The Raising of Gods and Ghosts

by Pixelated_Parchment

Summary:

After recently graduating from a conservatoire, young soprano Christine Daae, starts working in the Palais Garnier Opera House as a dancer where rumours of ghosts that occupy the theatre seem to follow her everywhere. The rumours aren’t entirely baseless as she begins to see spirits - again.
Erik attempts to pass as a spectral shadow in the attics of the Opera House and continue to compose music for the theatre but growing unexplainable activity begins to push him into the spotlight and into the path of Christine Daae. Both realise they have the same question; what on earth is going on?

Notes:

The title is a line from Amadeus (National Theatre production) because I was watching it whilst writing the first chapter. I will try to upload as regularly as possible. Happy reading!

Chapter 1: Il Bacio

Christine stops outside the neoclassical theatre, her eyes travel up from the arches to the columns where the faces of composers stare back at her, their blank, gold faces glint in the pale morning sunlight. She exhales trying to calm herself and push down the anxiety of starting work in an actual theatre. This is what she wants, she tells herself, hasn’t she always wanted to work in theatres and to manage to get a job at the Palais Garnier! Even as a dancer it’s amazing and she’s worked hard to deserve a spot. This fortifying her she pushes her glasses up her nose and sets her jaw before striding around the corner of the building towards the stage door.
Coming towards the glass stage doors she sees someone else enter the building. She breaks into a jog, her bag bouncing against her back to try to catch the door; she stretches her hand out grabbing the handle just as it firmly locks her out. She sighs before tapping lightly on the glass to catch the attention of the person that just entered “Hey!” the figure ahead of her pauses and turns in her direction slightly “Could you get the door please?”
As the figure turns to face Christine can see them slightly better. They’re tall, slender and clad in all black with a deep hood obscuring their entire face. She pauses, a feeling of dread flooding her. Not again, she thinks not again and not now her breath catches in her throat as she watches the figure, struck by how motionless they are. They always are. If she hadn’t seen them animated she would have thought that they were a mannequin to display a costume. As she’s trying to take in the details of this entity, trying to gage if they are what she thinks it is they swiftly turn and stalk away.
“Hey!” she hears herself repeat but the figure is completely out of sight now. She blinks hard and removes her glasses to rub at her eyes before replacing them, feeling her heart batter against her ribcage. She can feel her foundation of reality trembling and her consciousness retreat into the back of her mind. She pushes herself to focus on the morning birds singing, the light wind lifting her flyaways and the cuff of her denim jacket. She feels herself return to the present.
She jams her still shaking finger on the buzzer and hopes that someone will come down despite that fact that she arrived an hour early. She didn’t sleep too well and had to leave the too quiet apartment before Aunt Annika woke up and started to fuss about breakfast. She could only just manage to make herself eat an apple.
“Oh! Hello?” Christine turns rapidly, hearing a voice behind her.
“Hello.” she replies, not looking up but stepping away from the door to let the woman have access.
“I’m Madeleine Destler. I could let you in if you’d like. Usually no one is in this early.” she smiles. At the name Madeleine Destler, Christine’s head snaps up and looks into her startling cool grey eyes, that her gentle smile warms up. Christine nods shyly, her heart thumping hard as Madeleine steps forward pressing her employee pass to the access point “what’s your name?”
“Christine Daae.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” she says graciously, holding the door open for Christine.
“I’m one of the new ballet dancers.” she manages to say, looking up to Madeleine. She feels herself flushing at saying something so stupid in front of such an amazing, beautiful singer but at least she didn’t say that she was her biggest fan and has all of her CD’s at home and listens to her rendition of Nessun Dorma on repeat.
“Oh great! Casting found some new dancers. Ariadne has been so annoyed that the choreography has been compromised due to dancers leaving. You may have to go and get your pass from Joseph Buquet later.” She steps into the theatre behind Christine.
“Oh, okay.”
“I’ll show you up to the dancers dressing room.” Madeleine turns and starts down a long corridor. Christine rushes to follow her, trying to memorise each turn and hallway leading to her dressing room whilst taking in her awe for the famed opera singer before her. She knew that Madeleine Destler was currently working in the Palais Garnier but she didn’t think that she would ever speak to her.
"Here you are." The singer looks at Christine again pausing outside the dancers dressing room "Don't worry about Ariadne Giry. She's naturally stern but will be happy to have you. It was really nice meeting you Christine. See you."
Christine watches Madeleine gracefully walk back down the corridor, her long strawberry blonde French plait bouncing against her upper back. She feels flushed and her heart is still racing in her chest from actually meeting Madeleine Destler, one of her biggest inspirations.
She then groans resting her head against the door realising how much she clammed up and made no kind of interesting conversation. Now Madeleine Destler probably thinks she's a rude uppity dancer.

She pushes the door to the dressing room open, deciding determinedly that the figure she saw was simply someone wearing a hoodie and her tired eyes and lowlighting meant that she mistook it for what she saw years ago. Putting that episode behind her she glances around the space looking for a vanity that doesn't have make up and personal effects decorating the mirror space. She looks around the high-ceilinged room where posters from previous productions are tacked to the walls, flimsy bits of newspaper fill the negative space between them and a variety of masks, ribbons and hairpieces are balanced on the picture rail.
She drops her duffel bag on the floor by a free mirror and pulls out her makeup bag and shoes. Absentmindedly Christine begins to sing a vocal waltz by Arditi while she darns the end to one of her pointe shoes. She lets herself relax whilst she gently warbles the light tune Il Bacio whilst pulling the crescent shaped needle through the satin but falls silent as she hears footfalls approaching.
The door opens and a group of dancers lead by an older woman with sharp features and her dark hair pulled back into a severe chignon, who acknowledges Christine with a nod, however she continues to the small back room. Christine stands and places her shoes down to approach the teacher that Madeleine described so well. An athletic blonde girl approaches Christine immediately “I’m Meg Giry. You’re new?”
“Yes, I’m Christine Daae.”
“Christine. Cool.” She looks up to Christine through a thick fringe and heavy eyeliner “I’ll take you to my mum in a minute, she likes to check that the costumes have been returned properly first.”
“Okay.” Christine replies, twisting her hands together. Meg shrugs off her leather jacket
“So, where did you work before this?”
“I’ve just graduated. This is my first theatre job.”
“Hey, congrats!” she grins broadly and Christine returns the smile.
“Thanks.”
“Mum, this is Christine Daae, she’s one of the new dancers.” Madame Giry looks to Christine
“Ah yes. I am Madame Giry and prefer to be addressed such.” she gives a pointed look to Meg “We usually get in around eight and start at eight thirty with a stretching class, I’ll give you a timetable before you leave. I’ll trust the others to help you as much as possible and if you need anything or have any questions please come to me.”
“Thank you.” Christine nods.
“Girls, ten minutes and you’ll all need to be dressed and ready for stretch and choreo.” Madame Giry addresses the rest of the room “I’ll be setting up in the practise room.”
The door shuts and Meg turns to Christine, a small curious smile playing on her lips “Don’t worry, she’s always like that. Let me introduce you to everyone, this is Jammes. She’s also new today.”
“Hi.” The petit, ginger girl smiles.
“That’s Aayushi, Darcy, Marya, Minette and Esme. Dea, Saanvi and Sorelli are the principles.” Sorelli turns at the sound of her name “Yeah?”
“I was just introducing Christine to everyone.” Sorelli’s dark eyes appraise Christine’s chestnut curls and wire rimmed glasses before finally saying “Hey.”
“All I can say is that I hope you don’t scare easily.” Meg continues her grin becoming mischievous.
“What?” Christine asks, frowning.
“Some people say that the theatre is haunted.” Minette rolls her eyes.
“You’re joking right?” Christine looks around at the girls who all have serious expressions. She’s instantly taken back to this morning and the dark figure she saw then. The decision she made resolves itself and tramples to the forefront of her mind That couldn’t have been a spirit… She saw the figure open a door and ghosts can’t move physical objects. They were never able to do so before. No! It was just a rude person who ignored her when she needed help. She can’t imagine what work they do in the theatre in a deep cowl hood but it was an actual, living human.
“No, the opera house truly is haunted by a ballerina who died in the fire and-!”
“Cut it out with the gothic shit Meg! People have quit because they get too creeped out by nothing!” Sorelli frowns a slight pink flush coming into her dark olive skin.
“You brought it up.” Meg retorts.
“Yeah, so they both know there’s nothing to it. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts anyway.” Christine says quickly, attempting to diffuse the situation. She doesn’t want to believe in ghosts. Sorelli glances from Meg to Christine before sighing heavily “Come on let’s head up to the rehearsal room.”

Christine pulls Meg to the back of the group and drops her voice down low “What kind of things do people see?”
“Well, some people see a ballerina lying across the stage before she disappears. Some of the dancers say they feel a cold spot on the stage where she supposedly died. There was a fire here in the eighteen-seventies and supposedly her skirts caught fire and she burned to death. Her lover was a pianist and he tried to save her but just ended up with severe burns so he lived down in the bowels of the theatre.
Andre and Firmin don’t rent out box five because it’s haunted. There’s a dark, hooded figure that you sometimes see if you come here early or stay late too.” Christine feels herself pale and her stomach flips rapidly but tries to be calm about what she’s just been told. Just because she saw a hooded figure doesn’t mean that she saw a ghost because ghosts don’t exist. Despite telling herself that she still feels nauseated and wishes that she kept her mouth shut and didn’t ask about the stupid stories of the theatre spectres “You okay Christine?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She smiles wanly as they both step into the expansive practise room.
“Ecoutez ladies!” Madame Giry demands, standing in front of the mirrors that cover the entirety of one wall. Christine stands in position preparing to follow her teachers instruction and trying to forget about everything Meg said and only focus on performing the best she can during this stretch and choreography class.
~~~

Christine smiles softly, using a towel to wipe the sweat from her forehead before placing her glasses back onto her nose. She feels content at the efforts of dancing the whole morning “We usually have lunch in the dance room too.” Meg explains to Christine and Jammes “It’s the biggest space we have, it’s out of everyone’s way. The guys will probably come and join us too seeing as we have pas de deux classes this afternoon”
“I’m just going to go down to the dressing room a moment. I’ll be back up here in a minute.”
“Do you need help with the way Christine?”
“No I’ll be okay I’ve remembered the way.” Christine replies. She starts back down to the dressing room relishing the quiet after the loud music, Madame Giry keeping time for them all and the thump of the dancers landing simultaneously. Although she enjoyed dancing the distant muffled music that echoes in the corridors of the opera house soothes her; it sounds similar to when her father would play his violin downstairs in the mornings and she would wake up to the tender soaring trill. The lulling distant sounds makes her heart ache
She gets into the vacant dressing room and collapses into the chair before she pulls her pointe shoes off and stretches out her tired feet. She sighs heavily sitting back hoping that she’s made her father proud of making it through her schooling and now being a working dancer. Although she always aimed to be a singer she hopes he’s proud anyway. She’ll be an opera singer one day but for now just being in a theatre is enough. Slowly and softly she begins to sing Il Bacio again gradually becoming louder and letting herself be carried in the music.
She hears movement beside her and Madame Giry enters the main dressing room from the back room “Oh, I’m sorry Madame, I didn't realise you were here. I can go if you'd like to be alone.” Christine stands flushing.
“No, it's absolutely fine. How did you find that first choreography Christine?”
“It was beautiful. I really enjoyed learning it too."
"Thank you." Madame Giry says, leaning against the doorway to the backroom "You're clearly a hard worker."
"Thank you Madame. I'll leave you be now, sorry for interrupting." Madame Giry doesn't protest that she was bothering her but a small, tight smile plays along her thin lips. Christine quickly slips her flat shoes on, leaves the dressing room and starts back up on the stairs.
She reaches for the handle of the dance room when it's pushed open towards her. Christine staggers backwards to narrowly avoiding being hit.
"Oh! I'm sorry!" Sorelli says looking down to Christine.
"No, don't worry about it!"
"I didn't hit you did I?" She asks, her dark eyes concerned.
"No, no. I'm fine. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm just busy trying to set up the next class. I've got to go down to props to bring up the garland wreaths and then to the dressing room for skirts."
"Well, I'll go down to the dressing room to get the skirts if you'd like me too." Christine offers.
"Would you?"
"Yeah, it's no problem really. I was just there."
"You don't scare easily and you offer to help out! You're a doll Christine Daae." Sorelli wraps her long arm around Christine's shoulders and gives her a gentle squeeze "Which conservatoire did you say you went too by the way?"
"The Conservatoire National." They both head down the stairs slowly.
"Ooh. I was considering going there but eventually went to school in Italy." Sorelli starts down the second staircase towards the backstage area. Sorelli pauses on the stairs "Thank you again for helping out."
Christine smiles at the principal ballerina before walking across the landing and towards the long corridor that leads to all the dancers dressing rooms. As she turns the corner she sees the tall hooded figure once again, back turned to her outside the women's room. She stops and stares, everything Meg had said coming back to her immediately. Ghosts don't exist, she scolds herself internally attempting to be self assured that there aren't such things. This is just the same member of staff that you saw this morning. She tries not to hold a grudge, perhaps they were wearing earbuds and couldn't hear her, but if that was the case then why did they turn and have her in their eyeline and ignore her completely? She starts walking down the narrow corridor and wearing a cheery demeanour like a mask "Hello."
The lanky figure jumps and fractionally turns their head before bolting "Hey!" Christine calls and walks faster before breaking into a run too. Despite being used to dancing and running most days of her training Christine struggles to keep up with the long stride that the 'ghost' makes.
The ghost heads past the men's dressing room, jumps the three steps and starts in the direction of a stairwell rushing down it, clinging onto the hood to keep it in place and their boots clicking loudly on the bare wooden flooring; Christine follows jumping the same steps and taking some two at a time "Wait! Please!" She pleads desperate to prove to herself that there isn’t a ghost.
The ghost bursts through another door that she realises as she approaches leads out into the main auditorium.

Still she pursues and sees a dark booted foot turn into one of the boxes. She smiles a little seeing that whoever they are is now cornered. Breathing heavily she walks to the box "Hey, I just wanted to talk." She gasps between heavy breaths "I… what?" She looks around the confined area seeing to her surprise no one. She runs to the edge of the box leaning over looking down into the stalls and to the boxes either side again seeing the space empty.
Despite all the evidence pointing to the blatant fact that this box is uninhabited, Christine looks around the space again dumbfounded "How..?" She questions aloud.
"I would prefer to go from the top Madeleine but whatever you say." A penetrating voice opines. Christine backs away into the shadows of the box immediately horrified at the thought of being caught 'prying'.
"Bar nine is where we need to start blocking further from. We've only just reached there." She recognises Madeleine’s voice responding in a long suffering albeit polite tone.
"That's fine then." The other woman's voice comes clipped. Christine leans forward, pushing her glasses up her nose again trying to see who Madeleine Destler is talking too. She squints at the stage seeing Madeleine's blonde head and then a shock of dark, scarlet hair “I would prefer to run through what we’ve already blocked though.”
“Okay Carlotta.” Madeleine sighs and Christine watches her walk across the stage to stand in her starting position, behind a chaise lounge before then stalking around the furniture and advancing on Carlotta singing as the Queen of the Night from Mozart’s the Magic Flute. Her powerful voice fills the theatre, sweeping through the stalls, surging up to the Gods and raising goosebumps on Christine’s arms. Carlotta turns towards where the audience would be, her attractive features contorted into the fear and sorrow of Pamina. She brings her hands up to paw at the base of her throat tilting her head up before frowning and dropping her hand “Who’s up there?”
Christine gasps and rushes backwards rapidly to be out of sight of the performers.
“What?”
“There was something shining in that box there!” She overhears Carlotta explaining to Madeleine.
“There’s nothing there now!” Madeleine replies as Christine shuffles to the door, leaves and gently lets it shut silently. She bombs down the corridor and up the staircase returning to the safety of backstage. Christine only stops running when she’s back outside the women's dressing room.
She can't explain how a person - a solid person who can touch doors and make loud footfalls simply disappear into thin air. It isn't possible, is it?

With the direction from Madame Giry, Christine collects the skirts and heads up to the practise room. Dancers approach her and take a skirt while she thinks about the disappearing figure in box five.
“Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost Christine.” Meg jokes nudging Christine’s arm. A few of the other dancers cast a disapproving look at Meg’s joke.
“I’m fine.” Christine replies quietly, pulling on the final skirt.
Throughout the pas de deux lesson Christine’s mind keeps turning back to box five and the dark figure that she saw twice now despite her determination to remain focused on the dance and baby-faced ballet dancer leading her around the room. The pervasive thoughts of the dark figure pushes into the memories of her father's funeral and attempts to corrode her attention. She feels her knees buckle and the grip of her partner tightens gently “Sorry.” she murmurs continuing to dance.
Christine apologises to her partner again before moving swiftly to her where her dance bag sits in the corner of the room. She presses the heel of her palms against her eyes before replacing her glasses. We are not doing this again, she tells herself firmly you’re fine and going to flourish here. Breathing evenly she attempts to recenter herself and occupy her mind properly.
“Christine, Jammes, could you come over here a moment?” Madame Giry asks. Both the girls approach “that’s part of the choreography for ‘The Magic Flute’ which is currently in rehearsal. The company is currently performing La Traviata and this is the time when we would practise the choreography for tonight, and seeing as you aren’t currently in that you both can leave early. Thank you both for working so hard today.” both women thank her before she addresses the room “Okay guys you can have a twenty minute break then back here. Thank you.”

Christine files out with the other dancers absentmindedly heading down through the back passages of the theatre and towards the stage door to leave. As she nears the exit she pauses realising that she has to pick up her own pass to get into the building the next day. Sighing heavily she turns back and heads out of backstage.
Her footsteps are silent on the tile flooring as she speed walks through the gradually growing crowds up to the vacant looking box office “Hi, sorry but I was told to pick up my employee pass from Joseph Buquet?” she peers through a small gap in the scarlet curtains. She waits for a reply before calling out “Hello?”
“Just a moment!” a voice calls back, the curtain twitching slightly before being drawn back “Yes?”
“I was told to pick up my employee pass from Joseph Buquet?” she repeats hesitantly, looking at the box office attendant and the cluttered desk.
“That’s me.” he grins flashing straight, white teeth “What’s your name?”
“Christine Daae.”
“Right!” he smiles looking around the disorganised desk, shifting stacks of paper opening drawers. Christine watches him frantically search for her pass patiently “I’m currently reading this.” he holds up a book on paranormal phenomena “It’s pretty good, I love all this paranormal stuff. I mean you’ve got too to work here.” he drops the book back on the desk. Christine feels herself inwardly cringe “Yeah.” she says in an evasive tone.
“I bet everyone’s already told you about it though.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ah ha!” he procures the pass and places it on the counter “Here you are.”
“Thank you.” Christine takes it and shoves it into the pocket of her jacket “I’ll see you.”

Leaving the theatre she walks across the square trying to figure out what to do. She hasn’t seen a shadow figure for nine years and now everything is being churned up just as she’s graduated and gotten a job nearly straight away. And now it’s able to physically move things which is just a wonderful advancement in the state of her mental health, she thinks bitterly whilst walking down into the Parisian metro and only just catching the right train to meet Aunt Annika and Raoul for a celebratory meal.

Exiting the metro she sees Raoul waving and beaming at her “How was it?” he asks pulling her into a hug
“It was great.” she replies muffled against his chest.
“Wonderful! Annika is at the restaurant. She just messaged me.” he releases Christine, brandishing his phone.
“We better get a move on then.” Christine says, letting down her curls from the bun. Raoul links his arm with hers and they walk the few streets to the restaurant. Once seated at the table her Aunt Annika asks the same question “So, how was it?”
“It was great!” Christine hides her face behind the menu. The silence draws her out from behind her shield “What?”
“Only great?” her Aunt probes.
“I mean it was amazing.” Christine tries elaborating “I made some friends, who helped me out and showed me around the backstage area. I also kind of accidentally ran into Madeleine Destler too.”
“What?!” Raoul turns to Christine “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I managed to make a fool out of myself by not saying much.” Christine laughs lightly.
“I’m sure you didn’t, love.” Annika takes her hand gently.
“Trust me I did.” she smiles.
“But that’s so cool anyway! Since when was Destler working at the Palais Garnier?” Raoul asks.
“She’s here for ‘The Magic Flute’ she plays the Queen of the Night. She’s finished the tour in Italy. I think she may become a permanent part of the company. I feel I read that somewhere ages ago.” Christine smiles relishing the normalcy that Raoul and Annika give her. It feels like every peculiar experience that happened with the door and box five has just faded away and she’s actually looking forward to working at the Palais Garnier. It was only one odd day.

Chapter 2: Coro di Zingerelle

Notes:

I'm surprised I managed to write the second chapter so quickly. I hope you all enjoy it! Happy reading!

TW: A character throws up however it is not described at all. The only mentions of feelings surrounding it are nauseated and queasy.

The mention of ghosts ceased to concern Christine. She had seen no strange or ghostly figures since the first day of working at the Palais Garnier and everything went back to how it was; void of the paranormal. It was merely stress, she thinks lacing up her pointe shoes for a morning pas de deux lesson. “Hey” Meg smiles approaching “are you feeling better?”
“Sorry?”
“On Monday, in the afternoon you didn’t look too well. You went all pale.”
“I was fine.”
“You looked like you saw a ghost.” she jokes, smiling. Christine turns to look at Meg; her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Christine frowns watching Meg’s expression closely and how she fidgets spinning one of her rings around her finger.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” she asks in response. Christine watches Meg’s black lined eyes widen in surprise at the question “You seem to speak about them an awful lot so you must be interested or believe in them.”
“I kind of believe in ghosts.” she shrugs, stretching out her legs and testing the tip of her pointe shoes.
“Only kind of?” Christine pushes.
“I just like joking with the others. It’s just silliness.” Meg replies in a clipped way that announces the end of the conversation entirely. It’s unusual, she ponders to become so defensive over a simple question; especially as ghosts are something that Meg tends to joke about constantly. Meg usually jokes about there being spirits with the other dancers around so she doesn’t feel anxious about their disapproval nor does she seem to feel nervous of her mother's reprimanding. There isn’t a reasonable answer for the sudden change in attitude.
She approaches her dancing partner, Alvaro, and stands in first position ready for the music to start. Ghosts being spoken about hasn’t bothered her up until Meg’s peculiar defensiveness and now her insatiable curiosity has reared its head despite every fibre of her being desperately wanting to retreat away from the subject entirely. She spins on pointe into Alvaro’s arms and out again, as the music trumpets to it’s finality.
“Tres bien everyone.” Madame Giry praises, in her stern way. The door to the dance room opens and the woman that Christine recognises as Carlotta leans against the door jam “We need the dancers down on the stage immediately.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was told to get the dancers and bring them down to the stage to rehearse for act two.” she repeats looking between the dancers and Madame Giry. Christine swiftly ducks her head down hoping that the bright stage lights disguised most of her features from being recognisable to Carlotta.
“Fine, all of you are excused for rehearsal.” Madame Giry finally begrudgingly relinquishes the group save Christine and Jammes.
“We could run through the choreography for “The Magic Flute” if you’d like.” Jammes suggests seeing the muscle in Madame Giry’s jaw twitch in irritation.
“No, you both are also excused until choreography class.” she exhales heavily, her eyes still where Carlotta was standing.
“Yes Madame.” Christine nods, hastily leading Jammes away. She senses that Madame Giry would prefer to be alone.

Both girls head back towards their dressing room to swap out their dancing shoes “We could go and watch the rehearsal. I’m sure no one would mind.” Jammes suggests.
“Sure, but let's go up to the Gods so we don’t distract anyone.” Christine says, recalling the last time that she watched a rehearsal uninvited. Fortunately Jammes agrees to that idea and they both head up through the backstage staircases to the Gods seats. Christine sidles along the seats to sit towards the middle to watch her co-workers rehearse their steps for later on.
Christine can only just recognise the bouncing music of “La Traviata” from the bass that carries up to where she sits; the higher notes would be lost if the ensemble hadn’t started singing ‘Brindisi’, she identifies Meg from her blonde hair and Alvaro dancing together in the back of the scene pretending to have a wonderful time at the party. Carlotta enters in a hoop skirt as Violetta, graciously greeting guests and catching up with her friends before starting to sing her verse out to the audience.
Christine’s hand goes up to her glasses and she whips them off her face, throwing the world into undefined shapes and colours. She squints hard at the stage but can only just see the sway of the ensemble and the vague silhouette of Carlotta moving across the scene.
Despite Carlotta’s voice reaching up to Jammes and herself she can hear another melody nearby. Closing her eyes in an attempt to focus on its quiet subtlety she feels the richness of each legato that stirs and awakens her senses in defiance of the hush it’s confined too.
“I’ll be back in a moment Jammes.” she whispers standing, sidling along the seats to the aisle and up the stairs out of the auditorium. She can hear the music resounding above her but can’t see anyway to reach where it originates from. She turns and sneaks back into the auditorium “Jammes, can you hear that music?”
“Of course I can.”
“No, not on stage, the piano music. Can you hear the piano music?” she watches Jammes turn towards her before listening carefully “Yes.” she answers near silent “where is that coming from?”
“Above us.”
“What?”
“I know. I don’t know where else to say it’s coming from but above us. That’s where it sounds like it’s from to me.”
“But I can also hear it from over there.” Jammes whispers pointing across to the other side of the theatre. Christine puts her glasses back on and glances down at the stage where they’re continuing to rehearse “They can’t hear it down there so it has to come from up here somewhere.”
“There aren’t rehearsal rooms up here, are there?”
“No, those are on the other side where the dance rooms are.” Christine replies. She watches Jammes pale a little further “What if it’s the Opera Ghost like Meg said?”
“She’s only doing it to wind everyone up. She told me as much this morning.” Christine refutes trying hard to put that idea to the back of her mind. She’s just gotten away from the idea of seeing a dark figure roaming around the opera house; she doesn’t need to confront another apparition.
“But, what if there is one. There was a fire here in the eighteen hundreds.” Jammes continues.
“There isn’t a ghost.” She says but her voice wavers. They both pause looking at each other, their faces pale in the low lighting “Jammes?”
“Yes?”
“The piano music’s stopped.” And although a part of her wanted the beautiful, haunting music to stop a loneliness without it has exchanged itself for the awakening she was experiencing.
“Christine lets go!” She nods in response, the sudden separation from the song leaving her with an ache in her chest.

They both start towards the door to the backstage staircase when uproarious cries come from the stage. Christine bolts down to the balcony and sees the ghost light that’s been placed in the aisle of the stalls flickering on and off irregularly. Everyone’s come towards the edge of the stage watching in awe and fear. Meg pushes forward watching intently “It’s just a faulty wire or something like that! Just turn it off.” Carlotta shrugs dismissively. Everyone glances between each other eyeing the ghost light unmoving. Christine watches transfixed “Fine, I’ll do it!” Carlotta scoffs. She watches her climb down the stage steps and up the aisle towards the single bulb on a stand.
She reaches the scintillating light and raises a hand to move the light when a baritone voice thunders seemingly from the very foundation of the building “Touch it not.” it orders. Christine jumps, her eyes scouring for someone; the boxes and rows of seats reveal no one. Carlotta flinches away shocked, shadows cast up onto her face exaggerating her raised eyebrows before the lights in the entire space cut out.
Christine turns and starts up the stairs back to where she left Jammes who reaches out and takes her arm "What happened?" She whispers.
"I'll tell you back in the dressing room, let's go!" Christine replies, breaking into a jog that pulls Jammes along behind her. Once they're both back in the dressing room Christine retells everything that she saw to the horrified Jammes.
"It was a ghost!"
Christine remains silent feeling unsure whether she would confidently be able to deny that to Jammes and to herself. Of course it all could have been a trick done by electrical wiring however the voice was different. Everyone knows how a voice over the speakers sounds and feels like but this was different. It came up from beneath them and swallowed up any thought of microphones and speakers. The sound was too raw and uninterrupted.
"When everyone else gets back don't mention that we saw or heard anything."
"Why?"
"I feel like we shouldn't have been up there Jammes."

The strained atmosphere of the dressing room snaps as the other dancers crowd in over-excitedly speaking about the events that occurred.
"It's not a ghost. It's someone playing silly-buggers." Sorelli says over the chatter.
"You two will never guess what happened!" Marya turns to Christine and Jammes, her cheeks flushed with fervour "the ghost light started flashing and when Carlotta went to turn it off a voice spoke out telling her not to touch it. Then the lights went out!"
"Oh…" Christine sighs.
“Wow.” Jammes says stiffly. Fortunately Marya doesn’t notice the nervous false note in Jammes’ voice and continues on speaking about what happened. Christine slips through the crowd that’s now gathered around Marya, as she regales the tale of Carlotta, the ghost light and the voice to the keen listeners regardless of the fact that they were all there. She starts towards the corridor attempting to escape from the susurrations, scoffs and squeals of the ghostly encounter.
She leans against the wall, grasping at questions that refuse to yield answers. Her curiosity for the second time today is piqued by the strange occurrence. It all feels far more tangible and grounded in logic and reality than seeing an image of a faceless person trailing through the theatre. The others have witnessed it too; it isn’t only happening in her head. Jammes heard the piano playing above them, everyone else saw the light flutter and the disembodied voice sound. And someone has to be causing it.

“I don’t want to work in conditions like this but I refuse to let a prankster get the better of me!” Carlotta states, storming along the corridor followed by members of the ensemble and backstage crew. “We don’t know how that could have happened! Ubaldo was on the lights, I was on the sound. We were in constant communication with each other whilst monitoring the tech. Nothing could have gone wrong on our watch.”
“Well something did!” she retaliates, turning on her heel and continuing down to the singers dressing rooms. The footsteps fade away from where Christine’s standing and the noise dies down into a murmur. If the professionals in lighting and sound don’t know what happened then how was she supposed to figure it out unless it is in fact paranormal. She mentally shakes herself, pushes up her glasses to her forehead and presses her hands over her eyes.
“You shouldn’t be encouraging him!” Christine freezes hearing the frustrated appeal.
“I’m not. And no one was hurt.” She recognises Meg’s voice strangled into a disquieted tone.
“It makes life more complicated for all of us. We’ve lost members of staff because of both of your silly games.” Madame Giry’s stern voice is laced with tiresome anger. Meg snorts derisively.
“Let’s all just calm down.” Christine frowns listening intently to the conversation “Meg’s right. No one was hurt but it does make things… more tangled. I’ll have words later on this evening with him and ask why it all happened.”
“I know exactly why it happened.” Meg grumbles, still clearly unhappy.
“Why then?” the calm woman asks.
“Firstly Carlotta. She’s infuriating and rude. He was trying to look out for you mum, in his own way. Secondly, there’s a lot of weird things happening… unexplainable things.”
“Like what?” Madame Giry asks, her voice dropping back down to its usual calm.
“Ask him. He sees more of it than I do. He’s been on edge since he got-!” Meg suddenly stops. Christine looks up out of her hands seeing her, Madame Giry and Madeleine Destler all at the bend of the corridor. In listening she hadn’t realised that they were drawing nearer. Madame Giry is the first to recover her composure “Ah just who I wanted to see.”
“Really?” she asks tentatively.
“Yes. I was wondering if you and Jammes could fill in tonight during ‘Coro di Zingarelle’? The dance is very simple. Marya and Dea are filling in for the singing ensemble now.”
“Of course. I’ll go and tell Jammes.” Christine nods trying to stay as calm in front of them all. Meg’s expression has darkened and she watches as she heads back into the changing room and shuts the door behind her.
“Shit…” Christine exhales, the conversation replaying repeatedly in her mind. Who is Madeleine Destler going to speak too? Meg only referred to “Him” in passing and that he’s been on edge since something happened. She can’t even be happy at the news that she gets to be on stage for the first time in her professional career tonight because of the conspiracies consuming her thoughts.
“Jammes, we’re filling in during ‘Coro di Zingarelle’ tonight.”
“What?” the dancers ask simultaneously, turning to look at Christine’s flushed face.
“Madame Giry just told me. She said that Marya and Dea you’re going to be filling in the singing ensemble.” both Marya and Dea groan.
“Someone’s packed it in up there then.” Marya sighs “ah well, just a case of getting on with it I suppose. If you both come up to the practise room now I can teach you the dance.”
“Thanks.”

As Madame Giry had said the dance was very simple and the main section that was choreographed was when they all came together for the second time the chorus was sung knelt and raised their tambourines before continuing back into following the beat and trying to enchant the party guests and read their palms.
Marya, shows Christine and Jammes where the costumes for that scene are and how their makeup should be done before leaving them to head down to the singing ensemble dressing room to know what she’s doing and wearing. Quickly she sends a text to her aunt mentioning that she’s going to be staying later in the theatre helping out and then chucks her phone into her bag.
She helps the others in and out of their costumes for the next scenes that come before her own.
“Don’t worry Christine, I’ve got this. Help Meg she seems to be struggling.” Sorelli says slipping the straps of her gown off her shoulders. Christine glances over to Meg who’s yanking on a stuck zipper in exasperation.
“Here let me.” Christine says, brushing Meg’s hands away, straightening out the garment and pulling the zipper down with ease. Meg mumbles her thanks and pulls off the gown before stepping into a lace up one “Could you?” she gestures to the ties.
“Yeah, no problem.”
“That conversation was meant to be private.” Meg says under her breath.
“What conversation?” Christine asks feigning innocence.
“You know what I mean.”
“Nope.” she insists, her palms starting to feel sweaty against the silky ties. Meg shakes her head in disbelief, her long, straight blonde hair slipping over one shoulder “I saw your face back there. You’re a good actor but not so much so that I couldn’t immediately see that you were shocked.”
“I… I…” Christine starts letting her hands drop after tying the bow. Meg turns to look up to Christine, her dark brown eyes boring into Christine’s “It’s got nothing to do with you so just keep out of it.”
“Okay.” Christine nods. She watches Meg leave the shortened gown for dancing, bouncing under the many petticoats. The warning, Christine notes, wasn’t said unkindly or in a threatening way it was just mentioned with an air of guarding. Pushing it aside she changes into the peasant gown and remains barefoot.
“Can we run through it one last time? Just while no ones here.” Jammes asks, entering from the back room.
“Yeah of course.” Christine picks up the tambourines, passes one to Jammes and stands ready “One, two, and three. Noi siamo zingarelle, venute da lontano.” At the end of the first line they both tap their props twice above their heads before turning slowly in time with Christine’s gentle singing “d'ognuno sulla mano, leggiamo l'avvenir” and tap on the crown of the instrument.
The others rush back into the room as Jammes strikes the tambourine on her hip “Save it for the stage!” Esme laughs gently as Jammes flushes laughing sheepishly.
Rushing backstage the girls split up and run around the long back corridor of the theatre to make it to the left wing of the stage and to elegantly rush down the stairs on their prompt line “Ella verra qui col barone.”
Christine feels her heart start to thump and her hands become cold as they all bound down onto the stage; she grins at the comfort and the knowledge that on the stage she knows exactly what to do and when. The music starts slowly and she sings along quietly “Noi siamo zingarelle, venute da lontano.” knowing her cues, and how to move she starts to enjoy herself falling into the role, twirling her skirts and long brunette curls at party goers.
“Vediamo!” the fortune tellers exclaim as their song comes to a break to focus on Violetta and her troubles. They break up and attach themselves to Lords and Ladies peering into their hands and exchanging knowing looks with one another. Christine skips over to stage left and peers into the hand of a gentleman in a red coat with epaulettes tracing his life line. A cold wind blows through, lifting her hair from her bare shoulders and rustling the hem of her skirt.
She shudders looking back down to where his hand rests in hers a feeling of nausea sweeps over her, her skin prickling and a cold sweat breaking out on her skin in spite of the hot stage lights. Blinking hard to focus on his hand and to continue the performance, a movement on the floor beside her legs catches her eye.
She looks past to where the movement was seeing a young woman strewn on the floor, her eyes glassy and hands charred and blistered together into claws; smoke stains her face and the bodice of her ruined dress. The smell of burning flesh makes Christine gag and look further down the woman’s broken body to her skirts that curled up, away from the scorching heat and her poor smouldered legs with gaping wounds revealing the taut tendons and sinews. Christine coughs quietly, feeling the smoke clog up her throat and brings tears to her eyes when the young woman's head snaps around towards her. Her eyes are still glassy, frosted over with smoke and her jaw drops open. A rattling breath is taken prior to a hoarse voice calling out “Help me!”
Flinching away she stumbles back and is pulled into formation with the rest of the dancers in time for them all to be kneeling and raising their tambourines up. She tries to gulp back the wateriness in her eyes and spin slowly still feeling queasy and light-headed whilst keeping in time with everyone. She’s relieved when the men dressed as matadors enter stalking forward into the space so she can run off stage, down a corridor and into the ladies toilets.

She swirls the water around her mouth before spitting it back into the sink and pushes back the damp curls clinging to her sweaty forehead. Slowly she leaves and trails back to the empty dressing room, collapses into her chair and rests her head on her arms feeling the tears come to her eyes. She wants to do her best and eventually become a singer but constantly seeing ghosts or hallucinations is exhausting and it seems that there’s only two options. Run away or confront whatever is going on.
Lifting her head she looks at her reflection in the eye deciding. Deciding she’s not the scared thirteen year old struggling to face the spirits around her; she's twenty-two and can try to figure out what to do.
“Where did you run off too?” Esme asks as the others enter breathlessly.
“I had to be sick. I’m okay now though.” Christine says bluntly, standing and changing from the peasant costume.
“It’s not catching is it?”
“No, probably just something I ate.” she lies pulling on her leggings and top. She can feel curious looks coming her way at her brusque attitude surrounding the sudden illness. Even Meg, who was keeping her distance, advances shyly “Christine?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I… just saw something weird.”
“What kind of weird? Like a member of the audience napping?” her laugh comes out high and unnatural.
“Paranormal weird.” Christine drops her voice low. Meg freezes and glances to the others “I’m going to look into it.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been seeing weird things since day one of working here and I’m tired of it.” she feels a lump come to her throat “I’m so tired of seeing weird shit. It’s not just here.” she runs her hands through her hair, knowing she must look crazy “I’ve got to go.”
“Christine!” Meg calls after her but she just ignores it and keeps walking down through the building towards the box office desk. She knew that Meg wouldn’t help. Just simply try to warn her away from doing anything resembling investigation so the next person she can think of is Joseph Buquet. He said himself that you’ve got to love all this paranormal stuff to work here. He would definitely be a willing participant in any kind of ghost hunting expeditions.
Her footsteps echo on the marble steps leading up to the box office. Fortunately she sees Joseph still at his desk, his chair teetering on two legs whilst scrolling through his phone “I’m glad you’re still here.” she says. He jumps and looks around before flashing a wide smile.
“Hey! Christine, right?”
“Right.”
“What’s up? Is your pass not working?”
“No, I… I really need you to go ghost hunting with me.” she blurts out before she can regret daring to ask.

Chapter 3: Non sperar, se non m'uccidi, ch'io ti lasci fuggir mai!

Notes:

I read somewhere that Khan isn't actually a Persian surname but an honorific that was used before surnames where a thing so I chose the surname Shir-Del that by all accounts means "Lion heart/Brave". If I'm wrong please feel free to let me know.
This is a longer chapter to make up for this being the only chapter this month.
Happy reading!

“Is this a weird way of asking me out on a date because-!”
“No! I…” She sighs heavily. Denial has only brought her pain so she might as well admit it now “I saw a ghost on stage just now.”
“Okay.” he says tilting his head slightly.
“You like ghosts and believe in that kind of stuff so I thought you’d be the right person to come too...”
“Come on in.” he opens the door to the box office. Hesitantly Christine steps in as Joseph starts drawing the curtains around the windows "I'm definitely not an expert but I read a lot of books about ghosts and the like." He turns, gestures for her to sit "so, what did you see?"
"She… she was awful." Christine begins recalling the wretched, injured creature lying on the stage "It was the ballet dancer. The one they say died in a fire in the eighteen seventies. There was a sudden gust of cold air. I felt itchy all over, like pins and needles. She must've moved because she caught my eye and she was just there lying on the stage."
"Is this the first time that's happened?" He asks eagerly.
"No." She pauses, wondering whether to broach on the subject of the dark figure and her thoughts draw her back, back to the day of her father's funeral. The shine of his violin, that lay atop the coffin and there he is again, stepping out from behind one of the pillars clad in black. She takes a shaky breath "I saw this figure but I don't think that was a ghost. It opened doors. Ghosts don't open doors."
"How do you know that?" Joseph asks. Christine looks up to him, expecting a jesting smile but his expression is genuine.
"They just… don't. If you could walk through walls would you use the door?"
"Fair point. Do you always see ghosts? Has it always been like that for you?"
"Not that I can recall."
"So, you must've started just seeing them at some point."
"Yeah I guess… look I just want them to go! I don't want to see a corpse every time I'm dancing on stage."
"Why is seeing ghosts a problem now?"
"I just said. I'm seeing a charred, dead girl on stage."
"I meant if you always see ghosts why is it only now freaking you out?"
"I won't go into detail but it's all starting up again. I don't know why. Seeing them had stopped for a while but now. I've seen a cloaked figure and hearing phantom music and seeing burnt, dead girls." Christine sighs, before mumbling "I just want to sing…"
"I'm sorry." Joseph says, his usual direct voice small and quiet.
"It's not your fault. I just want to be left alone by ghosts."
After a long pause Joseph asks "Did you have a plan in mind?"
"Uh, I don't know. I'm guessing that the theatre won't let us do that burning leaves stuff huh?"
"Sage. No probably not. Andre and Firmin aren't that holistic. We could just investigate for now? You know, go around after dark." He replies leaning back in his seat, stroking his stubble with a brown hand.
"When would we be able to do that?"
"Sunday's, of course. It's all shut up on a Sunday and I have the codes to access the building. We'd have free reign."
"No one will be in though?"
"The janitors and maintenance crew come in the morning to make sure everything's ship, shape and then they leave at four in the afternoon. We can just come in and stay until like, two in the morning."
"Okay. Yeah. And you're okay with doing this?" She asks, uncertainly.
"Yeah, I believe in ghosts and do I want to see one? Absolutely! But you look at the end of your tether and if this'll help in some way, I want to help."
"Thank you Joseph." Christine smiles wanly, standing and picking up her bag "also, it's definitely not a date."
"Phew" he wipes his brow jokingly "My boyfriend will be glad to hear it. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow Jo." She laughs lightly leaving the confines of the ticket box. She leaves using the main exit and heads down onto the metro.
The fluorescent lights make her eyes ache after crying and rubbing them hard. She sits in the uncomfortable upright seats squinting against the brightness. She catches her haggard reflection in the window across from her and looks away.

"I can give you a lift to the theatre this morning Christine, love."
"Thanks Aunt Annika, I'd appreciate it." Christine smiles, before tearing a bite from her toast. Yesterday's conversation with Joseph helped calm her nerves, knowing that she now isn't alone and that she's believed by someone. She’s been starting to formulate some sort of plan before she meets with Joseph for lunch to talk over what they’re going to do on Sunday.
“So, I bumped into Dr Shir-Del the other day.” Annika begins nervously, keeping her eyes too determinedly on the road.
“Oh, is he okay?” Christine asks.
“Yes, he’s doing another doctorate and um…I invited him to join us for dinner tonight.” Annika says attempting to keep her voice casual and even. Christine pauses and leans back in her car seat, staring at the clock on the dashboard but not really seeing how the minute hand passes the inching hour hand. “Oh.”
“Are you okay?” Annika asks now, concerned.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” She blinks hard, pulling her eyes away from the clock “it’s fine.”
“You’re angry.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just surprised.”
“I was going to tell you Christine. I just couldn’t find the moment. I didn’t want to stress you out when you’ve just started a new job.”
“I understand.” Christine says evenly thinking about the last time she saw Dr Shir-Del. She was in the midst of grieving for her father and seeing shadowy figures and translucent people dressed in styles that she’s only seen from “Pride and Prejudice” on tv. She wishes that she wasn’t seeing people again, people who are dead. The thought did occur to her that she was seeing ghosts, however bringing that up to Dr Shir-Del only she didn’t want seem more entrenched in mourning by confessing that she’s having ‘hallucinations’.
“You can invite Raoul if you’d like.” Annika suggests attempting to make good with her.
“I’ll message him and see what he says. He might be with Phillipe tonight. Raoul told me he’s come back from the business trip earlier than expected.”
“Okay. I am sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Christine smiles gently at her aunt who took her in despite the fact that she had just lost her husband, Felix Valerius and her brother, Christine’s father within the same year. Grief must’ve been corroding away at her too “I’ll see if Raoul can. It’s only a matinee so I’ll be home to help with the cooking as soon as I can.” she leans over and gives Annika a reassuring kiss on the cheek before hopping out of the car as quickly as possible to watch it get lost in the vast traffic.

She enters through the stage door only to be accosted by Joseph “You’re here!”
“Yes, I’m here.” She repeats confused “What’s wrong Jo?”
“I need to talk to you.” he takes her hand and pulls her along away from the actors, singers, dancers and crew members filing into the building.
“Joseph, what’s wrong?”
“I decided to have a look at the security cameras last night after you had left.”
“Did you see anything?” she asks now seeing the urgency of Joseph’s actions. He pauses and shifts uncomfortably before saying “Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…” he begins
“Miss Daae!” Both Christine and Joseph jump before turning to see Madame Giry, her pale grey eyes resemble that of a hawk who has its eyes on its prey.
“Yes, Madame?” Christine asks, approaching slowly.
“One of the girls told me you were sick yesterday after ‘Coro di Zingerelle’”
“Yes Madame.”
“Was it caused by nerves of thrusting you onto the stage before you were ready?”
“No Madame, I think it may have been something I ate. I rarely get nerves that bad.” Christine lies “I’m perfectly alright today.”
Madame Giry appraises her with her pale eyes before nodding seeming satisfied. Her eyes soften briefly as she says “If you feel sick again, do tell me.” Christine breathes out a sigh of relief as she watches Madame Giry walk away.
“She likes you.” Jo says quietly.
“I think so too funnily enough. She’s strict but fair you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway, the footage of the ghost?” she prompts.
“I’ll show you at lunch. We’ll have more time to talk over everything then.”
“Jo!”
“Later Christine.” he says, walking over to where a small crowd has gathered to buy tickets.
“Later.” She says quietly pulling her phone out of her bag she sends a message over to Raoul inviting him over to dinner if he isn’t busy tonight.

A wave of embarrassment grips her as she enters the dressing room. Her outburst yesterday now feels a little stupid in spite of her knowing that she was distressed. She places her bag by her dressing table avoiding looking at anyone.
“Hey, are you okay after yesterday?” Sorelli asks, placing a gentle hand onto her shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m good. I’m sorry about that.” she smiles apologetically feeling her face grow hot and flushed.
“Don’t be, we were worried about you.” Sorelli says reassuringly.
“Thanks.” Christine smiles feeling the colour in her face become more intense.
“Up to the rehearsal room ladies!” Madame Giry bellows, clapping her hands to grab the dancers attention. They all grab shoes and file up to the room to prepare for the class that’ll last until lunch. Christine keeps her eye on the clock whilst she pirouettes quickly, waiting for the hands to meet, pointing towards the top of the clock. Madame Giry excuses the dancers who exhale heavily, wiping their brows and leaning against the barr. Kicking her shoes off and slipping into a pair of plimsolls, Christine grabs her bag and starts for the door.
“Will you have lunch with us Christine?” She hears Meg ask. She pauses and turns to look at Meg, Jammes and the other girl dancers. Meg watches Christine intently.
“Um, I’ve got a lunch date with Jo.” She says, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.
“Oh okay.” Jammes smiles “tomorrow maybe?”
“Yeah of course guys.” Christine grins at Jammes’ sweet nature “I’ll see you later.” She turns, leaves the studio and races down through the backstage and out up to the ticket booth where Jo is handing a couple a pair of tickets. She approaches slowly waiting for the customers to leave before heading up to the counter.
“Come in!” he gasps, nervous excitement surrounding him. Christine hops in and he pulls the red, velvet curtains around the curved windows to conceal the space from others “Have you seen anything else today?”
“No. I… I'm scared I’m going too though.” she sighs. Jo pauses.
“What if you’re just going to see them always? Like forever?”
“It’s stopped before, it can stop again.” Christine says, trying to convince herself more than Joseph.
“How did it stop before?”
“I don’t know. It just did.” she shrugs. Joseph sits back in his creaky chair thinking deeply, his eyes glazing pensively “Hmm… well maybe it’s because you’re just more sensitive to that kind of thing and you weren’t somewhere that was super old.”
“There are modern ghosts though? If there are super old ones there must be newer ones.”
“Well, I was talking about the stone-tape theory.”
“The what?”
“Okay well the stone-tape theory is that ghosts and hauntings are similar to tape recording. So mental impressions during emotional or traumatic events can be put into a form of energy - because everything gives off energy. It can’t be destroyed, you know, but this energy can be recorded into stone or other objects and then replayed.”
“So… rocks are tape recorders…?” Christine watches Joseph carefully.
“When you say it like that it does sound mental but you’ve heard of haunted objects, like haunted dolls.”
“That would be the stone-tape theory?”
“Yeah basically!”
“But surely that would apply to modern buildings too. It could even apply to the earth. The earth is just one big rock.”
“But not everyone has unfinished business or is stuck because of dying in a traumatic way.”
“Huh…” she tries to process that. Her thoughts turn back to her father; she doesn’t know if dying suddenly would count as traumatic enough to warrant a haunting but it might “Do you have a suggestion as to why I stopped seeing ghosts?”
“No. Not yet. I’m still trying to come up with one. It seems a little inexplicable, that you just stop seeing ghosts and then it begins again.”
“Yeah. It stopped when I was seventeen and it’s just started up again.”
“Weird… The video!” he spins in his chair towards the desktop computer and types rapidly before pulling up the security footage “Because people just love to record the theatre on their phones we have cameras in the auditorium now, you know to pull them in the interval and ask them to delete what they recorded but we have some pointed at the stage too.”
“You got something from last night?”
“Yep.” he says whilst scrubbing through the greyscale footage of La Traviata from last night “Here!” Christine stands and leans over Jo’s shoulder watching the screen carefully “Is it possible for you to zoom in?” she asks, adjusting her glasses.
“It’ll get grainier but I can try.” he zooms in slightly onto the stage “this is how far it can go without just becoming pixels. But right here is where it gets really peculiar.” Christine frowns and leans towards the screen, she could see where she was on stage dancing, flicking her skirts before falling onto a man and grasping at his hand “You’ll see it in a minute.”
“Yeah… this is when she appeared.” she hears herself say, her eyes glued to the monitor watching herself pause; her head turned away from the camera. Then a black bar travels up the image, making it jump and shake before returning only with a horizontal, translucent figure through Christine and the gentleman “That’s her!”
“I knew it couldn’t be just a glitch!” Jo yells triumphantly “I told them in security!”
“God…” Christine mutters, her stomach flipping and knees becoming weak. She sits heavily and placing her head in her hands “I’m not going mad…”
“What?” Jo asks stopping his victory dance.
“Nothing. Nothing. Anyway, what’re you planning for Sunday?” She changes the subject from the footage of the ghost. Despite knowing Jo’s interest in the spectral and supernatural nothing had ever been confirmed so solidly before. A part of her is relieved and delighted that she isn’t lapsing back into the depression that afflicted her when this happened before but now the possibility of there being something after death. After the body’s decayed and faded away was it only an image that remained? A faded soulless waif, imitating the actions that were so familiar in life? Fated to be trapped like that…
“Well.” he pauses and pulls out a piece of paper “This is a list of what you need.” Christine takes the crumpled piece of paper from him and opens it; in Joseph’s cramped handwriting is a list of items starting with a torch “So we’ll meet up at the stage door at four pm, I’ll get us in and then we can look around the auditorium before splitting up.”
“You never said anything about splitting up. I don’t think I can split up and investigate on my own, I don’t think I’d know what to do if I saw that woman again let alone anyone else, Jo!”
“Christine, it’ll be okay.”
“No it won’t! I don’t even want to go on stage tonight in case I see that ballet woman. I love being on stage. I love dancing and singing and I’m starting to feel too scared to do what I love. I hate it.”
Jo takes her hand gently and his voice drops into a serious tone “Christine, I don’t think anything would hurt you. I don’t claim to be psychic but I am so certain that nothing would hurt you. I don’t know how or why but I just do.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am sure we’ll figure it out.”
“Thank’s Jo.” she smiles, standing “I’ve got to get ready for La Traviata.”
“Tell me how it goes. Break a leg. You’ll be amazing.”
She chuckles softly “Thank you.”

Leaving the box office she can’t help but still feel anxious regardless of Jo’s kind reassurance. What would she do if she saw the pitiful woman, lying there begging for help? Coming up with a loss at what to do she shudders. Walking away felt so unbearably cruel even though she was just a ghost. A shadow of a person. Would she feel pain even though she’s already dead? She doesn’t know if that’s what happens. She lets her feet lead her back to the changing rooms whilst contemplating whether ghosts can feel pain, what’s going to happen on stage tonight and when she and Jo split up and investigate on their own on Sunday.
“We were going to come looking for you if you didn’t turn up in five minutes.”
“I’m sorry! I got caught up in a conversation.” Christine gasps, rushing into the changing room and immediately starts to help zip up costumes and tie up pointe shoe laces. The dancers file out shouting their thanks to Christine and Jammes for helping them. The two of them left in the dressing room they change into the peasant girl costumes early to make sure that they’re both prepared.
Still thinking of the glassy eyes of the dead ballet dancer and her plea for help Christine, shudders at the idea of her appearing again “Um, Jammes?” she ventures.
“Mhmm?”
“I was wondering if you’d mind switching sides with me for the dance?”
“Huh?”
“So you go stage right and I go stage left?” Jammes frowns a little but nods
“Sure, no problem.”
“Thank you.” Christine sighs relieved. She’s sure that Jammes won’t see the apparition seeing that no one else did when she was on stage yesterday. The cool relief that spreads through her completely unties the knots in her stomach and loosens her shoulders. Both women continue to stretch between the coming and going of the other dancers and costume changes before they’re all waiting for their cue to come over the tannoys to say they can make their way down to the stage.
Christine feels her palms begin to become clammy, her heart thumping unsure if it’s because she’s about to step on stage or whether she’s anxious about seeing things again. She’s unable to think about it too much as the girls start to elegantly dash on stage and she follows.
The music starts, Christine begins to feel the beat and slowly starts to dance and sing along, tapping the tambourine rhythmically. She ignores the right side of the stage, continuing to sing and dance tentatively allowing herself to enjoy and revel in the short time that she has on stage.
She grins and flirts before they all chorus “Vediamo!” and split up to examine the actors hands. Christine bounds down stage left relieved that she doesn’t have to go over to stage right. She extends her own small, pale hand to a gentleman who rests his hand in hers. She traces the lines on his hand nodding encouragingly before feigning a shocked gasp and smiling again.
She turns and runs back to the others as they dance again tapping the percussion instruments on the beat. Daring to glance over to the stage right, she doesn’t see anything and breathes out relieved and follows the other dancers off stage.

Continuing to smile elated she helps the others out of their costumes and into the next ones they need. She saw nothing. Everything was completely normal. The first normal performance she’s ever had at the Palais Garnier. Once the dressing room is empty apart from Jammes, Christine smiles and thanks her with a hug.
“No, problem. It was odd though.”
“What was odd?” Christine asks, releasing her from her embrace.
“It was a bit cold on that side of the stage.” she shrugs “Maybe a backstage door was open.”
“Mmm.” Christine hums, pulling on her leggings “yeah maybe.”
“It is September so it’s pretty cold but it was quite nice actually. It cooled me down a lot” Jammes says pulling her gingery hair up into a ponytail. Christine nods again, recalling how icy that part of the stage felt before she saw the spirit. As the room fills with the dancers off stage again Christine feels the room spinning and that she’s retreating further back into herself, her mouth feeling dry.
“Undo me please Christine.”
Christine gasps, turning to the voice “What?”
“Could you undo my dress please?”
“Yes, of course, sorry.” she starts fumbling with the hook and eye closures but manages to get them open before helping her into the black funerary gown. She breathes out, coming back around and starting to feel in her own head again. Waiting for the end of the opera, Christine checks her phone for a message from Raoul to see whether he could join her. As she does so she sings ‘Coro di Zingarelle’ to herself, letting her voice soar and descend gently.
“You have a lovely voice.” Jammes says quietly.
“Thanks.” Christine smiles flushing “I’d like to be a singer eventually.”
“Oh you should! You’d be amazing.” Christine flushes more
“Thanks.” she glances down to her phone seeing that Raoul can come and have dinner this evening much to her comfort.

Heading out after tidying up the costumes and shoes, Christine decides to pass the box office and flash a thumbs up to Joseph showing that the performance went okay; she doesn’t want to mention that Jammes felt a cold spot on the stage so she only gives a thumbs up and waves goodbye to him.
Leaving the building she sighs in the cool evening air and begins the journey home onto the metro.

“Hey hun! Could you help me start on dinner?” She hears Annika call from the kitchen.
“Yeah no problem.” Christine yells back, slinging her bag onto the sofa and heading into the kitchen and starting to chop the vegetables left on the counter “Raoul can come tonight.”
“That’s great!”
“Yeah.” she says still chopping up a leek into tiny pieces.
“I know you’re nervous. It isn’t an assessment you know. I know you’re doing absolutely fine and I’m so proud of you! I just happened to meet Dr Shir-Del and we began chatting and I invited him for dinner.”
“I know. I’m just anxious like you said. A lot’s coming back to me is all.” Christine replies feeling guilty that she isn’t doing absolutely fine. She’s seeing things again and is going to go on a ghost hunt on Sunday with her co-worker. This is not fine. She smiles and continues helping with the dinner.
“I can finish up, you go and get ready.”
“Okay, thanks.” she heads to her own room, grabbing her bag along the way and she throws herself onto her bed. She sighs and thinks about when her father passed, walking into his room and touching his cold hand. The scene at the funeral. And being made to go to therapy shortly after that. Dr Shir-Del was of course really nice but even at thirteen she knew that you shouldn’t be seeing people walking around.
She slides off her bed and approaches the wall mirror and looks at her reflection wondering whether she has the same look that she did when she was thirteen. Not physically but she does wonder whether there is a tell, a look within her brown eyes, the set of her mouth or the nervous habit of tapping her forefinger against her thumb. She pulls her hair out of the bun it was in and lets it curl, haloing her face. She doesn’t think she looks any different than she usually would.

Rubbing her eyes she goes and showers before pulling on a blue dress and heading back out, passing the living room and to the kitchen “I’ll set the table.”
“Thank you!” Annika says placing the dish into the oven and turning, her face flushed from the heat of the kitchen “I’m going to go and get ready quickly.” she rushes past and heads to her own room. Christine goes to the drawer and pulls out cutlery as the buzzer for their flat hums; she leans out into the hallway and presses the button to speak “Come on up Raoul.”
“Thanks!” his grainy voice comes over the speaker and she waits to hear his footsteps come up the stairs and down the long corridor.
“Come on in.”
“Heya.” he grins, his blonde hair curling upwards.
“Could you grab the plates please?”
“Absolutely.” He picks them up and they circle the table, Christine carefully placing down knives and forks before Raoul sets the plates onto the antique wooden table. She turns to look at Raoul, in a shirt and lopsided tie.
“Here.” She takes the tie and sets it straight for him “So my old psychiatrist is coming for dinner too.”
“Are you okay?” she smiles knowing she can rely on him to immediately ask that.
“Yeah… kinda.” she shrugs as he pulls her into a quick hug but releases her when the buzzer hums again “Auntie, Dr Shir-Del is here!” she calls whilst walking to the door and politely saying “Please come up Dr.” and waiting by the door the awful feeling of being thirteen again sweeping over her. She opens the door to the flat when she hears her old Dr’s footsteps approach.
“Christine, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” his smooth, voice replies as he steps into her home.
“You too.” her voice comes back quiet, fortunately Annika leaves her room.
“Dr Shir-Del, I’m so happy you could join us!”
“Please call me Nadir. All of you please.” he refers to the whole room. Christine watches him carefully taking in his appearance; he’s wearing a green tweed suit she still recognises from when he treated her however his dark hair has lightened ever so slightly with silver-grey streaks from his temples to around his ears. She relaxes. He’s aged. It is not nine years ago. You’re not thirteen.
“Hello Dr Shir-Del, I’m Raoul de Chagny.” Raoul, being charming and gracious, extends his hand to Nadir who takes it calmly and they shake.
“I’ll check on the meal.” Christine says backing into the kitchen while Nadir is led into the living room. She exhales pushing her curly fringe from her forehead and glances into the oven watching the risotto bubble gently. She composes herself and walks into the living room.
“Christine, your aunt mentioned that you’re working at the Palais Garnier as a dancer.” Dr Shir-Del asks.
“Yes, I’ve recently started working there after graduating.”
“Wonderful! If you’d permit me too, I’d like to come and see a production that you’re in.”
“Of course. We’re just learning the choreography for Mozart’s, ‘The Magic Flute’ which I’m looking forward to. I’d be honoured if you came to watch.”
“Oh yes, of course! I’ve heard it’s going to be ‘The Magic Flute’.”
“She’s going to be amazing.” Raoul grins touching Christine’s arm gently.
“How’s the dinner doing?” Annika asks.
“Bubbling nicely. Give it five minutes I think.” Annika excuses herself and leaves.
“What do you do young man?” Dr Shir-Del asks Raoul.
“I’m a naval architect for my brother's company.”
“Excuse me.” Christine says quietly leaving the room towards the kitchen.
“It’s going well.” Annika smiles pulling the risotto out of the oven.
“Yeah.” Christine says shaking the tension out of her hands. She can feel her hands become cold out of nervousness despite the heat of the kitchen and the warmth of the early September day.
“You’re doing great. Could you get the wine out of the fridge?”
“Yeah, no problem.”

Christine places the wine on the table and takes her seat across from Raoul. She just wants the evening to end quickly despite the fact that Annika cooked her favourite food - probably to ‘make up’ for the whole evening.
“You said you worked at the Palais Garnier, Christine?”
“Yes.”
“I recall you said you wanted to be a singer?”
“I still do. Hopefully I can work up to that.” Christine smiles at Dr Shir-Del.
“She has a beautiful voice.” Annika smiles touching Christine’s hand “like an angel.”
“Thanks Auntie.” Christine flushes.
“I was so nervous on your first day. You came home so pale you looked like you’d seen a ghost!” Raoul laughs. Christine stiffens and stares at Raoul before forcing a laugh with the others.
“Funny you should say that. I have actually started to move towards my field of parapsychology.” Nadir says.
“What?” Raoul asks. Christine turns her wide eyes onto Dr Shir-Del, feeling her hands trembling.
“Parapsychology is the study of alleged paranormal phenomena and psychic phenomena. For example studying near-death experiences or ghosts. It is a pseudo-science however I have always been intrigued. Tell me, Christine, have you seen any ghosts at the Opera House?”

Chapter 4: Pari Siamo!

Notes:

First meetings in this chapter! I hope you enjoy, happy reading!

Christine gapes for a moment before laughing a little “No, of course not. Goodness you took me by surprise with that!” The others laugh also but Nadir catches Christine’s eye and she can tell he knows that something has upset her. Christine looks away quickly, internally scolding herself for not responding faster and in a more nonchalant manner. She takes a slow sip of wine, waiting for the conversation to move away from the topic of ghosts.
Thankfully the discussion moves onto the usual topics of what they’re doing currently, travelling for their jobs and how their family are. She can hear Raoul’s voice explaining in detail what his job entails. Christine watches but doesn’t really take anything in. The dining room feels simultaneously too large and too small for four people to be sitting in the space. She reaches a shaky hand over to her glass of water and lifts it towards her before taking a long sip, observing everyone - particularly Dr Shir-Del from over the rim of her glass.
Although he has clearly aged his eyes remain the same; the same intelligent hazel shrewdness sits behind a pair of wire rimmed glasses and perceive every small twitch, twist of the mouth and dart of eyes. She tries to remain calm, keeping her face impassive and her movements natural yet deliberate. It was much harder to disguise her emotions when she was younger; when she began to go to sessions with Dr Shir-Del. Everything after her father’s death was so raw and stung so deeply but gradually over the years it’s become a delicate art of pretence. And typically she isn’t so thrown by peculiar queries, especially seeing as her father was so well known in the musical community but the combination of that question and seeing her old psychiatrist once again throws her thoughts back to a conversation when she was fourteen:

“Your Aunt tells me you had an argument with another student in your religious education class.”
“Yes.” Christine can hear her teenage self answer sulkily all those years ago.
“Why?” to which she recalls herself shrugging and turning her face to look out the window. Her curls shielded her face and clung to the cold window where condensation was forming from her warm breath where she opened her mouth to begin but embarrassment and fear rose in her. She knew that Annika would tell the Doc about the ‘argument’ that wasn’t even her fault but of course they lay the blame on the student whose seeing a shrink “She started it.”
“What happened?”
“We were learning about the afterlife. We had to go around the class and say whether we think there’s a heaven or nothing, you know the usual and I said that my theory is reincarnation. Willful thinking you know?” she remembers her bony shoulders rising and falling like her defenses “I was just saying that when Caroline snorted. I asked her what and she said nothing but gave me that kind of condescending look so I repeated the question and…” she remembers pausing and contemplating whether it would be prudent to continue truthfully and yet…

“... yet but I think I should take it out of the fridge. What do you think, Christine?”
“Sorry?” she asks, looking at her aunt's oval face.
“The banoffee pie.”
“It should be fine. I’ll go and get it.” Christine stands quickly collecting up the plates whilst still reminiscing on her fourteen year old self's dilemma. It didn’t matter anyway she chose to lie and not mention that unseen hands lifted her own pencil case and fling it across the room towards Caroline. It also didn’t matter that more than five of her classmates saw that she was sitting perfectly still when that happened.
“Let me help.” Nadir offers standing.
“Oh no, you’re the guest!” Christine protests quickly, anxious of being alone in the kitchen with Dr Shir-Del.
“Please, let me. I insist.” he smiles, gently taking the plates from her arms and gestures for her to lead the way. Reluctantly Christine takes the lead and heads down the corridor towards their kitchen “Thank you for your help.” she calls over her shoulder heading into the kitchen.
“It’s fine honestly.” he replies in his familiar, smooth voice “I didn’t get the chance to ask how you are?”
“Oh I’m fine.” Christine hears herself say as she gathers bowls from the corner cupboard and turns to face Dr Shir-Del. He’s standing in the doorway and she swears that he can espy the cracks in her lies “I’m happy to hear that… However I know that you know that grief is whether fortunately or unfortunately it’s something that you have to carry with you. I know that I’m no longer your doctor but I couldn’t help but notice that you seem stressed.”
“That’s just working in a theatre I guess.” she shrugs “I appreciate your concern though.”
“Okay.” he nods smiling in a gentle fatherly manner before, taking the bowls and saying, “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Thank you.” she says quietly, an unusual yet long yearned for feeling of warm fatherly affection sweeps over her. Nadir nods before leaving the room. Christine leans back against the fridge closing her eyes; how swiftly she lied back when she was a child and how she does now. She marvels and is disgusted with herself at how fluid the deceptions leave her mouth. She never had to lie to her father and despite the preservation and in some cases need for the pretence she resents how it's simply become a second nature.
She takes the desert out and fixes a placid expression on her face before walking back into the dining room.

Much to Christine's relief the rest of the evening passes quickly, with no mention of the paranormal and Dr Shir-Del takes his leave while making his thanks. Now he's left and Christine feels like she can breathe easily, she realises that she does actually like him regardless of her own stress.
"I have to leave too." Raoul sighs, examining his phone "Phillipe has to leave unexpectedly."
"I'm sorry Raoul." Christine touches his arm. He shrugs and shoves his mobile into his pocket.
"It's fine… I'll message you tomorrow."
"Okay." Christine nods, worrying that he spent time with her and not with his elusive brother. Raoul pulls her into a gentle hug and says in a low voice "You did great Little Lotte."
"Thanks." He releases her and heads for the door quickly. Christine sighs heavily, sloping off to her bedroom, starting to feel tearful from tiredness.
Collapsing onto her bed she undresses and throws her clothes away from her while crawling under her duvet.

Christine stirs to a hazy light streaming through her thin, linen curtains. She slowly rises and pushes herself out of her bed glancing at her phone and sighing seeing that it’s past twelve. She grabs her dressing gown and rushes out to the front room. She leans into the room seeing her aunt typing away.
“I’m sorry I overslept.”
“No, don’t worry. I wanted to let you sleep.” she says smiling “it must’ve been a difficult day.” Christine shrugs evasively, rubbing the back of her leg with her foot “I was going to sleep around Casandra’s on Sunday. Just to catch up, you know she’s come over to visit family from Amsterdam.”
“Oh she did get the job in Amsterdam, then?”
“Yeah she’s a part of the National Ballet company there.” Again the lie comes to her easily “so I’ll sleep around hers on the Sunday and go straight onto work on Monday.”
“Okay hun.” her aunt nods turning back to her laptop intently. Christine echoes her aunt’s okay quietly, padding back down to her room, shutting her door and emptying out her dance bag; she pulls out multiple pairs of shoes, a stick of deodorant and a change of clothes. She looks through the pockets of the leggings she was wearing to find the scrap of paper that Joe gave her with a list of things that were deemed necessary for their investigation.
She pulls out the crumpled paper and starts reading down his barely legible handwriting: two torches, a notepad, a pen, a digital camera, a digital recorder and a compass. She frowns a bit at the unusual request of a compass but she starts to search through her wardrobe for some of the old camping gear that she recalls having found when she was cleaning out her father's house before moving to live with Annika. Pulling out a battered, musty canvas bag she reaches her arms into the fabric depths and starts to rifle through until she feels the cool, flat circle of the compass.
It was a pretty little object, the compass. The case was made of a dull, tarnished brass, the main body of it had a loop for hanging on a chain or attaching it to a belt. She prizes the tight lid open to reveal the glass face of the compass, the hands spinning dizzily and the paper printed with north, south, east and west is yellowed. She frowns a little knowing that the style is older than the twentieth century and it may have belonged to her grandfather.
Dismissing that train of thought she places the antique with the other essential equipment inside a separate fabric bag, wraps it up tightly and places it into the bottom of her bag before piling her dance gear on top of it all.

Sitting back in bed and staring at the duffel bag by her chest of drawers starts to make her anxiety rise for tomorrow evening. She knows that Jo will be with her which is comforting however he doesn’t see the spirits like she does. He doesn’t see them in all their ragged, bloodless eternal state, perpetually tired eyes peering out of gaunt faces. She can still see the ballerina in her mind, lying across the stage, her watery eyes upturned towards her, pleading mutely for help. She shudders down to her bones and gulps back the emotion; she doesn’t want to analyse what she feels for the spirits.
She lays on her back and shuts her eyes, squeezing them tightly before exhaling and trying to relax. She lets her eyes flutter open, expecting to be staring at the ceiling however she’s looking directly at a grand piano. She whips her head around surveying her surroundings only to realise that she’s in her old house in Sweden. The burning setting sun streams through the window casting an orange tint over the furniture and wooden fishbone flooring; Christine stands shakily pushing herself up from the velvet armchair. Taking tentative, quiet steps through the living room from her childhood, her eyes scour the space feeling an unexpected compulsion to investigate every nook and cranny.
She crouches down and pulls open the cupboard under the stairs; the ochre light shifts and shines into her eyes, blinding her temporarily. She blinks heavily, stands and squints into the kitchen trying to see what’s reflecting the harsh light into her eyes. Stepping forward with her hand raised to the level of her eyes Christine she treads into the kitchen that’s doused in the golden hue, making it hard to see detail but she can see the point of refraction on the counter.
Approaching the center of the refraction she reaches out her hand and encloses it around the object. The light dims considerably when she takes it and her hand can come away from her forehead. Turning away from the window she releases her grip on the article and the cool metal rests in her hands. In the center of her palm she sees the brass compass. Just as she frowns the needle erratically and rapidly starts spinning, the windows blow open and wind howls through the house whipping up her hair. Christine gasps and turns her hands immediately grabbing the window frames and desperately trying to shut them. In trying the wind lashes at her face, tangling and tugging at her hair, tears spring up in her eyes. She glances down to the compass that she still grasps in her hand seeing the compass needle still just a whirling blur. She crouches below leaning against the cabinets trying to take shelter from the gales whilst examining the compass. It only started after she picked it up; she realises and decides to drop the instrument to the kitchen tiles however the wind doesn’t slow its war path.
Hazarding a glance up, she watches a shadow cross the end of the corridor “Dad?” the shadow keeps moving away from her. She stands the storm still rolling through the house “DAD?!” she screams once again, starting forward but instead she feels the sensation of falling backwards.
She pulls herself up from her bed rapidly, her neck and back cool with damp sweat. She looks around rapidly seeing that she’s in the safety of her own room in Paris.

The nightmare puts Christine in a peculiar mood even before she meets with Jo to start the ghost investigation. There’s a sensation in the air, something almost palpable that holds a promise of change and whether it’s holding a fortune or not Christine can’t tell. She only knows that it’s there and waiting. She spins the brass compass around in her hand absentmindedly whilst staring out at cloudy September skies until her phone buzzes aggressively arresting her attention.
“Hey Jo…”
“Excited for tonight?”
“More anxious than anything.” she shrugs and heads back over to her bag and drops the compass back in her bag “I had a weird dream but I’m fine.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, it’s fine really. It’s probably just nerves building up to this evening.” She told herself once she calmed down after waking up from the night terror that’s all it was. It was merely being nervous about going to the theatre after dark and trying to communicate with the spirits of the Palais Garnier. She knows the ballet dancer and the dark figure however the fear of attracting more spectres that she’d have to navigate around during her work sits like a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll meet you outside the theatre at half four. The stage door entrance.”
“I’m just about to leave, so I’ll see you out there, bye.” she hangs up stuffing the phone into her pocket and grabs her dance bag. Before leaving the apartment she calls back “I’ll see you Monday evening.”
“Okay! Take a coat, it's getting cold!” Her aunt replies.
“ ‘Kay.” She takes her winter coat from the hook in the corridor and leaves, jogging down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor, out of her building and down onto the metro. She’s glad that the journey is a relatively short one and doesn’t give her enough time to rethink the situation and back out. The train pulls up to the Opera metro station. She lets her muscle memory lead her out of the carriage, up the stairs and out in front of the main entrance of the Palais Garnier.
A dissonance of happiness at seeing the theatre and being surrounded by the ambience of the theatre is jostled aside by dread of the evenings repertoire.

After five minutes of waiting by the glass stage doors, Jo runs up a slight flush in his brown cheeks and his dark curls windswept away from his high brow “Hey!”
“Hey.” Christine parrots back to him, smiling worriedly.
“They cleaners should have gone by now so we’ll have the whole theatre to ourselves and anyone who wants to communicate I guess.” he shrugs before continuing “Anytime you don’t feel comfortable let me know okay?”
“Okay.” He smiles gently and taps the key on his lanyard to the screen. The door beeps and opens letting them both into the uninhabited theatre “So, I’ve got a key which will open any electrically locked door. I can’t guarantee it’ll be every door in the theatre but most operate on this.” he flashes the black card emblazoned with a shiny silver design.
“Is that a skeleton?” Christine asks, tilting her head slightly to look at the vertical motif.
“It’s a skeleton key.” Jo grins “I got to design them myself.”
“You are far too pleased with yourself.”
“You know it!” he continues grinning broadly and striding into the theatre and up to his box office. Christine follows glancing over her shoulder occasionally feeling watched already “They’ve gone home? The cleaners I mean.”
“Yeah of course.”
“Cool. Um… so where do we start?”
“I think in the main auditorium. We can try communicating there first if you want.”
“Sure. We’re not going to be using one of those boards right?”
“A ouija board?”
“Mhmm.” Christine nods, having heard horror stories come out of even touching one. A girl a few years above her in school used one to contact a spirit that supposedly haunted the girls bathroom. By all accounts the lightbulb burst and a mirror cracked however she always suspected that none of it was true. She did question about the mirror having cracked from edge to edge although she was told that it was simply replaced over the weekend. And although she didn’t think it was true that those things happened she still feels an instinctive uneasiness about touching a spirit board. They also shouldn’t have worried about the so-called spirit in the girls bathroom Christine thought at the time, they should be focusing on the minister who roamed the building making sure that all students were in class.
“No way. Never. I wouldn’t use one for a thousand euros. Lets go.”

They start up the stairs to the stall seats in the theatre, walking straight down to the stage where the singular ghost light sits like a sentry.
“We should go up onto the stage. We could use the ghost light as a trigger object!”
“A trigger object?”
“It’s basically an object that could be moved by a spirit if they’re attracted to it and so if you draw around it in chalk you can see whether it’s been moved at all.”
“That’s actually pretty clever.”
Both investigators climb up onto the stage - Christine strictly sticking to stage left - Jo produces a stick of chalk and swiftly draws around the base of the heavy, iron lamp before they settle down crossed legged facing one another. Despite her best efforts Christine can’t keep her breathing even or quiet it down more than a fretful gasp and shaky exhale “Sorry, I’m trying to be as quiet as possible.” she barely whispers.
“Don’t worry about it. Let's just say our names and introduce ourselves yeah?” he whispers in return “Hello, my name is Jo Buquet. I work in the box office.” his speaks up, his voice echoing around the theatre.
“Hi, I’m Christine Daae. I’m a dancer.” Christine copies Joseph’s format of introducing himself; her voice sounds alien to her and she feels a little stupid introducing herself to a physically empty theatre she can’t help but feel eyes and a presence in the room other than herself and Jo “What now?”
“Now we use a recorder and ask questions. Hopefully we’ll pick something up on the recorder.”
“Right.” he rustles around in his backpack for a moment and pulls out an old fashioned voice recorder and places it on the stage between them.
“I like to use a separate recorder from my phone. Things have been deleted whilst using my phone.”
“Ghosts deleted them?”
“Yeah, they can suck up energy sometimes. Ask a question and give them eight seconds to answer before asking another.” Christine nods and Jo presses the record button “Hello, we want to ask a few questions if that’s okay? Are you happy here?” There’s a pause to wait for if an answer is recorded “You might know Christine better than me. She tends to see you all. Do you know Christine?”
Again another pause “You ask something.”
“Uh, were you performers here at one point?” She asks, calling out into the unsettling quiet of the auditorium. She looks trying to see past the ring of what the ghost lamp illuminates, where the seats fade into indiscernible darkness scanning the seats worrying that an apparition may be seated watching her and Jo’s unusual performance “Are you here? In one of the seats or on stage?”
Instead of there simply being silence the distinctive thump of a seat hitting the back of the chair echoes from the circle. Christine and Jo gasp their heads darting around; Christine stands and stares, straining her eyes in the dark while Jo scurries to pull out a flashlight and point it up.
“I can’t see anyone…” she hears herself utter breathlessly.
“Neither can I.” Jo says his voice low “It’s a direct response though. They’re up in the stalls.” Christine can hear the barely contained excitement in his voice “Thank you!”
“It might have just been a stuck chair though. You know they’re as old as the thirties or forties right?”
“So it’s a coincidence that as soon as you mention one of the seats we hear a chair flip up?”
“I don’t know. I feel watched but that might just be the building itself not a spirit.”
“The building is watching us?”
“Yeah. You know there are some spaces that just feel weird when you’re in them, like a school at night. Empty theatres are one of them. As soon as the audience leaves, the actors finish their shift and the theatre is locked up, the building kind of has a conscience. Ugh, I don’t know I’m just rambling.” she shakes her head walking back to where the voice recorder is and sitting on the stage. Jo approaches slowly and hesitantly begins:
“We could set up some more trigger objects, if you’d like? Some ballet shoes for the ballerina, the ghost light, costume jewellery before we go walkabout.”
“Yeah, why not?” Christine lifts her head.

Both exit stage left and head up to the dressing rooms. Christine regails Jo that Madame Giry locks the costumes up but there are definitely some old ballet shoes that can be used. Christine leaves her bag in the dancers dressing room, stuffing a flashlight into the pockets of her hoodie before helping her friend carry down the ballet shoes, a programme and a few other items that could glean some sort of potential.
“You know this makes me think of that chalk circle theory and story.”
“Hmm?”
Christine sits back on her legs away from where she was kneeling next to a piece of sheet music “You know, it was a play by Brecht but also a kind of theory that you can draw a chalk circle, have someone walk across that space and if someone’s watching it’s an act of theatre. It’s a narrative. Anywhere can be a theatre. So maybe this is the ghosts own little stages.”
“I mean it’s an interesting theory. It all had to start somewhere. Travelling theatres didn’t necessarily have a stage proper but they still performed.” they both pause in thought before Jo stands and offers Christine a hand up “Let’s leave the recorder running. May still catch something. Got your flashlight?” She pulls it out of her pocket brandishing it “Righty-o lets go.”

Upon leaving the main auditorium and stepping into the long seemingly endless corridors their bravado blanches “Which way?”
“Let’s go right.” Jo answers uncertainty in his tone “Keep the flashlight pointed to the floor.”
“Okay.”
They tread slowly along the corridor, their senses hyperactive waiting for something, anything to occur at any possible second. One more than one occasion one or the both of them swore to seeing something, causing them both to jump and restrain screams however in all of these occasions no supernatural happenings had actually happened.
“Maybe we should split up.” Jo suggests for the third time.
“No!” Christine insists grabbing his arm “If I see something I don’t want to be alone when it happens. The chair happened when we were together anyway.”
“You said that was just an old rusty chair though.”
“We could check that out. It was the right side of the circle.”
“But we would be disturbing our other experiment.”
“Oh true…” Christine sighs, struggling to think of excuses and ideas that would mean they would have to stay together. She worries at her lip thinking of any other reason than her own cowardice to stay together. She can hear Jo pacing impatiently while she debates, staring at the patterned wallpaper until her eyes unfocus. She’s trying to be brave and face this head on but her resolve weakens when the unexplainable happens despite how exhausting living with anxiety is. Anxiety of never being free from the dead, anxiety that she’s losing her mind, and the anxiety of having so many unanswered questions for the rest of her life. Jo still paces. Her father always had the answers. He would know why all this is happening.
“Jo can you please stop fidgeting?” Christine asks, pulling herself from the whirlpool of introspection.
“I’m not.” she barely hears him in response.
“What?” she turns to look to where he’s standing stock still, both feet planted firmly on the floor staring down the corridor to the right where they can both hear the footsteps emanating from “Oh my god.”
“Uh huh.” he scrambles to grab her hand and they both lean close to each other when a second louder set of footsteps come from the left “Are they heading toward or away from us?”
“I don’t know Jo, I can’t tell.”
“I head right, you head left?”
“But!”
“We’ve got to see where they go. You need answers don’t you?”
“Damn it. Okay. We meet back here if we don’t find anything.”
“And if we do?”
“Don’t stop until we get answers. Just like you said.” Christine replies, setting her jaw.
“Right. See you then.”
“See you.” they relinquish each other's hands and start to trail the disembodied steps heading in the opposite directions.

As soon as she starts to follow the footsteps they immediately start to speed up as if determined to evade discovery. She’s struck by the similarity to when the hooded figure got away and decides that this one, whatever it is won’t. She won’t be left out of the conversation anymore she thinks as she breaks into a sprint and the closer she draws in the more she seems to see a mist, a trail of white being left behind. It doesn’t obstruct her vision in any way and as she runs into it she can’t feel the haze against her cheek but it’s there. Perhaps as a guide.
She continues around the curve of the theatre following the vapour ahead of her towards a dead end “Shit!” she mutters between gritted teeth knowing that she has to stop. Slowing her pace back to a tired amble she watches the mist hit the panel of the wall and disappear “Shit!” she cries out frustrated leaning against her knees before smacking her open hand against the panel in anger. She sighs attempting to collect her anger and leans against the wall and starts to slide down it when she suddenly falls back. A scraping and thunk greets her as she hits a wooden floor in a tiny wall space.
She scrambles up to her feet and looks around the contained area bewildered at there being such a room in the Opera House.
The windowless sliver of space has enough room to walk forwards to an intricate metal spiral staircase. Glancing out of the hidden room into the corridor she wonders whether to go and get Jo but her own words repeat themselves in her head “Don’t stop until you get answers.”

She climbs up the steps into the room and shines the flashlight around slowly; the room is circular with a vaulted ceiling and she realises that she must be in the dome of the opera house. Yellow light streams in irregularly from the large oval windows and casts unusual shadows from the furniture against the walls. Slowly she walks around the room keeping the torch pointed down at the floor.
In the darkness she can see the outline of a grand piano and something small laying atop it. She approaches slowly, still keeping the torch low before realising that it’s a violin. She recognises the way the light shines off the varnished wood and the bridge lifting the four strings away from the body. Reaching out a hand she lightly runs her hand down from the side of the neck to the waist of the instrument and smiles softly recalling the smooth maple wood that her father’s violin was made of. She moves away from her reminiscing and looks around the room again.
“Is anyone here?” She calls out, waiting in the pregnant silence. There’s no reply. She sighs realising that this may have just been an abandoned room or an abnormal way of keeping nosy actors out of the attic space. Raising her voice she calls out again“Anyone? Any spirits, knock twice if you’re here.”
And then it happens. Two knocks echo around the room and she feels them reverberate through the floor and up through the soles of her feet. She gasps and looks around rapidly, adjusting her glasses and squinting hard in the dark looking for anyone looking back. The room feels too still.
Shining the flashlight around the room more she catches sight of what appears to be a chaise lounge. Although it could be musty her legs ache and sitting down would be a nice change from the activity of this long night. As she lowers herself to sit an awful, inhuman yowl makes her jump up from where she was going to be sitting, She lets out a scream of horror and drops the torch she was holding.
“Ayesha?!” she hears a deeper voice yell in the darkness over an aggressive hissing “Ayesha!”
Whimpering Christine frantically looks around trying to see where the voice and hissing is coming from, blinded without the torch “Hello!? Hello?”
“Hi…” a surprisingly timid voice comes from across the room. Christine can’t tell if the other person is a man or woman; the vague outline she can see is slight and tall and nothing in their voice gives any indication to either sex.
“Are there any lights in here?”
“Um…” she can hear the person's breath hitch “I’d rather not…”
“Oh?” she asks, Christine realising her voice is becoming higher and more tense. If she can only see their androygnous outline then they must be able to only see her outline. Having confidence in this information her hand slowly moves towards her leggings pocket where her phone is.
“Yeah, um…” the voice begins. Christine quickly pulls her phone out and turns on the flashlight, pointing it in the direction of where she can see the figure's silhouette. They stand stock still, mismatched eyes wide and the left side of their face contorted in horror; Christine herself jumps seeing that the right side of their face appears paralysed in a neutral expression.
“I’ve got to go! I’m sorry!” Christine blurts out and starts towards the stairs.
“No wait please!... please Christine!” she freezes at hearing her name.
“How do you know my name?” she asks her voice low.
“Meg told me.”
“You know Meg? Someone knows you’re here?”
“I work here… I’m a composer. Hold on.” She raises the torch to his torso and watches long elegant hands light a match and lights multiple candles around the room filling it with more gentle yellow light. She can see him more clearly now and starts to relax seeing that this person is a human "Could you help me look for my cat? I'm afraid you spooked her."
"I spooked her?" Christine asks incredulously, before exhaling through her nose sharply and looking around the vast circular space.
"Ayesha." The man calls in his smooth, soothing voice. Whilst searching for this Ayesha, Christine steals glances at him. She watches as he gracefully goes down onto his knees and looks under the chaise lounge whilst pushing a lock of his dark hair over his ear "There you are! Come here darling!" He purrs happily at the hidden cat.
The siamese slowly slinks out from under the lounge and the dark man scoops her up into his slender arms.
The disbelief that had originally rendered Christine speechless has faded and been replaced by confusion "I'm sorry, you said you work here?"
"Yes, I'm Erik." He turns his attention away from the adoring feline and fixes Christine with his eyes. One the colour of antique wood and the other although slightly cloudy on the outer corner glacier blue "I'm a composer."
"But what does that have to do with you hiding up in the attics." Christine watches as he shrinks away slightly "and what are you doing here? Do you live here?"
"Occasionally. If I over-sleep in the afternoons. No one minds because no one notices." He shrugs moving towards one of the giant oval windows and seems to stare out at the Parisian skyline "So you're searching for ghosts when no ones meant to be in the building."
"That's another thing! You impersonated a ghost! That's like a spiritual identity theft!" She utters flustered.
"Meg said that you were behaving in an odd way. I guess this is why." Christine suppresses a groan of embarrassment.
"So, you know Meg well then."
"Yes." He answers shortly giving nothing more away. The cat Ayesha leaps from his shoulder to the closed top of the grand piano. She sits upright gazing at Christine with her blue boss-eyes.
"Do the managers know you're here?"
"Yes." Again another short answer, a beat and then "A few people know I use this space for a particular reason. The managers certainly do and they pay me quite well." He glances back over his left shoulder to Christine "I'm sorry I'm not what you were looking for."
"Actually…You are." Christine watches him standing almost unnaturally still. His height and how narrow his shoulders are would fit exactly for the cloaked figure.
"Excuse me?"
"You're the one who didn't let me in my first day here. And in the box. You disappeared." She watches the young man's expression change from serene to being flustered himself. He turns to face her from the window.
"You were chasing me."
"You ran. What were you doing in the women's dressing rooms?"
"I was speaking to-! Oh never mind." He sits down on the arm of the velvet chaise. Christine tentatively approaches and sits at the other end of the chaise.
"I won't tell anyone. If that's any consolation." He turns to look at her properly, mild shock behind his unusual eyes. Looking closely at him Christine can see the seam and a slight shadow on the bridge of his nose. The seam travels the length of nearly half his face and curves up and away below his full bottom lip. She blinks hard at the trick of the light. When she attempts to look again properly Erik’s moved back to the window again "I'm sorry to have scared you earlier. I figured impersonating a ghost would somehow get you to leave."
"It was a nice try."
"Thank you. I heard you singing. You have an excellent voice. Just as good as Carlotta. She has an excellent voice too but no soul. She doesn't make you believe that she's Violet's, dying of consumption.”
"Thank you, I'd like to be a singer. One day." She replies formally watching Erik nodding thoughtfully his eyes becoming distant for a moment and then returning.
"I was speaking to Madame Giry. About you actually. I was in the dressing room when you came in and began singing. I was telling her about how you saw me and how I panicked."
"Oh…" she doesn't know what to say.
“I am sorry for being so rude. As I said, only a few people know that I work here and I value my privacy. I’d appreciate it if nothing was said.”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Thank you.” he replies, watching her. His hands worry at each other.
“Can I… Um ask some questions?”
“If you’d like.” he seems to be pleased that Christine is talking and not remaining shellshocked “We can talk tomorrow if you’d prefer, whenever you’re free?”
“Okay… I have a lunch break at one thirty.”
“One thirty then.” he responds, his hands nervously and soundlessly tapping the lid of the piano. She watches him for as long as walking down the spiral staircase would allow. Once he’s out of her sight she continues down the miniature corridor towards the panel door and shuts it behind her. She’s getting answers at least.

Chapter 5: Prologue

Notes:

Change of POV for the next four chapters - not including this one - I hope you all enjoy. Happy reading!

Hearing the door click shut Erik allows himself to flop onto the chaise lounge. Ayesha swiftly jumps from the piano and pads over to the chaise, sitting before meowing discordantly “I know.” he mutters in response, sitting up and looking down at the petit siamese “I know I’m unable to live my life quietly with you around but now adding her to knowing I’m here makes it more complicated.” he lifts the mask off of his face and places it on a circular wooden table “I suppose I have to call Meg.”
He picks his phone up and presses the call button above their numerous text messages.
“Mmm ‘lo?”
“Hey, I have to tell you something.”
“Wha’?”
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“ ‘Kay”
“Guess who found out I exist?”
“Ah fuck.”

Chapter 6: Act One

Notes:

Apologies for this coming so late after the last chapter that I posted. A lot has gone down in my personal life since August/September. All in all I really hope you enjoy this next chapter. Thank you and happy reading!

Waiting an hour after he last saw Daae, Erik decides it’s probably safe to leave “Come on, get in.” he sighs, opening the backpack for Ayesha to climb into. Fortunately she hops in willingly and already gazes out of the concave, plastic window. He goes through the usual routine of placing his mask on securely, pulling his deep hood up so it falls low over his face, blowing out the candles and leaving his secluded studio.
He creeps down towards the stage door, leaving the building quietly and starts to walk home, the early morning air running a chill through him and he speeds up ignoring other late night pedestrians that mill around outside clubs and bars in groups. Continuing he turns onto Rue de Ganneron, steps up onto the stoop with the jet coloured door and unlocks it.
The vacant hall echoes his footsteps up the building as he steps slowly toward the elevator and jams his finger hard against the button. He waits listening carefully for the electric hum of the pulley system to bring the lift down to the ground floor. The doors open and Mr Caron is waiting there as usual. Erik tries to control cringing away, steps in and gently shrugs his backpack off his shoulders, attempting to make as little movements as possible as he waits for his stop trying to ignore the old man. The elevator stops at his floor and he steps off all too eager to be out of Caron’s company “Have a good evening Erik.”
“You too.” he mumbles in reply heading towards his front door quickly, unlocking it and heading inside quickly. He exhales evenly dropping down onto one knee and releasing Ayesha from the back pack; she pads off happily and curls up in his armchair. Smiling he stands and creeps along the foyer down to his bedroom and shuts the door. Keeping the lights off he falls into bed for what barely seems like a minute when an irritating little ditty jerks him awake. Erik grapples for his phone in the dark attempting to switch off the alarm. He glances out the window; the sun has crested the horizon and spreads it’s pale light over Montmartre Cemetery, illuminating the dewy grass and a fine, filmy mist that lingers around the base of headstones and mausoleums.
He turns leaning against the window frame and checks his phone for any messages from Meg. All she did last night was curse and hang up leaving him alone with his conflicting thoughts. One thing that isn’t conflicted within his mind was he absolutely could not tell anyone but Meg about this. Not Ariadne, not Andre, not Firmin, not his mother and not even Marie. They’d of course overreact.
“My private life is my life and no one elses.” his mother had parroted in interviews regarding questions about love, friends and of course him. He knew why of course, he wasn’t stupid so this would all stay between him and Meg.
“Speak of the devil.” he mutters, answering her impromptu call.
“Good morning to you too. If you can even call it morning. It’s five am.”
“You haven’t mentioned what happened to-!”
“No, of course not. We’d both be up the creek without a paddle.” she hisses “what did you say to her?”
“Nothing much. It was all rather formal and calm actually, after the initial shock.” Erik moves over to his desk flipping over his mask from where he dumped it “we’re speaking again today.”
“Christ Erik!”
“What?”
“I think this is all a terrible idea. Talking to her and all that. She may not be able to keep a secret.”
“I don’t think it is. You were the one who told me that she was curious and wanting to find out about ghosts and well… I am one. Lurking about, no one ever sees me, sitting up in an old building, writing and waiting to be noticed by the others.” he waits for Meg’s response but only receives static and her attempt at breathing silently “Why don’t we meet up for breakfast? We can talk everything over then without being overheard.”
“Yeah, okay.” he hears Meg replies breathlessly “at our usual spot?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you there in ten.” he hears Meg’s confirmation before hanging up. He moves to the small mirror in his room where he can only see a portion of his face at any one time and combs through the thick, loose waves before securing the mask over his head, mussing his hair up to hide the sturdy wire that holds it in place there.
He leaves Ayesha a bowl of wet food that she gulps down eagerly before heading out of the apartment and down the stairs. Stepping out into early morning Paris he sighs contentedly; the early morning in his own opinion is the best time of day. The empty streets fill him with a sense of freedom. A sense that he can flaunt himself almost and take a slow stroll despite wearing his mask. It isn’t much but it sends a thrill through him and if there happens to be other people walking their dogs or returning home from a late night of partying no one notices or stares at his concealed, lanky figure.

Turning the corner he spots Meg standing on the corner outside “Le Musain” her warm breath, trailing up out from between her lips and into the cold air. Her hood slips back from her blonde head a little as she turns to face him “Hey.”
Erik nods in return continuing to approach her and slips his arm through hers with ease “Morning.”
“C’mon let's get out of this cold I’m freezing!” she pulls him into the cafe swiftly, the warmth stinging colour into their frigid cheeks as they walk to a booth at the back of the space. Erik sits facing away from the rest of the shop conscious that the cafe will gradually get busier as the time passes “You think that speaking to her is a bad idea?” he begins.
Meg sighs “Yes in a way. We don’t know her very well and if she went and blabbed about it.”
“It’s not like she can just forget. She found the false wall to where I spend most of my time and she’s seen me wandering around more than once. It’s gotten to the point where she almost has a right to know Meg.”
“You’re usually so careful.” she mutters quietly, her hand comes up to her mouth in thought.
“I know.” he adds, resting his head on his right hand, letting his long fingers press gently against his mask. That was something she didn’t seem to notice in the darkened room fortunately but the idea of facing her in the daylight, where it will be obvious that… he exhales heavily trying to avoid picturing her shocked face penetrating the corners of his mind. Being unaccustomed to meeting new people is a burden however the dread and anxiety of a person's reaction is enough to deter Erik from wanting to meet anyone "There's no way of avoiding it. I will have to face it head on."
"We keep it between us though?"
"Naturally."
"I'll come up and visit you more so you don't have to come down."
"If you want." He lifts his shoulders and drops them "You shouldn't feel obliged."
"Don't be stupid Erik, we've known each other forever I'm going too… it's just been a lot lately with this new season and showing the new girls around.You know how it is."
"I know." He glances at the clock on the wall opposite him "we should get going." He stands ending the conversation. They both grab a hot drink before leaving, clutching it in their cold hands as they walk towards the theatre, wind sweeping yellowed leaves around their feet, lifting the hems of their coats, blowing their hair back away from their foreheads and making their eyes water.
The cool morning light bounces off of the golden statues of harmony and poetry making the top of the Palais Garnier an inscrutable through the blinding light. Erik flinches his eyes and struggles to adjust to the harshness of the reflection.

Entering the building through the stage door Meg glances to Erik before pulling him into a quick embrace "It'll be fine. She's a nice girl. I'm sorry about my attitude, I just don't want anything bad to happen and you're right as per usual, she deserves answers after seeing a weirdo in the attic."
Erik chuckles quietly "Thanks Meg." He replies, placing a hand on her back in return, leaning his head down onto her shoulder.
“It’s okay.” Her reply is muffled into his coat. He nods a little, knowing that Meg does mean well. She pulls away sighing before looking up into his face, taking in his straight features and his contradictory coloured eyes seeing the determination and intelligence behind them. She smiles a little “I’ll see you later Erik” she starts to walk away and pulls her pin straight blonde hair up into a ponytail “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she calls back a smile lilting within her voice.

He shakes his head at her comment as he climbs up to the Gods, running his hand slowly along the brass bannisters of the upper floors, taking his time to make his way towards the secret panel that hides the entrance to his studio. He gazes out the windows, watching the city animate itself like an ornate clock that sends out sprawling little automatons and tiny model cars every hour on the hour. And much like watching a clockwork show that runs on gears and cogs he feels the hollow inability to reach out and connect to the movement that surrounds but never encroaches upon him.
Erik turns away from the awakening city and heads to his studio, knowing exactly where to push to get the door to swing open smoothly, stepping inside, this time making sure to shut the door until it wedges itself on the wooden floor. Climbing up the metal staircase he looks around the space.

In the daylight the circular room is a large space. When Erik first acquired the room he placed an old set piece he found in the rest of the attics and positioned it so it appeared to be coming out of the wall and dividing the area into two rooms. The purposefully larger space is used as a studio, where he composes, designs and studies. He looks around his retreat and sighs heavily seeing how cluttered every flat surface is and approaches the grand piano where he begins to gather sheet music together occasionally flipping through the pages that he’s scrawled over and tries to place them in the piano stool. A strange anxiety overtakes him as he thinks about Christine entering this space again and the exposure that sunlight inflicts and if this atmosphere reflects who and what he is… and if that would please her? He shouldn’t care in the least what a stranger thinks but...
The ambience within the Opera House has altered since the new season was announced; there’s the prevalent feeling of dust that’s been disturbed and that something should have been left preserved as it was, fills the theatre to the brim.
And again, the sensation that he wants to ignore, that knocked the air from his lungs and sent a burning ache through his chest became the most potent when Christine Daae was near him. He doesn’t even know her let alone seen her properly but this demanding twinge that takes command of his larynx and trachea compels him to see her and cautiously answer the call that’s been keeping him keenly aware since they met. He sighs, removing his mask and placing it on the grand piano.

He shuts his eyes attempting to let that feeling wash over him, accept and embrace it for what it is but a shove that prevents him relaxing and folding into it thrusts back against the tide. A confusing, angry fear stamps it’s foot loud enough to be acknowledged and he exhales sharply, moving around the studio placing books back onto shelves, straightening the frayed carpet and righting the furniture. He pushes open the windows letting crisp, September gusts of wind blow into the circular room.
As he leans over to pick up a blanket he can sense and see some movement through the foggy outer corner of his right eye. Despite wanting to freeze he continues slowly and lifts the blanket from the floor to shake it out and fold it. Whilst doing so he tries to turn to his right slowly attempting to see who or what’s standing there however the movement simply shifts to the corner of his eye again; he doesn’t bother to rub his eyes knowing that it isn’t anything to do with the blindness in the outer third where he can only see in light and shade "Good morning." He says calmly, waiting for a response but none comes.

Glancing around the significantly cleaner space he approaches the antique full length mirror that he placed a white sheet over to avoid his reflection and he pulls it down in one swift action. He instinctively shrinks away, avoiding looking above his slight shoulders checking that he looks okay; nothing seems to be wrong with what he’s wearing. Erik hazards a look at his face, noting the dark circles under his eyes when motion behind him draws his attention again. He leans towards the mirror feigning examining his reflection but keeping his eyes firmly on the movement behind him; typically he can see them but he can’t seem to get a read or clear image with this one. He appears almost like a mirage or when he shuts his left eye. Furrowing his brow he stares at the mirage man waiting for some sort of clarity.
“Hello?” he hears her light, clear voice call from below, he jumps and turns, staring at the stairwell. He didn’t realise that it was already time for the dancers to have a break. He doesn’t respond, instead throws the white sheet over the mirror and races across the room to clap his mask over his face.
“Hello?” he hears again, a note of doubt coming into her voice.
“Do come up!” he replies breathlessly, positioning himself close to the open window, keeping the piano between himself and where she would come up into the attic studio. He hears her light, cautious footsteps on the metal, spiral staircase before her dark head rises and wide, wary brown eyes “Hello again.” Erik says as gently and calmly as possible.
Christine’s eyes go immediately to where he’s standing and take in his appearance; Erik clenches his jaw still trying to outwardly remain as calm as possible but internally he prays that she doesn’t immediately notice his mask. He desperately tries to keep his hand down by his side and not adjust or press the mask into his face; this was a habit that he had developed as a child when he would be around others and had eventually developed bruises on the high points of his face from where he would repeat the action so often. Fortunately Christine seems to relax and not notice anything unusual about him “This place is less scary in the daylight.”
“Yes. Um, please sit down.” he gestures to the chaise lounge, and a twinge of wistfulness tugs at his heart when he watches her look around the room, curiosity now in her wide set almond shaped eyes, the curve of her lips as she looks up into the domed ceiling and her chestnut curls falling over her shoulders when she turns to sit on the sofa “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Oh, yes please.” she looks at him directly, seemingly breaking her trance of looking around his studio. He steps past and through to the smaller room that he made by utilising the dramatic screen and switches on a kettle he has. Rapidly and silently he makes her a drink and brings it through to her. He stands anxiously, always trying to turn away from the direct light, hoping it’ll shield his features from her until he eventually perches on the piano stool across from her.
“How are you?” he asks, hearing how horribly awkward it sounds to ask.
“I’m okay. Just adjusting to all this.” she gestures around with her free hand “I feel a bit calmer.”
“That’s good.” Erik replies sincerely. She locks eyes with him, curiosity and familiarity intermingling and to her surprise she doesn’t doubt his genuineness. Erik looks away and clears his throat “So, you wanted to ask me some questions?” he prompts.
“Yes.” she says pulling her eyes away “You said that you know Madame Giry and Meg? Are you siblings?”
“Not by blood. And I must reiterate as I did yesterday, please don’t tell anyone. Including Madame Giry. She does know me and that I’m here however we tend to keep it just between the four of us.”
“The four of you?”
“Yes.” he replies hoping that she doesn’t press further and that if he gives a closed answer she’ll switch to the next question. Despite saying to Meg that he’s sure Christine would keep everything to herself he feels that if she knew who his mother was perhaps she wouldn’t want to stay silent. He tilts his head to the right hoping she won’t look too closely.
“What is it you exactly do here then?” she asks, taking another sip of tea.
“I’m a composer, specifically working for the Palais Garnier. I write operas, ballets, and I assist with choosing what is performed each season. I did not choose 'The Magic Flute' because ultimately the decision comes down to Andre and Firmin." Christine places the mug down onto the table in front of her before leaning forward, elbows on her knees “What is it?” he asks nervously.
“Nothing. I’m just thinking… you just work up here all day? Alone?”
“Yes. Meg will often come up during her breaks however that was before this season started and there’s a lot going on currently. Composing really takes a lot of solitary work.”
“A couple of weeks ago I heard Meg, Madame Giry and Madeleine Destler talking after the ghost light was moved for rehearsal, and then a voice came from all around the theatre before the light blew. They were mentioning someone playing a silly game. I can’t remember what was said but there was something about strange things happening and seeing things.” she trails off, a hopeful look in her eyes.
“Yes, that was me. The ghost light and the voice. I just wanted to scare Carlotta a little. It… was wrong." He sighs reluctantly avoiding her gaze out of being caught doing something so childish. Part of it was out of how Carlotta was treating others with a petulant disrespectful attitude. She is very talented however it isn’t a right to treat others like that. If talent came with an equal amount of kindness everyone would be much better off.
“How did you do it?”
“It was just an improvisation. I could hear her going off about something and I just wanted to do something to mess with her. I’m quite good with electrics' and I can throw my voice.” Erik shrugs leaning back a little, keeping his face tilted to the right.
“What about the strange happenings?” Christine asks her voice steady but her eyes hold desperation. A heavy, hopefulness that wants to break the isolation within them.
"What do you mean?" He hears himself ask, the mix of her hopeful anguish and the truth making him step back within himself. The truth that he experiences every waking moment pushes against the back of his eyes, starting to give him shimmering distortions in his vision; he blinks hard, aware of Christine's eyes watching him carefully, every minute movement in his face. He can just see her exhale through her nose.
“I mean seeing things, or weird sounds… ghosts I guess.” She raises her shoulders and drops them.
“It’s an old theatre. Things are going to seem strange I guess, like the ghost light.” a lump forms in his throat “it’s just an illusion.” she looks up, her dark eyebrows drawn together with a troubled look across her face; the outside edge of her face flickers in waves in his poor vision making her look like an unreal vision.
“Can you show me how you did the light trick?” she asks looking up to him. He nods, standing and walking over to the edge of the painted canvas set piece “This is a way into the dome of the opera house where some electrical wiring was put in the nineties when it was replaced. You get an amazing view of the hall and even of the paintings of the ceiling.”
“It’s safe?” Christine asks, crossing the room to his side while he crouches to unlock the tiny door. He can feel the warmth from her body as she stands over him cautiously watching him pull the lock off. “Yes.” he answers quietly, ducking his head lower knowing how close she’s standing and what the fact that she could see his mask. He pushes the door open “You’ll have to crawl and keep your head ducked for a moment before you are able to stand up straight.”
“Okay.”
Erik hops forward on the balls of his feet keeping his head low until he gets through the doorway where he can straighten up and look around the dim space and turn on a small lamp he placed on one of the cross beams. The rafter interior structure stretches up woodenly imitating the smooth dome through the plaster and paint. Christine’s voice calls through with a question that he struggles to hear through the dampening effect of being between walls “Come through, it’s fine.”
“Are there any spiders?” she asks, her voice growing nearer.
“Not this time of year.” he feels the corners of his mouth twitch up at the minor worry of there being spiders inhabiting the space that’s rightfully theirs. She says that she sees spirits and yet she’s worried about spiders of all things. Her head appears from the smaller space and she looks up blowing her curls from in front of her eyes.
“Here.” Erik says leaning forward extending his own long hand to her. She mumbles a thanks and takes it. Erik inhales sharply feeling her hand in his, the texture and smoothness of her skin on his. He gently pulls her to her feet and waits for her to draw away from his cold hand however she simply looks around the narrow and tall space that they’re in in awe.
“I didn’t even know this was here…” she mutters.
“It’s to do repairs if they’re necessary. Also during reconstruction - after the fire in the eighteen seventies - this was the easiest and fastest way to build a dome. It’s the bones of the building almost.”
“Wow…” she mutters under her breath. Erik, notes the wonderment and interest in her eyes and her hand in his.
“I can show you where I like to look down into the theatre if you’d like?” he asks quietly letting his hand rest gently in hers, desperately trying to keep his hand from trembling hoping that she won’t notice or pull away. But she does. She moves her slim hand out of his own leaving a scar of warmth where it had lain. He sees her nod and her eyes flit up to his before he starts to lead the way around the straight walls “Careful of the wires. They’re mostly on the left.” he whispers.
“How often have you come in here?”
“When I feel like it.” he shrugs glancing back at her, moving deftly through the familiar crawl space whilst hearing Christine grunt and sigh quietly as she struggles to step high enough and carefully enough now that the walls gently start to curve. Erik keeps moving and starts to see the yellow lighting that pours into the wall space at regular intervals. Dust motes float gently in the light breeze that flows through between the wall.
“How did you find this space?” Christine asks breathlessly.
“When I started using the attic space as a studio a few years ago. I saw the little door and found my way into here. We’re coming up to where you’ll be able to look out.” he glances back, able to see the low light reflect off her eyes and cast her in a yellow light. As they approach the gap in the wood cladding, bare plaster is revealed with a thin circular plate of glass that’s scratched around the edges. Erik moves to the far side and crouches down so he can peer out. Christine does the same and then moves forward gasping a little “We’re higher than the Gods seats!”
Erik smiles softly watching her expressions illuminated by the central chandelier. He feels calmer in this hidden half lit domain where he could easily pull back into a shadow but strangely he doesn't want to remain in the semi darkness, not when she’s around. Watching Christine's face, the play of her smile and her eyes drinking in the view makes him feel as if he knows her. He knows the turn of her lips and the familiarity of how her breath hitches as she’s in awe. The gnawing in his chest rises to the surface reminding him of how unexpected and fresh this sensation is.
"It's beautiful."
"This ceiling" He gestures with a finger above them to the water coloured sketch style "is actually hiding the original. This one from the sixties is actually a canvas."
"No way!"
"Mmm hmm. Each scene symbolises a different opera or ballet. The dancers painted all in yellow are Le Lac de Cygnes and the lovers clutching each other are Romeo and Juliet." He turns to watch her as her eyes scan from tableau to tableau; they're the colour of rich, dark polished wood but also there is something concealed behind a lacquer, protected from the elements. He doesn't know what's there but possibly something that she may not be fully aware of either.
"There are wires all along here and it's easy to connect to one if you have the right tech."
"How did I not know that's what they meant?" He hears her mutter to herself.
"A lot of people don't know. I practically live here so I probably should know what everything means."
"I suppose you do." She turns her head suddenly to look at him with her dark eyes and her face a few inches from his. He blinks hard, his right eye watering chronically, sensitive from the dust "Why're you crying?" She whispers reaching forward to wipe the tear away from his artificial cheek.
"Oh I'm not just the dust." He starts reaching up to wipe his face before she can but her hand touches his mask first. He freezes an icy dread clinging to him as she swipes her thumb slowly from under his eye. Her brows knit together before they both jump hearing movement from behind Erik and a heavy weight knocks into him. He falls forwards onto his hands and Christine shrieks dragging herself backwards away from him.
He knew that this would happen as soon as she realised that his face was fake. A good imitation of a symmetrical image but not quite there. Panic and uneasiness well up inside as he lets out a gasping dry sob but then her warm hand grips his wrist "Run!" He hears her voice crack sharply as she pulls him to his feet and hauls him forward. He stumbles but let's the momentum take him through the narrow space knocking into the walls, trying to guide himself directionally but failing already confused by her actions. He attempts to blink away the fresh dusty tears that have settled on his lashes and tries to place the fragments of what happened together.
"We're at the entrance." She breathes as he sees her drop down and start to crawl out of the tunnel. He joins her a few moments later rubbing at his bad eye with one hand and locking the door with the other.

"Did you see that?" She asks, from across the room. He can hear her voice far from him.
"See what?" He remains with his back to her and placing, his hand to his mask, feeling to see that it's set on straight and the lip matches up to his face.
"It was behind you so you must not have seen it…"
"See what?" He repeats turning and standing on unsteady legs. It was me, his mind repeats. She saw me. The real me under the mask and before I've even got to speak to her more everything's been undone. She's scared of me. Her shriek was so loud and painful.
"There was someone behind you Erik."
He doesn't know what to say. Is this some kind of mask metaphor or does she mean literally?
"It was standing there. Tall and dark and it pushed into you! Didn't you feel it? It pushed you!"
"I… what?" He asks tentatively, taking small steps forward. He feels numb all over, like he's watching this all play out from someone else's perspective. A weird kind of pantomime.
"Erik?" He hears Christine ask anxiously.
"I'm fine just… confused." He sits heavily on the piano stool. He looks down at the keys and names them in his head, desperately trying to yank his brain back into action "You screamed because you saw someone behind me?"
"Yes."
"Oh thank God…" he mumbles quietly, shutting his eyes against the bright, cool winter sunlight and resting his head onto the piano. But a secondary feeling of dread settles knowing that he can’t continue to blame the dark figure trailing around behind him just out of view on the poor eyesight on the right.
“You don’t believe me do you?” Christine asks, a sad edge to her voice. Erik raises his head off of the top of the piano only to see her heart shape face cast in a grey pallor “I know you don’t. Earlier you said that it’d just be an illusion… it’s an old building and I guess you’re right. You practically live here you said and if there were anyone to see anything unusual it’d be you, wouldn’t it?”
Erik gulps, feeling someone move behind him but he refuses to flinch or acknowledge it “I believe you. You said you saw something and I believe you.”
“But you said…”
“Ignore what I said. I may not be right. Like it was said in ‘Hamlet’ There are more things in heaven and earth Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” he stands and moves forward over to her letting the sunlight cast over the entirety of his face. She’s being vulnerable and I might as well too. He steps forward knowing that she may be able to see his mask “I don’t think you’re mad or whatever you’d call it but I believe you.”
A cool hand presses onto his shoulder and a raspy voice leans close towards his ear choking out a sooty, rancid smell and the words “I’m glad you do…”

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven - Act Two

Notes:

I've been really busy lately so I could only write in spare hours but I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm not entirely happy with it so please let me know your thoughts!
Happy reading!

After seeing Christine out Erik slowly returns to the studio attempting to feel out the space. As always the owner of the voice is illusive to him despite looking around the room and expecting to see the owner. Dread flickers through his mind like a guttering candle, flicking hot wax, igniting every synapse with alarm. Erik staggers forward to the metal bannister to steady himself from the sudden onset of lightheadedness.
He tries to relax his muscles but they wind up further remaining taut and stiff; he feels like he can't unwrap his hands from the bannister because of the rising panic. His knees buckle forward and pull his arms from where they're grabbing onto the railing and he catches himself before he falls entirely. The situation sinks in like a fly in syrup. The confusion of Christine’s panic being about the ghost - that he tends to ignore regardless of belief in spirits - spikes and settles rapidly sending him trembling fantastically.
Lowering himself to the wooden floor he lays staring up at the ceiling trying to breath every four beats. It finally interacted. It finally interacted instead of skirting around the edges of the room, catching in the corners of his eyes and boring it’s immense presence into the room, darkening the atmosphere around him. For a while after he began to work in the Opera House it was hard to go out anywhere else because of the entity. Recalling when he began to see spirits was a particularly easy thing to do. It was five years ago and counting… and counting…

After the trepidation lulls he pulls himself up to his feet. The anxiety of everything that had happened in the past hour makes his head throb but he staggers over to an armchair to collapse into. Erik lets his head fall back to stare up at the dome. In defiance of the sharp line of pain forming above his right eyebrow the touch of Christine’s hand comes to mind. The solidity of her strong hand remains in his; examining closely there is nothing that is now unique about the winding curves and straits of his palm. Other than the remaining sensation of electricity.
“Erik?” he hears Meg’s voice call.
“Yes?” he calls out hoarsely, not inviting her up to his sanctuary. Erik sighs heavily, turning his gaze to look out the window. The fresh September morning’s given way to a torrent of rain, making the slate rooftops of Paris shine slickly. He pulls himself up from where he settled.
“Come up then.” he yields. Meg clatters up the metal staircase making him wince at the twang “can I offer you a cup of tea?” he asks, rolling his sleeves up onto his slight forearms.
“Erik.”
“That’s a no.” he sighs.
“What happened? Christine came back looking… rattled to say the least.”
“Nothing. She thought she saw something, is all.”
“Saw what?” Meg crosses her arms and starts plucking at her shirt anxiously. Her dark eyes bore into Erik’s mismatched ones. He smarts slightly at the nervous gaze, pinning him as the cause before the verdict is even out.
“She said she saw a ghost. It can’t have been me, the resident O.G seeing as I was standing before her so that exonerates me. She said in her own words that she saw something behind me.”
“I told you this was a bad idea.” She responds gripping her arm and hunching her shoulders forward.
“So what am I to do? Ignore her and hope that she doesn’t tell anyone else about my being here? Ignore her like I have to ignore the specters? I handled it as well as I could. Admitting nothing.” he retorts.
“I suppose the best idea would be to ignore her. I don’t think you handled it well.”
“Were you there?” he snaps, feeling hot blotches of colour appear on his cheeks in anger “I’d like to remind you Meg that I prize my privacy. You have too with a face like mine.”
Meg jerks her head up at that reply “That’s not fair. You can’t use that as a weapon Erik.”
“Well I suppose you’ll just have to ignore it.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Meg stands combatively.
“You can’t lock people out when or if something goes wrong. I’m not going to ignore Christine when she needs someone to talk to. I don’t know what to do and I don’t know what to believe. Everything’s become so warped and hard to handle.” he drops his eyes down looking at his splayed hands. Despite all the good that’s come of working at the Opera House difficulties have arisen beside it; everyone’s noticed peculiar paranormal activity and part of it is due to how he travels around the building but another part of it, he knows, is apart of the skeleton, sinews and synapses of this edifice to art.
He can feel Meg’s eyes on him which only makes Erik want to hollow himself further into his own body if that were possible.
“I’ll grant you that there’s something… off here but isn’t that like all theatres? Weird little time capsules you know?” Meg shrugs.
“It’s more than that somehow. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like the whole building is being pulled down toward the catacombs and sewers. Dragged into the past by more than just sets, costumes and curtains.” Erik pauses before dragging a hand across his face “I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s been a long day and it’s only two in the afternoon.”
“Just try to keep it together for the rest of the day alright?” Meg orders, but her voice is void of the anger and defensiveness that it held during their argument.
“Anything for you Meg.”
“Hmph.” she snorts as she turns and heads for the staircase until Erik grasps her swinging hand.
“I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought up… however indirectly.”
“It’s fine. It wasn’t fair of me to try to cock block you.” she replies a grin crossing her face.
“Meg! That’s not-! it isn’t like that. Christine is just-! It’s not like that.” a high colour spreads across the left side of his face. Meg’s laugh rings around the room as Erik flounders, feeling flustered as well as amused at Meg’s gentle tease to get her own back.
“Now you’re forgiven.” she manages between a laugh.
“God, you’re terrible.” he groans, shaking his head slightly as he watches her go down the stairs and cautiously leaving the hidden room.
It’s true that he likes it when Christine is around. She’s easy to talk to, insightful, curious and really very kind but it’s no more than that. Of course he knows that they share similar experiences of seeing and encountering ghosts which could make them grow closer, if he chooses to tell her over time but what they have is merely a friendship. Even if he does think about how he expected her hand to leave a deep imprint across his palm.
He hasn’t too long to continue to dwell on his relationship with Christine Daae as his phone forgotten on the bare wooden floor buzzes and flashes it’s white blue screen in the dimming attic.
Stooping to pick it up he sees a message from his mother. Sighing, he unlocks the phone and reads her request for him to come home at a reasonable hour rather than in the early hours of the morning. Having to think logistically of how to make his way through the building to be at home at a “reasonable hour” he surmises a plan to leave after the audience enters the auditorium for the single matinee performance and leave then.
He dumps his phone and sits behind the ancient grand piano staring at the sheet music he half started for an opera he only really had a vague inkling about. Taking the thick notebook off the stand he rests his elbows on the keys reading his own cramped music notation. Wincing Erik removes his mask and lays it down atop the piano. He massages the tender, calloused skin along his protruding cheekbone and under his eye with one hand whilst with the other he continues to examine the sheet music that’s faltered to stagnancy. He exhales sharply and flips the book shut.

At hearing the orchestra tune their instruments in a harmonized discordance Erik rises from the piano, collecting together his notebooks and stuffing them into his bag. He places his mask back on carefully and approaches the mirror checking that everything lines up on his face; in the dying light the mask casts deeper shadows, it has sharper edges and reflects a gaunter image of himself. He pulls his deep hood up so it falls low over his brow, turns and creeps down the spiral staircase aware of the hum of low voices on the opposite side of the thin wall. He waits for them to fade and then the slow rising tide of introduction for La Traviata. He can almost see the lights lowering, the stage illuminating before it's flooded with dancers, singers and the audience almost disappears, the only thing that matters is what’s happening on stage. The stage is where things matter.

He dares to open the door and glance out. The corridor is vacant and he seizes the opportunity to stride down through the hallways, staircases and landing. Erik keeps his eyes fixed ahead, hoping to whatever God there is that no one decides to leave the auditorium or an usher steps out to escape a performance they’ve seen every night this week. He finally reaches the marble staircase, his eyes resting on the front doors seeing as they’re the closest exit. He runs down them eager to get out where he’ll be another anonymous hooded figure walking along in the rain. Where no mistake can be made about why he’s there.
The cold, damp air hits his skin. Rain starts to trickle down and nestle along the curvature of his neck as he walks home, the lampposts flickering on as dusk descends.

Stepping inside the elevator he waits for Mr Caron who before now has appeared in the middle of an elevator journey up to the third floor. He keeps his eyes forward preparing himself for the appearance of the dead man. He never does anything that could be considered terrifying but he simply stands there a carbon copy of the original that died three years prior, which is more disturbing than if he would interact. The papery image feels disingenuous and depressing.
Relief sweeps through him when he makes it to his floor without seeing the translucent resemblance of his old neighbour. He slips off his shoes and pads along to his room to put his bag in before climbing down the stairs to the kitchen “Hey?” he calls out.
“Erik?”
“Yeah.” he responds, hearing his mum call out from the kitchen. He glances into the open plan dining living room seeing the table laid for five people instead of just three “Oh, Ariadne and Meg are coming over?” he asks.
“Come here and talk to me. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.” Erik huffs and walks into the kitchen “I said that Ariadne and Meg are coming over then?”
“Yes.” his mother glances over her shoulder, her strawberry blonde hair pulled up off her neck in the heat of the kitchen and small beads of perspiration sit on her brow. Erik notes that she looks strained. There’s a tightness around the corners of her straight mouth.
“How was your day?”
“It was fine.” his mother replies with a strained smile.
“Mmm Carlotta was fun to workshop and rehearse with then?” Erik parodies a line of hers from the Magic Flute pushing his voice up to a falsetto and wearing an expression of false innocence.
“I wish you wouldn’t!” Madeleine says, primly casting a disapproving glance at her son.
“I wish she wouldn’t.” he sighs leaning against the countertop watching his mother cautiously. She would usually laugh at least a little at her coworkers expense or scold him in a mildly affectionate way rather than jumping straight to being short tempered.
“How was your day?” She avoids the topic of her own rehearsals and continues to cut into carrots forcefully.
“It was fine. I was just thinking about themes to emphasise musically within my compositions. Do you want any help with that?” he gestures to her overzealous hacking of the vegetables.
“No. It’s fine Erik!” she snaps.
“Okay.” he replies quietly, sidling away as Marie walks into the kitchen rolling a shoulder out.
“Is Ariadne and Meg coming over tonight?”
“Yes, they’ll be here after the matinee.” Madeleine repeats shortly. Erik looks at Marie, quirking an eyebrow as if he’s asking her to explain his mum's mood. Marie moves her head in a miniscule movement indicating not to ask or to push it tonight.
“Well I’ll just get out of your way then.” he slips past his carers out of the kitchen and into the hallway and up the staircase to his room. Pulling out the sheet music he’s been working on he places it on his upright piano and begins to play, the first sixteen bars pushing all his attention onto the even black notes. He began writing it out of boredom knowing that he’d find a way to place it into the opera but it now seems that it belongs to Christine. It was written for her before he had ever heard her sing or met her. He watches adding and erasing notes from the piece finding himself in a frustrated rut until their guests arrive.
“Guess what?” Meg says, throwing herself into a chair and smirking.
“What?”
“Christine messaged me after the show.”
“What did she say then?” Erik asks, feigning indifference, and slowly pressing down the keys still deciphering a way out of the musical conundrum that he’s seemed to write himself into.
“It was just to catch up about some stuff. She also mentioned how she had a better day today.”
“Mmm.” he hums “we better head downstairs I guess.” he stands not waiting for Meg or any comment about him or Christine or read too deeply into what Meg’s just said. Part of him doesn’t want to hear it knowing that it may not be him that’s impacted Christine; he was simply kind and kindness isn’t owed anything. Heading downstairs, he hears the hushed tones of Ariadne, Maria and his mum that make him pause. Erik halts on the step and steadies himself listening tentatively to their private conversation.
“I know Erik had counselling a few years ago but maybe you should discuss it with him.”
“I don’t think a few pranks warrant this.” Marie suggests mildly “It was a silly joke. A spooky voice and a bit of darkness.”
“The bulb actually cracked. It could have gone worse if it shattered.” Ariadne says hardly. Erik winces, his stomach dropping knowing how badly the practical joke has backfired. Gulping down a lump in his throat he leans gently against the wall fingering the sleeve of his jacket. The idea of returning to any form of counselling makes him feel nauseated and clammy. Counselling wasn’t terrible but it wasn’t somewhere he could discuss everything openly and without inhibition especially from a hospital bed. He didn’t want to talk about the operations; move this piece of skin here to fix this, that bone needs breaking and resetting to be straight. Of course all the physical scars are cleverly hidden.
Meg rests her chin on his shoulder from a higher step and clutches his shoulder listening too. Her guilt is almost palpable. It was the both of them that discussed the ghost light caper as they’ve always been implicit in each other's jests throughout childhood but this was different they both see now.
“I think it would be a good idea. He’s always been lively and mischievous but it’s excessive.” he hears his mothers voice. The tone isn’t angry but exhausted and near hollow.
“Should we go in?” Meg breathes anxiously. Erik shakes his head and starts pressing back gently. The urge to run springs to his muscles but he controls the sensation and keeps moving in slow, precise movement so they don’t draw attention to themselves. Meg fortunately takes the cue to do similar before they turn and lightly sprint up the stairs.

“I’m so sorry.” Meg repeats for the third time.
“It was as much my idea as yours.” Erik breathes heavily “I didn’t know I was that disturbing I guess. Walking around quietly and playing one stupid, ill joke it enough to warrant this apparently.” he keeps his eyes tracing the outlines of the fishbone flooring. The repeating pattern is similar to how his head feels; a recurrent tide of frustration and confusion.
“I don’t understand.” Meg mutters.
“Me either.” he sighs. A burning furiousness rises from his diaphragm up through his lungs. He places his shaking hands together in an attempt to keep them steady while a heat of shame presses against his skin “I’m not going to mention that I’ve overheard. If they don’t bring it up then so be it but I’m not going to start something.” he swallows the feeling of grievance before standing.

The sensation of betrayal hanged over the meal for Erik despite everyone behaving as if there was nothing that needed to be said. He thought his mum knew how he felt about that period in his life and the burning prickle in Erik’s chest simmers again. He pushes food around his plate absently thinking about everything that had happened since the operation five years ago. He acknowledges that it was difficult for everyone but the ease with which he could exist is irreparably changed.
“So” Ariadne began slowly “you saw what happened with Carlotta the other day, in front of the whole company?”
Erik slides a glance over to Meg and back to his plate, knowing that the subject had to arise at some point. He wasn’t going to get away with a serious infringement, just because it hadn’t been mentioned up until the end of the week it happened “I’ll take credit for the ghost light.” he thinks to how he told Christine reluctantly it was childish but now he knows to admit it with genuity.
“You’ll take credit for it?” Ariadne questions, her eyes flickering between himself and Meg.
“It was my fault.” Erik states.
“Meg?” the warning tone in Ariadne’s voice strikes.
“Meg didn’t do anything. It was just a stupid joke that I didn’t think through okay? I didn’t think it’d go that way.”
“You’ve both got to stop doing things like this.”
“Ari.” Madeleine’s hushed tone attempts to soothe everyone’s tempers.
“I said Meg didn’t do anything.” Erik repeats the prickly, simmering sensation boiling over “I know it was stupid. I didn’t mean for the ghost light prank to go that far.”
“Well partly because of that I thought you should try to-”
“I’m not going to counselling.” He stops his mother in her tracks “I’m twenty-three and old enough to make my own decisions and I’m saying no.” it makes him think too much of being in hospital. The ugly fluorescent lights, the assaulting, acrid smell of bleach and the liminal ambience of labyrinthine halls. He feels nausea pulse in his throat.
“Erik…” his mother sighs, Erik watches her turn her steel grey eyes onto him; they reveal her sympathy but also her frustrated loss at what to do next. He averts his gaze away from her “It was a mistake and I’m sorry for it. I am sorry. Excuse me.” he heads up the stairs before hearing the familiar hum of Meg’s voice and then the vibrations from her footsteps approaching until she’s at his side.
“I just want to be alone right now Meg.” he mutters. She nods, in the halflight of the hallway the curtain of her white blonde hair appears like a moonlit waterfall to her waist. He turns away resenting himself for turning anything he sees into some form of poetry; the language comes too instinctively, too easily like the source of a creek being hard to stop when it’s grown into a river.

Locking his door he flings off the tight mask and presses his warm hands to his cool cheeks. He feels the undulating landscape of the right side of his face receding away in places and forming deep, craggy hollows beneath his cheekbone. Taking the small hand mirror, he lifts it and jerks his head to the left to only see his face before wincing. Glaring into the mirror he forces himself to create poetry out of this face but no words come. He knows that his appearance is a part of the contention that makes up his life, why he’s been raised to avoid being in the public eye and… perhaps part of the reason his mum gets so frustrated at him.
He looks into the mirror properly, trying to take in his features; it’s like peering through a fog the further he looks to the right due to the clouding. He can make out the sparseness of his eyebrow and hairline that grows thicker further back, curling around his ear and the nape of his neck. The skin he notes is thinner, like leather stretched across a frame of a drum, the only points of high colour are the red raw callous’ on his prominent jaw, cheekbone and under his eye where his mask presses against his face. His eye follows the deep scar that pulls his upper lip up towards where his right nostril should begin and then up to the reconstructed right edge of his nose. He finds a fascination in his face, similar to that of looking at a painting and trying to take in every little detail possible.
Remembering as a child, when his mother would be at work and when he’d have a moment alone, he’d creep into his mothers room. Going over to the tall dresser he’d quietly pull out the ornate ivory and lace fan that she said had belonged to her Grandmere before going over to position himself in front of the full length mirror. He’d flip it open and hold it up to the center of his face and flip it left and right watching the differing sides appear and disappear in a blur of netting. He’d sit for as long as possible until his mother found him one day. She wasn’t angry. She was rarely ever angry but the strained expression reminds him of the one he saw her wear tonight. Her eyes paused on where he held the fan, the delicate yellowed lace concealing his countenance intermittently before her brows drew together and she left the room. At the time the look sat in the bottom of his stomach and gave him an uncomfortable squirming sensation and so that was the last time he engaged in the solitary mirror ritual.
A knock at his bedroom door pulls him from the recollection. He scrambles off the floor and instinctively reaches for his mask before asking “Yeah?”
“I wanted to talk to you about this evening.”
“Mum, there’s nothing to talk about. You’ve made your point and I made mine.” he replies attempting to keep his voice even and passive.
“Erik, can I come in?” she asks. He pauses watching the door. He steps forward but the hurt of earlier pushes past the urge to reach out.
“No. Everything is fine, I'm just really tired okay?”
“Okay. Sleep well.” he hears her sigh and walk away.

Ayesha stretches out whilst walking and jumps up onto the upright piano before watching him with her blue boss-eyes “I know, I know you don’t need to give me that look.” he says turning towards the tall window his eyes tracking people walking together below on the street. The short lived anger leaves a curious lonely void that makes him restless and wants to dissect the world until it makes sense. Until it could be observed in the time signatures of music and placed to notes that could be so easily played. He shuts his eyes trying to place his anxiety towards the back of his mind; having another panic attack is the last thing he wants from today but his mind is swarming and twisting into a hurricane of worry and vexation. He takes a deep, gulping breath and sits down by his piano propping his legs up onto his bed. Ayesha hops onto Erik’s lap, climbs up to let her head rest under his chin and stretches herself out across his torso.
While stroking her his eyes rest on his phone lying screen down on the lid of the upright. He picks it up, seeing he has a message from Meg, which he swipes away. He flits between apps settling on instagram and scrolling through trying to find something that’ll distract from the incident earlier at the Palais Garnier, the argument and the frustration that’s beginning to churn up his bitterness. The twitchy, tetchiness continues the more he attempts to avoid thinking about his worries.
Standing abruptly he yanks on his coat with a deep cowled hood and creeps from his room Ayesha tripping around his ankles loyally. Reaching the front door he sticks his feet into his boots and leaves the flat.

His footsteps echo on the marble steps and in the foyer until Erik steps out into the September deluge. He turns heading along the wall that separates Montmartre Cimetiere from the street; cars sweep past, their amber headlights reflecting in the puddles, and darkened caffe windows creating a shadow world in the glass that marches on as steadily as the one where water splashes up, dampening the hem of Erik’s coat. He walks decidedly towards the Caulaincourt Bridge and once on the other side he turns and heads down a set of steep charcoal grey stone steps to the necropolis.
The statues that pose inert during the day seem to breathe steadily, their eyes flickering over to Erik as he walks, strictly remaining on the path. Occasionally, through the heavy rain he catches an image of someone leaning in the doorway of a family vault in a frock coat and tophat. He continues, the second wave of the seething, roiling sensation sitting under his ribs spurring him on to the grave that he wants specifically.
Moving deeper into the kirkyard Erik turns onto a slimmer path with decaying flowers and we umber leaves sticking to the cobblestones he slows gradually stopping in front of a raised grave with an copper effigy laying across the stone. The name Destler is engraved at the carvings feet. Hesitating to approach Erik stares at his own surname etched into granite and the teal soles of the copper shoes. His anger stutters and he can’t feel the once so potent betrayal and indignation at his mum whilst standing at his fathers grave site. Her motives and concerns are placed into context again.
Stepping up to the hip height plinth where the likeness of his father is placed, Erik reaches out to the metal hand that’s extended; palm upwards, fingers curled round gently and slips his own into it. He gulps down a hard lump and looks into the face. It’s at moments like this, when he can see aspects of himself reflected back, he’s thankful that his grandparents did the extravagant thing to have a graven image of their son. And it’s preferable to sit with someone rather than be alone even if it’s just a statue; it makes it seem like someone is listening back.
“I know I shouldn’t get mad at mum but… it’s too frustrating. I don’t feel seen or heard outside of whatever the state of my mental health is, you know?” he glances at the still face “She tried to be for me through all of it but… but it still feels like she tries to keep her distance, especially after the last operation.” he lets the sound of his whispered voice drift out, waiting in the silence for some kind of answer.

Toward the horizon, pale blue and yellows start to bleed into the inky black sky like a watercolour painting. Extracting his numb hand he flexes it stiffly and hops off his perch on the plinth “I’ll come again soon.” he murmurs, turning quickly, half hoping to hear a response of ‘please do’ or anything.
On hearing nothing he meanders through the edifices to ancestral families, the famous and beloved, watching in the half morning light how the cold shadows play against the granite, marble and sandstone, how the different shades of stone are warmed.
Drawing close to the singular entrance and exit, he sees a young couple and an older woman heading toward him. He tilts his head downward until he and the small group cross paths and his eyes meet the eyes of the young woman. Christine Daae’s deep brown eyes widen with recognition.
“Erik!” she blurts out.
“Good morning.” he replies in a low voice, glancing at the older woman and the unfortunately handsome young man with her. He bites the inside of his cheek taking in his smooth, unblemished, tawny-gold skin feeling a small pang of envy, that he tries to shove to the back of his mind. The middle aged woman has the same kind eyes that Christine has.
“Hi, how are you?” she asks, eagerly. Erik thinks back to the last time they were in a room together and how the tension rollercoastered through them both.
“I’m fine thanks.” He watches Christine nod, her eyes fixed on his with an imploring, searching gaze.
“Uh… um sorry, this is my Aunt Annika and Raoul.” she stammers, flushing, pulling herself away, gesturing to her companions.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. her aunt steps forward, her hand extended. He sees in her other hand a bouquet of tiny powder blue, agapanthus flowers “Do you work at the opera house as a dancer, a singer or?”
“Oh no, I work as a composer.”
“Oh, what kind of things do you compose?”
“Orchestral scores, classical and operas predominantly.”
“Right up Christine’s alley then.” Raoul speaks, his voice clear and jovial. He smiles genuinely which makes Erik feel worse for his envy at the young man's appearance.
“I’m Raoul de Chagny.”
“Nice to meet you. Both of you.” he nods looking out from under the hood of his coat “I don’t want to keep you from your visit.” he glances to the bouquet again. Erik notes the somberness that settles amongst the three of them. He rapidly murmurs a goodbye and starts again towards the exit.
Climbing the stairs he pauses and glances over his shoulder. Christine’s long, dark curls bounce gently while she walks “I’ll see you soon Christine.”
She suddenly turns “You too.” she replies lingering, the rosy morning casting a golden-pink glow around her like a halo.

Despite being inside for the past hour Erik can still feel the cold, flush on his cheeks. He wonders if that’s because of Christine or because of the sudden cold blast from the north as the seasons start to shift. He keeps seeing her drawn face on entering the cemetery and wonders who she was visiting; perhaps a grandmother? But surely her father would be there as well… her surname Daae leaps out to him. Daae as in the Swedish violinist and composer Felix Daae? He grabs his phone and goes to type the composer's name into the search engine but pauses feeling that this could be overstepping. He doesn’t know Christine that well and it’d be prying. If she wanted him to know she’d tell him. Throwing his phone back onto his bed he turns to the window but his notebook catches his eye. As he reads through the notes he wrote, he can see where the musical motifs would sit and how to introduce note shifts smoothly.
He grins taking up his pencil and scribbling down his thoughts.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight - Act Three

Notes:

This chapter took quite a bit of research and a reasonable amount happens in it. I do hope you enjoy! Happy reading!

“You’re still here?” Madeleine asks, leaning in the doorway of Erik’s room.
“Yeah, inspiration struck.” he mumbles, one deft hand playing out the main tune whilst the other writes the notes onto paper. He hunches up further adding in a tiny sharp symbol as his left hand jumps up to a black key. The bittersweet music his hand follows, transcribing onto piano flutters precariously like a leaf caught on a spiderweb. Sharpening his focus only makes the refrain more illusive.
“You usually leave early... Have you had any more thoughts about what I said last night?” Erik freezes and turns in his seat. The music that was flowing in the base of his skull twists off the gossamer thread and drops.
“No.” he answers flatly, his hand still suddenly. He tries to remember what he said at his fathers grave, and despite knowing that he shouldn’t be irritated. She wants the best for him but what she considers her best isn’t what he would consider to be the most helpful. And if the knowledge that he has a doctor's appointment during the day could exacerbate the current gridlock they’re in. They both sit in the silence created. He meets her grey eyes with his own mismatched ones; concern flickers through her eyes.
“Are you going to your studio at the Garnier?”
“No, I’m working from here today I think.” he lifts a shoulder and lets it drop “Change of scenery. I let Meg know so she won’t be expecting to meet me for lunch.”
“Alright. See you later.”
“Have a good day.” he mutters, turning back to the upright. Erik rests his face in his hand trying to find in his mind where he left the last note but the conversation has thrown his thoughts askew and veering towards having to visit the hospital. The wide, vaulted ceilings, the marble floors from the eighteenth century that seem to echo out a failing heartbeat wherever you step, the rooms that are cold regardless of the time of year and the deeply entrenched, biting odour of lye sitting just below the sharp smell of disinfectant turns his stomach to think about let alone experience.
It isn’t long until the chatter of students fills the dance studio at the end of the corridor and the somewhat comforting direction of Maria over the din of the old piano and speakers. The gentle thumps of jete’s crossing the room makes him yearn for the theatre; his warm, safe attic with it’s threadbare velvet curtains and carpets, the oval windows that overlook Paris making him feel like one of the statues keeping sentinel of the Palais Garnier.
His phone chimes loudly, arresting his attention from the thoughts of his safe place. Fishing it out of his pocket, the screen flashes on displaying a message from an unknown number; frowning he pulls the message up properly reading:
“Hey, Meg gave me your number. Hope you don’t mind. It’s Christine btw.”
Less than a minute later his phone pings again with a text from Meg that merely states: “You’re welcome.” running a hand over his face he stifles a laugh, trying desperately to be annoyed at her but knows he can’t.
“That’s fine! Not a problem” he replies to Christine, he waits for a reply from her ambling around his room. A single word "Great x" the thought of her in the graveyard, pink sunlight streaming around her and the corners of her mouth turned up. When their gaze met there the electricity dormant in his chest leaped forward; he could almost see the current running between them.

Standing tall Erik, jumps the last step of the stairs and strides out his front door keeping a confident pace. The weather changed entirely from earlier that morning and has become unseasonably fair for late September mimicking the previous month's heat. The walk is so pleasant that Erik could almost forget where he’s heading too and after Christine reaching out and wanting to speak to him all he can do is smile thinking about returning to work tomorrow. He looks down smiling still, feeling slightly foolish for being so overjoyed from a simple text but it means she enjoys his company. She likes being around him and spoke to him about ghosts albeit that’s the circumstances on how they met but she continues to divulge what it’s like to constantly be watching out for movement in the corner of your eye, and the gentle brush of someone who’s not there moving past you. She saw the presence that always seems to be, standing just over his shoulder in the crawl space and ran from it with him. They were they for that moment. A unified force. However that’s where it will end, only in company. Fellowship. Amity. But that’s what he would like from her presence, isn’t it? There’s nothing further than friendship.
Turning his thoughts from his and Christine’s relationship he enters into the reality of the consultation at L’hotel Dieu. On approaching the building he can see the towers - and at one time the spire - of Notre Dame Cathedral peeking over the roof, which in patients incites a sense of finality or comfort depending on your religious convictions. A wave of cold dread washes over him as he starts across the bridge toward the long warren of a building. Mentally preparing himself isn’t going to help. Seeing spirits on the inside of L’hotel Dieu is an entirely different experience from seeing spirits when simply walking through Paris or taking the metro; occasionally there will be a spectre that sends shivers rippling up his spine however it feels like a spectral soiree when stepping inside the hospital.

Pausing on the cusp of the entrance he peers in before seeing a nun. It’s already begun. He sighs and steps in attempting to avoid looking at the black and white Augustinian habit and waits at the reception. His eyes slide around the room discreetly trying to tell who’s a spirit and who’s alive. The nun is dead. The order of nuns who served as staff was expelled in the early twentieth century but no one else appears out of place until a young man with a voluptuous moustache steps out in shirt sleeves and a dripping leather apron.
“Yes? Excuse me Sir?” the receptionist calls impatiently.
“Sorry! Um, I have an appointment with Dr Aguillard at eleven.”
“Of course.” she types rapidly, her eyes scanning the monitor “Yes. His office is on the ground floor in the general practitioner ward. It’s along that corridor, through the doors and if you follow it all the way to the end you’ll reach his office.”
“Thanks.” he heads off. He didn’t need the directions to Dr Aguillard’s office, it’s almost as familiar as home. One of his earliest memories is toddling down the long corridor, placing his sticky hands on the glass that looks out into the courtyard, watching the birds flit between perches and gurgling a laugh before being scooped up into his mothers arms. He ambles down the corridor the evergreens in the court pedantically trimmed to careful rounded shapes that are supposedly calming; it was working until about five years ago. Erik halts watching a medieval victim of the black death that sits taking the air probably hoping to rid himself of the miasma that’s still afflicting him in death. Feeling watched the man turns his head, looking up to the arched window, the festering egg sized buboe that sits on his throat like an extra adams apple twists uncomfortably. The white centred pustule makes him want to wretch but he unmistakably locks eyes with the ill man and feels pity for him. The medieval man lifts a necrotic hand in greeting. Terrified that he’ll come and speak to him Erik hesitates but raises a palm quickly averts his eyes and marches through the rest of the corridor, modern nurses in pale blue uniforms merging with the monochromatic habits of the nuns. He shuts his eyes and heaves again, wiping cold sweat from his forehead as the realisation hits him that even as a ghost you can feel the vile apprehension of someone observing you.
Staggering to an empty row of chairs outside Dr Aguillards’s he sits, swallowing down the urge to throw up and takes long measured breaths. He pulls his phone out and examines his reflection in the black screen, fixing his hair and mopping sweat off his face again. He sits back hoping to appear nonchalant and calm.
“Hello Erik. Please take a seat inside. I’ll be just with you.” Dr Aguillard smiles warmly as he steps out of his office, holding the door open for Erik. He steps inside and lets the heavy, dark wood door shut behind him. The room is suspended in time; it could almost be fourteen years ago when he at nine threw an unprecedented screaming fit at being told he’d have to go back into the wrong kind of theatre again. Still sparsely decorated with a desk, three chairs and a faux leather examination bed he looks out of the far side window seeing the medieval man now with a companion of a gentleman from the early eighteenth century who’s also seemingly beset upon by the plague.
Stepping away from the bizarre scene he perches on the examination bed letting his legs swing, pulls the cuffs of his coat down over his hands and wrinkling his nose at the strong disinfectant making a tickling sensation like the beginning of a sneeze. He waits with hunched shoulders.
The door opens and his doctor enters; he’s known Erik from childhood, and Erik knew him when he didn’t have gentle crows feet or silver coily hair. Dr Aguillard consulted on each intricate surgery and referred him to other experts in the field of dermatology, reconstruction and prosthesis. “Morning Erik, how are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. How’re you?”
“Good. I’m just fine, thanks.” he smiles before regaining his warm yet professional demeanour “I just wanted to check your prosthetic for you, as it’s been about five years now, yes?”
“Yeah, thereabouts.”
“You still attend routine checkups?” he questions turning in his chair, his undivided attention now on him. It’s bizarre for someone to be sitting in front of you knowing so much information on your own health and medical history. It’s a crawling sensation that pinpricks his skin even though he’s being so attentive and kind.
“Yeah, I have a yearly basic checkup, with Doctor Miller.” he shrugs, feeling himself tense up further, his hands becoming cold.
“Have you had any issues with the prosthetic?”
“Uh…” he pauses. He really doesn’t like the word prosthetic, it’s so medical “Only really recently, I guess.”
“Let's take a look then.” he claps his hands, pulling a pair of rubber gloves out of his coat pocket. Gingerly removing the mask and placing it on the bed next to him and pushing his hair back from his forehead so he can have a full view. Doctor Aguillard winces “You should have come in sooner Erik.” he says taking in the irritated, red, contact patches. He shrugs in return.
“This is from the last few months, yes?” he asks, running a cool gloved hand over the sore on his forehead above his eyebrow.
“Yeah. It’s not been painful.” Erik lies.
“Okay well, we’re going to have to get you a new prosthetic. You can’t wear that one.” he picks up the current mask “because it’ll only inflame your skin more. You know the routine of keeping any irritation clean etc. but you shouldn’t wear anything across the right side of your face. Just until you get the new prosthetic.”
“What?” Erik asks abruptly.
“I think it’s a good idea to have a break from wearing a prosthesis currently.”
“What about if I’m going out?”
“You still have the mask you wore before this one?”
“Yes.” he replies thinking about the clunky, clear plastic compression mask and bile rises in his throat “How long will it take to get a new one?”
“Not too long. A couple of weeks.” Erik fights a shout of frustration that sits in his throat “I’d like to examine your eyes next.” Aguillard places his hands gently on Erik’s face requesting him to look up and to the side whilst light is shone testing the rapidity of the contraction of his pupils. Blinking hard against the torch a tear rolls down his rough cheek “There’s no diminishment in your eye at all from what I can see.”
“If my face is less sore couldn’t I wear my current mask?”
“No. I’m sorry Erik but it’s doing some obvious harm which may result in another operation if worn over a long period of time. We’re also going to need your current mask to mold a new one.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“I understand that this is very difficult. But needing a new mask is perfectly normal. Bone structure often doesn’t settle until you’re twenty-five and you’re a few years off yet. You’re turning twenty-three soon, yes?”
“Yes on the twenty-third.”
“Not too far off then.” Dr Aguillard says glancing over his shoulder as he types “Right, everything is set up. We’ll send you a text to let you know when to pick it up. Is there anything else that you want or need to discuss with me?”
“No, thank you.” he slips off the bed eager to leave and find a way to deal. He knew it was coming and that it wouldn’t be good but it still feels like having a rug pulled from under your feet.
“You’re free to go.”
“Thanks again.” he timidly steps into the corridor, scanning it quickly for anyone before pulling his hood up and letting it fall low on his face. Squaring his shoulders, he thinks of himself as an immovable force as he sets off back down the hall toward the exit. It’s five hundred feet from him now, he can get out that door and go home and stay home. Christine’s warm smile takes shape in his mind and his heart hits his knees. Seeing her like this would be impossible. He doesn’t want to look like this when he sees her. When other people see him. What is he going to say when Marie or his mother asks where his mask is? The desperate, thrashing urge to break into a sprint beats at the back of his legs like a trapped bird. Four hundred feet is easy to cover in a run a small voice whispers which he heeds.
Attempting to dodge past patients and nurses he keeps his eyes plastered ahead “Watch where you’re going! No running!” someone furiously shouts.
“I’m sorry.” he replies breathlessly, glancing over his shoulder. The stench of rotting, illness unwashed clothes and body assaults his senses and attaches itself to him briefly before fading as quickly as it began. He stumbles, looking back and staring into the dismal, dull eyes of the medieval man; his chalky, swollen face, matted hair inches from his own, the necrosis has extended to the tip of his nose. He opens his blue lips, drawing in a rattling breath. Erik lets out a strangled cry as he races out of the building, his hood falling back.

Gulping down air, he tugs his hood back over his face “Erik?”
“Huh?” leaning against the building a man in a burgundy blazer, pale stone coloured trousers with salt and pepper hair watches him breath heavily “Erik Destler?” he repeats.
“Yes?”
“I hardly recognize you. It’s been a long while. How are you?”
“Dr Shir-Del? What are you doing here?”
“I asked you a question first.” he grins. Erik rolls his eyes; he was always pulling things like this in their sessions when he would refuse to answer a question that had pushed something too far. Clutching a stitch in his side he tries to stand up straight and breathe evenly “I’m fine thanks. Now, what are you doing here?”
“I am a doctor. Are you sure? Running out of a hospital doesn’t typically denote the fact that someone is fine.”
“Yes I’m grand. You’re not a practising doctor anymore. I was told you were going back to study something else and stopped being a psychologist.”
“Yes, I went to study parapsychology. If it’s not too presumptuous, could I offer to buy you a coffee. You seem like you need it.” he gestures to him clutching his side in pain and taking deep breaths.
“Sure,” Erik responds shrugging. There isn’t any harm in being courteous and it’s nice to see a friendly face after walking through a dead man. He gulps back a gag still being able to taste how potent he stank. Coffee will help wash the taste out “that’d be great, thanks.”
“No problem. So, what do you do these days?”
“Is this strictly confidential?”
“Yes. Not a doctor-patient confidentiality but this information will go no further than this conversation.”
“Thank you. I work at the Palais Garnier as a composer.”
“Wow. That’s amazing, Erik.”
“Thanks.” he murmurs feeling a little embarrassed by Nadir’s genuine happiness at his success “So, parapsychology is studying the paranormal I assume.”
“Yes. Particularly looking into near-death experiences or those who claim to be psychic currently and what effect they have on the brain.” Nadir holds the door to the cafe open letting Erik step in first.
“Does a near death experience have an effect on the brain?” he asks, looking from under the edge of his hood into Nadir’s hazel eyes. Nadir notes the near imperceptible strain in Erik’s euphonious voice.
“No, although some people say that they can begin to see, speak or hear the paranormal.” He leads the way to a table and sits “I had one woman claim that she could actually smell ghosts.”
“Wow…” Erik forces a chuckle, thinking about the wretched ghost he walked through and how rancid that smelt “what are you going to do with this research?”
“It’s interesting how humans conceptualize death and since the beginning of time we’ve discussed apparitions and the existence of ghosts. I’d be interested in knowing more about it and the field isn’t explored or endorsed in a scientific way as it should be. It was during the height of spiritualism with, well amateur scientists I suppose like Harry Price and Houdini’s group going undercover to find if any tricks were being used by so-called psychics to dupe vulnerable people. I must be boring you! I’ll get us a cafetiere of coffee.”
Erik nods, wiping his shaking palms on his trousers, staring out the window towards the hospital.
“You like your coffee black?”
“Yes. Thank you.” he turns back to Nadir; under his gaze he can’t help but feel scrutinised. He has the type of eyes that can see through any sort of deception, he won’t necessarily say anything but you know that he knows the truth.
“So what happened back at the hospital?”
“I just needed to get out of there. It can be too much sometimes.”
“Right.” Nadir sits back in his seat sipping his coffee slowly. And there are the eyes at work. A disarming softness comes over them which puts him on edge; telling nearly everything would be fine.
“I have to have a new prosthesis fitted and I can’t wear my current mask so that’s it. Hence the hood.” taking a swig of coffee to drown out the sour taste that’s coating his tongue he shifts a little in his seat.
“It must be difficult.”
Erik shrugs evasively “It is what it is.”
“Still it can’t be easy.” Nadir is met with silence. Erik takes another sip of the black coffee gripping the cup hard to stop him from running his hand over his face. Exhaustion weighs down his shoulders and makes his eyelids heavy.
“What do they see?” he eventually utters.
“Sorry?”
“Your patients. You said they see ghosts. What do they see and do you believe them?”
“It depends upon the location, I suppose. The theory is it depends where people have died and… I don’t know whether I believe them or whether it’s a kind of hoax or an underlying mental health condition although we do a psych evaluation.”
“So there isn’t any way of knowing whether someone is telling the truth or just ill?”
“Not entirely. There’s the factor of if someone does have an underlying condition do they believe their own reality. This is part of the reason I was at the hospital today. I had my patients with a near death experience have an MRI scan so I have a detailed image of their brain. If there’s any anomaly we’ll be able to see that in the scan and investigate.”
“And what if there isn’t but they still see things?”
“It’s a case of ruling out. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains however improbable must be the truth.”
“But you’ll never truly know?”
“I suppose it can be more a concept of what reality you believe. If there’s enough proof to sustain your own reality then it must be the truth within reason.”
“I guess it must.” he downs the dregs of his coffee, all of the panic that flooded him has drained away leaving his body heavier and weary. The idea that seeing spirits could all be some form of his own reality is a curious thought; this isn’t exactly the version of reality he would have chosen. Especially not after what happened.
“Thank you for spending this break with me. I wanted to ask before I get back to work, how is your family?”
“Mum’s in a production of “The Magic Flute” at the Palais Garnier. She’s in the role of the Queen of the Night which is opening tomorrow and Marie is still teaching ballet.”
“She’s back on stage again? I can’t remember when she was last in a stage production.”
“It was about six years ago.” he cringes.
“Yes, I was going to say it was a couple of years after you stopped being my patient. I hope she and Marie are well. Give them my best wishes.”
“Yeah, of course. I hope your family is all well.”
Nadir merely smiles and nods before they part ways.

Unthinkingly Erik heads to the Palais Garnier sending off a text on the way to let Meg know that he’s going to be in his studio and to come up when she’s free so they can talk about everything that’s just happened. Meg understands perspective when he’s too overwhelmed to see it. The foyer and hallways are quiet as a matinee commences making it simple to walk to his studio in one of the domes.
Reaching the hidden pannell is a glorious relief and more so to shut it behind him and bask in the lowlight. Climbing up the metal stairs the early afternoon light streams through the deep set oval windows casting long crepuscular rays across the bare floorboards dimly lighting the vast space. Shrugging off his coat and hoodie he collapses onto the chaise where he watches dust motes float gently in the light.
He hardly knows what to do about seeing spirits, about the mask, about how he feels for Christine. Their friendship that is. He wants to speak to her and she may want to speak to him but she can’t understand how he looks. He can’t even look at himself in a mirror, not when he finally understood what it meant to look like he does. Throwing a sinewy arm over his eyes he lets the weight of it press against them, causing old fashioned TV static to appear. In the distance he can hear the faint music of La Traviata humming through the beams, it’s something so easy to get lost in when the theatre sings it around you.

Grumbling and sitting up stiffly, he swings his legs over onto the floor. He knows he dozed off slipping in and out of sleep hearing the swells of music and applause. The sun is dipping low in the sky casting shadows upwards to the plastered ceiling and his headaches from exclusively drinking coffee that day and probably the hospital. The Opera House is relatively silent; there is a remote singing of stringed instruments tuning and the occasional pomp of a brass.
He feels the door swing shut “Can I come up?”
“Yeah.” he replies with his head hanging in his hands. Meg’s voice sounds soft with a different kind of lilt to it and her footsteps on the metal spiral stairs are lighter. His brows pull together as he raises his eyes to the entrance and instead of a sheet of straight blonde hair, brown curls that spring up around a heart shaped face appear.
“Hey! I thought you weren’t going to be up here today. Meg told me.”
“I wasn’t…” he watches her from the corner of his left eye, his aching brain rifling through the events of the past two and a half hours. The text. It was sent to Meg but perhaps in his haste… he pulls out his phone and sees the last message he sent to Meg which was yesterday. He angles away a little more from her and tilts his head “I wasn’t but had some time and I needed to pick up a few things.”
“Ah. So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh. It was just about um, just about…” his mind goes blank when he feels Christine approach the chaise; the heat of her body sitting so near and the tickle of her hair against his bare arms. He flinches so hard at the contact it makes his muscles ache. He doesn’t want her to see him. They’ve only just become friends and if she… he can’t bear to think of her reaction because there’s this instinctive gravitational pull he feels to her in everything she does, how she sees the world, the way she speaks and asserts herself and her curiosity and openness to address what she doesn’t understand. The opposite of himself and it’s hypnotising to see someone so brazenly brave. He exhales slowly trying to relax again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You jumped.” Christine states, her voice neutral.
“I-I just need to be alone.”
“Oh.” The quiet confused disappointment in Christine’s voice echoes as loudly as any crescendo “I’ll go.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What for? You made your request and I’ll listen to it.”
“I feel like I’ve deceived you. I… I really like you and still want you to be my… friend. I don’t want any of that to change because I feel like…”
“Like what?”
“Like someone truly wonderful has entered my life and this could ruin everything. This has ruined everything.”
“You don’t know that, you haven’t told me what you think you’re deceiving me about.” She steps forward pushing her glasses up her nose. Erik hears the nervous note trailing through her determination.
“I don’t look like you, or Meg or Raoul.” he thinks back to the graveyard and the beautiful young man, with the smooth summer golden skin, that has freckles dusted on the high points of his face and a gentle fullness to his cheeks that dimple when he smiles.
“I don’t think anyone looks like each other.” she says slowly. Erik stifled a frustrated sigh.
“Have you ever looked at me? I mean really looked?” he holds his thin hands away from his body, taking in his own thin frame. He knows he looks angular and odd.
“I don’t think it matters what you look like Erik. It wouldn’t change anything. You’re my friend.”
He laughs wryly “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.” she repeats “I just don’t understand what’s going on.”
“It’s to do with my face so I guess I’ll just look at you but I want you to know that I never meant to lie or decieve. Only really Meg knows because we’ve always known each other but… yeah.” he falls silent. He feels Christine shift a little, her brows furrowed “Okay.” he breathes, his eyes watering before turning his head to meet her own eyes. It takes a moment before he sees realisation in her eyes.
“Oh, it was a mask.” she barely whispers.
"A realistic one but a mask nonetheless." he watches colour flood into her face and down her neck. She flounders for a moment trying to express herself but eventually shutting her mouth firmly.
"Don't worry about it." He says immediately, turning away, thoughts of her disappointment flooding his head. She preferred the mask. Why wouldn’t she?
“Erik, you look fine. It doesn’t affect how I see you at all.”
He turns back to her slowly assessing her expression carefully for traces of mockery or fear. A small sincere smile plays on her lips and her eyes only shine with affection “Thank you.”
“It’s okay.” she shrugs but she turns her head slightly and bites the inside of her bottom lip.
“What is it you want to ask?” he asks, just relieved that she didn’t seem horrified.
“Nothing, why would you say that?”
“You get this kind of look, weighing up whether it’s worth asking. You had the same look when we were talking about why you were here after dark.”
“I seem to always be asking you questions.”
“The duties of the resident expert never cease.” he sighs in an affected manner. She looks at him to see if he’s serious before noting the slight, sly smile.
“Very funny! But in all seriousness, you don’t mind if I ask a question?”
“Go for it.” he nods, anxiety clenching at him again.
“Where is your mask?”
“I have to get a new one. The reddish patches are where my mask was rubbing against my skin. I was at the hospital to see a specialist.”
“Is this why you stay up here?” her voice has dropped to a serious tone.
“You said you had a question, not two.” he half laughs nervously at the way her eyes focus on him intensely.
“Erik.”
“No, it’s… it’s not that..”
“You stay up here all day and sometimes all night.”
“You don’t need to get angry on my behalf.”
“I’m not you’re just-!”
“I’m just what?”
“Acting like a ghost. Not really living, not really not. Just existing in a space in between where things that make up life happen.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Does it make you happy?”
“What made me unhappy was being stared at as a child, the semi-pitying horrified looks and the other children whispering, parents tugging at their hands to pull them away in case I was contagious. I’m surrounded by ghosts all the time so why shouldn’t I be one. No one bothers you when you are.” he turns, striding towards the window, his breath catching in his throat. He can hear Christine inhaling and exhaling heavily before her voice comes out thin.
“I’m sorry Erik. I wasn’t trying to criticise you.”
“I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have snapped or yelled. It wasn’t kind.”
“I just think there’s more out there for you than this attic.”
“I wish I could think so too.” a warm hand touches his shoulder and he feels the tickle of Christine’s hair on his bare arm “It’s not for anyone else to ‘save me’ though.” he tells her softly.
“I know… what did you mean by you’re surrounded by ghosts?”
“It’s a long story.”
“And I have an evening performance to perform.”
“We’ll have to discuss this another time.” she nods, starting to head towards the staircase when he impulsively touches her shoulder. She turns to look up at him “Yeah?” he quickly leans forward placing a kiss on her soft cheek “Thank you, for everything.” a flush blooms on her cheeks again.
“It’s no problem… I’ll um, I’ll see you tomorrow. At the opening?”
“Yes, I’ll be there. Box Five.”
“Good. Right. Okay.” she smiles “I’ll see you there.”
“Yeah.” he nods, his lips tingling from the kiss. Everything else seems minimal in comparison to that moment of boldness to show his appreciation of her kindness.

Erik combs back his dark hair attempting to keep it in place with pins after the failure with hairspray and gel. It holds firmly and he steps through into the dining room where Marie sits putting an earring on “You look very handsome.”
“Thanks.” he murmurs fiddling with the bright white mask in his hands, it’s the only one he could find after rootling around in the costume department. A lot of people go very avant-garde on the opening night, it is the place to be seen and the fact that it’s the first time his mother will be performing again after about five or so years the amount of people who will be there… he shudders to think.
He puts on the odd half mask before glancing at his reflection in a large wall mirror. The mask comes down over part of his top lip, curving all the way back to his right ear and up almost past his hairline. It works, which is the main thing.

The Palais Garnier is packed as Erik suspected. The soft susurration of gowns moving, tall champagne flutes clink against each other while he and Marie try to make their way through the mingling crowds up towards the upper circle. They turn the corridor into their box “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes please. You know my favourite.”
“Of course. I’ll be back in a moment.” he says, touching her shoulder and walking through towards the grand staircase to the hall where a temporary bar has been set up; waiters wander through the mirrored hall carrying trays with champagne flutes on them. He takes one quickly sipping it on the way to the bar giving him some liquid courage to continue through the crowd and stay calmer.
“Excuse me.” he says to a tall man also in black tails.
“Oh I’m sorry.” he steps and tilts his head a little. He recognises the bronzed skin and open smile.
“Hello, I’m Erik, Christine’s friend.”
“Oh yeah! How are you?”
“I’m well. You’re here to support Christine?”
“Yes. Me and her aunt Annika. Is that why you’re here?”
“Partly yes. I’m a member of staff. It helps to attend functions.” the bartender sees to Erik’s drinks.
“You’re here with someone?” Raoul asks, gesturing to the two drinks and glancing around for presumably, a young lady. As much as he knows that Raoul is being polite, a horrible little part of him can’t help being satisfied in stating “Yes, a family friend. She used to dance here.”
“That’s cool! Does she still dance as a profession?”
“No, she teaches now.” Erik sips his white wine.
“I know I couldn’t have the patience to teach, let alone teach dancing. Would you like to meet up after the performance? I’m sure Christine and Annika wouldn’t mind if your friend wouldn’t.”
“Yeah I can see.” Erik, smiles feeling a little awful for being so subtly spiteful “I’ll let Christine know.”
“Awesome! I hope you enjoy the performance.”
“Thank you.” He nods watching Raoul weave his way elegantly through the crowd.

Side-stepping all the way up to Box Five he eventually arrives and seats himself just as the lights begin to dim down and the curtain rises. A handsome young man runs across the stage singing out for help as a serpent pursues him. Exhausted he collapses when Meg, Christine and a young red headed girl pirouette across the stage, in long flowy midnight blue gowns with sheaths over their shoulders. They see the serpent and unsheath their star silver blades and repeatedly stab the creature before turning their attention onto the young man. They each attempt to convince each other to leave so they might be alone with him. When Christine lets out a soaring note Erik leans forward toward the sweet sound and he’s persuaded the audience does the same.
The opera continues on reaching the precipice of what everyone has been waiting to hear from Madeliene Destler: Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen or the second Queen of the Night aria. Erik nervously watches as Pamina is asleep on a full bed, flowers around her and pinpoints of stars flickering like candlelight. The serenity is broken with a crack of thunder.
The Queen of the Night arrives in a flash of lightning and a fine mist. His mothers blonde hair is hidden beneath a jet black wig that falls down to her mid back she bears down on Pamina played by Carlotta producing a knife from the skirts of her silken black gown and pressing it into her hand before moving disdainfully past her. She sweeps her skirts around her voice gliding effortlessly up in range. Erik feels a smile gradually moving onto her face knowing that his mother is happy to be back on stage. She exudes energy and power.
Madeleine steps forward to scold Pamina once more when where she's about to step a large light falls directly in front of her, grazing down her leg pulling her skirts. She jumps and lets out a cry of pain. The audience collectively gasps, some leaning forward in their seats, others retreat shielding their eyes. The dancers move forward to aid Madeleine.

“Mum!” Erik screams hoarsely, jumping up and running from the box, tripping over a chair as he goes. He races through to backstage deaf to the rumble of the audience discussing the event. His legs pump hard, willing himself to move faster to get to her. He reaches stage left and pushes his way through the circle of dancers, singers and actors. His mother is sitting on the floor, her left leg extended with someone pressing tissues to it stemming blood flow. Kneeling beside her, he whips off his jacket placing it over her bare shoulders and takes her hand.
“Are you okay?” he waits for an answer trying to look into her face that’s ducked down low “Mum?”