutely clear, so there can be no mistake.
1. Box 5 will be left empty at every performance. No exceptions.
2. You will not interfere in any press statements that are released. If I so choose to release information, it is for good reason.
3. My salary will consist of £8,000 a month. This will be left in Box 5 on the last day of every month by the hand of Antoinette Giry. She seems reliable enough to remain discreet in this matter.
4. You shall not interfere in any future plans I make for the operas performed here.
It appears to me that you are not as capable as I once thought. If I were you, I would keep my head down or consider running home to your little husband and staying there. Clearly you are not prepared for the arduous task of running an opera house properly. Carry on in accordance to my requests and there shall be no problem between us. If not…you will find that actions speak far more loudly than words. For your own safety and that of your husband, I suggest you are compliant.
O.G.
A familiar chill rushed through Christine again but she shook it away. This was so ridiculous, yet she could not bring herself to tell anyone, not even Raoul.
She couldn't admit, even to herself, that she was afraid. And she hated that fear. For a while impossible as it now seemed, she had enjoyed writing to this invisible person, this nonexistent pen pal. She had even taken his advice and begun practising the piano more often, attempting more and more challenging pieces. But now the game had begun frighteningly real. She had not imagined that voice, anymore than she imagined the thin scabs on the palm of her hand, where her nails had pierced her own skin. She felt as though she had been made a fool of. But even worse was the near-constant fear that haunted her.
A white china cup clinked softly in its saucer as it was placed on the desk before her. She looked up with a start to see Alan putting down a plate with a sandwich on it beside the tea. He offered a soft smile before leaving. Christine smiled weakly and lifted the tea to her lips. The hot liquid scalded her mouth and she put it down again, the painful tingling on her tongue fading slowly away. She turned her eyes to the window. It was early evening on Friday and she would be returning to the opera house in a couple of hours to keep an eye on the performance. The reviews for Romeo and Juliet had all been extremely pleasing and ticket sales were through the roof.
The telephone began to ring and she picked it up, not really wanting to answer.
"Hello?"
"Mrs de Chagny? It's Moncharmin. We wanted to know what seat you'll be taking tonight. Boxes 5, 9 and 12 are free." He said pleasantly. Christine scratched her cheek.
"I'll take Box 12."
"Excellent. I'll see you later on tonight."
"Yes." She hung up and decided to take a bath before returning to work. Unfortunately the phone began to ring again and she answered.
"Yes?" She said tiredly.
"Christine? You sound exhausted." Raoul's concerned voice echoed down the line. Christine leant back in her comfortable chair.
"I am. But at least it's the weekend tomorrow. I intend to rest constantly."
"Good for you. I just wanted to say that Phil and I might be back a little later than expected. We'll be in time for dinner though."
"That's fine. Everything is so hectic at work; I'll have time to finish it all by then, hopefully." Christine replied. "How's Phil?"
"Looking forward to seeing everyone again. Some people more than others." He said slyly. Christine smiled at the thought of Sorelli.
"I have to go and clean up before tonight. There's been a few dramatics at the opera house; I'm going to keep an eye on the performance tonight."
"Make you get plenty of rest, though."
"I will."
She put the phone down again, feeling the weight in her chest lift slightly at the thought of Raoul's homecoming. It was strange how just the thought of seeing him again could cheer her so much.
He watched her from the moment that she entered the building. He knew that she had received His note; He had watched her take it and slip it into her pocket before leaving three days ago. Since then, He had been occupied in His new home, but on this night, when she would be present and no doubt in a mind to cause Him trouble, He was taking special care to keep an eye on her.
However, she did seem too bent on causing a fuss. In fact, she went straight to her office to put some paperwork into her drawer before going backstage to speak with her sub-managers. Those two were even grater fools than she was, but at least they kept to themselves, for the most part. He listened more closely to their conversation.
"No, nothing unusual. Everything seems to be going to schedule." Richard assured her. She nodded and asked,
"What box are you sitting in?"
"Moncharmin and I are going to take Box 8. Peculiar that no one wanted Box 5 – there's such a perfect view from there."
"I've noticed some problems in there. I may cut it off for the rest of the season and have it inspected for safety, as well as having it touched up." The manageress said calmly. "No, I'm perfectly capable of organising it. By the way, I shan't be in tomorrow night. My husband and his brother are returning from America, but we'll be here on Monday's performance. I trust you and Moncharmin can cope."
She left and went to check in with the leading lady. Carlotta beamed beatifically at her.
"Yes, everything's fine, Mrs de Chagny. No more of those ridiculous notes since you warned everyone about it."
"I see. Well, break a leg for tonight." The manageress offered. Carlotta smiled as her hairdresser began to arrange the red locks for the first act. De Chagny turned and left, walking to Box 12, opposite His own. He had to admit, her excuse for closing off Box 5 had been rather good; it was a simple enough explanation that would not cause unwanted attention
He abandoned His quarry for the time being, instead making his way to Box 5, which was plunged into darkness. With His black leather coat, black hat and black mask, the only part of Him that might have shown was His eyes, with their strange golden hue, luminous even in pitch darkness. But nobody was looking at the dark box as they hurried to their seats, clutching at their programmes and chattering obnoxiously amongst themselves. He watched the opposite box as de Chagny sank into her seat, crossing her legs elegantly and placing her hands demurely in her lap as she watched the curtained stage with a slightly creased brow. She reached into her bag and took out her mobile phone, apparently checking for messages before she turned it off.
Ten minutes later the curtain lifted and the opera began. He took out a piece of paper and pen, taking notes on the pieces that needed to be improved and suggestions that would be forwarded to Reyer. Tonight's performance was certainly better than it had been upon its opening. His recommendations had been taken to heart and He could hear whispers from below as the crowd commented on its excellence.
It was only when the interval arrived and the applause echoed around the room that He glanced back over at Box 12. The manageress did not seem to be moving. Instead she sat, watching the curtains with a listless expression on her face. After several moments she sighed and glanced at her watch. There was little to suggest that she would be joining the crowds now thronging out of the room to have drinks before the second half began. That was where she should have been, as a good manageress; charming the public and encouraging returns and patrons. He watched closely as she settled back in her chair.
Then her chin lifted and a frown crossed her face. For a moment she was still and then her head turned quickly to look directly at Him! Her eyes widened in horror and she grasped the edge of her box as her mouth opened as though to cry out. He quickly closed His eyes. To His watching companion, it must have looked as though the pair of yellow eyes had vanished into darkness. He gazed at her as she slowly released her grip on the balcony and settled back into her chair, eyes still wide and face excruciatingly pale. And then she got to her feet and hurried from her box. He quickly vacated his seat, knowing that she would be in his box in mere moments, pulling himself up to the ceiling, where he had removed a couple of the tiles that led to an air vent.
Sure enough, the curtains swung back and she stood there, a dark figure against the light of the corridor. The curtains swung back as she stepped into the box, more hesitant than a child venturing from the safety of their bedroom in the dead of night. She approached the chair slowly, her breath shallow. She looked down to the seat and didn't move when she saw that it was completely abandoned.
She bent down and flattened her palm against the seat, taking a quick breath as she felt warmth. Then her attention went to something on the floor. He hissed quietly, realising that it was his notes from the performance. She picked it up and scanned it, examining the scrawled words. He needed her out.
"Did I not instruct that Box 5 was to be left empty?"
She cried out as the words were whispered into her ear. She spun around, the notes flying from her hand and dropping to the floor like leaves. And then she disappeared from the box. He smirked and sank back down into His seat, knowing full well that she would not return that night.
Christine was having a nightmare. The worst kind possible, one that lingered for far too long after she had woken, sweating and gasping. Images of Joseph Buqet hanging from that rope, almost as though she were actually present at the scene once again, but he was still alive, still struggling, his fingernails tearing at his own throat in an effort to free himself.
But it wasn't Joe. It was Raoul. She remembered running to him, trying to lift him to stop him ripping his flesh apart. She was screaming, begging him to stop, but he was kicking her away without meaning to. And then his arms fells to his side, crimson droplets falling from his fingertips to join the stream running down his body to collect in a pool below his feet. Christine had fallen to her knees, sobbing and begging for it not to be true, only to hear that voice laughing and something tightening around her own neck.
She had woken to find the sheets tangled around her and had fought to get free, breathing so hard that her lungs were aching. After sitting up with her head buried in her knees, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream, she had climbed out of bed to open the window. But it was no good. She reached for her dressing gown and slippers, intending to go down to the kitchen to make some tea.
The house was completely silent in the dark as Christine moved like a ghost, silently downstairs and entering the deserted kitchen. After turning the kettle on, she searched through the cupboards for a teapot and the teabags. She had rarely had occasion to come into this room and felt quite lost. Eventually she found everything and prepared the steaming drink before sitting at one of the surfaces with a packet of biscuits that she had discovered in one of the many cupboards. It was cold in the white and chrome decorated room but she ignored that, concentrating on the hot brown liquid and trying to forget the dream.
Christine broke off a piece of biscuit and chewed it slowly, wondering why Joe's death was frightening her now. She hadn't suffered nightmares before. It must have been from what had happened in Box 5. But what was that? She knew for certain now that she hadn't imagined that voice, but there had been no one there, no way that anyone could have whispered in her ear without her seeing them. The ball of fear in her chest was growing by the day because of this Opera Ghost. But who could she tell? The police would think her insane and the prospect of hiring an exorcist would be a major blow to her pride and sensible nature. But she couldn't just sit here and do nothing. There was something going on in that opera house, something that needed to be stopped.
And she was the only one who knew about it.
The kitchen door swung open and one of the female servants entered, before stopping dead in her tracks.
"Oh! Mrs de Chagny!"
"Don't mind me. There's tea in the pot, if you want it." Christine smiled vaguely. The woman flushed and nodded. Christine held out the biscuit packet. "I suppose you can't sleep either." "No… I'm a light sleeper. Are you alright?" She said, pouring her tea. Christine shrugged slightly.
"I had a nightmare and couldn't get back to sleep. I'm sorry; I don't know your name…"
"Tara Cunningham." The woman smiled, accepting a biscuit. "Would you like to talk about it?"
"Not really. I'd rather just forget. I don't have the time to have nightmares." Christine said quietly. Tara smiled again.
"You don't seem to be home very often."
"I dread to think what would happen at the opera house if I stayed away for too long. Although sometimes I feel like just dropping everything and disappearing for a few weeks!"
They both sipped their tea before Christine glanced at the time.
"I'd better try and sleep. A thousand things to do before my husband gets back from America."
"Of course. Goodnight Mrs de Chagny." Christine rinsed her teacup in the sink and bade Tara goodnight before heading upstairs, determined to sleep.
He had always been a light sleeper. After all, one must always be on their guard, even though the possibility of someone coming down here was remote. The phrase, He believed, was to sleep with one eye open.
He had learnt to do this very early on in life.
In fact, the only reason that He awoke so early that morning was because of the music. All sorts of sounds carried down here, especially now that He had fixed up sound equipment. A ghost had to know what was going on in His opera house, after all. At this particular moment, He could hear light piano music. He got to His feet and began to steal up towards the opera house. He suspected that He already knew who it would be, for no one else would be in this early.
Sure enough, in practise room 6, the manageress was seated at the piano, concentrating on the music before her. There was a frown on her face and she missed a key. Sighing irritably she lifted her hands from the keyboard to brush her hair back from her face before starting again. He watched with vague curiosity. She was proving to be far more troublesome than He had anticipated. Still, at least His scare-tactics had put her in her place.
This time she completed the piece perfectly. He had to admit, there was certainly passion to her playing. Where that passion came from in that blank face, He had no idea. She folded the music and sat looking at the piano for a moment before starting on another tune, from another piece of sheet music. He wasn't familiar with it, but it had a charming lightness to it. She paused and shook her head. Either the rest of the tune was too difficult for her, or she had no wish to play further. There was silence in the little room as she looked at the music. Somewhere far off, a door opened and the manageress started to hurriedly collect her things. In her haste, a sheet of music fell from the piano to fall unnoticed to the ground as she left.
He lowered Himself into the room and picked up the music. He did not know the composer, one Charles Daaé, but slipped it beneath His coat. He suspected that the new arrival was the Giry girl and de Chagny was going to speak with her. He decided to keep an eye on her before returning the piece of music to her office. He could not compose in comfort if she was plotting something. And He did not expect her to follow His demands without, at least, a little mutiny.
A/N: Hello dahlings! Yes, I'm still here. But I have a very good excuse for taking so long. My shiny new beta and I both had exams. She had finals and I'm taking my A-levels. For those of you who aren't familiar with our fun English school system, I have to pass these exams to get into my first place university. Which I REALLY want to.
Once again, a round of applause for the charming TheAngelCried and her wonderful beta-ing skills. She is my Angel of Beta. Adore her greatly. Please leave a review, as I am still an Official Review Whore and I haven't been getting many lately. At this rate my huge ego shall begin to deflate and we can't have that now, can we? Lol…
Love and huggles
Katie