A/N - I searched high and low for the story I am going to reference this
one off of. Yet alas, it seems to have gone missing from FF. I believe it
was called "Only a dream?" or "Did it happen?" something along those lines.
Two friends go to the Opera House and believe they heard the Phantom speak
to them. I don't know if it's based on real circumstances (many people
always claim that but it is rarely true. Watch "Serpent and the Rainbow"
for heavens sake!). Yet in my story, she is alone.
@-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-
Rosemarie looked about the Opera House excitedly as she toured through it with the rest of the group she'd been assigned to. Yet they were coming painfully close to Box Five. Tucked into an inner pocket of her warm leather coat was a small envelop, the outside of it addressed to "O.G.". Inside was a letter, from her of course, to the infamous "Phantom of the Opera", lovingly called Erik by all true Phans. She was only being silly, of course. A woman of nearly 20 knew fables when she heard them. Yet she had the childlike quality of being able to transport her mind deep into her imagination, where anything she wanted to be real simply was.
"Isn't that -"
The tour guide immediately interrupted one of the tourists; nodding his head and explaining to all the others the legend behind box five. Rosemarie listened with half of an ear, already knowing the legend by heart. She had seen so many movie versions, and read three books - one failure included called "The Phantom of Manhattan" which everyone seemed to utterly despise - except for her. She didn't need to listen to the superstitious rubbish the tour guide was handing out: Especially not such a watered-down version.
"Monsieur, I have to use the bathroom!" She announced abruptly from the back of the crowd. The man, probably in his mid-twenties and as boring with handsome looks as anyone could possibly be, looked back at her, straining to see the plain girl with glasses and short reddish-brown hair that announced her intimate little detail.
"You'll have to wait until we're done with the tour." He told her apologetically. Rosemarie immediately started bouncing around; doing the little pee dance that everyone was capable of recognizing.
"Please, Monsieur?" She entreated. "I'll catch up, I promise! I know the tour. I came here three years ago!"
The man looked at her skeptically, only a few other tourists understanding their exchanged words. She was one of the few American's there. The man was lucky to be multi-lingual.
"All right." He finally conceded, and again began to speak with the others in French, then switching to Spanish.
As the crowd wandered off down the hallway, Rosemarie made for Box Five, and tried the door. It was locked. Yet she'd read online that a girl had once climbed into Box Five from the one beside it. Moving to the next door, she was relieved when it opened. It didn't take long for her to climb over from one box to the other, and then she stood in the legendary Box Five.
There was a chair available, although she knew it couldn't possibly be the very same one used in the late 1800's. Then, there was the marble pillar to the left of the box, which was supposedly hollow. Smiling fiendishly, she crept forward, and taped her knuckles carefully against it. Sure enough, the marble was solid. With a small frown, she sat heavily into the available chair, and looked around. It was surreal, sitting in the very spot, legend had it, that Erik had once occupied. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back and smiled.
Only then did she remember the note in her pocket. Standing, she fished it out from the inside of her coat, and turned to place it on the little shelf at the back of the box. At least that was still true. The shelf existed - where it was said Erik left his notes for Mme Giry. Well, now she left a note for him, just as the managers had at one time in order to try and trap him. The idiots thought they could actually fool the brilliant genius the phantom had been!
"What is wrong with you?" She laughed at herself softly, muttering aloud as she did so. "This isn't real. You're letting your imagination get the better of you."
Sitting down in the chair again, she closed her eyes. Reaching over to the left, she knocked again, idly, on the marble column. This time, something odd happened. This time, it seemed to be hollow. Curious, and without opening her eyes, she knocked again. Once more, it sounded hollow. Eyes snapping open, she turned to stare in awe at the column of seemingly solid marble. Had it echoed before and she just hadn't heard it? No, she'd been listening too carefully. Something had changed.
"Vous ne devriez pas être ici, Mademoiselle."
The voice startled her, and she stood, looking around in confusion. The voice had sounded as though it were in the box with her, yet it was not. She was the only one there. She was still alone. She had only word two words of the French spoken to her; "you" and "Miss". The Rest of the words were a mystery to her. Slowly turning, she lowered herself, trembling with fright and excitement, into the chair a third time.
"Vous ne devriez pas être ici, Mademoiselle!"
She sat bolt upright as the voice came again, stronger than before, more insistent. Not daring to turn around, she swallowed thickly.
"Parlez-vous anglais?" She asked in a slightly shaky voice. There was a long pause, tense with hesitancy. Then, the voice came again.
"Yes." She closed her eyes, sighing in relief. At least now she could understand what was being said to her! She wondered who was speaking to her, and from where. Where had they learned to speak like that? Such a wondrous voice . . . The very idea of this man speaking to her in Box Five with a lovely voice made her quiver.
"Monsieur . . . I am sorry, I do not know what you said." She whispered. "Who are you?"
"I said you should not be here." The man replied, ignoring her question altogether. Rosemarie swallowed again, even though by now her throat was quite dry.
"Are you . . . are you Erik?" She asked uncertainly. Again, there was an endless pause. "Hello? Monsieur?" She didn't dare turn around. She was quite sure she'd see nothing.
"How do you know my name?"
She could have sworn that her heart had stopped beating. It was Erik! It was the "Phantom of the Opera"! His voice was different than she would have imagined, but she didn't expect perfection like that easily imagined. Slowly, she sat up straighter, in a more dignified position.
"You'd be surprised." She finally replied. "You're in your secret passage, aren't you? Could you possibly . . . come out so I might at least know where you are? I won't look at you, if you don't want me to."
There was yet another hesitant pause. Then, she heard the marble - without a doubt it was the marble panel - sliding open. There was a soft whisper of material brushing against something - possibly his silk black cloak against the marble. She didn't know because she didn't turn around. The one thing she wanted to do more than anything else in the universe, she did not do.
"My name is Rosemarie." She told him quietly. "You can call me by either nickname that suites you, if you wish."
"Thank you." He was silent for such a long time. Surely this was just as unsettling to him as it was to her. She heard the rustle of paper, a tear. She realized that he was opening the envelope she'd left for him on the small shelf behind her. Minutes passed as he read the lengthy letter. Then, she heard him fold it. "That was an interesting letter." He announced suddenly.
"I wrote it from my heart." She replied softly.
"I see . . ."
She sighed, and half turned to him, keeping her eyes lowered carefully.
"I wish . . . I wish you would let me see you." She admitted.
"No." He said sharply. "No one may see me."
"I understand." She tried to say softly. That seemed to take him off guard. He'd expected her to turn no matter what he said, probably. She'd never do that, though. She never would have done something that might hurt him. "A lot of people have caused you pain."
"You explained all that in the letter." He told her sarcastically. "Many people say things that they believe to be true. They say that I would not disturb them. Then they see me . . . and they end up just like everyone else. You have no idea what it feels like to -"
"-To be an outcast?" She replied quickly. "Au contraire. I understand perfectly what it is like to be an outcast. I understand perfectly what it is like to be alone. I may not have been as alone as you, but I have felt utterly alone and completely misunderstood my entire lifetime."
There was an uncomfortable silence. She wondered if he was upset; angry because her tone had been so chastising. Yet he said nothing. For a long moment, they sat in silence.
Abruptly, he moved towards her, so that he was standing directly in front of where she faced at the side of the chair. Yet her head was still lowered. She could see him wearing the shiny black shoes she recognized from pictures of the old days. He wore expensive dress slacks, and a white shirt with ruffled sleeves and cravat, under a black vest. He wore a velvet cape - rather than the silk she'd imagined. Then again, it was late autumn. Why wouldn't he wear something warmer? He was also wearing white gloves.
"Then look at me, if you think you can." His voice challenged softly. "Do you have the nerve?"
"I have more than the nerve." She said boldly. "But you don't have to do this. Are you wearing your mask, Erik?"
"Yes. I have no reason to remove it. Not even for you."
She lifted her head slowly. She was a bit startled by what she saw. He wore no hat, which made it apparent he had long rusty colored hair, pulled back into a tail. He was wearing the black mask spoken of in Gaston Leroux's novel. It occurred to her that he might be wearing a wig. He wore a wig in the Andrew Lloyd-Webber production. Lloyd-Webber, of course, was hardly aware of what the real Phantom was like. Sharp blue eyes, like crystal, stared down at her coolly, fully expecting to see apprehension or fear on her face.
She didn't show him fear. After watching him for a long moment, she smiled, and reached up to take his gloved hands in her own. He was startled, his fingers stiff and unyielding under her own. Yet she didn't let go, and he allowed her to hold his hands. Slowly, she stood, still facing him and still holding his hands, and smiled at him more broadly.
"You see?" She whispered. "I wasn't lying in my letter."
Erik stared at her for a moment that seemed like an eternity. Then, abruptly, she shook his head as though to come out of a daze, and pulled away from her, moving swiftly towards the marble panel.
"Erik - wait!" She pleaded, moving after him. Yet he'd already tripped a trigger in his hideout. The marble panel was sliding shut, separating them. She reached out to get her hands in the way, but he pushed them back quickly. Obviously she didn't care whether or not her hands broke from the weight of the trick panel. As it closed between them, she pounded on it angrily with her fists. "Erik - please! Please wait!"
As she continued to pound on the marble, she realized that it had lost the hollow sound again. It seemed as solid as a huge block of marble ought to be. There was no longer a secret panel. Growling in frustration, she turned and flung the only chair onto its' side. Abruptly, the door to Box Five unlocked, and out stepped a young woman who was obviously a tour guide. She stared in at Rosemarie in disbelief, then narrowed her eyes in anger.
"How did you get in here?" She demanded. "Come out of there at once! Straighten up that chair!"
Sighing, Rosemarie did as she was told, and then moved towards the door. It was then she noticed that her letter had been placed back onto the shelf. At least that was how it seemed to look. Lifting it curiously, she turned it over.
The seal had never been broken.
@-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-
Rosemarie looked about the Opera House excitedly as she toured through it with the rest of the group she'd been assigned to. Yet they were coming painfully close to Box Five. Tucked into an inner pocket of her warm leather coat was a small envelop, the outside of it addressed to "O.G.". Inside was a letter, from her of course, to the infamous "Phantom of the Opera", lovingly called Erik by all true Phans. She was only being silly, of course. A woman of nearly 20 knew fables when she heard them. Yet she had the childlike quality of being able to transport her mind deep into her imagination, where anything she wanted to be real simply was.
"Isn't that -"
The tour guide immediately interrupted one of the tourists; nodding his head and explaining to all the others the legend behind box five. Rosemarie listened with half of an ear, already knowing the legend by heart. She had seen so many movie versions, and read three books - one failure included called "The Phantom of Manhattan" which everyone seemed to utterly despise - except for her. She didn't need to listen to the superstitious rubbish the tour guide was handing out: Especially not such a watered-down version.
"Monsieur, I have to use the bathroom!" She announced abruptly from the back of the crowd. The man, probably in his mid-twenties and as boring with handsome looks as anyone could possibly be, looked back at her, straining to see the plain girl with glasses and short reddish-brown hair that announced her intimate little detail.
"You'll have to wait until we're done with the tour." He told her apologetically. Rosemarie immediately started bouncing around; doing the little pee dance that everyone was capable of recognizing.
"Please, Monsieur?" She entreated. "I'll catch up, I promise! I know the tour. I came here three years ago!"
The man looked at her skeptically, only a few other tourists understanding their exchanged words. She was one of the few American's there. The man was lucky to be multi-lingual.
"All right." He finally conceded, and again began to speak with the others in French, then switching to Spanish.
As the crowd wandered off down the hallway, Rosemarie made for Box Five, and tried the door. It was locked. Yet she'd read online that a girl had once climbed into Box Five from the one beside it. Moving to the next door, she was relieved when it opened. It didn't take long for her to climb over from one box to the other, and then she stood in the legendary Box Five.
There was a chair available, although she knew it couldn't possibly be the very same one used in the late 1800's. Then, there was the marble pillar to the left of the box, which was supposedly hollow. Smiling fiendishly, she crept forward, and taped her knuckles carefully against it. Sure enough, the marble was solid. With a small frown, she sat heavily into the available chair, and looked around. It was surreal, sitting in the very spot, legend had it, that Erik had once occupied. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back and smiled.
Only then did she remember the note in her pocket. Standing, she fished it out from the inside of her coat, and turned to place it on the little shelf at the back of the box. At least that was still true. The shelf existed - where it was said Erik left his notes for Mme Giry. Well, now she left a note for him, just as the managers had at one time in order to try and trap him. The idiots thought they could actually fool the brilliant genius the phantom had been!
"What is wrong with you?" She laughed at herself softly, muttering aloud as she did so. "This isn't real. You're letting your imagination get the better of you."
Sitting down in the chair again, she closed her eyes. Reaching over to the left, she knocked again, idly, on the marble column. This time, something odd happened. This time, it seemed to be hollow. Curious, and without opening her eyes, she knocked again. Once more, it sounded hollow. Eyes snapping open, she turned to stare in awe at the column of seemingly solid marble. Had it echoed before and she just hadn't heard it? No, she'd been listening too carefully. Something had changed.
"Vous ne devriez pas être ici, Mademoiselle."
The voice startled her, and she stood, looking around in confusion. The voice had sounded as though it were in the box with her, yet it was not. She was the only one there. She was still alone. She had only word two words of the French spoken to her; "you" and "Miss". The Rest of the words were a mystery to her. Slowly turning, she lowered herself, trembling with fright and excitement, into the chair a third time.
"Vous ne devriez pas être ici, Mademoiselle!"
She sat bolt upright as the voice came again, stronger than before, more insistent. Not daring to turn around, she swallowed thickly.
"Parlez-vous anglais?" She asked in a slightly shaky voice. There was a long pause, tense with hesitancy. Then, the voice came again.
"Yes." She closed her eyes, sighing in relief. At least now she could understand what was being said to her! She wondered who was speaking to her, and from where. Where had they learned to speak like that? Such a wondrous voice . . . The very idea of this man speaking to her in Box Five with a lovely voice made her quiver.
"Monsieur . . . I am sorry, I do not know what you said." She whispered. "Who are you?"
"I said you should not be here." The man replied, ignoring her question altogether. Rosemarie swallowed again, even though by now her throat was quite dry.
"Are you . . . are you Erik?" She asked uncertainly. Again, there was an endless pause. "Hello? Monsieur?" She didn't dare turn around. She was quite sure she'd see nothing.
"How do you know my name?"
She could have sworn that her heart had stopped beating. It was Erik! It was the "Phantom of the Opera"! His voice was different than she would have imagined, but she didn't expect perfection like that easily imagined. Slowly, she sat up straighter, in a more dignified position.
"You'd be surprised." She finally replied. "You're in your secret passage, aren't you? Could you possibly . . . come out so I might at least know where you are? I won't look at you, if you don't want me to."
There was yet another hesitant pause. Then, she heard the marble - without a doubt it was the marble panel - sliding open. There was a soft whisper of material brushing against something - possibly his silk black cloak against the marble. She didn't know because she didn't turn around. The one thing she wanted to do more than anything else in the universe, she did not do.
"My name is Rosemarie." She told him quietly. "You can call me by either nickname that suites you, if you wish."
"Thank you." He was silent for such a long time. Surely this was just as unsettling to him as it was to her. She heard the rustle of paper, a tear. She realized that he was opening the envelope she'd left for him on the small shelf behind her. Minutes passed as he read the lengthy letter. Then, she heard him fold it. "That was an interesting letter." He announced suddenly.
"I wrote it from my heart." She replied softly.
"I see . . ."
She sighed, and half turned to him, keeping her eyes lowered carefully.
"I wish . . . I wish you would let me see you." She admitted.
"No." He said sharply. "No one may see me."
"I understand." She tried to say softly. That seemed to take him off guard. He'd expected her to turn no matter what he said, probably. She'd never do that, though. She never would have done something that might hurt him. "A lot of people have caused you pain."
"You explained all that in the letter." He told her sarcastically. "Many people say things that they believe to be true. They say that I would not disturb them. Then they see me . . . and they end up just like everyone else. You have no idea what it feels like to -"
"-To be an outcast?" She replied quickly. "Au contraire. I understand perfectly what it is like to be an outcast. I understand perfectly what it is like to be alone. I may not have been as alone as you, but I have felt utterly alone and completely misunderstood my entire lifetime."
There was an uncomfortable silence. She wondered if he was upset; angry because her tone had been so chastising. Yet he said nothing. For a long moment, they sat in silence.
Abruptly, he moved towards her, so that he was standing directly in front of where she faced at the side of the chair. Yet her head was still lowered. She could see him wearing the shiny black shoes she recognized from pictures of the old days. He wore expensive dress slacks, and a white shirt with ruffled sleeves and cravat, under a black vest. He wore a velvet cape - rather than the silk she'd imagined. Then again, it was late autumn. Why wouldn't he wear something warmer? He was also wearing white gloves.
"Then look at me, if you think you can." His voice challenged softly. "Do you have the nerve?"
"I have more than the nerve." She said boldly. "But you don't have to do this. Are you wearing your mask, Erik?"
"Yes. I have no reason to remove it. Not even for you."
She lifted her head slowly. She was a bit startled by what she saw. He wore no hat, which made it apparent he had long rusty colored hair, pulled back into a tail. He was wearing the black mask spoken of in Gaston Leroux's novel. It occurred to her that he might be wearing a wig. He wore a wig in the Andrew Lloyd-Webber production. Lloyd-Webber, of course, was hardly aware of what the real Phantom was like. Sharp blue eyes, like crystal, stared down at her coolly, fully expecting to see apprehension or fear on her face.
She didn't show him fear. After watching him for a long moment, she smiled, and reached up to take his gloved hands in her own. He was startled, his fingers stiff and unyielding under her own. Yet she didn't let go, and he allowed her to hold his hands. Slowly, she stood, still facing him and still holding his hands, and smiled at him more broadly.
"You see?" She whispered. "I wasn't lying in my letter."
Erik stared at her for a moment that seemed like an eternity. Then, abruptly, she shook his head as though to come out of a daze, and pulled away from her, moving swiftly towards the marble panel.
"Erik - wait!" She pleaded, moving after him. Yet he'd already tripped a trigger in his hideout. The marble panel was sliding shut, separating them. She reached out to get her hands in the way, but he pushed them back quickly. Obviously she didn't care whether or not her hands broke from the weight of the trick panel. As it closed between them, she pounded on it angrily with her fists. "Erik - please! Please wait!"
As she continued to pound on the marble, she realized that it had lost the hollow sound again. It seemed as solid as a huge block of marble ought to be. There was no longer a secret panel. Growling in frustration, she turned and flung the only chair onto its' side. Abruptly, the door to Box Five unlocked, and out stepped a young woman who was obviously a tour guide. She stared in at Rosemarie in disbelief, then narrowed her eyes in anger.
"How did you get in here?" She demanded. "Come out of there at once! Straighten up that chair!"
Sighing, Rosemarie did as she was told, and then moved towards the door. It was then she noticed that her letter had been placed back onto the shelf. At least that was how it seemed to look. Lifting it curiously, she turned it over.
The seal had never been broken.