Disclaimer: I don't own Erik (I'm sure he's pretty glad for that), and I don't really own anyone ELSE in this story. If I do, it'll only be partially. 'Kay? 'Kay.
Thanks: A big, hearty DANKE goes out to Tammy, who was gracious enough to let me write this story; and, uh… to Tammy again, for proofreading and making sure I got it all right! Yay Tammy!
A/N: This is the prequel to the much-loved story, The Whispered Word, Lenore, and takes place three years before. …Oh gee, I rhymed. Weird.
Anyway, this is the first chapter of Ellen and Irene's story, and I sincerely hope I GOT IT RIGHT. But I guess that's up to you guys, right? Right. So, without further ado, here it is.
Tammy: Here's to you, girl. Darn blackmailer.
Vanessa shoved her fists in her jeans pockets, her red-haired ponytail waggling against her back as she walked along, her eyes focused more or less on the sidewalk. Her older brother Patrick paused, and when she kept on walking he grabbed her arm. "Slow down there, sis," he said, laughing a little at her expression of surprise.
"Now listen," he said firmly. "I'm going in this store here. You can do anything ya like – just so long as you stay fairly close and keep your cell on." Vanessa wordlessly pulled out her silver phone and turned on the power, flashing him the blue backlit screen before snapping it shut and sticking it back in her pocket. He nodded, satisfied.
"Patrick?"
"Hm?"
"Can I go see the Opera House?" She winced inwardly; where had that come from?
He considered. "Aye," he said finally. "Go ahead."
She smiled and watched him walk in the store, then made her way towards the giant building, weaving through the rather sparse end-of-summer crowd.
"Hi there!"
She made an odd, spasm-like movement and looked at the source of the voice. A boy, not much older than herself, grinned at her in a sheepish (but handsome, she realized) way. He had light, almost dirty-blond brown hair, which was kept trimmed fairly short except for the bangs, which was parted down the right side so that the larger portion curled across his left cheek and obscured his left eye. He had glittering, mischievous amber-red eyes, rather long eyelashes, and medium cheekbones. She noticed there was an odd, crescent-moon shaped birthmark only just visible curving from behind his right ear.
"Terribly sorry, terribly sorry, did I scare you?"
"Not at all," she answered, frowning a little. "Just wasn't expecting… well. You know."
He looked as if he did know, and shrugged amiably. "I just happened to notice you, ah, looking at the Opera House."
"Oh – um, yes. I was going to go look at it…"
That mischievous little grin widened, until she thought she must be able to see all of his white, sparkling, strangely perfect teeth. "How would you like to see in it?"
She gaped at him. "What do you mean? It's locked, and… I don't have a key."
"Oh, I think I can solve your problem, my dear girl." He made a fancy little hand gesture with the right, and held it out, palm up. On it was an old brass key. Fascinated, she reached out to touch it, but he snatched it away at the last second. "Nope."
She blinked, like someone just pulled out of a vision. "But –"
"There's a price, you know."
She sighed unhappily. "There always is."
"Oh, I assure you – not with money."
"Then how - ?"
"Come closer," he said, invitingly. She did as bade, curious. "So, you really want this key?"
"Yes!" Her voice had the urgent tone of one who is eager and not thinking clearly. She leaned even closer. He smirked and pressed his lips against hers. Startled, she tried to pull back, but when he held her there she relaxed. No one even seemed to notice. The kiss quickly turned heated, his tongue exploring avidly, and she mindlessly went along with it. Her brain was numbingly devoid of thought.
Just when she was beginning to realize her violent need of air, he released her and pressed the key into her limp hand. Her fingers seized it, almost as if afraid it was going to jump up and walk away.
"It's yours," he said solemnly (or, at least, solemnly enough as one could be after an exposition such as that). He felt his lips tingling pleasantly. He then told her about the spring-switch in the diva suite, and when she asked he assured her that it would open any door she wanted to try.
She nodded and turned to go, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Oh. And give my regards to Keeran." With that he walked away, a secret smile gracing his features.
She watched him go with a meditative frown. She hadn't even gotten his name.
You shouldn't be here, Vanessa's conscience snarled as she pressed her fingers against the giant doors of the Opera Populaire. She froze, fingers splayed across the wood, then shook her head and pulled the key out of her pocket. She was rather dubious about whether or not the key actually worked, as it was been a mere copy, but what was there to lose or gain? All she wanted was a peek inside…
She paused again to consider, the key poised before the lock. That's right, the little voice in the back of her mind coaxed. Just put that key back in your pocket and forget about this silly adventure. You know there's no Opera Ghost…
"It's only a legend," she whispered indecisively. Then her eyes hardened as she pushed the key the rest of the way in. She turned it and it clicked satisfyingly, whereupon she slipped inside. Closing the door, she finally took a good long look at the famous Opera House. Her conscience was now quite silent.
"This was so worth the price I had to pay," she murmured, gazing about her in absolute rapture. The statues, while dusty, were magnificent, and the paintings were excellent. She absently pushed the key into her pocket.
"Now where to explore first? The stage? The rooms? The roof?" She looked in each direction as she said them, then hurried off to the apartments. She was especially curious as to Christine Daaé's dressing room, the diva suite.
The boy had assured her that the key would open any door; well, she had no doubt in it by this time; it had passed her test when it at least had opened the front doors.
It was quite obvious that the Opera House had not been inhabited for some time; dust was everywhere, although, she noted, the floors where spotless. She puzzled over this a little, but didn't devote much attention to it; it was a trivial matter. The doors squealed a little on their rusty hinges – it was evidently in need of some good repairs. She quickly glanced through a few of the regular rooms, but when she got to Mademoiselle Daaé's room, she hesitated. Conscience spoke up immediately. Go! Just go! Don't tempt fate, my dear!
"I thought you said there was no Opera Ghost," she muttered.
I didn't mean the Opera Ghost specifically, Conscience retorted. This building is so old, and hasn't been lived in for ages – some of the boards may be rotting. What would happen if you fell in, broke your leg, and died of starvation, or blood loss, or madness?
Vanessa found she had nothing to say to this. She knew that Conscience was just trying to get her out of there, and she decided she wouldn't listen. She tried the door, found it locked, and pulled out her key again. It opened the door without fail.
"Hmm." She walked over to the mirror first; the boy had told her the most interesting tale of how, if she'd care to press a certain part of the wallpaper, the mirror would open to reveal one of the Opera Ghost's famous passageways. At first she doubtful of the truth in this, but after the key, well – she was more than willing to believe. Her small hands roamed the wallpaper in the described spot, and she pressed around the place she guessed it would be. Finally she found a small patch that yielded to the pressure, and after pushing it in firmly, she stood back and watched.
A minute passed and nothing happened. When another minute passed with nothing, she shook her head in disgust and went about examining the furniture and the closet. The closet contained nothing but a few dust bunnies and spare hangers, and the only thing that came from inspecting the chairs was that they needed to be either fixed or replaced. The bed was still in good condition, however, and she peered under it in interest. More dust bunnies, and a slightly larger dust kitty.
She clambered to her feet and was about to leave the room when she happened to glance at the mirror one last time. It shivered slightly. She blinked; her mouth dropped open a little as it wobbled again, and, instead of looking into a mirror, it seemed as if she was looking at a reflection in an upset puddle. She approached it cautiously, curious, and reached out her fingers to touch it. It swung away from her fingers, revealing a passage as had been explained to her. It was lighted a little from the daylight streaming through the windows in the room, but beyond it was black. She suddenly noticed a candle and matches lying carelessly on the bedside table, and scurried over, lit the candle, and began her venture into the inky darkness.
The siren's arm slid out of the water with a stealthy grace and moved towards one of the unsuspecting rats nearby. The blueish-green feathers made not a sound against the concrete. The thin, almost talonlike fingers inched towards a rodent, and had just about closed upon one when a boot came crashing down hard upon the hand. The siren shrieked in pain and frustration and quickly withdrew the wing. Her head poked out of the water and she glared at her opposer.
"No more rats," Erik growled. "I will not stand for it."
She hissed and then pouted. "I have had no food. There are no fish in the lake for me to feed upon. What else am I to do?"
"How many have you eaten already?" he demanded.
"Two," she answered, all too quickly. It was obvious she was lying.
"You have had more than that."
She hissed again, frustrated. "Fine. Five. Are you satisfied?"
"If I find any missing that do not fit with your number, you will be punished."
She looked at him sullenly. "You will find only five missing. On that I give you my word."
He snorted. "Your word isn't worth much."
She was about to deliver a stinging reply when they both heard a decidedly metallic clang and a muffled string of curses. The siren perked, glancing back in that direction, a sharp-toothed grin gracing her cold features. "Ah… a visitor, Erik."
He waved her off, wondering who had decided it was their business to be under the Opera House. No matter; that person would not be there for long. He watched the strange creature that guarded the lake slip under the water and swiftly swim to the other shore.
Vanessa picked herself up off the rough ground, rubbing her skinned chin. She had kicked some kind of metal object and had had the misfortune to fall over, uttering swears the whole way down. She leaned down and felt around for it, her fingers jamming quite hard and painfully against a thick, gritty surface. She moved the candle over it, trying to make it out in the guttering light.
It was a cauldron. "Oddity of oddities," she muttered, examining the strange patterns on it. Probably just a stage prop, Conscience spoke up, for the first time in about half an hour.
"Probably," she agreed, moving on. She had just come to the edge of a giant underground lake when a strong gust of wind came along and puffed the candle out. She stood frozen in place in the darkness, trying decide which was more terrifying; standing underneath a giant building in the dark or knowing that the gust of wind wasn't quite natural enough for her liking. Fumbling with the pocket of her jeans, she tried to find the matches, but, alas – she had left them in the suite earlier.
"Crud." It was softly spoken, but it echoed eerily around the vast chamber.
She carefully leaned over and set down the candle, meaning to turn around and feel her way back, when a soft, crooning voice came floating up out of the water, singing a sweet lullaby. Her eyes widened a little, then her eyelids drooped. It was so pacifying, and lovely…
Her eyes snapped open and she tilted herself back, away from the still lake. She shook her head vigorously, red hair flying, and listened again. Nothing. But then –
A small splashing noise approximately fifteen feet away from her made her jerk. "Who's there?" she called fearfully.
It had to be a kelpie… She'd heard all about them. They lured people into the water and drowned them for sport. And they looked like a horse. But then, could kelpies sing? She couldn't quite remember. But something else tugged at the edge of her consciousness, something that fled every time an attempt was made to snare it.
Of course, nothing answered. You're being silly, Conscience berated her. There's nothing there. You're imagining it.
"Am not," she answered defensively. "I heard singing…" But she trailed off, unsure of herself now.
And she had, for there it was again. Coming from farther off; whispering lulling words and sense-dulling reassurances. Coaxing her into the water.
"I shouldn't listen," she murmured, taking a shuffling step forward, then another. "But… it sounds so heavenly…"
She was in the lake up to her knees before she realized it. She shivered; the water was freezing.
"Come, my darling," cooed the saccharine voice. Vanessa complied, up to her waist in no time. Then she stopped again, mechanically.
"No… no, this isn't right. But… I no longer know which way is the shore." Panic began to drill a hole in her brain, eating away slowly like a worm.
Something brushed her leg ever so fleetingly; she gasped and shifted. Just a fish, Conscience told her fiercely. Just a fish. Look! There's light over there!
She looked in the direction the voice had told her. Indeed, there was a light; but it was so far. But seeing as how she could be the only person in this place, it had to be daylight.
"I'll swim for it," she said finally. The singing had quieted for the moment.
She moved deeper, hardly able to keep from crying out when another something moved against her stomach. Then she began to swim.
She was aware of the thing following her almost immediately; she kept catching glances of it out of the corner of her eye. A fin here, what seemed like a feather there. She swam faster, trying to keep calm. Just your imagination! Conscience shrieked. It no longer sounded convincing. The light was drawing closer; but her strength to swim was ebbing.
It was then she was pulled under. Something gripped her foot and yanked, hard; she gasped as she went down, obtaining in the process a mouthful of water. Then the weight was released, and she bobbed back up, coughing and spluttering as she tried to expel the water that had gotten into her lungs.
She stopped, quite suddenly, and peered around. Blood pounded in her ears and her heart pounded in her chest, but otherwise she could hear nothing. Nothing. Had she imagined the thing, and had gone under in her panicked insecurity? Her nostrils flared and compressed again and again.
She began again, heading for the shore, faster than before. She told herself there was nothing in the water, that it was all a figment of her overactive imagination, but she couldn't help the giddy adrenaline rush that surged through her body. She was almost there – the concrete was tantalizingly inches away from her outstretched fingers – and then she was tugged under once more.
The singing was even louder under the water; much more effectual, as well. Panic forgotten, Vanessa looked around her, fingers lightly treading the water. She looked down, curious as to the source of whatever was holding her down, and let out a silent scream as she saw the siren. Even in the extremely dim light, she could see the monster perfectly; the sight of her broke the spell instantly.
She was running out of air, as well. She had choked down half a mouthful of water when she realized she should keep her lips shut and did so, trying to ignore the burning tightness of her chest. She lashed out with her free foot, desperate to free herself; by pure luck her shoe connected with the siren's face. There was a cracking noise, made all the louder by the medium through which it was carried, and an ear-splitting shriek – then the grip slackened and disappeared. Vanessa broke the surface, gasping, and crawled out onto the concrete, hardly noticing that she skinned the tips of her fingers in the process. She scooted a fair distance away, then flopped back, trying to regain her breath.
"Very good," a male voice commented dryly. "A wonderful performance."
She started, squeaking, and turned to face the man, stuttering. "B-b-but how c-c-c-can you b-b-be here? I th-th-thought th-this p-p-p-p – p-p-p – b-building was d-deserted!"
"I assure you, it's not." She finally got a good look at him, and felt faint. The mask, old fashioned clothes, the candle-lit underground abode…
"You said there was no Opera Ghost!" she wailed pitifully. The Fantomé de l'Opera appeared rather startled at her outburst.
"I beg your pardon…?"
"Just talking to Conscience," she said quickly, all trace of her stammer gone. Then she began fervently muttering prayers under her breath. "Lord please beg pardon on my soul for all my wrongs, Baby Jesus give me mercy for my sins, including that time we pasted Shannon's underwear all over her house…"
The man didn't quite appear to know what to say to this. "Well," he declared at last, "I'm quite afraid you won't be able to leave here alive."
Vanessa howled in absolute utter grief at his words. "Please, Monsieur," she babbled incessantly, adding a garble of French words that went along in the way of pleas, "I promise not to say anything to anyone, just let me go, I have a mother and a father and a brother to think about, not to mention my poor little puppy!" She sobbed here to add emphasis.
"I'll be sure to put your body where they can find it," he assured her, leaning over and picking her up by the neck of her shirt. He was surprisingly strong, and her feet dangled almost a foot off the ground. She squealed in terror and wriggled, a stream of multiple-language entreaties tripping themselves over to escape her mouth.
"I'll do something for you! Anything! I'll be your personal servant! You want the Opera House cleaned, right? I'll clean it! Better yet, I'll get someone to buy it and manage it and –"
He dropped her quite suddenly. "What did you say?"
"I'll clean it," she gabbled, making all sorts of odd hand gestures.
"No, no, the one after that."
"Get someone to buy it?" she asked plaintively.
"Yes! That one!"
"I'll go right out today and have someone buy it," she gibbered, glad to find something that would please him.
He considered this in silence for a few moments. "Yes…"
She scrambled to her feet, overjoyed. "Of course, Monsieur. A nice buyer, someone to take care of this – er – lovely building."
He nodded finally. "Go. But know this – I will be watching you."
She shivered a little and glanced around, trying to discern an entrance or exit she could follow. He was walking away when she spoke up again.
"Um, Monsieur – could you tell me the way out?"
He turned. "I could," he acknowledged.
She watched him. And waited. And fidgeted a little. "Um… Sir?"
He raised the eyebrow not hidden under his mask. "Yes?"
"You were, um… going to tell me the way out?"
"You never asked me to tell you," he pointed out dourly. "You only asked if I could. Which I can."
With any other person, she would've lost her temper, but she kept it tightly reined. "Would you kindly show me the way out, please?"
He wordlessly turned and pointed in a direction; she noticed then the dark passage. "Oh… thank you, Monsieur." She scurried away from him, not quite daring to look back. She had gone a ways before she finally slowed down and chanced a look back, but she couldn't see anything. "Jerk," she muttered.
"I heard that," echoed the Opera Ghost's voice from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Vanessa yelped in surprise and ran the rest of the way out.