Les Fantômes (Erik x OC)
CHAPTER TWO
“Mademoiselle Grey, as our First Violinist, I expect you to im-pr-ess me. Can you impress me?” Conductor Jules said, clutching his playbook against his chest as he bent slightly at the waist and pierced Emma with his gaze.
She stared down at him from her place upon the stage, and at that moment she knew her face was like that meme of Dani from Game of Thrones. An “I would hang you from these rafters if I could” expression.
“Of course, Conductor Jules,” she answered.
Lifting her violin, Emma launched into The Arena by Lindsey Stirling. A modern piece to be sure, but Emma enjoyed a variety of music from different eras. She loved 70s folk, the crooning voices of the 1940s and 50s, 80s pop, and whatever modern song fit her fancy. Whether she was scolded for playing this piece, she didn’t really care. She knew she was good.
It is easy to be swept into the melody, to close one’s eyes and follow the music, allowing it to use you as a conduit for sound rather than a physical person creating it. But Emma enjoyed watching her fingers dance over the strings, and she enjoyed seeing how quickly she could move from one note to the next. It was a little game she played with herself, but one Conductor Jules would not likely appreciate.
As she played, she turned slightly, feeling compelled to move her body. Her gaze swept around the theatre, meeting the eyes of her colleagues, and the bored expression of Conductor Jules. Emma nearly rolled her eyes, and swept her gaze toward the right of the stage.
Her fingers slipped, the bow ripping across the strings, the violin giving a great shriek. Her entire body reacted and she stumbled back, for there, in the shadows of Box Five, were two yellow glowing orbs.
“MADEMOISELLE GREY!” Jules yelled as shrill as the violin. “If it is your intention to be removed from this program, you are doing a wonderful job of it!”
Emma stared at Jules with a shocked expression, barely comprehending what he was even saying. Her mind was whirling, her breaths coming fast. She quickly looked back toward Box Five, straining to see through the shadows of the curtains, but the yellow lights were gone.
Was it her imagination? Had she finally cracked, desperate for some proof that her favorite novel was real as the author, Gaston Leroux, had claimed? That Erik was real? Surely, surely it was a trick of the light, and she wasn’t completely mad.
“What?” Emma gasped, finally taking in the situation.
Conductor Jules pressed a hand to his forehead in exasperation. Several students laughed. Emma gently put her violin back into its place and stood demurely on the stage. She could see Mieke angrily swatting in the direction of a girl she could only assume was Saoirse which is where most of the laughter was coming from.
“I apologize Conductor Jules,” Emma said.
“Mademoiselle Grey, allow me to make one thing very clear,” Jules began, rolling his Rs. Emma was very careful to school her features. “There were several inductees who could have taken your place in this program, but I put my good faith in you in the name of the Director. By embarrassing me, you embarrass the Director, and I shall not stand for that. If you cannot perform as expected of the First Violin, you shall be demoted, or removed. Do you understand, Mademoiselle?”
“Perfectly,” Emma answered.
Conductor Jules aggressively motioned for Emma to leave the stage and she walked back to her seat uncaring of the smirk that Saoirse gave her as Jules called her to the stage to perform.
“Are you okay?” Mieke whispered when Emma sat down.
“Perfectly splendid,” Emma said in a far away voice as she stared in the direction of Box Five. Mieke threw her a strange look, and took Emma’s violin case which Emma had been holding loosely, and placed it on the floor at their feet.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” Mieke said.
A ghost? Or the ghost? Emma thought to herself. She replayed that moment over in her head. Tilting her body to the right, she had simply moved her eyes across the auditorium before they fell on Box Five. What she had expected to see was nothing more remarkable than the chairs and the heavy curtains. What she saw instead were two points of light in the darkest part of Box Five. If they were eyes, they would belong to a very tall man, but her brain and her heart fought viciously with this theory, and Emma slid further into her seat as she settled on it being merely a reflection of something from the stage.
“I’m fine,” Emma finally said to Mieke. “I thought I saw something. It distracted me.”
“Jules is a crock. You were amazing, well, before.”
Emma smirked and crossed her legs, giving another glance toward Box Five.
“Tomorrow, you shall be given one more chance to dissuade my sincerely unimpressed opinion of you Mademoiselle,” Conductor Jules said to Emma after class had ended.
“I understand,” she said.
Emma desperately wanted this conversation to end as swiftly as possible. There was much sleuthing to do, many Opera Ghost activities she had to take care of because as much as her mind told her she was acting completely mad, Emma knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until she debunked the mysterious “eyes” of Box Five herself.
“Then be off with you,” Jules finished.
Emma began to walk backward and shot him a smile as sour as a lemon.
“I’ll have you know, Conductor, I am the greatest violinist in the world.”
Jules squeezed the edges of his playbook and turned haughtily to the side. He eyed her with distaste, his brown hair flopping over his forehead. Emma thought, if he wasn’t entirely obsessed with the Director, Jules may not be an entire pain in the ass.
“I will believe it when I see it!” Jules enunciated each word between his teeth, and stomping his foot as if he were stepping into a march, he hastily exited the auditorium.
Emma laughed to herself. She liked to imagine life like a book, or a play, or really something more exciting than what she was used to. Jules would definitely be comedic relief. Mieke the caring and fierce best friend. Saoirse the bully. And Emma would trounce all obstacles, fall in love, and live happily ever after. The thought made her laugh all over again.
Looking round to ensure everyone had gone, Emma climbed up onto the seats, hastily checking to ensure her converse didn’t leave a print on the upholstery. She climbed the few rows in the front until she was directly in front of Box Five. Unfortunately, and Emma blamed her small stature for this, she couldn’t even see over the edge of the Box.
“Lovely,” she muttered. She stepped up onto her toes and nearly fell into the row below her. Cursing, she looked back up and said, “You know Monsieur Le Fantôme, if you deign to interrupt me while I am performing, you may as well introduce yourself.”
Receiving no response, and after waiting several minutes, Emma climbed back down.
“It’s not fair, you know,” she said one more time to the dark Box.
As she wandered back down the aisles, Emma couldn’t help but hum to herself, thinking of the lyrics from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s famous, and highly incorrect, musical - “He’ll always be there singing songs in my head.”
After entering the Grand Foyer, completely overwhelmed by its beauty, Emma looked to her right, back up at the ceiling, and then to her right again.
“Don’t do it. Emma, don’t do it,” She said in a sing-song voice. “You will only make yourself more miserable.”
Turning fully to the right, Emma smiled brightly, “Miss. Grey, that is exactly why we do it,” she said to herself.
Determined, Emma walked the half circle around to Box Five. An attendant sat on a stool near the steps that led to the box, fiddling with his phone. He stood as Emma approached, already shaking his head.
“Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but tours are ending. I must ask that you make your way to the exit. The gift shop is still open if you would like to purchase something.”
Emma squinted at the nametag on the front of his blazer.
“Jean,” she began. Emma pulled out her program badge and winked. “I’ve just come to say good evening to our resident Opera Ghost.”
Jean looked relieved and laughed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize who you were. So many faces you know.” He sobered, “You don’t really believe the old stories do you?”
“I do,” Emma said. “And you don’t?”
Jean shrugged, picking at a string on his slacks, “Sometimes, well…”
“Sometimes things happen. Just silly things. Lights and disappearing objects,” Jean turned and pointed at his stool. “You know where I found that the other day? In the rafters! Above the stage. It’s always going missing. But I know it’s just Louise or Albert or someone.”
Emma smiled, “Or a ghost.”
Jean visibly shivered and laughed, putting a hand behind his head, “I certainly hope not. Well,” a nervous glance toward Box Five. “I’ll leave you to it. Good evening Mademoiselle.”
“Good evening,” Emma whispered, watching him walk, a little quickly, around the bend. When his footsteps completely faded, Emma turned back to the problem of Box Five.
Once again stepping up the few red carpeted stairs to the little viewing window, Emma peered inside. And once again, nothing. But when she rested her hand against the doorknob, the door swung open silently.
Emma stood half bent at the open door, her eyes wildly staring into the box, her mouth open slightly. Her hand was still up as if she were still gripping the door knob. What in all nine layers of Hell was that?
Emma stood straight like a pin. The door was supposed to be locked. The door is always locked. Jean, it must have been Jean. Did he forget? Emma’s thoughts whirled in her head. There had to be some explanation for this, but as her heart and mind settled, Emma was relieved. It saved her from picking the lock.
Stepping into Box Five felt like stepping through a mirror. There was almost pull, as if the layers of her world were trying to bring her back, telling her to go no further. But into the opulence of Box Five she went.
There wasn’t anything particularly peculiar about it. It looked like any other box in the theater, as incredibly red as ever. Emma vaguely wondered if Erik had a say in the color scheme of the Garnier. Was his favorite color red?
Emma laid her hand on the back of one of the chairs, imagining him sitting, hidden by the drapes, watching Faust and yearning for his Marguerite
“I think,” Emma said quietly. “There is supposed to be a secret passage in here.”
According to Gaston Leroux, Erik was able to enter and leave Box Five through a column
“And since this thing is more bloody enormous than I realized…” Emma started.
She suddenly moved forward and pressed her ear against the ostentatious column to the left of the box. The sculpted image in the stone pressed against her face, but despite the discomfort, she raised a hand and rapped against it.
The column sounded thick and unyielding.
“I’m getting very put off here,” Emma grumbled. “I don’t know what you want,” Emma said loudly to the Box. “But I saw you. Didn’t I see you?” She ended quietly.
Was it a trick of the ghost? Or a trick of the mind?
Feeling very sad, Emma left Box Five.