Ghost: Retelling the Phantom of the Opera

Ghost Part 4

Friday, May 1st

Christine Daae' slipped behind the huge backdrop, away from the rest of the company, taking deep breaths to try to ease the clamping tension in her chest. But her hands felt cold, and her stomach nervous. Too much glare, noise, frenzied action...

The principals had just begun to practice the finale, with the orchestra, for the first time. The huge, forbidding instrumental sound filled the front of the stage and the cavernous theatre. And so did the powerful voices of Boucher, the statue, and Signore Rinaldi, who played Don Giovanni. In the wings, the chorus members whispered and quietly laughed with each other, flouncing with and adjusting pieces of their costumes. Most of Christine's costume still needed to be altered, so she was only wearing a form-fitting linen dress, and something that resembled a blue housecoat, with a sash. But Senora Carlotta's costumes still needed to be tailored, and Boucher's made entirely new, so Christine understood that she herself was not high on the costume department's list.

She glanced to her left, squeezing her fingers.

Behind the largest backdrop, in the rear wall of the stage, an arched opening waited, leading to a dimly-lit "rehearsal room." She supposed that was what it ought to be called, in a technical sense—the floor was pockmarked, and benches and couches stood against the right and left hand sides, as well as support bars for dancers. But the walls were golden pillars, the ceiling covered with celestial faces and murals, with a spectacular chandelier hanging from the center. At the far end, a floor-to-ceiling mirror reflected the back of the backdrop that stood onstage.

But Christine paused here, on the threshold, gazing into the dark, empty room. Only one of the sconces, far back by the mirror, was lit, and the light burned low. She could barely glimpse the muted edges of the artistic figures on the walls and ceilings, and couldn't make out any of the details of the paintings. But this space was quiet, set apart.

She might be able to pretend she was alone. In an isolated, quiet sanctuary.

If only for a few minutes.

Glancing back to make certain no one was looking at her, she ventured up the steps and into the room, even as the director out there in the theatre stopped the orchestra, and ordered everyone to begin again, at the top. She crept inside, gazing up at the art on the walls, their pictures disguised and distorted by the shadows. She came to the great mirror, studying her own subdued reflection by the light of the low lamp to her right. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around herself as she gazed back into her own eyes.

When had she become so afraid of people? So adverse to sounds, to conversation, to light?

Pain tightened the back of her throat.

She knew when. Of course she did.

She broke her own gaze and lowered her head, soaking in the quiet.

"Hello."

Her head jerked up. She spun to her left—

Someone was there. In the opposite corner, beneath the unlit sconce. A dark figure, completely hidden—

A pale hand flashed out from the shadow, making a swift, placating motion.

"No, don't—don't be frightened," came the voice—low, careful. Christine's hand flew to her heart as it started to race, and her wide eyes searched the darkness for a recognizable shape.

"Who's there?" she demanded, but she couldn't summon much volume.

"I didn't want to frighten you," came the same voice, the hand drifting down to rest against the pillar. "That's...why I said something."