Christine's Tutor (A Phantom of the Opera Prequel)

IV (Phantom)

He sat atop his bed, facing his organ. He stared across to it as he thought to himself, his session had gone well. She was the one for him. The light of the surrounding candelabras put a devious twinkle in his eye.

It was time for the next part of his plan. He was going to pay a visit to all the theatres in Paris. He was going to draw everyone to the Paris Opera House. They will all see her become famous, but when the time was right. The time for that was not to be any time soon, not until her voice was developed. For now, he must be patient with teaching her. One step at a time.

He abruptly got up and sat down at his organ. He glanced over to his music stand, where a collection of filled-in staff papers had been placed. At the header of the foremost paper was the title "Don Juan Triumphant". In front of him, on the stand built into the organ, was another part of the collection. He took a pencil in hand and scribbled on it, writing down notes, then trying them out on the organ, playing them fiercely and passionately. He sat doing this for hours; he was taken in by the music, and once he started he could not stop. He didn't even notice as his circus-tent-shaped music box opened up to reveal its monkey with cymbals and begun to play its tune.

It wasn't until the grandfather clock struck six times that he was pulled out of the music. The day was to begin, and he had plans to make.

~

The day had come and gone, though it didn't matter to him, for he did not know the day, nor did he ever wish to. To him, the day was just another part of time. Of course, that's not to say that the day was an extension of the night. To say such a thing would be blasphemous; the day wasn't the splendorous, sacred, alive night. It was simply void, dead time, time that had to be killed.

Eight o'clock. Showtime.

He flew down the stairs and up to the water's edge, where his gondola awaited him. He jumped into it, and set off for the Theatre de l'Odeon.

People were flooding into the theatre, and there, aside, unseen, was he, leaning his back against the side wall of the building, peering around the corner at the ants.

Once the attendants had closed the doors to the public, he pounced. He opened one door quietly, and swiftly slipped through into the empty lobby of theatre.

He glided up the polished granite stairs without making a sound. He came to the entrance to the passage that led around backstage, and took it to the rickety spiral stairs that went up to the wooden grid hovering above the stage. He climbed them, and set foot onto the grid. He wandered through it, deftly avoiding the stagehands, seeking out the pulleys holding the lights in place.

Finally, he found what he was looking for. Unfortunately for him, though, there was a stagehand manning them.

He had no choice. He approached the poor man from behind, and in one motion, grabbed onto one of the ropes from the pulley and wrapped it around his neck. He covered his mouth so as to stifle his screams until he had lost all air and suffocated.

At the same time, the row of lights attached to the pulley crashed down, triggered by the dislocation of the one rope that he had grabbed onto. The body of the stagehand fell down with it, landing with a thump onto the stage. A series of screams from down below was set off.

The entire theatre was engulfed in chaos. He could hear the audience members scampering for the exit.

He fled the scene having finished his work.

~