It had been three days since the world ended, for me.

He'd taken me from my dressing room, and via dusty, cold secret passages by way of foot, horse, and boat, brought me to a hidden house; perfectly normal in all appearances, except for the occasional hidden doors and rooms throughout, and the fact that from the shore of the underground lake it was impossible to find the house.

He'd confessed his love for me here, in the parlor of this odd, secret house... the one I stood in now, alone. He wept, he cursed himself, he begged forgiveness while I stood stunned, and then demanded my liberty with strength I did not know I had... but after offering me that freedom, he sang to me, and all was forgotten except that voice which had been my friend, my inspiration, my comfort... and I slept.

I woke in a strange room, read the note left on the chest of drawers there, and in a panic I ran around the room, searching for a way out, an answer, an explanation... I found none.

He returned, bringing gifts, some of which I still had not opened. He made me a lunch, which I ate sullenly, and then he made good on an offer to show me around the house...

... and the drawing room...

...and his music...

...and as he played, I tore away the mask he wore...

I sighed, and sucked my lower lip in, trying not to cry. The memory... not just his face, but the horrible rage behind it. The blood under my nails, forced there when he took my hands and dug my nails into his terrible dead flesh.

And the way he collapsed, releasing me to crawl, himself, on the floor, sobbing and weeping in a heartbreaking fashion. He crawled back to his bedroom, and left me alone... it was hours before I could approach him and lie.

Lie to him as sweetly as the snake lied to Eve. I took a deep breath and held it, tears gathering in my eyes as I remembered promising him that I shivered was because I was thinking of the splendor of his genius. With the mask in place again, but with tiny rivulets of blood seeping down from inside, he fell at my feet, swearing his devotion and adoration for this great untrue gift. With words of love in his dead mouth, he kissed the hem of my dress and didn't see that I had closed my eyes at his touch.

For the last three days I lied to him minute by minute, not expressing in word, action, gesture, or expression the deep fear and revulsion I felt in his presence, or out of it.

Yet in that time, something else had taken hold; pity. It was not sympathy, or care, but it was not horror. It was kinder, and prompted a curious desire to understand the man; how had he come to be like this? What was his life like, down here? Had he always been here? And how had he come to present himself to me invisibly as the Angel of Music?

My breath caught at that, and I had to wipe my overflowing eyes. Yes, my Angel of Music, a link to my devoted Papa and a lifeline back to a happier time in my life. For three months, he'd given my back that lifeline to my Papa, and I was grateful to him for that, in a way.

And he had made my a star, a leading lady. He'd created my voice, really; I followed his instructions to the letter, as he demanded, and my voice had changed so completely it was impossible to imagine it had ever been otherwise. I was the toast of Paris, thanks to him.

Thanks to the masked madman who loved my; the undeniable genius who created this world and shut my in it. The murderer who haunted the opera.

With a groan, I sank onto the sofa and put my head in my hands. The flowers that covered every inch of unoccupied space in the room were beginning to wilt; I imagined I knew how they felt. I was bored, and amazed that I had the capacity to be so, here. I suppose terror isn't an emotion that can be supported without respite, and it was clear to me that he was trying his best to avoid inspiring it again in me.

It had been three days since I arrived, and he was gone for supplies. He had predicted it would be most of the day before he returned, and I'd been alone for hours. The fire under the mantle burned cheerfully, and his gifts remained in my room; those I'd opened showed a thoughtful care as to my wants; simple books, watercolors, knitting, embroidery, music, and sweets.

After several minutes resting so, I sniffed and dried my eyes and face. It did no good to snivel, and although it felt good to allow my loving facade towards him crumble, it was not productive to wallow in my fate... whatever that might be.

I rose, and wandered around the house aimlessly, like a ghost myself. Presently I found myself in a library-like chamber, and I trailed my fingertips along the spines of the books. Perhaps there was something here to entertain me; I felt uneasy indulging in the gifts he brought me. I didn't want to commit to any unspoken obligation based on their use. No, I wanted more than anything to be away from here, from him, and without a reason to return.

My sense of wonder rose as I examined the titles. There were at least a dozen languages represented; could he read speak all of them? Some were in alphabets I didn't understand, some with letters that looked more like stick figures or long, looping lines. Of those I could read, there were hundreds of topics; anatomy, physics, poetry, biographies, gardening, research, art, architecture (so many of those!), reference... there seemed to be no end to his interests.

Idly, I picked a book of fairy tales and began to leaf through it, when a scrap of paper fluttered down from it.

I stooped to pick it up and return it to the book, when the contents of the paper caught my eye.

It was a drawing, almost life-like in it's accuracy. Pencil-lead, nothing more complicated or colorful. A woman, with a stern expression and somber clothing. There was a word dropped haphazardly on the edge of the paper: "Giry," in a child's scrawl and in red ink.

I blinked... the box-keeper in the opera above was named Giry, and her daughter was a ballerina there. But the box-keeper was a old woman, bent and gnarled... with a temper, it was said. I peered more closely at the picture... it could be her, but... young.

Had he drawn this? His skills knew no bounds, certainly, and he was unarguably a genius... did he know Madame Giry? I recalled a rumor I had heard, but paid no mind to at the time; that the box-keeper delivered notes from the Opera Ghost, and paid special care to his box, Box 5.

Dear God... he did know her, and she him, and he'd drawn this picture of her, perhaps years ago, from life? In the picture she stood tall, with what seemed like an slightly arrogant tilt to her head; along with the stern expression, she seemed most formidable.

I looked again at the handwriting, and shivered violently, aghast. A child's writing... had be been down here since childhood? Trapped alone, below the earth, in a grave waiting to happen, without sunshine or fresh air or family or friend except Madam Giry? What a hellish kind of life for a child... a little boy...

I shivered again, mentally picturing that life for a boy, a boy with the face of a corpse, always so cold...

I frowned as a thought occurred, and left the library to find my room where the note from him still rested. I compared them, and shook my head. The handwriting was the same; he could have drawn this picture today, or years ago; his script was simply underdeveloped and careless. Another odd detail in a decidedly demented, and sad, life.

I returned to the library, intent on returning the picture and finding other entertainment. As I picked up the book, I found there were more pictures inside... so I looked.

It was incredible... like a window to the past, familiar faces, but young; Lachenel, the stable master... but dressed as a groom. The old managers, Debienne and Poligny, dressed so sharply and with confidant, successful expressions I could not ever remember seeing on them. Dear God, a slender, vivacious Carlotta, practically in bloom. Robust Piangi, looking healthier than I had ever seen him. Others, I hardly recognized; someone who wore traditional ratcatcher clothes, and some who looked like stagehands, and some I didn't recognize at all.

Most of the papers had a word or two scrawled on them, all in that horribly familiar handwriting; mostly names, but sometimes a note - "Lech," was written in red on what looked like a young stagehand that I almost thought I recognized from backstage. "Idiots," was written on a picture of Debienne and Poligny together. I had to press my lips together to keep from smiling, and wondered what he thought of the new managers.

Towards the end of the fairytale book, I found more pictures, but these were of buildings and outdoor settings. Some where very foreign and exotic-looking,; these were frustrating because the information scribbled on them seemed to be in that location's language, and I couldn't read it. Some scenes were desert, some jungle. Temples, palaces, ruins...

Feeling dazed, I tucked all the pictures back into the book, realizing that if he were to check he would surely know I'd seen them; there was no way I could get them back to their original locations. Still, I slipped the book back into its place on the shelf and pensively went to my room.

It horrified me to think of a little boy down here, all alone; I found now that it troubled me to think of a grown man in these circumstances as well. Dear God, he was hideously ugly, he carried with him a smell that made me think of death, and he was clearly not in his right mind... but what made him that way? It seemed from the pictures he'd been down here for years... years! With a mask, he couldn't get about in society and without it... I shuddered again.

He'd been kind to me; he'd tried to be kind. He'd trained my voice, comforted me when I doubted my abilities. He'd given me my father back, in a way. I'd never done anything for him...

... except tear off his mask, I realized with a rush of shame, feeling sick at the memory of that hideous monstrosity. Tear away his dignity, leaving him crawling and sobbing on the floor.

Confused by my thoughts, I paced in my room until I heard the door open. He was back. I took several deep breaths (As he taught you to do...the traitorous thought whispered to me) and pinched some life back into my cheeks. I ran fingers through my hair and straightened my clothes, pasting as life-like a smile onto my lips as I could and stepped forth to face the monster.

He was in the drawing room, warming his bare hands at the fire but when he heard me, he pulled his gloves back on. Thank God, his mask was in place. Whatever parcels he might have collected on his errands were put away. I saw him try to smile, hesitant and careful. I swallowed.

"Good afternoon, Erik."

"Good afternoon, Christine."

An awkward pause.

"Did..."

"Are you..."

We spoke and stopped at the same time; what an impossible situation!

He gestured to me, offering me the right of first comment; I noticed now how gracefully his body moved, and the thought disturbed me. I tried to hide it, noticing as I did so that the flowers in the room had been changed now; there were new arrangements, and they were fresh.

"I trust your errands went well?"

"Oh, yes." that beautiful voice, warm and thick, like hot chocolate; I recalled now how he made me my favorite drink every morning, without ever being asked. I tried to shake the memory away. "Simple matters, really. You are looking well, Christine. Beautiful."

A compliment; he made a point of complimenting me at every turn, even before I came here.

"Thank you, Erik." I used his name again, and watched him smile when I did. Could it be that no one else ever used it? Never to hear your name on another's lips seemed so... lonely. So desperately lonely.

We stood there, watching each other across the drawing room. That mask was a reminder of what was underneath it, now. I couldn't let him see my revulsion at the memory, I kept my smile in place... but the memory stung me anyway.

Finally, I said "Are you hungry? I could make..."

"No, thank you." he said, genuinely grateful just for the offer. I saw so clearly now that he was desperate; for contact, for connection, for company. I felt horrible about myself, a girl-child who lied to such a sad man... but I knew I was lying still, and that I was afraid of him. I wanted to get out of here, away from him; it was awful, but true.

After a few more endless moments watching each other, I gestured. "Will you... that is, would you sit with me and tell me what you did today?"

He seemed startled by this; although I'd tried to appear unafraid and unaffected by his actions and words, I knew I had not been kind. It was hard to tell behind the mask, but it seemed my question was unexpected.

"Yes. Erik... yes." and he moved to take a seat but waited for me to place myself in a chair before he sat; even in these mundane movements, he moved as if to music. How odd, to see it now.

He gently cleared his throat, and that beautiful voice rolled out. "Erik had business in the opera house. He collected supplies; food, newspapers, other items."

He usually spoke of himself in the third person, like that... was it because that was the only way he ever heard his own name? More likely it was further evidence of his instability. I could smell him, now, that acrid, medicinal aroma layered with dust and something else; it reminded me of my father's final sickness.

Did he not know how to have a conversation? I waited for more, but it seemed the well had dried up. "Erik," and again that impression of pleasure behind the mask when I used his name "Will you forgive my curiosity about how you live here? It is... most unusual. I have had time to think on it. How do you ... manage?"

I had to be careful; my curiosity had been my downfall already, and he'd screamed that he would never let me leave now, because of it.

He watched me closely, then nodded almost to himself. "Erik has had sufficient time to make preparations. There are a few whom he will ... interact... with, to get what he cannot for himself." he gestured fluidly to his mask "Some things are made... problematic, otherwise."

I frowned with feigned sympathy and nodded. "Of course." I paused and licked my lips. "You have had sufficient time." I repeated. "You have been here... for a while?"

He nodded slowly, watching me. "Yes."

"How long?"

A long pause, and I was getting nervous that I had gone too far when he finally answered. "Years."

Years. Years underground, hiding, alone. He had drawn the pictures from life; he's seen all of these opera people come and go, age... without ever being seen by them. The word "Lonely" was losing its meaning.

"Erik... have you always worn a mask?"

The longest silence yet, and then he rose smoothly and crossed to the door. I fought my instinct to shrink back into the chair when he passed by me, but he didn't pause or even seem to know I was there. At the door, he stopped.

"Yes. Always." and then he left. I heard him go into the music room, but it wasn't until much, much later that I heard any music.

He terrified me; I trembled just to be in the same room with him, but hid it. His face... the memory made me feel sick to my stomach, and I had to push it away. He kidnapped me, and I felt justified in hating him. The pity was there, too... but now there was a new emotion; regret. Once upon a time, he had to be a child; a child with that "face", behind a mask. Always.