Author's Note: I stumbled across my old account here, which I don't have an e-mail address for anymore. It had an old story on it I am just dying to rework and finish. If you want to read the original two chapters, here combined into one, please go to .net/s/2496939/1/Crossworlds. I'm mostly writing this to get my creative writing itch out, but feedback is appreciated.

Since most of you aren't going to go back and read my 6 year old work, let me explain: This is from a roleplay I did back in my early high school days called Crossworlds, in which I played Erik - the Phantom of the Opera. The roleplay was based on the original novel by Gaston Leroux as well as a book called Phantom by Susan Kay which I used to flush out the character a little.

Paris, France – 2002

The Opera House was gorgeous; everything the pamphlet had said it would be. It was like stepping back in time to the nineteenth century just walking into the foyer. Everything was fashioned flawlessly from gold and the finest woods and marble, the grand staircase poised in the center like something from a dream. The Palais Garnier was a beautiful to say the least, fully restored to how it had once been in its glorious days.

Aminta Mendelssohn, though her name suggested otherwise, was not Spanish at all. Her name had been chosen by her father from the work of Don Juan Triumphant, the rather risqué opera by a composer rumored to be the legendary Opera Ghost himself. Her mother was a tried and true New Yorker, her father French in every sense of the word. The scoundrel had left early on in Aminta's life, moving to Paris with his mistress less than a month after divorcing her mother, where he married her and started a whole new family.

So here she was, in the foyer of the Opera Garnier in France. David Mendelssohn had a nasty habit of disappearing whenever his daughter was due for a visit, and true to tradition he slipped out of the hotel room to take a phone call just before he was to take his daughter sight-seeing and was nowhere to be found when the tour bus had arrived. Aminta wasn't about to let her father's lack of parenting skills keep her from enjoying her vacation, however, and she left with the group without even a note left as to her whereabouts.

Ever since she was a little girl, Aminta had been fascinated by the legend of the Phantom of the Opera. It was an easy thing to do, as her father had close ties to the Opera Garnier. Aminta's mother had been reciting the story since she was a little girl, and the exceptionally bright New Yorker had first read it in fifth grade. By then she was hooked. Anything and everything that had to do with her beloved story was read, listened to, or watched eagerly. Aminta had even written essays on the infamous Opera Ghost, about how she supposed his past must have been to cause him to behave so. These often received harsh criticism from her professors, for the Phantom was simply a factious character. He had no past, only what was written of him.

Naturally, the Opera was the first place she wished to visit in Paris. After a few agonizing hours touring the more typical sights of Paris, the tour bus finally screeched to a halt in front of the neo-baroque style building. It was a royal pain to have to follow a tour guide, but there was really no other choice; it was either stay with the group or be thrown out, so Aminta had stayed, noting the points of the legend the tour guide had neglected to point out – the horseshoe on the door to ward off spirits, for instance.

"Alright ladies and gentlemen, through these doors now, don't push. Are we all in then? Good." The old man spoke again in his thick Parisian accent. "May I present to you, Madames et Monsieurs, the Opera Ghost's private box: the Grand Tier's Box Five…" The man went on about how the profits had greatly declined during the nineteenth century because of the Ghost's demands the box be reserved for himself, the first and last time he would mention the legend.

His words fell on deaf ears. "If I had an Opera at my feet, I'd request this box too!" Aminta breathed to herself as she peered over the railing, earning several nods of agreement. "The view is…"

"Breathtaking, I believe you were going to say." The tour guide smiled proudly. "I'm glad you like it, Mademoiselle Mendelssohn. Your father reserved it for you for this night's production of Don Giovanni. Said you had some sort of interest in the legend…"

"Interest would be an understatement, Monsieur." Aminta spoke in flawless French, receiving a jolly smile from the gentleman. "Wait a moment, how do you know my father?"

"He is the leading subscriber here, is he not? I doubt you'll find a man or woman in this place who does not know of him. And you look almost exactly like him. I simply guessed from there, Mam'zelle. Isn't he supposed to be here with you today?"

Aminta pushed a brown curl over her shoulder and forced a smile and quoted her father's favorite phrase "Business before pleasure." The tour guide nodded, almost sadly Aminta thought, and resumed the tour by filtering people from the room. Aminta was still quite reluctant to leave the awe-inspiring view.

Some unseen force drew Aminta back to the railing of the box. She could have sworn she could hear faint music on the air, though from her vantage point it was obvious nobody was in the orchestra pit. The music weaved its way through her mind, caressing her softly.

"Mme Mendelssohn, your father would be quite angry with me if I lost you." The tour guide called back into the box, but Aminta was not listening. The music quietly consumed her, and drew from her throat words and a melody that were so familiar yet she was sure that she had never heard them.

"Domine suppliciter

obsecro ut mihi

nota Angelus custos!"

That last eerie note lingered in the air a fraction of a second before the ground began to shake and the lights flickered. Aminta stumbled back frantically into the relative safety of the box. There was the odd sensation rather like the drop on a rollercoaster, and when the lights went out completely the New Yorker was certain the building had collapsed beneath her.

Hardly thirty seconds after the lights went out, they returned. There was something strange about this lighting though… were those gas lamps upon the walls?

Screams echoed from the theatre below. Aminta ventured back to the railing, eyes widening in horror at the sight of a man in low-income Victorian dress hung lifelessly over the stage, head bent at an unnatural angle.

An unfamiliar voice called out below them. "He's back! Oh God, somebody fetch the managers, and quickly!

Paris, France – 1882

Patience had never been one of his greater virtues, and the reconstruction of the Opera House was certainly trying what little patience he had. The infamous Opera Ghost did not take well to boredom, but what other choice did he have; he had caused the damage, what else could be done but wait for it to be repaired?

In his boredom and rage he found himself picking off the lesser ranked workers repairing the Opera, especially those who came too close to discovering his underground kingdom. So far he had merely dumped their bodies into the lake to destroy the evidence. Erik had never been one to kill for sport, but it was certainly better than killing himself.

No matter how he had begged for death when she left, no matter how he had threatened to kill himself if he didn't die of grief first, the Phantom of the Opera feared death. Living on Earth was as close to Hell as he had come, but Erik knew just what was waiting for him should he choose to end his own life. Even if his soul could be redeemed, he did not particularly like the idea of going to Heaven to spend his afterlife with the God who had damned him. The final option of Purgatory wasn't appealing either; pride would never allow him to wander around repenting for the innumerable crimes he had committed.

After just over a year construction was finally coming to an end, and Erik had decided the people in his kingdom had gone far too long without knowing who controlled their every thought and action. Tonight's killing would not be for sport, the innocent soul would not simply disappear off the face of the earth like the others had.

Erik paced in the shadows with the grace and forced patience of a jungle cat. The only thing keeping his victim's short attention span focused was the occasional intentional rustle and movement in the shadows. More often than not, this was not the Opera Ghost at all, rather a pre-placed prop that would move of its own accord or make popping sounds that sounded rather like footprints on a ladder. He certainly could have picked a more inquisitive victim, he mused with annoyance. But the trap was in place and must be seen through.

The length of the Punjab Lasso fell through his gloved fingertips as he coiled and uncoiled the rope anxiously. He had been dormant far too long, it had been ages since he had last heard the delightfully gratifying sounds of panicked humans. Finally! The man was close enough to the Ghost and far enough away from his peers, and with a skilled flick of the wrist the Phantom let the Punjab fly, expertly catching the unsuspecting dolt by the neck. In far more than an instant the man was suffocated (that was the intention, of course; Erik was forced to suffer daily pain, why should his victims be spared it?), strangled by the very string of catgut that was winding itself for the final time in its master's leather-clad hand.

Erik began the difficult journey of bringing the man to where he would be discovered; kidnapping ninety pound divas was easy, but moving the dead bulk of a full grown, overweight man was another matter entirely. He was a strong man himself though, and with a bit of effort managed to carry the hulk up the catwalk where a different rope was placed around the man's neck (for the Punjab was far too valuable a weapon to be left in the care of a dead idiot). With a satisfied smirk, Erik pushed the poor dolt over the edge of the catwalk where he stopped just short of the stage with a sickening snap.

Instant gratification! What a sight it must have been, a man whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time hanging dead from the catwalk. If there had been any life in him before there certainly wasn't now. The Opera Ghost's eyes flashed wickedly as a man immediately shouted below him, and the sweet sound of a woman's scream pierced the air.

"He's back! Oh God, somebody fetch the managers, and quickly!"

Finally the world had realized the Opera Ghost had not died, and that he was as dangerous as ever. The screams echoed and grew as the story spread through the Opera like a wildfire. The managers had been brought, and realizing their worst fears had come true began immediately barking orders.

"Alright everyone, settle down. Someone, take him down from there…" Richard Firmin's orders were obeyed immediately and he continued in a voice that was nearly on the verge of breaking. "Now, did anyone here see anything?"

One of the men groaned and rolled his eyes. "Of course not! He's a God damned Ghost!" This only seemed to increase the panic among the superstitious workers, a thing the Opera Ghost's ego was feasting on as he observed silently from above

Quite satisfied with himself, Erik turned from the scene to one of the many trapdoors leading to his home by the underground lake to compose his ultimatum. Just then a faint sound reached his ears, ringing faintly but sweetly over the sounds of barely contained chaos below.

The Summoning of Angels. The Opera Ghost straightened instinctively. Had she returned? Had that treacherous snake returned to her master? No other knew his summon, unless Christine had further betrayed him.

Several emotions, most negative and bordering on rage, compelled Erik to investigate. Echoes were easy to locate in an Opera house when one knew how to look, and once his ears had tracked the location of the sound he could hardly believe his eyes.

Inside his box; HIS box, Erik seethed; a young woman in the strangest manner of dress was peering over the railing looking quite as surprised as the people in the theatre below.

"What the Hell..?" he breathed, deciding to wait in the shadows a bit and continue his investigation. A letter of demands could wait, and as he knew the managers were awaiting one, the suspense might actually help see his needs were properly seen to