A dark figure limped to the closet. It was trying to be sneaky but the limp ruined the whole effect. Closing its hand around the doorknob it wondered if this was a good idea, but then remembering the wonderful review that HurogWalker had left, guilt and shame burned the figure's face. Nodding to its self. It pulled open the door and peered inside the tiny dark room.

A hiss was heard as well as a rattling.

The figure pulled the chain that was attached to the light. The room was instantly flooded with a pale yellow light. The light finally showed the face of a writer long forgotten. Des Iries.

The hiss and rattling came from a skeleton. Jack Lennox. Long since forgotten.

The skeleton lifted a bony hand and sheltered his empty eye sockets from the sudden light. He looked up into the guilty face of his creator and writer. If a skeleton could show empoisons on its face then it would have been shock on this ones. "Oh," Jack rasped, voice long since unused, "you do remember me. What do you want?" he snapped.

Des winced. She was never one to take verbal abuse, but she knew she deserved it. "I've been busy?" She tried weakly.

Jack snorted. "Too busy to write? Too busy to let your muse write for you? Let me guess…you got a review that touched you and you now feel that desire to write again but you aren't sure how to began? Am I right?"

Des nodded. He knew her too well.

Jack crossed his arms and turned his head away. "Why should I help you? Once you moved down here to Missouri you forgot all about me. You shoved me into this closet and forgot about me."

"I'm sorry. Things happened." Des said as she put her hands on her hips. She was already getting tired of his pity party. True she got busy and stopped writing and put him in a closet, but she was the one that created him. As she had put her hands on her hips it was then Jack saw the glint of gold on her left hand. The ring finger.

"What's that?" he pointed a long bony finger at her hand.

"What?" she looked at her hand and a sly smile came on her face. She shrugged, "Just a ring."

Jack jumped up from the place he had been sitting in, dust coming off him in clouds. He grabbed her hand. "Just a ring? This isn't just a ring. It's a wedding ring!" he looked back at her. "You got married?"

Des grinned and nodded, "Yep. I'm a Mrs."

"Why didn't you invite me to the wedding?"

"Because Jack, you would've caused a stir. He has no imagination. See I told him about you and he doesn't believe me. I stopped trying to convince him that you existent."

"No imagination? How do you two get along?" Jack asked

"Quite well surprisingly. Goes to show opposites attract."

"How old is he?" Jack suddenly asked..

Des raised an eyebrow, "Why all the questions?"

Jack shrugged, "You know me. Besides I'm your muse, I have a right to know."

"Fine, he's 44, tall blonde, blue eyed, stocky and used to play collage football. Are you happy now?" Des pulled her hand back.

"He's 18 years older then you?"

"Yeah so?"

"Yeah whatever. So what are we doing?" Jack asked as he finished dusting himself off and walked over to the computer chair and sat down.

Des rolled her brown eyes as Jack began to look though her files.

"God, these are so old! Don't you ever update these?"

"No. I told you I was busy." Des limped over to the desk trying not to show the bad limp she had. Please don't let him notice; please don't let him not- she thought.

"Hey Des, what happened to your knee?"

"Bad fall. A very bad fall. I fought with the ice and the ice won. I busted my kneecap to pieces so now I have this lovely gimp." Des rolled her black jeans up and stared at the lumpy scared mess that was once her right knee.

"Ouch. Ok then," Jack turned away and opened up two folders. "So what are you wanting to do? I see that you have it here that you want to ether rewrite 'Eye for a Ghost' or finish 'Twisted Love'."

"Yeah. I have other ideas but right now I want to work on ether of those two." Des said as she leaded against the large dark wood desk that was a present from her husband. It wasn't brand new but it was still beautiful and made of cherry wood.

"Alright then." He stood and Des took the offered seat and stared at the open Word Document. "Alright then," he repeated, "let's see if we lost our touch." He cracked his long fingers and began to work his muse's magic.

Yeah, I know the whole talking with your muse is an odd and old fad, but I have fun with it and I think Jack gained a small fanclub of his own. Anyway, I'm rewriting this story mainly because of HurogWalker. She left me a wonderful review and inspired me to get up off my butt and start writing again. She is also my beta for this story and is so wonderful. I'm fleshing out the characters and chapters and adding more without (I hope) taking away from this story.

The original copy I will keep and will be available upon request but I will say that this new written will be better.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera.

1871, Paris, France

Under the Paris Opera House

XxX

A man sat on an elaborate bed staring at a monkey musical box. This man was known in the Opera Garnier from the stagehands to the ballet rats, from the opera divas to the managers. He was known by many names: The Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music, the Red Death, the Monsieur le Fantome; though he was known as Erik to even fewer.

This broken man that once held the Opera House in his control sat on this gold bed wondering where it had all gone wrong. He could smell the burning wood and cloth from even this far down. The opera house was burning and the structure may or may not hold. Tons of wood and marble could come crashing down any minute, but he didn't care.

Reaching out a hand he lightly touched the music box. It began to play, the monkey lightly tapping the cymbals in its hands together.

"Masquerade…paper faces on parade…. Masquerade…. hide your face, so the world will never find you…" he sang softy, brokenly. He touched his hand to the deformed side of his face shuddering at the feel of the rough and misshapen flesh.

Sensing another person, he turned his head to see the brown haired angel that he had obsessed over for the last nine years. The tears that were shining in her brown eyes matched the ones in his eyes. Walking slowly toward him she held out a hand.

He reached for her, longing to touch her, hoping against hope that she had returned to pledge her love to him. "Christine, I love you…"

Christine blinked back her tears and took his hand, only to place the ring that he had given her into his palm. She reached out and touched the misshapen side of his face before turning and hurrying off.

The tears that had threatened to fall earlier then fell. Looking down at the ring he barely heard Christine sing in the distance.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…"

And then he heard the loathsome/unbearable call of the boy answer her, "Say the word and I will follow you…"

The broken Phantom rose and walked out of the stone room, watching as the boat disappeared through the descending grill into the darkness of the underground canal. He met her gaze as his Angel of Music sung one last song for him.

"Share each day with me…each night…each morning…" her voice faded away as she disappeared.

His gaze still fixed on where he last saw her, he sings out one final time. "You alone can make my song take flight—It's over now, the Music of the Night…"

The notes died away and it was then that the Phantom heard the noise of the oncoming mob. He looked around his home one last time before picking up a large golden candelabrum and setting fire to his world. With that done, he begins smashing the mirrors, all save one. Grabbing two last items from his possessions, he turned to the last mirror and smashed it, reveling a hidden tunnel. He slipped in and pulled down a curtain that had not yet caught fire, concealing the entrance just as the mob arrived at the portcullis.

Walking through the deep passages, the former Phantom slipped on his mask as he took the twists and turns that only he knew. They led him up to the burning Opera house. There weren't many people now, only a few that were disoriented. He went past the dead and dying, still staying to the shadows. His intense glowing eyes now dim with a darkened defeat. His stiff posture had left him and his head bowed as he walked toward his chosen fate. Flames creped ever closer, but he paid them no heed.

He kept walking, gasping for breath and coughing as the flames licked all around him and the smoke became thicker as he moved through the Opera House. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he came to the door that would lead him into Box Five. He shoved the door open and looked out across the auditorium before him. The fire had almost consumed the domed room; it was only a matter of time before Box Five was in flames. The red tongues of fire eagerly licked toward the golden box, the oppressive heat building. The wood was already smoking and the gold paint bubbled and peeled. The fumes were thick and combined with the smoke and overwhelming heat, the Phantom began to sweat as he continued to cough.

Looking over the burning auditorium from his spot, the Phantom slumped into his favorite red velvet chair. Drawing in a labored, rasping breath, he pulled out the second item he had grabbed; A sliver stiletto. A startling calm came over him then, as he waited, the tip of the blade just below his chest, the point digging in between his ribs. He knew that what he was about to do was an unforgivable sin but he didn't care. As he saw it, there was no point to going on. There was no place in this world for his musical genius. He knew that all of Paris would be looking for him once they found out he was no longer in the lair. True, he could easily slip past them, but then were would he go? The Opera House had been his home for so long, and he knew no other place. And if the mob did find him…an eternity in Hell would be a joy compared to what the so-called civilized men would do to him. He was past the point of no return, and if he were to die then it would be in his own way and in his own Opera House. The fire would surely destroy much of his body so that if he were found in the wreckage, his body would be of no use as a sideshow freak on display. He gasped in agony as the flames began to consume the box. The heat was blistering and intense, and as the flames crept closer he knew it was time. With the last of his strength he pushed the stiletto into his ribs. He felt the blinding pain as the blade bit into his skin and muscle, and then slipped between two ribs. He dug the blade upward and into his heart. All at once the pain from digging the knife in was gone. As he looked down at the blood soaking his chest, he felt a sad smile slowly pass across his face, and then he went limp.

He was still breathing, but he knew that he soon wouldn't be. With each breath and each slowing pump of his heart, blood poured out of his chest. He would be dead soon.

One of his hands fell to hang limply off the side of the chair, into the fire that had finally reached him. He felt the flames caress his limp fingers almost lovingly. Taking one last ragged breath, his last. He closed his eyes just as the flames engulfed Box Five and him.

XxX

Days later, people picked their way though the brunt shell that had once been the beautiful Opera House. The air in the burned-out husk of a building was already turning dank. The smells were horrible. The previous day it had rained, putting out the rest of the embers, which had continued to smolder. The odors that arose from the mess were a mixture of burnt wood, cloth, and flesh, as well as the scent of decaying flesh from the bodies of the dead. Volunteers helped pull bodies out of the wreckage in the hope that they could be identified and returned to their families. The corpse of Signor Ubaldo Piangi was one of many. Knowing somehow that the Phantom would be among the dead, Madame Giry was one of the groups of volunteers. It was Madame Giry that found Erik's body. His corpse wasn't completely burned. The Box had collapsed and protected much of his body from the flames. With tears streaming down her normally stern face, she looked upon the half burned body of the man she had tried to raise since he was nine years old, at the time only a child of twelve herself. She had been too young to play 'mother' to a mentally scarred child, but she had tried her best and offered what support she could until he had closed himself deeper into the hell that he was in and had continued to create for himself. She had known when he fell in love with Christine that no good would come of it for either of them. When he had taken the place of Signor Ubaldo Piangi the night of that disastrous opera, she had known that he would not live beyond that night. And now, looking down at her 'son,' she felt sorrow, but also happiness that he was finally at rest. Or so she thought.

She covered and hid his body until she could bury him in secrecy. When she was able to return to him, she used what she had hidden as well. With a lot of luck she somehow made her way down to the last of the cellars. She used her dancer's strength and an old stretcher to take him down to the last of the cellars. She dug it near the back so that no one but her would see the grave, or know that it was there, and the ground was high enough that when the rains raised the water level it would not wash the dirt away from him. She cared for his burnt body and dressed him with the utmost care in his favorite suit. She did not have a proper coffin but instead wrapped him in his heavy black velvet cape and then wrapped a heavy canvas cloth around that. She rolled him into the grave and covered him with the black sandy dirt, using the burnt mask and his violin, which he had cherished, at the head of the grave as a marker Last, she dug a small hole and dropped the ring, which he had feverishly clung onto even in death, into it, placing a flat stone on top.

She then stood and the unsheathed tears that had been threatening to spill finally did, rolling freely down her cheeks. Finally finished with her mournful, lonesome task, exhaustion washed over her. She wiped away the tears, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheeks, and sighed before turning and walking away. As she left the grave, she pulled out the sliver stiletto that the Phantom had driven into his heart. She stared at it for a long moment and then slipped it back into her pocket, continuing on her way with her head held high despite her heavy heart.

Over the course of the years Madame Giry visited the grave occasionally. As the years wore on, however, she grew too old to climb up and down the stairs to the damp cellars. Her visits became fewer and fewer until one day she did not come at all. Nor did she come the next, or the next. She had passed on, as did everyone that remembered the stories. All that remained of the man known as the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music, the Red Death; the Monsieur le Fantome…of Erik…was a tale that was written down as a book.