The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  He saw the bright red frizzled hair of Carlotta Giudicelli, the opera house's Prima Donna. She was carrying a dress in one hand, and she was dragging along a smaller, hapless girl with the other.

  “I need this gown mended in half an hour, little toad!” she bellowed, continuing her tirade in her native Italian.

  “It shall be done, Madame,” the girl responded, looking to the floor. Erik looked at the girl more closely, at the familiar sound of her dejected voice. It was his angel—the one he had found in the chapel—that this cow of a diva was so mistreating. Erik's blood boiled as he saw the miserable woman toss both the girl, and the dress to the ground.

  “See to it, that it is done, and done right this time!” she demanded in a huff, and turned on her heel to leave. “And return it to me—in half an hour and not one moment later!” She left the room with a flourish, and Erik curled his fingers into a fist to keep himself from wrapping them around her miserable neck.

  Believing herself to be alone, the girl wiped a few stray tears from her eyes before gathering herself and the gown up from the floor and moving over to one of the sewing machines. She was garbed in gray working attire, and her glorious chestnut curls were tied back from her face with a black ribbon. A few errant curls, however, escaped the ribbon, and Erik had an almost uncontrollable urge to brush them away from her face. She sniffled a bit as her hands separated the layers of the dress, apparently searching for the tear, and Erik's heart blackened with thoughts of the Italian diva. The Phantom was going to have to pay her a visit very shortly.

  As the sewing machine whirred to life, Erik heard his angel begin to hum. He listened to the soft, sweet melody, and could not suppress a smile when her humming turned to singing.

  I once heard the tale of an angel

  Oh, how I wish he'd appear

  Her voice was soft and youthful, and yet so clear and pure. There were no pretenses in its character, no flourishes, just a simple, clear tone, and a sweet, innocent delivery. Erik wondered how she would sound singing an aria; certainly, she would be a breath of fresh air after the highly dramatic strainings of La Carlotta, whose theatrical flairs and heavy vibrato did little to disguise a voice that was harsh in tone, and lacking in precision.

  And with his wings, soft and gentle,

  Take me far from here…

  He heard her singing trail off, and once again, his angel was speaking to the air around her.

  “Oh, Papa,” she sighed, still sewing the sow's ugly dress, “will you ever send me the Angel of Music? Will he ever allow my song to take flight and lift me out of here? I hate it here so much, Papa. This is not my home. I long for our home, where I could sing, and dance, and you would play…Oh Papa, why did you have to leave me?” She looked down at the dress, as once again, tears began to fall.

  Her plaintive words once more pierced Erik's heart. She should not cry. She was all that was beauty, and sweetness and light, and tears did not become her. He wished, once again, that there was something he could do—that there was some way he could comfort her. But how? She cried for a father whom he did not know. She cried about her miserable state of existence that he could not change. She cried for an angel whom he could not produce. An angel of music.

  Erik's breath caught within his chest. Perhaps he could produce that angel. What was an angel, after all, except an incorporeal being who was sensed, but not seen? And what would an angel of music do? She'd said it herself. An angel of music would make her song take flight, and lift her out of her current existence. And how could one do that? By teaching her the proper way to sing!

  Had he not himself just been moved by the purity and the clarity of her voice? Had he not wondered how she would sound singing an aria on the opera stage? She would never do that, if she did not receive proper training, but how could she ever hope to achieve that training while working as a seamstress for a bovine like La Carlotta?

  He could teach her. Music had been his first and only love from the time he was a child. It had wiped away his every tear, caressed his every heartache. He had become a virtuoso on any instrument he had ever attempted to learn. His singing had long been able to enchant those who had been blessed—or cursed—enough to hear it. He had nearly driven his own wicked mother out of her mind with his voice. These thoughts were not conceit on his part, but merely facts that he knew to be true.

  His thoughts raced with how he could become her angel of music. He could remain hidden, behind the wall, and speak to her. She would never have to see him, and know that in truth, her angel was more like the devil himself. No, he could teach her in kind, encouraging utterances, and build her voice to the greatness of which he knew she was capable. In so doing, he could lift her out of her wretched state, only for her to alight again as the First Lady of the Stage, eclipsing that sorry excuse for a singer Carlotta in the role. He could do this for her, and then perhaps the tears she cried would be tears of joy, no more of sorrow. Perhaps by being her angel, he could help his angel to find her wings.

  Once again, Erik heard the door to the costumery open. “Christine!” he heard the little blond ballerina, Meg Giry, call as she entered the room. “Christine. La Carlotta is on the stage bellowing about her gown.”

  Fitting Erik thought. Cows do bellow.

  “Already?” his angel asked, shaking her head. “It has not even been the half hour she demanded.”

  “You know she is unreasonable,” Meg answered. “Is it done?”

  “Only just,” his angel returned, tying off the thread that had made the repairs, and liberating the gown from the sewing machine.

  “Well, come on, then, Christine, let's go,” Meg asserting, grabbing onto her hand and urging her toward the door. “We don't want to keep the diva waiting.” They exited the room in a rush, closing the door behind them.

  Erik released the breath he had been holding as he'd watched the two girls leave. “Christine,” he said in a throaty whisper, and never had a word sounded so sweet on his lips.

  He hastily grabbed the few gowns he had chosen for Miss Wilson as he turned to go with a flourish of his cape. He was giddy to get back to his home and deliver the gowns, knowing now what he could do to help his angel, and he chuckled darkly when he thought of the other delivery he would soon be making.

  The elevator stopped at the 8th floor, and the doors opened out into the physical therapy department. The young doctor made a quick visit to the desk to inquire whether Jake Trudeau was still in. He was directed to the employee lounge, where, apparently, Mr. Trudeau was just getting ready to clock out for the day.

  “Mr. Trudeau?” The doctor called to the shorter blond man who was standing at his locker.

  His head shot around as he slammed the locker door, and he looked over at the doctor before saying, “Yeah, Doc? What can I do for you? I'm about to clock out, though, so unless it's urgent, can it wait 'till tomorrow?

  “It's not about work,” the doctor said, extending his hand to the lab tech, who shook it warily, “It's about Miss Wilson. I'm her doctor.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the man said, chuckling a bit nervously. “Hi, how are ya?”

  “I'm fine,” the doctor returned with a tight smile. “But Miss Wilson could be better.” When the blond man said nothing in return, the doctor continued, “I know it must be difficult for you to see her like this, Mr. Trudeau, but coma patients can greatly benefit from the support of loved ones. I was hoping you could come by and spend some time with her on your way out tonight. I'd like to talk with you about some things you might be able to do to encourage her to wake up.”

  The man's face contorted in a regretful expression, “Ah, Doc, I'd love to, but you see, I've got plans right after work, and I don't really have time to stop by right now.”

  The doctor looked at the man, taken a little aback. “Your girlfriend is right downstairs in a coma, and you don't have the time to stop by and see her?”

  “Look,” the man said, a little defensively, “I don't know what you think you know about o
ur relationship….”

  The doctor's eyes narrowed suspiciously, as he cut him off “I know that you live together.”

  “Well, we did.”

  “You did?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “We did live together, but I’m pretty sure Jenna was going to change that…you know how it is…” he said, chuckling nervously.

  “No,” the doctor said, looking down to meet his eyes with a sharp look. “I don't.”

  “Oh well,” the man's face reddened a bit, in embarrassment, “it didn't exactly end well, if you know what I mean.”

  “No,” the doctor said again, still holding the man's gaze, his jaw set in a taut expression. “What, precisely, do you mean?”

  “Well, she…she didn't exactly take it well.”

  The doctor was getting very tired of Mr. Trudeau's hemming and hawing. “She became upset when you informed her you wanted to end your relationship?” He told himself that only reason he was continuing to waste breath on this loser because this could be important in explaining Jenna's mental state leading up to the accident.

  “Well, I…” the man began again, haltingly. “I didn't exactly tell her.”

  He tried to remain professional—he really did—but knowing that Jenna was lying comatose in a hospital bed while this sorry excuse of a boyfriend was having such a hard time finding words to express himself was making it truly difficult. His voice raised a little as he said, “Mr. Trudeau, will you kindly tell me what exactly happened?”

  “She, uh…” the man began, looking away from the doctor's withering gaze. “She walked in on me and Mindy…while we were…uh…” Jake allowed his sentence to trail off.

  The physician's gaze turned to one of disgust as understanding dawned on him. He raked his hand through his hair in aggravation looking at Trudeau with disdain. It was all he could do to keep himself from punching the fool, but instead, he paced a little back and forth before asking, “Was this right before she had her accident?”

  “Yeah,” Jake answered. “So she may not exactly want to see me right about now.”

  “Oh, really,” he snapped, sarcastically, “Would you blame her?”

  “Hey Doc,” Jake began, defensively. “What's any of this to you, huh? How is it any of your business?”

  “Miss Wilson is my patient. That makes all of this my business,” he said, angrily, looming over Trudeau. “I've done all the tests, and I cannot find any good medical reason why she is not waking up. I need to find a way to motivate her—to make her want to come back to us—and obviously, that motivation is not going to be you!” The doctor slammed his hand against a locker before storming away, taking the staircase instead of the elevator.

  6 ALONE IN THE DARK

  Jenna closed the book she was holding in her hands after having read the same paragraph about five times and still not knowing what it was about. Though the masked man had tried to make her comfortable when he stepped out, supposedly to get her some clothes, she was anything but relaxed in this strange, windowless home. Yes, for all of its elegant beauty, Jenna had finally realized the home was without windows. Absolutely no natural light made its way into the rooms, the only illumination coming from the flickering glow of candles and the flames in the fireplace. It was at once both warm and creepy, but without the company of the masked man—Erik, he’d said his name was—the balance was definitely leaning in favor of creepy. Strange that the company of an ornery masked man—who was most likely crazy as a loon—served to dispel some of the gloom of the dark surroundings, but Jenna found that without him, she could hardly stand being in this room at all.

  She glanced around the room again, until her eyes fell upon the lake. When she had walked through the door into this strange place, she remembered she had been by water. If she followed the lake's path now, would it lead her back to the door? Would she be able to find her way out of this place, and somehow get home?

  Jenna brought her legs around so that they touched the floor. Gingerly, she began to stand up. Her ankle screamed in pain, but she found that if she leaned most of her weight on her other leg, she was able to stand. She took a step, keeping her arms out to steady herself. Still standing. She took another one. Even though it was very uncomfortable, Jenna found that she was able to walk, as long as she favored her injured leg. Slowly, very slowly, she made her way to the lake. As she got close to the shore, she remembered to take a candle from one of the candelabras to provide some much needed light.

  The flickering flame cast an eerie glow on the green water of the lake. She watched the ripples on the water as it flowed in the direction of the cavern in which she had been found. Jenna hobbled along with the lake, wondering if it was somehow fed by the Hudson. If so, she couldn't be that far from home. Certainly not in Paris!

  She continued on into the cavern—the farther away she got from the little sitting room with the settee and grand piano, the more difficult the terrain. The ground was rocky and uneven, and there was less and less of it, as the lake began to widen. It was no wonder to her that she had tripped immediately upon emerging from the door, but, holding her candle out before her, and peering further into the cavern, she could not see actually see the door. No, the cavern seemed to go on for a while longer, until the roof of the cave just appeared to curve down into the floor, the lake slipping out a small opening in the ground to continue on its watery journey.

  “No,” she murmured to herself. “There was a door.” She took a few more steps forward, her head beginning to throb. “There was a tunnel, then a door.” Her voice began to rise, and become a little dismayed. “Where is it?” She started moving forward a little faster than she should have, groping aimlessly, searching for the door which she was sure she should have found by now. When she heard a voice echoing from the direction of the sitting room, she startled and fell, with a scream, into the lake.

  Omid heard the scream and knew that someone was in the cave. “Erik!” he called, rushing toward the cavern. “Erik!” A loud splash, followed by the sounds of a water struggle and cries for help were the only answers he got. “My God!” Omid said to himself, eyes widening. “Erik is drowning the mental patient!”

  Omid ran toward the sound, grabbing a lantern from Erik's table. When he found the source of the noise, he saw the girl, quite alone, splashing wildly in the water.

  “Mademoiselle,” he called, “Take my hand.” He crouched down carefully, on the narrow lakeshore and extended his arm out to her, pulling when he felt her grab on. When she was once again on the ground, shivering and dripping wet, he put his hands on her shoulders to steady her, before asking, “Did Erik do this to you?”

  The girl flinched backward a little bit, giving him a quizzical look. “NO! Why on earth would you ask that?”

  “Well, I…” Omid began, but allowed his sentence to trail off. No reason to taint her opinion of Erik with his more dangerous side if she had not yet seen it. Truly, his friend had been doing so much better since arriving in Paris. “No reason, Mademoiselle. What were you doing?”

  She huffed in annoyance as the man changed the subject. “I was looking for the door,” she said.

  “In the lake?” Omid asked, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

  “No, not in the lake!” she snapped in irritation. “I was walking along the lake shore, looking for the door, so I could get home, and I accidentally fell in.”

  “Which door, Mademoiselle?” he asked, still confused.

  “The door I entered through,” she insisted. “Or are you going to tell me it doesn't exist too?”

  “I… do not know of any door…”

  “Oh forget it!” she huffed, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill of the cavern.

  “Come, Mademoiselle,” Omid said, gently nudging her in the direction of Erik's sitting room. “Let's get you back in front of the fire.”

  Jenna limped back toward Erik's parlor, the cold water having made walking on her bad ankle temporarily easier. W
hen she made it back to the settee, she wrapped the throw around her now dripping form and sat back down.

  “Where's Erik?” Omid asked, looking around for the masked man that only moments ago he had been so sure was committing murder.

  “He said something about going to get me some clothes,” Jenna replied, in irritation.

  “Ah, well,” Omid began with a smile, gesturing to her dripping clothes, “that will come in handy.”

  Jenna rolled her eyes. “I don't understand why he won't just let me go home.”

  Omid raised his eyebrow. He and Erik had been so convinced that this girl was an escaped mental patient, they'd never even considered the possibility that she might have a home and a family that was looking for her. “Do you live nearby, Mademoiselle?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, and then hesitated, “I mean I think so…”

  She looked confused for a moment, and Omid felt a great wave of pity for her. “Have you told Erik?”

  She huffed and the confusion on her face was replaced by irritation again. Omid smirked a little, thinking that it was fitting she should scowl at the mention of Erik's name. Everyone else did. “Yes, I told Erik!” she spat.

  “And what did he say?” Omid probed.

  “He said that we were in Paris.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “Well, we are, Mademoiselle,” Omid answered, confused.

  “Oh great. You too.” Jenna let out a noisy sigh. “Erik sure seems to have been gone a long time,” she said, pulling the blanket closer around her, and trying to huddle nearer to the fire.

  “Well,” Omid agreed. “He does sometimes forget himself when he goes above. But since there is no performance tonight, I am sure he will be back soon.”

  “Goes above?” She repeated him in confusion. “Performance? What are you talking about?”

  “Mademoiselle,” Omid smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Has Erik not told you where in Paris we are?”