This story mainly focuses on our dearest Erik, also known as O.G., Opera Ghost, Phantom, and angel of music. Let it be known; even though Erik is much older he is still a very attractive, intelligent, and corrupt man. His appearance is based mostly off of the movie with Gerard Butler, just add about twenty years or so. As far as background info, allusions, past events, and historical points; they have been taken from Gaston Leroux's original book. Enough of my rambling. Let it begin!

Chapter 1

Storm

It was late evening. Heavy rain rattled on the roof and battered the windows of the diminutive house, which resembled a small cottage. Thunder sounded and shook the small dwelling. Flashes of lightning lit up the sky for a split second before fading back to black.

Inside the house, sat a man in the dark, except for a small candle that was burning next to him. His head was bowed and he was slumped in the aged and tattered armchair in the corner of the room. The only sound that could be heard, besides the storm, was his shallow breathing. There he sat, motionless and soundless in the dim and depressing light.

There was a light rasp on the front door. He debated silently to himself whether to answer, and he saw no real harm in it. Without ever looking in the direction of the knock, he beckoned in his visitor, "Enter," his voice was calm, but firm. No one ever bothered with him anymore, most believed him dead, and he hadn't interacted with another human in many long months of solitude.

The door opened slowly and revealed a woman standing there. Her silhouette stood in the doorway, unsure. He didn't look up, but he watched her close the door behind her and hesitantly step into the room. The rain had soaked her long brown hair. Her wet grey riding dress clung to her lean body and her maroon cloak hung around her tightly. If she hadn't been tormented by the storm she would have appeared very beautiful, but he didn't pay much attention. He was pushing fifty-four and he had neither need nor want of a woman as a companion or anything else for that matter.

He observed her standing in the middle of the room, dripping wet onto the old oak floor. She crossed her arms and was shivering from the wet and cold. He watched her for a moment before slowly standing and readjusting his hood so it covered his face again. She opened her mouth to speak but he held up one hand. "Stay," he commanded.

Emerging from the other room he set a light black dress and other garments on a chair and motioned for her to pick them up, which she did. He then pointed to the other room so she could change. He didn't want to get too close to her because it was so awkward as well as he wanted to respect her privacy, and he had grown to have distaste for women over the years for reasons that he wish he could forget, but they always teased and tormented his mind.

He struck two stones together and it instantly started a fire in the minimal hearth. He fed it with four logs then pulled two wooden and worn chairs up in front of it. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle and poured himself a small glass of bourbon before sitting in one of the chairs. He swirled the contents of the glass as he watched the flames of the fire dance about. He readjusted his hood again, so it shadowed his face perfectly. He took a small sip of the alcohol. The warm liquid slid down his throat and spread warmth throughout him. How the young girl managed to find his dwelling, he was unsure of. He made sure it was out of view and isolated from the rest of society...

He heard footsteps behind him. He didn't turn but beckoned her to seat herself beside him. He took another sip of his drink then swirled it around again. He watched her slowly walk toward him and sit next to him in the other chair. She didn't look his way but kept her focus on the fire.

Her hair was not longer matted and it hung around her shoulders in locks of long brown curls. The dancing flames memorized her deep brown eyes. The black dress that he gave her fit perfectly, which surprised him. He stared at her for a moment as thoughts of the past flooded into his mind and he quickly dismissed them. No, it can't be. There was a bizarre familiarity about her appearance. He quickly downed the rest of his drink. He reached inside his cloak and poured himself another. He stared into his glass and then back at her. He blinked to convince himself that he was awake and that this wasn't one of his common nightmares that he would soon awake from.

The girl wrapped her arms around herself and her knees were pulled up to her chest. She looked frightened and confused like a little lost child, but he could tell she was in her very early twenties because of her girlish radiance and charm that hung about her.

He looked back to the fire and began to speak because he was curious and he couldn't stand the awkward air between them, "I bid you welcome to my humble dwelling. Dare I ask how you came across it?" he asked.

She looked down at her lap. There was uncertainty and hesitancy in her voice as she spoke, "I-I got lost in…the storm."

He could sense that that wasn't the truth, for he was an expert at reading people, even though he despised them. She didn't come across his home on accident or by mere chance; that was apparent. She came here for a reason. For what? He wasn't quite sure, but she wanted something. He massaged his temples with his gloved fingers. His temper wasn't as it use to be and simple things didn't anger him as much, but he was still capable of going on an irate rampage, when or if provoked.

"Do not lie to me," he said slightly irritated. He turned to look at her from underneath his dark hood, which shadowed his face from her.

The girl looked over at him with fear and curiosity in her eyes. "My horse ran off and I have nowhere to go," she mumbled and turned her gaze back her lap.

He observed her fidget nervously. Even in his old age he still sent a bit of fear and intimidated some, which gave him a taste of twisted pride. He took a drink from his glass and cleared his throat. "I see." He looked at her for a long moment. That was the truth, but not all of it. "I assume you will wait the storm out, then you will depart," he said as studied her face.

She nodded. "If you wouldn't mind, sir," she said. He nodded and set his glass down and tossed another small piece of wood in the fire.

The two sat in silence for a long time as the awkward air ate away at him. He stared at her for a long moment. "Perhaps a story to pass the time?" he inquired.

"Sure," she replied.

"Not all stories have happy endings," he warned.

"I'm aware. Please begin," the girl said. She already looked intrigued.

He took a deep breath then started, "A long time ago, there was a monster, a hideous beast, which lived all alone in isolation and seclusion; shunned from everywhere and everyone. It was locked, shamed, and shunned away from the rest of the world and longed to be what one says is normal. The grotesque face of the monster is what confined it in its prison; a horrible and unfortunate disfigurement was what plagued the beast. It was either despised or feared by all. It was shrouded in darkness and longed to see the light, of which it was so deprived. The monster was a tortured soul who only wanted to be accepted for what it was…"

"That's horrible—"

"Quiet," he commanded.

"Yes, sir," she said. She sat patiently while looking at him.

He paused for a moment. "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted…" He paused once more to make his point and watched her wince at his words. "The monster wanted to be accepted into the world. It spent all of its time alone in its solitude…its darkness…It had neither companion nor friend. You would think that the monster would grow lonely, would you not?"

"I would think so," the girl said.

"That was rhetorical. I suggest you don't interrupt me further."

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"The monster grew tired of its loneliness in its solitude. The only thing that comforted it was creating beautiful music. Its music is what fueled its empty existence and kept it from completely deteriorating away to nothingness. But what purpose is there if there is no way to share music, no one to share it with? It wanted to rise up and reach the world, but no one would listen…" He shifted in his seat and looked as though he had become overcome with sadness, which is how he felt. He was glad for the safety of his hood's shadow. He exhaled a large sigh. "I bore you."

"Not at all, sir. Does the monster find someone to share the music with?" she inquired as she sat up and watched him with interest.

He sat back in his chair. "The monster was tired of being lonely and it wanted someone to share its music with. Music is the companion of the lonely…the expression of the corrupt… It longed to be able to touch another and be touched in return without the fear of being denied. It longed to have someone to share with, but after all of these years living in solitude it had learned to be its one companion…"

A familiar voice began to sing a sad tune inside his head. Child of the wilderness born into emptiness, learn to be lonely. Learn to be your one companion. Never dream that out in the world there are arms to hold you…Learn how to love life that is lived alone… He sighed and cleared his head of the mocking voice.

"That's all very sad," she commented.

"Yes," he agreed.

The other nodded and sat back in her chair.

"The loathsome monster needed a purpose to live. It needed someone to comfort it and show it the light when it was lost and alone in its dark. It longed for the light, but none ever came. It was considering death. A life is not worth living alone, my dear."

"Poor soul," she said sadly.

He nodded.

"Why do you always refer to it as a monster or an it? Was it not a person?"

If only she could have saw the glare on his shadowed face, it would surely pierce through her and peer into her very soul and eat away at it until nothing is left. "Let me finish."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"One day, a young girl came into the monster's castle. You recall the Opera Populaire?" he asked.

"The one that was burned to the ground?"

"Oui," he answered.

"This was the monster's domain?" she asked.

"His playground," he replied.

"His?"

He immediately regretted his mistake in words. He cursed himself internally. "Excuse me, a slip of the tongue."

"The so-called monster was a man?" she leaned forward obviously interested even more.

"In a sense…Let me continue." He rested his head on the back of the chair. "A young girl came upon his Opera House. She was a young Swedish girl, the daughter of Gustav Daaé."

"The famous violist?"

"The very same."

"Ah..." She looked away from him and then back. Many more questions plagued her mind.

He picked up his glass and took as sip. "Back to the girl...She came to the Opera House when she was very young. Her father had passed away and she was orphaned and taken in by Madame Giry, the ballet teacher. He watched over her and made sure no harm came to her while she was there, in his domain. He sang to her when she slept and watched her from afar. He soon discovered that she was gifted with an angelic voice. He decided that she wasn't reaching her full potential and that she could be the star, the prima donna. He had to perfect her voice. He needed her by him, to teach her, to sing. He became her tutor…"

"Secretly, not doubt."

"Would you like to tell the story?"

"No, no."

"Her voice had become his passion…the girl believed that he was in fact the angel of music that her father had promised to send to her when he died. He secretly, taught her and was always with her, whether she was aware of it or not. After spending so much time alone, the monster had finally found something, someone that he cared for. The young girl…" His voice trailed off and he seemed to become lost in his thoughts. "Oh, Christine," he said just barely audible.

"What?"

"Christine."

"Ah."

"After some time the man felt that he couldn't let her go for the fear of losing her to another. He had to make her his and he tied her chains to him forever. Her love soon became his obsession." He paused. "After many months the man finally revealed himself to her. He took her down to his world. She shared in his emptiness…his loneliness…she was the only one whoever listened…"

"He loved her?"

A lone tear rolled down his cheek. "He did…and still does…He loved her with all of his being. He loved her from the moment he first saw her…first heard her voice…"

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," he roared. He took a moment to gather himself and his face became emotionless once more. "Her love became his obsession…He loved her, but she refused and denied to return his love, which was all he asked in return. She turned away from the monster because of his distortion. Not the distortion on his face, but the distortion that lies within his soul. And, he still loved her. She loved another…A young Vicomte…" He sighed. "Her refusal became his rage."

"Poor man…"

"No, poor Erik."

"Poor Erik?"

"Oui, she said that."

"Who is this Erik?"

"Surely you have heard of the infamous Opera Ghost."

"Oh, yes. I recall him. He died in the first great fire."

"Could you be so sure?"

"Do you suggest that he is still alive?"

"Let me finish the story."

"As you wish…"

"He became enraged and was driven to murder for his love. His genius became madness. He did some very horrible deeds that he wished he could forget. He killed for her…He did everything for her. He murdered out of love and jealousy. After all he had done for her, she exposed him for what he was; a monster--a murderer. She exposed him in front of many witnesses, a full house opera."

"He forced her back to his domain--back to the place where light burns and fades into the dankest dark. He threatened her with her lover's life so she would spend her life with him. Either end her days with him or send her lover to his grave…In the end he let his heart get in the way…He let her go out of love and he fled…Again he was left to his darkness, loneliness, and solitude."

"That's the end? What happens after? What became of the ghost? He didn't die in the fire, did he?" she asked eagerly.

"You ask such obvious questions," he stated and was slightly amused.

"Do tell me what became of the man, Erik," she practically begged.

"You still don't understand even though the answer is right in front of you." He shook his head disappointingly. The other still looked very confused.

"Do you mean to tell me…that…you are Erik?"

He pulled his hood back to reveal a face hidden by half-face white mask. "Stories are better if they are told by one who lived it. Don't you agree?"

The young girl let a gasp escape her and she paled. She was too dumbstruck to say anything so she sat and stared at the white leather mask on his face; she became mesmerized by it.

Erik stood and walked over to the front of the mantle; he leaned on it and watched her. "You came looking for and found what you sought out. Of what relevance am I to you?" he asked. The way the shadow of the flames played on his face made him seem much more intimidating and ghostlike.

After taking a few minutes to gather herself the girl looked over at him. "My mother passed away four months ago," she said.

He could hear the sadness and the hurt in her voice, but felt no sympathy for her. He left his mother at a very young age and she loathed him. He thought of his mother as a very cruel and shallow woman. He was denied his mother's love, which is why he remained indifferent. "My sincerest apologizes," he said without the slightest hint of emotion.

The girl adverted her eyes to her lap and started toying with a string on her dress. She fought back old tears and looked at him. "She did love you," she mumbled.

Erik took a moment to digest her words. Who? Then it hit him. The reason why she looked so familiar, she was Christine's daughter! Old wounds opened and Erik felt the misery return, all of his regrets, and his faults. Even as time passed, he never forgot the last time he ever saw her…Erik turned his back to her as a few tears were shed for his lost love. He didn't want her to see him in his state of venerability.

The girl watched him and could see she hit a nerve. "I'm sorry. But what I say is true. She did love you, Erik," she said softly.

Erik turned to face her. "You lie!" he yelled. His anger was ablaze and she flinched at his outburst. "Must this torture never end? Why have you come here?"

Erik looked at the young girl sobbing in front of him. Her tears ran down her pale cheeks and feel onto her dress. He could relate all too well to her pain and his was far greater than she would, could ever experience. She was far too young to understand that type of pain and misery that he had grown to know. Then again, the poor girl had just lost someone close to her; someone she loved.

Without a doubt, Erik loved her also and the concept of Christine deceased tormented him. He wanted her to live a happy and long life no matter where she was or who she was with. He dreamed her life would be a very successful and joyous one. He wanted that life to be with him, but she had denied him that and over the years he had tried to except the fact, but he never could bring himself to.

Erik always knew deep down in his soul that there was a piece of Christine that didn't want to leave him that horrid night, those many years ago. There was a part of her that loved him and desired him, but she wouldn't admit it to herself. He had reached that part of her that no one ever could. He had touched that stored passion and released her talent. Whenever she was near him, he could sense it, she wanted him. The effect he had on her…The shared so much together. Their sweet music, of two meant for each other. She had helped him create that beautiful music and they danced in its glory until that ignorant young Vicomte interfered.

His attention was brought back to the young girl sobbing in front of him. She shook and small sobs racked her body. He tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Christine was dead, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. She was young and was meant to lead a great life, but fate hadn't been kind to her…It took everything away.

Erik suddenly felt light-headed. He sat back on his heels, where he knelt next to the girl. He felt tears well in his eyes. They were coming and couldn't be stopped. He sat there and cried with her. He shed tears for the girl, his loss, Christine, and all of the other things he had ever dreamt of that were ripped away. Now there was no purpose for him. Without knowing Christine was out there, in the world, his existence meant nothing.

He no longer cared if the girl saw him like this or not. He couldn't control himself. He started shaking subconsciously and he bowed his head in his hands. He tried to calm himself, but he couldn't. He lost the last bit of self-control he had left and continued to cry out all of his strongly felt emotions. Perhaps the alcohol was getting to him? He wasn't sure nor did he really care. He continued to let out he pain. After all of these years, this was his release.

Erik sat slumped against the wall bawling into his hands. He felt a small hand touch his shoulder. He looked up to see the girl kneeling in front of him, tears continued to fall down his face. The alcohol had set in and he couldn't comprehend what was happening, except for he felt this great grief that plagued him. "Y-your mother loved me?" he slurred with his tears.

She removed her hand from his shoulder and looked directly into his deep green eyes. There lay much pain, miseries, and loneliness that had built up over the years. She pitied him greatly. "She loved you very much, Erik," she replied.

Erik looked up at her. "Why did she leave me?" he wailed.

She could see there would be no reasoning with him and she didn't see the point in explaining anything to him right now. His mind was gone and he wasn't himself. Against her better judgment, she moved beside him and held onto his arm and whispered calming things into his ear.

Erik nodded and sobered at the touch of the young girl. He pulled his arm from her and leaned in the opposite direction to get away from her in a sense. He wiped away his remaining tears and looked back at her. He then stood and straightened his collar and gathered himself completely. He paced to the other side of the room and kept his attention on an old painting as he spoke. "I think it best you retire for the night," he said crisply. "The first room on the right."

"Yes, sir," the girl said.

Erik waited until he heard her walk away and close the door behind her in the guest bedroom, before he settled himself back in the chair in front of the fire. He reached back into his pocket and pulled out his small bottle. He couldn't deal with let alone comprehend that Christine was dead. It hurt too much and he wasn't ready to face it. He downed the rest of it instantly and sat there in his drunken stupor staring into the dancing flames.

One could say that Erik has in fact become accustomed to using alcohol to ease his pain. He couldn't deal with the pain alone and he dreaded going back to his morphine addiction again. He had the scars on his left arm from the many needles that probed his skin and injected the foul drug. So there he sat staring into the fire, completely intoxicated and lost in his drunken state awaiting for sleep to claim him.

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I had fun writing it. Reviews are greatly appreciated and thanks for reading!