Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter 1

**Hey, all! A quick note - Jump, Grasshopper is definitely still in the works. I've had a bad run of luck what with cutbacks at work, searching for a new job, and on top of it all a medical crisis that just won't quit (nothing dire, just annoying). With all of that on my plate, I've just not had the concentration for my mystery/thriller epic. But...I really had to write this little story. Hope you enjoy!**

**Edit: I made a couple of small changes to this chapter to improve the readability. If it seems different, it probably is. :) Enjoy!**

Christine jerked open the door to her dressing room with trembling hands before fumbling in the darkness for her gaslight.

Her senses were heightened in her nervous state. The thud of her heartbeat, the hiss of her breath...she could even hear the accusing tick of her clock from across the room. She was late...she must be!

A tiny jet of flame quivered weakly in the glass globe of the lamp. Each flutter sent shadows dancing across the knotted wood walls, their leering shapes towering over the pale, wide eyed girl.

Christine shivered. In her tiny, abandoned dressing room, the shadows were even worse than the darkness.

"You were very nearly late, child," said a gentle voice.

"Angel!" She stammered. "Oh...forgive me!"_  
_

An indulgent chuckle echoed through the room.

"There is naught to forgive, child...I said _nearly_, not _were_. There is a vital difference, you know."

The gaslight had ceased guttering and now burned bright and steady. The shadows faded, and Christine felt her breathing begin to relax.

"And yet," continued the voice, "it is unlike you, Christine. How could you lose track of the time, my darling? Do you wish for your angel to worry about you?"

His tone was light, but an edge of suspicion had sharpened his normally sweet voice.

"Well?"

Christine chewed her lip.

"I am sorry, angel," she said at last. "I have no good reason, I know. But rehearsal had finished, and it was _so_ cold, and everyone else seemed to be gathering there..."

"Gathering where?" he asked quietly.

"Erm. The main prop room, the one across from the ballet changing halls. One of the stage hands had built a fire, and...I think everyone just wanted to warm up. Anyway, that's how things got started."

"What..._things_, exactly?"

"They were telling stories," she whispered, her eyes fluttering to the floor.

"Stories?" said the voice.

"Yes."

The angel heaved an exaggerated sigh and laughed softly.

"I know how fond you are of stories, Christine," he said, with obvious affection.

A blush formed over her cheeks.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Oh...yes," she said quietly.

There was a slight pause.

"You are not convincing me, my dear. Your expression is troubled! Are you cold? Or perhaps," said the voice slowly, "you are afraid?"

Christine inhaled quickly, her eyes snapping up to the great floor length mirror that lined the far wall.

"I - I could _never_ be afraid when you are near, angel!"

"You are lying, my dear."

The simple statement made Christine wince. She stared at her guilty expression in the mirror, at the obvious fear in her eyes.

"I...perhaps I am bit nervous," she said.

"What is it that frightens my Christine?" the voice murmured softly.

She trembled. She was not sure why.

"The truth," she said slowly, "the truth is that they were telling, well...ghost stories."

"Ghost stories!"

"Yes...I...oh, that's _wrong_, isn't it? I know I'm supposed to avoid earthly distractions, but I was...feeling a bit lonesome, I suppose." Christine sighed. "I suppose it _is_ rather stupid to keep an angel waiting to hear a ghost story, isn't it?"

A merry laugh filled the room; the warm, rich tones caressed Christine like a warm bath. She smiled in earnest; she sometimes felt it was worth anything to hear him laugh.

"Do you think me very foolish?" she asked, her blush deepening.

"Only very endearing," said the voice. "After all, what could be more natural than to linger over a ghost story on a cold autumn night?"

Christine blinked in surprise.

"I had forgotten about the cold! I was _freezing_ earlier...but I'm not, now." She shrugged. "I suppose I just forget when I am with you."

Christine could never imagine the pleasure this simple statement brought to her angel.

"It is the gift of the blessed, my darling," he said softly. "When one's sole focus is heaven's ecstasy, earthly pain recedes. Still," he continued, "you must always practice vigilance. It would not do to ignore the chill of winter only to discover yourself with a cold."

"Yes, angel. I will do as you say."

For awhile there was silence while Christine pondered these spiritual truths.

Yet a sudden creak of wood from outside her door sent Christine flying from her chair with a gasp.

"_Angel!_ Oh, angel, _save me!"_

_"Christine!" _he cried. "My darling, whatever is the _matter?"_

For she was kneeling by the long floor length mirror, her breath coming fast, her arms wrapped around her like a shield.

"Oh angel," she whispered. "I'm a fool, I _know_ I'm a fool...but I'm frightened!"

"By that little creak of wood?" said the voice soothingly. "It was only the boards shifting in the cold...there is no need to be afraid, little one!"

She leaned back against the mirror, her forehead drawn in a scowl.

"I know, I _know_," she said. "I'm letting my imagination get the better of me. Papa used to say it was my greatest curse...I could convince myself that any little noise was a witch or a goblin. But angel, I really am afraid."

"Of what?"

_"Of the ghost!"_

For a moment, the silence hung heavy.

"What ghost, Christine?" the voice whispered.

"The Opera Ghost!" she said shrilly, her fists striking the wooden floor. "_He_ was the one all of the stories were about tonight! How he haunts the corridors...or threatens the staff...even the managers are afraid of him, though they would never admit it. And Buquet!" she gasped. "Buquet has actually _seen_ him! He told us _all_ about the ghost...that he's a skeleton, a simple skeleton covered over with evening clothes. His head...his head is a death's head, a bald, rotting death's head!"

A bark of tense laughter escaped her lips. "Buquet said he had no nose, you know...just a horrible hole in the middle of his face. Or eyes! Just dead, empty sockets where his eyes should be...oh, I can't bear to imagine it!"

"Hmph," said the angel after a moment, his voice cold and rigid. "The last I heard, his eyes were yellow and glowed in the dark."

"Well, yes, little Jammes said something of...wait..." Christine held her breath, and her eyes widened with surprise.

_"You_ know of the Opera Ghost, angel?"

"Of course," he said tersely. "Does it surprise you that I know something of the goings on of the opera?"

Christine buried her face in her hands.

"How embarrassing," she muttered. "I don't seem to be doing anything right tonight. Of _course_ you would know. You're an angel...you know everything!"_  
_

"Hush child," he said. "Do not blaspheme! True omniscience, after all, is known only to God. Still, I do possess a certain power of...penetration, you know. In some areas more than others."

Christine frowned in confusion. "Like music?"

"...Yes. Like music."

She nodded and wrapped her arms around her knees.

"Tell me truly, child," said the voice with infinite tenderness. "Have the stories of the Opera Ghost...upset you?"

"They have," she said quietly. "I'm not brave by nature, and there has been such mischief recently. Props and scores have gone missing, and of course the backdrops have fallen more than once. There has even," she whispered, "been talk of notes. Notes that appear on their own in locked rooms, full of threats and malice, and written in..._blood."_ She shivered, and suddenly Christine felt that she could take it no more.

"Angel! Angel, does the Opera Ghost exist?"

Her question hung heavy on the air for a long time.

"My darling," he said, "My precious, precious darling...I wish I could lie. I wish I could say to you...of course there is no ghost! It pains me to see you so afraid."

"But?" asked Christine.

"But," he sighed. "Yes, dear one. Yes. The Opera Ghost _does_ exist."

She trembled and muttered an unconscious prayer.

"I am sorry if this frightens you, Christine," said the voice. "It needn't, you know...the Opera Ghost would _never_ do you harm."

"But - but angel! The things they were saying about him tonight...that he guards the cellars, and kills anyone who enters! Little Giry even said that he was a _warlock_ when he was alive...that he died trying to conjure demons from the lake, and now seeks the blood of the living to build a new body!"

"Oh, for - Christine!" he snapped. "Are you truly going to believe such a ridiculous story?"

"I - "

"Sceneshifters! Ballet rats! What do they know? What do _any_ of them know? Those ignorant fools!"

"Angel?" asked Christine timidly. "Angel, do you mean...those stories aren't true?"

"Of _course_ not," he hissed.

Christine breathed a faint sigh of relief, but her mind still spun with confusion.

"If the Opera Ghost wasn't a warlock killed by demons," she said slowly, "why is he so _frightening?_ Why does he torment the Opera so?" She swallowed hard. "What...what happened to him, exactly?"

"You wish to know the truth?" asked the angel. He spoke calmly, deliberately - bordering on formal. Yet Christine was not deaf to the weariness and...was that sorrow? That tinged his voice.

"Does that...bother you, angel?"

"No," he sighed. "No...it is better this way. I...cannot bear the thought of you thinking ill of the Opera Ghost. His story is tragic, but it is very simple."

An instinctive shiver traced down the back of Christine's neck as she felt the voice whisper in her ear.

"The Opera Ghost was buried alive."


	2. Chapter 2

**10/25/12 - Just quickly wanted to let you know that I did some minor editing of the first chapter, because I'm a fuss budget. But now, on with the show!**

"Our story begins nearly thirty years ago, when Monsieur Garnier first began construction of the opera house. His dream of a palace of marble and gold, a temple to music and beauty, was almost instantly dashed with the discovery of groundwater under the building site.

"Patrons and investors alike grumbled about this turn of events: either the site of the opera house would have to be moved, or the building would have to be drastically scaled down in order to stand on the pitifully shallow foundation.

"Garnier, however, wouldn't allow it. He refused to move or to change the plans for any man. Luckily, he held an ace up his sleeve - he had the Gentleman."

Christine cocked her head. "The Gentleman?"

"The Gentleman," said the voice. "His true name was never known, though it was rumored that he was the illegitimate son of a Carpathian prince. What _was_ known, however, was that he was a brilliant architect, craftsman, and great lover of opera.

"Garnier and the Gentleman spent many frantic days and sleepless nights plotting a solution. At last, the Gentleman, in a flash of light, was struck with inspiration - the opera house would have _two_ foundations. The groundwater would be pooled together in a handcrafted lake between the two layers, and the opera house would stand until the end of time.

"When the time came to begin construction on the underground lake, the Gentleman became a constant presence at the building site. No little detail was overlooked - to the annoyance of some, to the amusement of others. Certainly he was an odd figure, tall and thin, dressed in the fine clothes of fashionable society, yet kneeling in the dirt with mortar plastered on his trousers as he patiently assisted with any little task. However, with his insight, intelligence, and sharp, ready wit, he soon gained the respect and friendship of many of the workers. In fact, the Gentleman struck up a very particular friendship with the head mason: they respected each other as true craftsman, and they often worked side by side, carefully laying the brickwork that would hold the water in place. The Gentleman had never been happier: a stroke of architectural genius, all for the glory of his beloved opera.

"All seemed to be going well - until tragedy struck."

Christine lifted her head, the dreamy expression fading from her eyes. "Tragedy?"

"The worst possible kind."

"What is that?" she whispered.

"He fell in love."

_"What?"_

"He fell in love. The mason, you see, had a beautiful daughter. Curling gold hair, skin like the finest porcelain, a smile to break a thousand hearts." The voice clicked his tongue. "She was also, unfortunately, an empty headed little simpleton, but mortal men don't always stop to consider these things."

"Did she love him back?"

"Ah. Well, the Gentleman was, of course, very charming and well to do. He was also very respected by her father. However, she was also being courted by her father's apprentice.

"The apprentice was a fine young chap. He had a handsome face, with thick blond hair and strong shoulders. He also held a promising future, being the heir apparent to her father's lucrative masonry business. Since he was being groomed as the mason's successor, he seemed the obvious choice for a husband. However, the girl was attracted to the Gentleman's higher status, and his presence as a somewhat notorious figure in fashionable society."

Christine frowned.

"But...but who did she love? One cannot make such a decision without love!"

The voice laughed dryly.

"My dear, dear Christine...this is precisely why you belong apart from this dirty, materialistic earthly coil. You value love, honestly and truly, when others would only use it as a tool for corruption. Your feelings do you honor."

Christine blushed heavily, and she hid her smile behind her hands.

The voice suddenly cleared his throat.

"To resume our story...the mason's daughter was finding her choice of suitors difficult. The devoted, stable, and traditional choice of the apprentice; or the slightly scandalous but more fashionable choice of the Gentleman. The apprentice would pick her flowers from the public gardens; the Gentleman would create clever trinket boxes from copper and brass. The apprentice would take her for walks along the building site; the Gentleman would hire a carriage for a tour of the Bois de Vincennes. It was exceedingly apparent to everyone involved that the Gentleman would win."

"The poor apprentice," whispered Christine.

"Hold your pity, Christine...we have not yet finished the tale."

...

"The apprentice was no fool, and he could see that his youth, good looks, and devotion were no match for the status and elegance of the Gentleman. He burned with jealously, hatred sizzling in his veins, until it finally poisoned his mind and his soul...and he planned for the murder of his rival."

Christine gasped. "No!"

"Oh, yes, my dear. It was a simple plan, really...he filched a handful of the daughter's perfumed writing paper, and, by carefully copying her handwriting from her previous love notes to him, he set his trap for the Gentleman. In the letter, the mason's daughter appeared to confess her feelings: I love you! I have always loved you! I shall not be happy until I'm laying in your arms...we must elope! Well, you can imagine the Gentleman's feelings - he was ecstatic! His lady love, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, had agreed to be his bride!

"The note laid out all of the details: she would meet the Gentleman at the construction site at the stroke of midnight."

Christine's eyes were wide, her shoulders trembling. She was completely and utterly engrossed.

"The Gentleman was there at midnight. He waited patiently by the wall, delirious with joy in anticipation of his bride. Already he was planning their honeymoon - the Riviera? Perhaps Italy? He was lost in his happy day dreams...and that is what killed him."

"No!"

"Oh, yes. He was a clever man...had he been in full possession of his faculties, he should easily have heard the clodding footsteps of the apprentice. Yet, he was not. The apprentice approached from behind, step by step, the heavy thud of his workboots muffled in the dirt, until..."

Christine's mouth was open, her breath held in anticipation...

"Until the rope had been pulled tight across his neck."

Christine gasped.

"Yes...the apprentice had drawn a length of rope around the Gentleman's neck. The Gentleman struggled viciously, clawing at the cord circling his throat, but it was already too late! He was no match for the apprentice in sheer strength. He became light headed, his vision growing blurry and black, until in a final fit of suffocation he collapsed."

Christine was breathing heavily, her hands delicately trailing her own throat.

"So...so the Gentleman was strangled to death?"

"Ah-ah! Not quite, my dear...I am still not finished. The apprentice, of course, was nervous himself. He was only a simple workman, and he had never aspired to murder...so when the Gentleman fell, he was seized with panic! He must get out of there, he must hide the corpse! So he dragged the Gentleman's inert body to a small section of unfinished wall. Just a small section, nothing that he could not handle within the hour. He quickly shoved the unconscious man into the hole, not even bothering to check if he was dead."

Christine was biting the tips of her fingers. "And...and then?"

"And then...this wicked, abandoned man proceeded to build up the wall. Brick by brick, mortar upon mortar...he buried the Gentleman alive."

Christine went pale.

"The Gentleman had suffocated, but he had not died.

"When he woke, the first thing he noticed was a splitting headache. Ah! The constant sound of stones clicking and sliding about, it was enough to drive one mad! Then he opened his eyes...or had he? It seemed to make no difference...he was enveloped in complete and utter darkness! An icy bolt of fear shot through him. But wait! His bride! His bride was supposed to meet him! Where was she? He leapt from the ground, and instantly ran face first into the great stone blocks that made the wall.

He began beating against the bricks. Anything to break free from the smothering black silence! He wept, thinking of his love...where was she? Where had she gone? Was she trapped in the dark as well?

"His last rational thoughts were of his bride. The Gentleman soon perished, alone in the dark, driven beyond the brink of madness and despair."

Tears were falling freely from Christine's eyes.

"It's horrible...it's so _horrible_..."

"...I suppose it is," said the voice calmly.

"The poor man...to be driven mad, alone in the dark!"

"Yes, well," said the voice solemnly, "it is certainly not a fate I could wish on anyone. Yet you must remember, Christine...that was certainly not the end for the Gentleman! For upon the completion of the Opera Garnier, he found reason to stir from his ignominious grave. He had devoted the last of his life to its creation...now in death, he remains its guardian. No task is too small for the Ghost's interference...and if he does frighten others, it is only for the good of the Opera."

"Yet why does he stalk the cellars?" asked Christine.

"I think...you know the answer to that, my dear," he said gently.

"Yes," said Christine. "Of course. He is still searching for his bride."

"Precisely," said the voice.

For a brief moment, Christine was silent as she wiped the wet from her eyes.

"Tell me," she asked, "what happened to the girl?"

"Oh! She married the apprentice, of course."

_"What!"_

"But of course! The Gentleman had disappeared - he had obviously been unbalanced to begin with, especially since he had seen fit to reject her! She was perfectly happy to accept the attentions of the apprentice, and they married only a month later."

"That's horrible!" Christine growled, striking the floor with her fist. "Some women...some women are just..._ridiculous!"_

The voice had to stifle a laugh.

"It makes me furious!" Christine continued. "The injustice of it...and the way the ballet girls spread the most horrible lies about the Opera Ghost...how they tarnish him! He is not wicked! He was just cruelly and painfully hurt - "

"Now, Christine," the voice cut in sharply. "Do not be mislead. Remember that the Gentleman was driven mad before the end! He remains...well...a force to be reckoned with."

"You truly think he is dangerous, angel?"

"My dear, it is a fact."

Christine pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"And yet," said the voice in a whisper, "the Opera Ghost is not mindlessly evil. I cannot swear for the safety of others, but...I believe I can promise that he would never, _ever_ do you harm."

Christine shivered.

"Now," said the voice, with that calm authoritarianism she always associated with him, "you must rest. It is already past eleven o' clock."

"I suppose you are right," said Christine, though her hesitation was evident in her voice.

The angel sighed.

"I already regret revealing this much to you, Christine. It is a grim tale...shall you ever get to sleep?"

She thought for a moment.

"I will, if..."

"If what?"

Her cheeks turned pink.

"I will if you sing for me."

So Christine, nestled on her small cot bed, drifted off to sleep on the gentle strains of her beloved angel's voice.

**For full effect, this was the song I was thinking of when I wrote this chapter. It's the perfect eerie background music. watch?v=YVpl-RNzdE4&list=FLjMcUXjdyjzEfBgFVGAGYSw&index=1&feature=plpp_video**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello! Well, I guess this isn't a Halloween story anymore - it took much longer than I thought to get over the side effects of my new epilepsy medication. But I'm back now! This is definitely not my best chapter, but it's needed to move the plot along. Onward! **

...

The gray skies outside of the Opera Garnier had thickened into a storm. Sheets of rain clattered onto the roof, while every few minutes the hushed conversation of the cast was punctured by a shocking crash of thunder. Older ballerinas huddled by the stagehands, while the members of the orchestra milled about, randomly plucking at strings and casting suspicious eyes toward the ceiling.

Christine was sitting in a corner, her eyes focused on the new score held open in her lap, even as her heart raced in anticipation of each clap of thunder.

That was when the screaming began.

...

The screams preceded a tangle of noise and limbs that came bursting through a shadowy door in the wings. It was the young boys of the ballet, a rowdy bunch, more often caught up in mischief than not. Yet these were not the normal shouts of raucous, unruly children. Their fear was palpable, and their eyes were wild and white.

_"The ghost!"_ they screeched.

"He's after us!"

"He's going to kill us!"

They flew up the aisles, the youngest ones in tears as they fell behind their comrades. The ballerinas shrieked and clutched at each other, or dove into the strong arms of the stagehands. Orchestra members shouted and leapt up from their seats in a panic, and chaos ensued when a trombone was dropped on someone's toe. Screams and curses filled the air. Christine stared, frozen, as a riot began to form before her eyes.

_"Enough!"_

Silence fell. Every head turned to Madame Vernier, the cleaning lady, who was perched in the center of the stage, brandishing her mop like a spear.

"Boys," she growled, "stop this mayhem _at once_. We don't have time for this nonsense, and you've already messed up my freshly clean floorboards. Now get out of here before I flay your skins for cleaning rags!"

The ballet boys and the cleaning staff were natural enemies, and Madame Vernier's threats were not to be taken lightly.

Yet the oldest boy, Anton, turned to face her.

"Didn't you _hear?"_ he cried, his shoulders shaking. "The Opera Ghost is after us!"

Madame Vernier scowled.

"I _heard._ I imagine they heard all the way to Timbuktu. But I don't see him now, do you?" she held out her arms expressively, and the majority of the cast shot furtive looks around the auditorium. "Anyway, why should he bother with a useless troupe of monkeys like you?"

_"Because we saw him!"_ squeaked another boy. "We definitely saw him! He was tall...tall as a giant! Stretched out like some great horrible monster - and his eyes burned yellow like a demon! He came closer, and closer, and he growled like a wolf-"

"His hands were claws!" said another. "And he reached for us-"

"His fingers were covered with blood!"

"Don't be stupid, Jacques, there wasn't any blood-"

"His eyes were like...like...hellfire!"

Several women crossed themselves, and even Mme Vernier discreetly touched the crucifix around her neck.

"And so we ran!" said Anton. "We ran as fast as we could! Even the furnace workers yelled at us - "

_"The furnace workers!"_ shouted Mme. Vernier. "Where on earth have you boys _been?"_

The boys were suddenly quiet, as they hung their heads and shuffled their feet.

_"Well?"_

"The...the third cellar, Madame," whispered Anton.

She threw her mop to the ground.

"I've never heard of anything so ridiculous! A group of stupid, witless boys tramping around in the third cellar? What could you have been _thinking?_ That place is dangerous for adults, let alone a bunch of heathens like you!"

"Tell us more about him!" said one of the ballerinas suddenly.

_"No!"_ said Madame Vernier, with a look that made the ballerina shrivel. "That is enough! You brats are lucky to have escaped in one piece, and frankly, you don't deserve it! Anton, I can see that you were the ringleader - you will scrub the entire dormitory until it is spotless! The rest of you will go to bed without supper!"

Anton leapt to his feet in protest, and the other boys groaned and whined.

_"Silence!"_ she said. "Unless you'd also like me to have you horsewhipped! It's no more than you deserve, and I know of several people who would be happy to give it!"

The following silence was remarkable.

...

The boys trumped off to their dormitory, and laughs and whispers instantly broke out among the cast members.

Christine observed it thoughtfully, until a sudden tug at her sleeve made her jump.

_"Sacre!"_

"Oh! I'm sorry, Miss Christine - "

"Why, Thomas!"

Thomas was one of the youngest boys, around age seven. He had mousy brown hair and a pale, sensitive face, though at the moment his cheeks were rather pink.

Christine frowned at him.

"Thomas," said Christine, "what were you thinking going down to the cellars? A smart boy like you? I would never have thought it!"

Thomas hung his head, his eyes clenched shut. Christine quickly observed red spreading across his nose, cheeks, and forehead, a sure sign of tears being held forcefully in check.

"Oh, Thomas," she clucked, gently cupping his face in her hands. "There is no need to be frightened now! Nothing bad has happened - well, except no dinner for you, though that's common enough -"

"Something _has_ happened!" cried Thomas, clutching her sleeves and pulling urgently, even as tears began to leak down his cheeks. Christine wrapped her arms around him, and he hid his face in her shoulder.

"What?" she whispered. "Tell me what has happened, petit."

"I...lost something," he whispered.

"You lost something?"

He nodded.

Christine waited patiently, but Thomas did not continue.

"Are you going to tell me what you lost?" she asked sweetly.

Thomas jerked his head up and cast a quick glance around them.

"It's..._a secret,"_ he whispered.

"Oh. Well, can you tell me anyway? Just whisper it to me," she said, in response to his obvious hesitation.

Thomas cupped his hand around her ear.

_"It's a doll."_

Christine blinked in surprise. "A doll?"

Thomas hissed fiercely through his teeth. "_Not so loud!_ It's not _my_ doll, you see...it's...it's for a...a friend."

Understanding dawned, and Christine, incurable romantic that she was, tried to suppress her grin.

"A _friend?_ Who?"

Thomas was looking resolutely at the floor.

"I - I can't tell you! You see, I was fixing it. The body tore, and my friend was very sad. I wanted to help, so I said I would fix it for them."

"I see," said Christine. "So, the problem is, you lost a doll that doesn't belong to you. Well that certainly is serious, cheri. Would you like me to help you find it? This is a large opera house, but - "

"You don't understand!" he cut in, his eyes staring desperately into hers. "I dropped it..._down there."_

Christine instantly blanched. "You don't mean...in the cellars? Just now?"

He nodded.

"I was just going to fix the doll, when Marcus and Francis ran up to me and I had to hide it in my pocket." He mimicked a quick stuffing motion. "They told me that all of the boys were going into the cellars to see the furnace men and to catch the opera ghost, and if I didn't come then everyone would laugh and call me a little sheep, so I _had_ to go!" Thomas quickly took a breath. "And then we went down into the cellars, down farther than _anyone_ has _ever_ been, and it was so scary and exciting, and then we saw..._him."_

"The Ghost?" whispered Christine.

"The Opera Ghost! Well, Anton did, and Jacques...I only saw a little bit of his cape, but I was at the back. It was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen!" he said, his eyes aglow. "We all ran back as fast as we could, so that the Opera Ghost wouldn't catch us and eat us and drink our blood - "

"_Really_, Thomas! You mustn't say such things!"

"- and when we got back here, I felt in my pocket and the doll was _gone!_ It must have fallen out when we turned to run!" He took a deep, determined breath.

_"Mademoiselle Christine, I have to go back!"_

Christine took Thomas's hands firmly in hers.

"Thomas, I'm sorry. You know you can't go back there!"

_"But I have to!_ If I don't go than Brigitte will hate me because I lost her doll and she'll never, ever speak to me again and my heart will break and my life will be _over!"_

Christine was a bit dumbstruck in the face of such passionate love.

"Thomas, you are not to go back there. No!" she said, cutting off his protests. "It is too dangerous! Opera Ghost or not, there are too many traps and dark corners in the third cellar! You could be seriously injured!"

"But Brigitte! She's...she's my one true love!"

Christine chewed her lip. She knew Brigitte. She was a quiet little girl with straight black hair...not a beauty by any means, but a gentle, sweet little soul. Just the sort that would entrust her doll to a kindhearted boy like Thomas.

She thought.

"Now be quiet, Thomas, and listen to me. You cannot go back down there, but...perhaps...someone else can..."

His eyes glowed.

"Mademoiselle Christine! You'll - you'll get it for me?"

Christine blinked. That was not at all what she meant. She had been to the third floor once already, and she had no wish to repeat experience. "Er, well, cheri, I was thinking more along the lines of one of the stagehands..."

"You can't ask them!" said Thomas, his eyes wide and panicked. "The stagehands will tell the ballerinas, and then _everybody_ will know I had a doll for Brigitte, and I'll be laughed at until I'm one hundred years old!"

Christine frowned. Thomas had a point. The stagehands loved to pass on news, especially when it could gain them points with the ballerinas. She could easily imagine whoever she asked to fetch the doll boasting about his good deed to the majority of the female population. Well, that was if she could get a stage hand to go to the cellars in the first place. She didn't know any of them very well, and she could just imagine what would happen if she asked them to track down a missing child's toy in the most sinister part of the opera house in their own spare time. They would laugh in her face!

Christine sighed heavily, and looked into Thomas's wide brown eyes.

It was, after all, for true love.

"Very well, Thomas...I will find it for you."

Thomas launched himself at her, hugging her tightly and whispering his thanks before running off to catch up with the other boys.

In the meantime, Christine wondered what on earth she had just gotten herself into.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Romance, Supernatural