The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  “Jenna?” She heard that voice again, hushed and deep, and so very velvety soft, enveloping her senses completely. She turned slowly to see him standing there, already dressed in his usual finery, ready, it appeared, to start the day. When she simply stared at him, unable for a moment to form words, she saw him extend his hand to her, and she closed her fingers around it as he helped her up. Standing now before him, she gazed into his blue and brown eyes, aglow in the dim firelight. They stood there a silent moment, neither remembering how to speak, transfixed by the quiet, and the candles and the lake. As her attention fell upon his white covering, she was filled, once more, with the intense desire to see what lay behind the mask. Slowly her arm crept up and she grazed soft fingers across cold white porcelain. A feeling of familiarity—of recognition—assaulted her mind, but before she was able to grasp it, to fully comprehend what the feeling meant, she felt Erik's long fingers wrap around her own, halting her progress, breaking the spell.

  “Jenna,” he said again, his voice a bit sharper.

  “Oh! Erik!” She exclaimed, pulling back from him, turning a little away, “I'm sorry. I…” she fumbled around with her words, “Hope I …didn't wake you.”

  “Oh, no,” Erik brushed off her concern, feeling himself a bit awkward at the moment that had just passed between them. “I should have been up before you. I'm sorry to keep you waiting for breakfast.”

  “Oh I, “ she gave a sheepish giggle, “wasn't really hungry yet. It's no bother.”

  “Very well… I,” he stumbled a bit over his own words, “shall go make some coffee.” He turned and walked quickly toward the kitchen, stopping briefly to call over his shoulder, “We shall see how mine measures up to the Daroga's.”

  Jenna snickered lightly. “Can't wait!” and looked back toward the lake. Her sensual memories were gone, replaced by a distinct feeling of mortification. “Oh, God,” she asked, looking, once again, into the murky green water. “What am I doing?”

  “So, Erik, what are we going to do today?” Jenna asked, as she took a deep drink of the rich black coffee Erik served her. It was delicious, absolutely able to hold its own against the flavorful brew Omid had made the day before.

  “Well, Jenna,” Erik began, setting his own mug down before continuing, “I have some business about the opera before meeting Christine for her lesson. You, however, are free to spend the day as you wish—perhaps playing with Samineh. I'm sure the Daroga will turn up at some point; he always does. Maybe he can take you into town again.”

  “Oh,” Jenna said, lowering her face into her coffee cup, trying to hide her disappointment.

  Erik raised an eyebrow at her and leaned his head a little in her direction before asking, “Oh what?”

  “Well,” Jenna said, staring at the spot on the floor where the little Siamese kitten was lapping up her cream, “could I perhaps come with you?”

  “You wish to join me on my errands?” Erik asked her, somewhat surprised.

  “Yes,” she admitted, once again mesmerized by her coffee cup.

  “Are you still afraid to be alone here, Jenna?” he asked, a bit confused. “You know nothing here could hurt you. As long as you stay away from the tunnels…and the lake…and…”

  “Oh, I know,” Jenna quickly agreed, interrupting his list of the dangers in his home. ”And, no, I am not…afraid. It's just…I'm very likely to get lonely here without…,” she finally looked up to meet his eyes, “you.” Erik felt a strange stirring in his chest at her declaration. Her aqua-colored eyes were pleading with him to allow her to join him. This was the second time she had made such a plea. Before Jenna, he'd never had anyone in his life to accompany him on his excursions. And now, for the second time, she asked to come along, simply for the sake of sharing his company. It was strange, but somehow wonderful.

  “Alright, Jenna,” Erik agreed, with a smile, “But for this trip, you are going to have to dress the part.”

  The knock came on his office door, as Red sat on the corner of his desk, helping him to do some paperwork. “Come in,” he called, completing the sentence he was writing. “Good afternoon, Doctor,” his superior, Dr. James said, as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. “I see you have Miss Wilson's cat with you again.”

  “Yes, I do,” he agreed, looking up to greet the Chief of Neurology. “I bring him with me every day—he seems to make a connection with Miss Wilson. When I am not in her room, working on her case, he hangs out here, in my office. He's quite helpful, as you can see,” he commented, as the cat sauntered over and laid down on the paperwork the doctor had been filling out.

  “Hmmmm…” Dr. James said, walking into the office and taking a seat by the desk. “And how is Miss Wilson doing with the therapy?”

  “Well,” he began, somewhat excited to share his small successes with his boss. “Miss Wilson is responding to the stimuli of touch and sound, and to a somewhat lesser extent, to the stimulus of smell.”

  Dr. James looked guardedly impressed. “What are your observations, Doctor?”

  “Well, she smiles when she hears certain music. She has scrunched up her nose at certain, unpleasant smells. She shivers when touched lightly on the arm.” The doctor fought to keep his face from showing a blush at that last revelation, remembering how much Jenna's shivers made him shiver in return.

  “Might not some of that be involuntary, Doctor?” his superior inquired, not entirely convinced of the efficacy of the therapy. “Are there any quantifiable results?” The young doctor paused. His voice growing less animated, he said, “She squeezes my hand. Not every time I ask her to, but often enough that I am convinced that she's trying to communicate.”

  Dr. James observed his young charge, looking somewhat crestfallen, and a wave of sympathy came over him. It was clear to James that the resident wanted desperately for this therapy to work—and regardless of what the physician said, that his interests were more than just professional. He knew that he should probably remove the young doctor from the case, but he could see that it meant so much to him to try to help Miss Wilson regain consciousness. He felt it was necessary, though, to try and keep the young man grounded. “You know, Doctor,” he began in a gentle tone, “the longer a patient is in a coma, the less chance he or she has of coming out with all faculties intact.”

  “I know.” the young doctor merely nodded, not looking at him.

  “Many patients never emerge, Doctor,” he pushed further.

  “I know,” came the response, a little louder and a little sharper than before.

  Dr. James looked the young man over again, surveying his demeanor, before continuing. “I meant to tell you at the meeting today,”

  “Dr. James, I'm sorry about that,” he quickly cut in. “I was working with Jen—Miss Wilson, and I lost track of time…”

  “It's alright, son,” the kind doctor said. “We've all done that. But I did want to mention to you that Miss Wilson's aunt—Penny Wilson—called to check on her niece. Apparently, she's planning a visit out here soon, to see the progress her niece is making in person. It might be a good thing,” the Chief of Neurology concluded in a pointed manner, “to be able to show that we've made significant progress with Miss Wilson's condition before the aunt gets here.”

  He sighed deeply, and nodded his head. “Understood, Doctor.”

  “OK.” Dr. James rose from his chair and walked to the door. “Good day, Doctor.”

  Alone once again, with only Red for company, he ran his fingers through his hair and let out a long breath. “Oh, Red. What are we going to do?”

  19 LADY GHOST

  Jenna stepped out of her room, her black boots making a sharp tapping sound on the floor. “Well?” she asked Erik, who stood in the living room, hand over his chin, examining her from head to toe.

  “You certainly look like a ghost,” he commented, the upturned corner of his lip divulging the smile behind the mask. Jenna was dressed, top to bottom, in black. He had insisted that if she were to accompany him into th
e opera house, she would have to dress so that she could easily blend into the shadows. He had presented her with inky garments from his own wardrobe with which to accomplish the feat. His woolen trousers were far too big for her, but cinched at the waist and tucked into the black boots, she could manage to wear them without tripping. The button down shirt—long sleeves cuffed over several times—was a stark white, but hidden beneath the floor length black cloak he had provided her, it was barely visible. She had tied her fiery hair away from her face with a ribbon—black, of course—and tucked it beneath the hood of the cloak. She would make a convincing shadow—if only she could stop making so much noise. “But your footsteps are supposed to be silent, Jenna,” Erik finished his thought.

  Jenna looked at him in exasperation. “Well, how am I supposed to make these boots silent? The soles are hard, and they are far too big for me!”

  “Try being a little lighter on your feet,” Erik offered, as if it were the most obvious idea in the world. “You're to be a ghost, Jenna, not a pachyderm.”

  “Erik!” she said his name sharply, hands on her hips, outraged that he had just basically called her an elephant. “That was rude!”

  He smiled at her, raising an eyebrow, “It's part of my charm.”

  “I guess that's one way to look at it.” Jenna muttered, fixing him with an icy glare that just seemed to make his grin broader.

  “Really, Jenna,” he said, trying to get ahold of his mischievous streak. “If you wish to help me haunt the opera, you must learn to glide across the floor. Float, even.” He approached her gracefully, in demonstration, never making a sound with his shoes.

  “How do you do that?” Jenna asked, not at all certain that she could ever be that light on her feet.

  “I just listen to the music, Jenna,” he said, a glimmer in his eye. “I let it guide me.”

  “There is no music, Erik,” she contended, as they stood in his sitting room, which was silent except for the sounds of their own voices. “You are hearing things!”

  “I am,” he agreed, the glint in his eye growing brighter as he stared off at something only he could see. “The most pure, unearthly things.” He brought his gaze back to his protégé ghost, explaining, “We are in an opera house, Jenna.” His arm swept out to his side in a grand gesture. “This is the seat of sweet music's throne. Just hear it. Feel it. It's all around you.”

  As Jenna stared into the intensity of Erik's gaze, she could swear she almost did hear this music of which he spoke, though whether it was really there, or the power of his suggestion was just that strong, she couldn't say. Captured by his two-tone gaze, she could only nod her acknowledgement of this ephemeral sound—this music he swore was present.

  “All you have to do,” he uttered softly, in tones lilting and euphonious, as he took her hands and began moving backward, pulling her along toward him, “is let your feet glide as the music glides, carried forth by power of the song, floating, falling. Trust the music, Jenna,” he entreated, his voice becoming more hypnotic with every word. “Let it possess you.”

  Jenna felt herself moving toward him, caressed by his soft, warm tones, light as air, drifting across the echoing floor, never making a sound—until he gently let go of her hands, and immediately, bereft of his physical presence, the music was gone and she tripped.

  Quickly clasping her shoulders to steady her before she hit the floor, Erik rolled his eyes. “Just…do try not to be so clumsy!” he admonished, turning in the direction of the boat as soon as he was certain she would not fall on her face.

  “Thanks for the tip!” she called out sarcastically, before gathering the edges of her cloak with a huff and stalking after him.

  “So why are we here, Erik?” she whispered, as they climbed the last few steps to the heavy wall before them. The corridor they traveled was made of stone, and if it had not been for the lantern that Erik carried—mostly for her benefit, she surmised—there would be no light at all. Now, however, it appeared they had come to the end of the road, and the journey truly had not made much sense in Jenna's mind.

  “We are here,” he said softly, glancing at her over his shoulder as he stretched his hand toward the door, “to retrieve my salary.”

  “Your salary?” Jenna responded, incredulous. Erik had a job? She'd certainly seen no evidence of that since she'd come to his lair. “For what?”

  “For saving the managers of this esteemed establishment,” he returned dryly, “from their own incompetence.” Erik pressed with gentle force on just the right spot, and the wall before them slid away. Jenna gasped in surprise and Erik held a long finger to his lips, urging her silence with his eyes. She followed him into a richly appointed opera box, with curtains of rich red velvet, tied off with braided gold cords. The chairs, which were lined in three rows of two, were covered with plush crimson cushions, and on the rightmost back seat was a thick white envelope, the letters O.G. written in neat script on the front. Erik floated forward and retrieved the envelope, secreting it away into one of the many folds of his cape. He turned to go but saw that Jenna was no longer standing behind him, but had made her way to the front of the box, and was now leaning over the railing, peering off into the empty auditorium. “Jenna,” he called to her in a loud whisper through clenched teeth, but still she simply stood and stared at the magnificent site before her eyes. She had never before seen something quite so opulent or so extravagant. The walls around her were peppered with rows of boxes just like this one, separated by gilded columns and balustrades. Below her were more seats of red, facing a stage hung with a glorious scarlet curtain, trimmed in gold. But her eyes were drawn above, to the intricately painted ceiling from the center of which hung the most decadently beautiful chandelier she had ever beheld.

  She had never been in an opera house before—her mother had always been too poor to buy tickets. The scene before her was breathtaking and brought to mind images of well-dressed couples, and the bell-like clink of champagne glasses, and the type of life she had always admired, but in which she had never taken part. Caught in her reverie, she did not notice when the stage door opened and several figures entered the auditorium, until she was pulled back and silenced by Erik's hand over her mouth. He yanked her back into the corridor behind the box and released her only when a sharp pain ran through his hand as the wall slid closed behind them.

  “What are you doing?!” he exclaimed harshly, yanking his hand away from her, examining it closely to see bite marks on the palm.

  “What are you doing!?” she demanded in a loud whisper, rounding on Erik once he let go of her.

  “We are not supposed to be seen, Jenna,” he hissed back at her, rubbing his hand, to try to relieve the discomfort. “I am the Opera Ghost! Not some adoring fan!”

  “Well, I am not the Opera Ghost's victim—to be manhandled and yanked around like that,” she huffed.

  “Apparently,” he seethed back.

  “I wanted to see,” she spat angrily, crossing her arms in front of her chest, fixing him with a furious glare.

  “Box 5 is my private box, and it is to remain empty,” he said in a temper. “If anyone had noticed you, traipsing about inside, they all would have rushed up to see who had dared infiltrate the Phantom's Box! No one is allowed inside, except for Madame Giry, to tend to the dust and to deliver my salary.”

  “I still don't even know what they're paying you for,” Jenna snapped angrily. “Floating around behind the walls? Lurking in the shadows of empty opera boxes? Do they all jump when you say 'boo'?”

  “Most of them, yes.” Erik replied dryly, earning him an eye roll and an annoyed sigh.

  “I just wanted to watch, Erik,” Jenna complained, her tone a little quieter now. “I've never been to an opera before. I always thought it would be so amazing. What good is a private box if you can't enjoy it, anyway?”

  Erik looked at her quietly for a moment. She really did look disappointed and confused at his need for secrecy. “It is only a rehearsal, Jenna,” he said calmly, hopi
ng that it would help to quell her disappointment. “It is not a performance.”

  “It is more than I have ever seen, Erik,” she entreated. “Please, can we stay? Don't you ever just sit and watch?”

  Erik sighed deeply, remembering the days he would lurk in the shadows and enjoy the glorious music that wafted up from the stage. “Since Carlotta has taken over the Prima Donna role, there is not really much to watch. But very well, if it means so much to you, Jenna, to see a rehearsal, then we shall stay.”

  A smile broke over Jenna's face as she looked up at him, and she practically gushed, “Thank you, Erik! Thank you, thank you!” Suddenly, her excitement paled, and she looked down awkwardly, saying, “I'm uh…sorry I bit your hand.”

  “Really, Jenna,” Erik replied sardonically. “Don't mention it.”

  Erik flashed her a warning look as he reached for the secret spot that would cause the wall to slide away. “Remember we must keep to the shadows, and we must be very quiet so as not to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “Erik,” she asked, looking at him with true excitement in her eyes once again. “Didn't I prove myself with the frogs?”

  Jenna saw that conspiratorial smile return to Erik's face, as he recalled the prank they'd played on Carlotta. “Yes,” he admitted, finally, “I suppose you did prove yourself rather well during that excursion.”

  Jenna felt her heart swell at the tone of approval in his voice, remembering the laughter they had shared on their way back to the lair.

  Once again, Erik led Jenna through the secret door into Box 5, showing her the exact spot where he stood when he wished to observe the debacles that passed for productions in the opera house. The dark clothing they both wore helped, and to anyone who happened to look in the direction of the Phantom's Box, all that would be visible were two indistinct shadows, somewhat murkier than the rest.