He swore he would never leave her … She swore she would never betray him.

Lies are dark.

But truth can be darker ...

An E/C PotO romance/drama with a blend of Brontë's Wuthering Heights (not a true crossover because PotO characters stay the same and assume WH roles too) – My own adaptation … do NOT look for complete matches of either story, though I did borrow off ALW, a little Kay, and WH. I saw strong similarities in PotO and WH and have long wanted to blend them into my own unique tale. This gives E/C a different backstory and in a whole new light – yet, conforms to the ideas of ALW's POTO and what happened at the opera house, with my own little shockers, twists, and turns …

This gothic tale is darker in nature than any I've done before - filled to the brim with angst – tragic – shocking at times but I DO NOT write unhappy endings. Please keep that in mind as you read. My characters are flawed and make mistakes - big ones sometimes- and have to learn/grow from them ... As all my stories do, to ease tension, it will also contain fluff, humor, lighthearted moments and sexual situations that become very explicit further into story - (a big reason for M rating). Main story set before & during time of movie -bumped back a couple of years so I didn't have to deal with the war (there's enough conflict in this without that too.) A short prologue set in 1919 to set this up, etc (like ALW did with his…)

Told in 4 parts - (think of each as a sequel or the whole as a miniseries).

Disclaimer- I own nothing of ALW's PotO or Brontë's Wuthering Heights (in public domain).

Reviews and constructive criticism always welcome!

**Again, please note: this story contains a very dark, very bitter Erik who seeks revenge and makes bad choices - if you don't like that idea - don't read. (Though as I do with all my main characters, there is character growth/redemption by story's end).**

And so, I give you yet another epic tale of The Phantom of the Opera…

Prologue

(Paris, France - 1919)

.

A vicious streak of lightning ripped apart the night sky above the looming opera house of pale stone. In the deserted streets below, a hunched figure shivered and raced for the wide steps that led to its massive doors.

His fist pounded on the peeling wood. "Let me in! By God, let me in!"

The ominous glow of the storm flickered madly along the Rue Scribe as the rain pelted down and struck the worn paving. He cast a nervous glance about, feeling as if someone were watching through the round windows the startling color of blood. In another fierce blaze of white from the merciless heavens, he could make out two shadows that moved beyond the opaque glass of the nearest window.

"By all that is holy, give me entrance I say!"

Minutes that felt like hours elapsed as the storm raged on, the wind growing stronger. His pounding never ceased, until, at last, the door swung open by the hand of a woman in a gray wrapper. Her brown hair was curly and wild, her dark eyes impatient in the glow of the candle she held.

"Are you insane? Who are you and what is it you want?"

Thinking her a servant, he addressed her as such. "Woman, let me inside. I have business here."

"Business? Could you have not come at a decent hour? It is nearing midnight."

"I was forced off the road by some crazed lunatic on a black horse. My automobile hit a tree. I've walked this entire way, in a storm no less, and need shelter, a place to sleep. I also am in need of a meal." He pushed past her, his eyes taking a cursory view of the dark cavernous interior of the foyer and three sets of stairs that led into pitch darkness. "I am Monsieur de Galle. I was hired by the new managers to determine if this place should be condemned and demolished."

She stiffened. "You are the building inspector." She seemed to recall the previous part of his conversation. "A man on a black horse forced you off the road?"

"A madman who charged right for my auto. I had no choice but to swerve to miss him." Noting how her eyes had widened, he chose not to elaborate on the strange encounter. He pulled off his hat and gloves, pushing them toward her.

She raised her chin and did not take them. "Monsieur, you are mistaken. I am not the maid. Nor am I the cook." She seemed to relent as she closed the great door and barred it. "However, I can give you biscuits and cheese."

"How kind," he spoke dryly. "And some wine to take the chill off perhaps?"

She gave a curt nod. "Follow me."

She took him through the dark foyer and past staircases that seemed to lead into oblivion. He followed the candle's flicker outlining her small silhouette through a narrow corridor, then another. He assumed she must be in her forties, at least, and wondered if she was the caretaker or related to one. Before he could inquire, she opened a door, standing aside for him to enter.

"This is where the managers slept when one or the other of them stayed the night." She moved to touch her flame to a candle's wick.

In the dim glow, he took note of the room; cramped and small, containing a desk, bookshelves, and a small sofa. A profuse layer of dust covered everything in sight. She took a pillow and swatted it over the sofa, stirring up a thick cloud of the choking particles and setting him to coughing.

"Really, Madame!"

Again she lifted her chin in an imperious way. "It is all I can offer. I'll get your food."

With a disgusted grimace, he pulled off his drenched coat, letting it fall to the floor, and took note of the room, which looked as forgotten as the exterior of the opera house. Old bills covered the faded wallpaper proclaiming past operas in their glory days. He sniffed and peered closer, making out the name "La Carlotta" above a well-endowed, feisty looking redhead in a production of Chalemau's Hannibal. He wouldn't have minded taking a tumble with her ...

The woman returned with a meager plate of food and a smaller glass of wine. She bid him goodnight and quickly left. He barely took notice of her, studying the bindings in the bookcases, at last choosing Dante's Inferno. He wished for a dour tale to suit his bleaker mood. He pulled the volume from its slot and blew off a heavy coat of dust, scowling.

Settling upon the chaise, he ate as he began to read, taking a sip of the terribly bitter wine after every few pages, until he'd consumed what little she'd brought him. Weary from his unwanted adventure of earlier, he settled back to rest his eyes, keeping the candle lit.

A cold droplet hit his brow.

"Wh-what the hell!" he sputtered.

Another followed, and he shot upward, glaring at the ceiling. A dark patch relayed evidence of a leak. If this was what he could expect with the remainder of the opera house, the whole damned building was coming down tomorrow!

He jumped to his feet and grabbed the candle. Did they not believe in lanterns in this cold, tomblike edifice? Somewhere, surely, there had to be better lodgings than what that hostile woman had shown him! This building had housed dormitories, for God's sake!

Muttering as he wended his way through a corridor, the candle's glow softly shimmered upon a beautiful rose-colored door with painted flowers. It stood the slightest bit ajar.

Curious, he pushed it open the rest of the way and gaped at the sight.

A woman's room lay before him, three times the size of the manager's office and quite lovely, with a dressing table, a screen, and a chaise lounge among the pieces of furniture – and not a speck of dust in sight. This room had been kept well tended. The area was lush; no expense spared. Plush satin pillows and thick pile rugs offered soothing comfort. The walls, the chairs, even the arches of the ceiling were embellished with angels or entwined with roses. A huge floor-to-ceiling mirror in a gold frame carved with cherubs stood, taking up one-third of the wall near the dressing table. A room fit for a queen. Or a star. Undoubtedly, the diva's headquarters, and perfect for his practical requirements for a peaceful night's rest.

He settled himself on the silk-covered lounge and laid his head on the plump pillow there. It smelled like roses, long dead. The musty fragrance wasn't offensive, however, and he closed his eyes, growing drowsy …

A sudden gust of chill wind raised gooseflesh along his exposed skin. He opened his eyes with a start. There were no windows in this room, no shutters that the storm could have blown inward.

The candle's flame flickered once, twice more, then extinguished as if by a hidden breath.

But the room was not cast into darkness.

His heart pounding heavy with shock, he looked toward the mirror …

… that now glowed with muted light.

He scrambled up from the chaise and stared, backing up. No, he did not imagine it. A dim white light reflected from the mirror's glass ... God, he must be dreaming. Of course, that was it. The wine was off and now he was paying for his mistake.

Chriiiii-stiiiine …

The low, ghostly wail of a man's deep voice came from beyond the mirror, chilling his blood.

Come to me, my Angel of Muuuusic ...

De Galle let out a hoarse, strangled cry and raced from the room and down the corridor.

An … gel of Mu … sic … friend … and phan ..tom …se …cret … and strange … an … gel …

Faint and slow, a woman's voice, clear as a distant bell and just as phantasmal as the mirror's being, sang through the dark corridor.

COME TO ME!

De Galle screamed at the man's ghostly bellow, dark and fierce. It was followed by the woman's ghostly laughter, teasing and provocative – and he flew into something solid.

Fiery pain throbbed through his face and shoulders.

"Monsieur!" Footsteps raced down the corridor, the glow of a candle growing brighter, and he recognized the woman who had given him entrance into this godforsaken place. "What has happened?"

He saw also the wall he'd run into, tasted metal and wiped his mouth of something warm and wet. In the light of the flame, he spotted blood on his fingers. He unleashed his fledgling terror in accusation. "Where have you hidden it, woman?"

"Hidden what?"

"Do not play me for a fool – the PHONOGRAPH!" he cursed and spit out blood onto the floor. "Do not think THIS will scare me away from doing my job, Madame!"

"Wh-what are you talking about?"

"Those damned voices, of course! But tell me, how did you make the mirror glow? A strategically placed lantern perhaps? Hidden behind the mirror somehow?"

In the dim light, her face achieved the color of parchment. "M-mirror? What mirror? What voices?"

"In THERE!" He threw his arm back, pointing to the door of the dressing room, now wide open. The interior again appeared dark.

Her eyes bugged as she looked in that direction, then turned to him. "You went in there? A foolish, mistake, monsieur! That is their territory! And he does not tolerate trespassers."

"He …? He? Who the HELL is HE?"

"THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA!"

He'd had enough bizarre talk of ghosts. They were for small children and silly women.

"Really, Madame …"

"It's true," she insisted, her words low and emphatic. "Tell me, monsieur, have you never heard the legend?" She shook her head a little in disbelief. "Everyone in Paris has heard the legend …"

"What legend?"

She looked around fearfully as if the shadows might come to life. "Come. And I will tell you."

He followed her down another corridor, into a sitting room he assumed was her own. She motioned him to sit in one of two upholstered chairs there and turned up a kerosene lantern, glancing quickly toward the doorway, as if she'd heard a noise and feared someone would appear. Hurriedly she closed the door and turned the key in the lock. She stood, silent, while lightning madly flickered from the one blood-colored window, the resounding boom of thunder rattling its panes.

At last she turned.

"Listen well, monsieur." She spoke slowly. "For the tale that I will tell you is quite shocking but true; a tale beyond your wildest imagination. One that would not be believed and few souls know in its entirety ... Take care not to consider it lightly, for it is a dark tale of a forbidden love, tragic and fantastic, obsessive and wild … a love that could not and would not die ... but the toll it exacted was dreadful indeed ..." She shivered, rubbing her arms as she moved to sit across from him.

"What bloody tale?"

She looked at him then, her dark eyes secretive and mysterious. A small smile played about her mouth.

"The tale, monsieur, of the legendary Phantom of the Opera and his enchanting Angel of Music. A tale that began on a night much like this one, many, many winters ago ..."

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