Author's Note: this was my first attempt at phantom phiction, begun two years ago when I first heard of the story. As a result, the quality of writing is not the best. So I apologize in advance. Also, I wrote it long before I read Kay's version, or any version other than the original, for that matter. Therefore, any resemblance is purely coincidental, or something strange sixth sense of mine...I don't know.

The Return of the Ghost

The woman at the window gazed out at the bleak winter evening and sighed deeply.

Two years. Two years ago today, she had first heard his voice in the dark. Had it been that long? So much had happened since then, and yet...and yet there were times when she heard that voice again, speaking out of her past, calling her...pleading with her...

She turned away from the scene outside. No sense standing there...she wasn't really paying attention, anyway. Strange, how every detail from that night was etched so deeply in her memory. Sometimes she could almost see him - when she closed her eyes, or walked alone in the dark, and caught her reflection in a mirror...

She wondered if he remembered it so clearly. He probably did...if he was still alive, that is. A sudden image of him, dying alone in the dark, flashed across her mind, and she drew in a sharp, painful breath. No

The woman sighed. It was terribly wrong to harbor such feelings now, she knew. But how ironic, to discover that they existed when the author was out of reach...perhaps forever.

The uneasiness she had felt all day suddenly grew into an unbearable anxiety. She had to go-now-before her own emotions tore her apart.

She wraped a warm cloak arond her slender shoulders and quietly went to the door. Her fair-haired husband looked up in surprise as she glided past the door of his study.

"Going out so late, my dear?" He set down his book and came to her.

"Yes," she whispered, "I've been concerned about the welfare of a friend of mine, and I must find out....it worries me so." She smiled tentatively. "You understand, don't you, Raoul?"

"My tender-hearted little wife," Raoul kissed her quickly. "Of course I do. Be careful, Christine," he added as she stepped into a waiting carriage.

Christine. Christine Daaè. The woman leaned back onto the cushions and felt a small wistful smile curve her full lips. That had been her name, when her mysterious tutor had plucked her from the ranks and changed her from a chorus girl into a nightingale. And she hadn't even thanked him for it.

"Where to, Madame?" the driver barked.

"The opèra," she said softly, clearly. "Take me to the opèra."

The carriage started with a rattle and a bump, and Christine Daaè de Chagny closed her eyes with a sigh.

It was not just the wind that made her shiver as she gazed up at the cold stone building. It hadn't changed a bit, she thought...had she? Her eyes wandered to the rooftop, where the golden angel glinted dully in the twilight. Had he changed? Would he remember her, welcome her? Shaking her head, she pushed aside her questions, and hurried to open the heavy door.

So quiet...it was so quiet inside, with the patrons and performers all home for the evening. Hesitantly she walked down the deserted hallway, listening to the echo of her footsteps. The silence and the emptiness did not trouble her, however. Her imagination was more then anough to fill the theater with lights and sounds and people; little Meg Giry-married now-flitting around like a butterfly in her ballet slippers; La Carlotta, practicing her scales backstage; a lonely 20 year old girl waiting in the wings, waiting to sing for the very first time... Even now she could hear the giggles and whispers of her companions, and the rustling tread of the stagehands behind them.

The stagehands...

Slowly the vision faded, and Christine was left alone on the dimly lit stage without realizing how she had got there. Below her, in the orchestra pit, an old man pushed a broom across the floor. He didn't seem to have noticed her.

Christine recognized him-it was old Jacques, the dustman. Why, if Jacques were still here, then perhaps...

"Excuse me?" She called. Her voice sounded hollow, and far too thin, and she decided to try again. "Pardon me, monsieur?" The old man turned and glared up at her sourly. "What do you want?" he growled, "and how did you get up there?" Christine bowed her head, feeling like a impertinent chorus girl again. "Forgive my intrusion," she said timidly, "but I'm looking for a friend. Perhaps you can help me?" Jacques leaned forward and studied her critically. "And who might that friend be, madame?" he asked suspiciously. The woman took a deep, fortifying breath. It had been so long since she had spoken that name... "His name is Erik." The old man started and peered at her closer. Then suddenly, he smiled.

"Madame Christine, why didn't you tell me who you were right off?" he asked, his gruff manner disappearing quickly, "I wouldn't have greeted you so roughly!" Christine glanced down, twisting her hands together nervously. "I...I wasn't sure you'd believe me." Jacques climbed up the stairs and looked her over, taking in the pale ivory face, the wide blue eyes and dark curls. "I would've know you anywhere," he protested, "you haven't changed a bit." His wrinkled old face became serious. "So you've come to see the ghost, eh? I don't know, Madame....I haven't seen him for months. I used to, you know, whenever I was in one of the lower cellars...at least I thought so. Never can tell, with him. But not anymore. And the music's been silent for weeks, now...that ain't right, either." He led the way backstage, still talking. "I suppose he'll live down there till he dies, if he ain't dead already. Though how he lives, I'll never know..." Christine caught him gently by the arm. "Thank you," she said softly, "but I can go on from here." "If you're sure..." "I'm sure." She brushed past him and left him standing there open-mouthed, his broom still clutched in his knarled hand

She had forgotten how dark it was backstage, without any candles. For a moment she was disoriented, confused. Where was her dressing room? How could she ever find her way back? She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, fighting the sudden panic that threatened to engulf her. Tentatively she took a step forward...then another...then another...growing more and more confident as her memory reasserted itself. She had walked this corridor a thousand and one times, in her past...and in her dreams. At just the right moment she reached out and touched a doorknob. This was it; her dressing room. She took the key from the chain around her neck and unlocked the door. Then carefully she turned the knob and pushed-and coughed as the dust wafted out. Taking another deep breath she entered and looked around. There was dust everywhere. It coated the floor, drifted past her face, clung to the cobwebs. And it was so cold. Squaring her shoulders, Christine began to walk around, touching, remembering; the cabinet, where all her dresses had been stored; the bed; the chest of drawers that had held her scripts... The Mirror. The woman lit a candle that she had found, wiped the dust off the shining surface, and gazed at her reflection. Her face looked so sad...so sad. Had it all been a dream, then-that eerie light, those eyes staring back at her, that voice beckoning...calling with a power she could never, not in a million years, even begin to resist... Christine put her hand against the glass, beginning to sob softly. No, it had been real; all too real. But the man behind the mirror...could she reach him again? Sniffing softly, she brushed the tears away and held her candle aloft, searching. There had to be a catch on this side of the wall, there just had to be! Magician though he was, he must have had something to help him with the illusion... There! Just beyond her reach, a small lever protruded from the wall. She stood up on tiptoe, gave a little jump, and caught it. There was a grinding of rusting gears, and the front of her mirror slid away to reveal a blackness so deep she could almost feel it. A gentle breeze whispered up to her, teasing her dark curls, and bringing with it the scent of dank cold water. Christine stared blankly at the path that led down, down into that darkness. She had forgotten this part too - the cold and the darkness that seemed almost alive... But he was down there. She could feel the call strongly now, pulsing through her with a terrifying force as she stood on the threshold of his kingdom, his world... "I'm coming, Erik," she whispered, "wait for me!" And holding her candle tightly, she started down that path, heading toward the sound of the water.

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