Looking back over my Fiction Fridays, I find there’s at least one representative of almost all my major writing projects.  My Golden Age of Piracy story and my Fairy Tale Retelling, as well as the significant interests of my fanfiction years, Star Trek and Pirates of the Caribbean.  But–I am missing my one other fanfiction interest.  And the Phantom of the Opera does not like to be ignored (somewhat paradoxically, he also doesn’t like being noticed–a complex character).

To round things out, and keep the Phantom happy 🙂 I thought I’d share a scene from my Phantom novel.  There’s not a lot of context needed for this particular scene.  Backstory (spoilers for the original, you have been warned)–the Phantom is a masked musical genius who lives beneath the Paris Opera House.  One of his demands for the opera company is that Box Five be reserved for his exclusive use.  He falls in love with Christine, a singer at the Opera, there’s a romantic triangle and a lot of upheaval, and she eventually leaves and he’s left at the Opera House with a broken heart.

My story picks up from there.  It’s mostly but not exclusively based on the Webber musical (the original, NOT in any way, in any form, in the slightest bit, on the sequel–and if you don’t know what I’m talking about, good, you’ve been spared).  It primarily focuses on the Phantom, whose name is Erik (not something Webber mentioned), and on Meg Giry, a supporting character in the original.  She’s not actually in this scene, although she’s loosely referenced in the remarks about blondes.

This scene is a little while into the story, a few months after the original ends, and the management of the Opera has just decided to sell Box Five for the first time.

I think I’m okay on copyright here…Leroux’s Phantom has got to be public domain by now, and nothing here is directly from any other version.

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            The young man who bought the seats in Box Five was named Pierre.  His lady friend, whom he had met exactly two days previously, was named Jacqueline, and so far he had done very well impressing her.  They greatly enjoyed Act One.  Then, in the middle of Act Two, the voice started.

            “You’re in my box, you know.”  It was really a very nice sounding voice.  Definitely male, almost melodious in nature, and conversational in tone.

            That didn’t stop Pierre from taking issue with the words.  He rose from his seat and turned to address the apparent direction of the speaker.  “It so happens that I paid for these seats—”  He broke off abruptly, looking wildly around the box.  There was no one there.

            That didn’t seem to bother the voice.  “Of course you paid for them,” he went on.  “They should never have sold them to you, you see.”

            “Why not?” Pierre snapped, turning in circles in his efforts to locate the speaker.

            “Pierre, what’s going on?” Jacqueline asked.

            “I don’t know!”  At that moment the dizziness hit him and he lost his balance, falling into one of the seats.

            “There’s no need to get upset,” the voice commented.  “I’m the one who ought to be upset, you’re the ones intruding.”

            “Where are you?” Pierre demanded, pushing himself out of the chair and back to his feet, shaking his head in an effort to clear the dizziness. 

            “That’s a more complicated question than you realize,” the voice explained from the very back of the box.  “Because I might be over here,” he went on from the front of the box, “but I also might be over here,” he added from the last row of seats.  “I might even be here,” the voice said from the seat next to Jacqueline.

            At that, Jacqueline gave a slight but unmistakable shriek. 

            “Now there’s no need to be alarmed, my dear,” the voice said.  “I’m sure you’re a lovely girl.  I wouldn’t dream of harming you.  I rather like blondes.”

            When the voice decided to be soothing, he was excellent at it.  “Really?” Jacqueline said with interest. 

            “Certainly.”

            Pierre, on the other hand, was not soothed in the slightest.  More the opposite.  “Stay away from her!”

            “Am I anywhere near her?” the voice asked, tone quite reasonable.

            “I don’t know, I can’t see you!”

            “Of course not, I’m a ghost.”

            “I’m not sure I like ghosts,” Jacqueline said.  Though at least this ghost seemed to have good taste.  Everyone knows gentlemen prefer blondes, after all.

            “Why not?  Ghosts are human too.  In a way.”

            “I never thought of that,” she said, considering the matter.

            Pierre, meanwhile, was stalking up and down the box by now.  “Why don’t you show yourself?” he challenged.

            “I told you, I’m a ghost.” 

            “I don’t believe you!”

            “Yes, well, that’s your choice, isn’t it?”

            “This is all an elaborate trick!”

            “It could be,” the voice said.  “Does it really matter?  Even if it is, we still have the problem of your being in my box.”

            “I paid for it!”

            “Yes, and I’m sorry about that, but I can’t let you stay.  It’s nothing personal, but if I let you use this box I’d have to let everyone use it.”

            “That makes sense,” Jacqueline commented.

            “No, it doesn’t!” Pierre snapped.

            She frowned.  “Doesn’t it?”

            “I thought it did,” the voice remarked.

            “Well it doesn’t,” Pierre said hotly.  “And if you’re a ghost, why do you need a seat anyway?”

            “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.  You’re alive.”  The voice managed to make that sound like a liability.  “Now, as nice as this conversation has been, a friend of mine is dancing in Act Three and I’d like to watch.  So you need to find seats elsewhere.”

            “We’ll do nothing of the kind!” Pierre said.

            “You don’t want to defy me,” the voice said quietly, a harder edge entering his tone.  “Trust me.”

            “I bought these seats and I’m staying here.”

            “Don’t be a fool, boy,” the voice said.

            “I am not a fool!” Pierre said, outraged.

            “Aren’t you?  Don’t think you’re the first insolent wretch I’ve ever encountered.  You’re all alike—strutting, swaggering fools!”

            Furious, Pierre struck out towards the voice’s most recent direction.  His fist connected solidly with the marble pillar in the back right corner of the box.  He inhaled sharply.  “Ow.” 

            “That was smart,” the voice said, as merry laughter filled the small space.

            “Don’t laugh at me!” Pierre shouted.

            “I don’t laugh, and if I did it wouldn’t be nearly that high-pitched.”

            Pierre’s eyes widened and he turned to look at the only other occupant of the box.

            She smiled apologetically and tried to swallow her giggles.  “It was rather funny.”

            “Jacqueline!”

            “Have you had enough yet?” the voice asked.  “Because I’m becoming irritated, and you don’t want to irritate the Phantom of the Opera.”

            “I knew it,” Jacqueline said, deeply satisfied.  “I thought that was who you must be.”

            “Did you?” the voice—the Phantom—said with little interest.

            “I’ve heard of you,” she said cheerfully.  “Practically everyone in Paris was talking about it.  You’re that monster that who killed some chorus girl.”

            To which the Phantom was dangerously silent. 

            “Jacqueline,” Pierre said, “I don’t think that was a good thing to say.”

            “Get out,” the Phantom said quietly.

            “I’m just repeating what I heard,” she protested.

            “Get out.”  Louder this time.

            “It’s what everyone said—”

            “GET OUT!”  This time it was a thundering roar, as the curtains flapped and the lights in the box flickered on and off. 

            It was too much even for Pierre’s stubbornness.  He grabbed Jacqueline’s hand and they fled.

            The door had scarcely shut behind them before Erik stepped out of his pillar, by means known only to him.  He dropped into his usual seat and glared at the curtains around him, seething.  Of course he’d heard comments like that before.  The Opera Company made them all the time, discussed the entire affair in depth and complexity and said far worse things.  He was used to it, from them.  Suddenly hearing it from a bright-eyed girl, a complete stranger who apparently considered it common knowledge shared by all of Paris, was something else again.

            Not that there was anything he could do about it.  He told himself that, several times, quite firmly.  By the time a few more scenes of the opera had gone by, he almost believed it.