The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

“He did…” Christine agreed warily, wondering what point the dancer was trying to make.

  “Then he would have seen you waiting in the dressing room,” Meg answered. “Would not a celestial being at least have whispered for you to go back to your room? He knows rest is important for good singing, and that is his goal. Is it not?” Meg asked her last question while looking Christine pointedly in the face.

  Christine felt her mind begin to swirl. The questions Meg asked were ones for which Christine had no answer, but now that she thought of it, her friend made a good point. Her angel was not acting overmuch like…an angel.

  “What are you saying, Meg?” she finally asked her friend point blank.

  Meg took her friend's hand in hers before continuing gently. “This opera house is inhabited by another being who is always watching over every move we make. He knows what happens on the stage, he knows what happens behind it, and he has a very pivotal role in making sure the opera runs smoothly.”

  Christine shook her head, and looked down. “You speak of The Phantom, Meg. Not my Angel of Music.”

  “Are they so very different, Christine?” Meg asked quietly.

  “Of course they are!” Christine insisted, standing up and beginning to pace back and forth. “The Phantom threatens and cajoles…”

  “He warns those who are not doing their part to make the opera the best that it can be.”

  “He extorts money and steals—”

  “If not for his guidance, the opera house would have failed long ago. He is only taking what is his due.”

  “He causes great catastrophes—”

  “Mostly harmless pranks that help get his point across.” She paused briefly before adding, “And some have had…personal benefits.” Meg looked at her friend in a pointed way.

  “Carlotta…” Christine breathed, as realization struck her and she sunk limply back down onto her bed.

  Meg merely nodded.

  “But I thought it was Buquet's incompetence that was responsible for that backdrop.”

  “Perhaps,” Meg allowed, “but Buquet did not ransack the diva's dressing room, which is what ultimately caused her to quit.”

  “But the managers fired Buquet.”

  “Well, Christine,” Meg retorted, “They could not exactly fire the ghost.”

  “Ghosts do not exist, Meg,” Christine made one last feeble attempt to assert her position.

  “Do angels?” Meg asked.

  Christine looked beaten and worn down, and Meg's question stung because, truly, Christine didn't know the answer. She wanted to believe her father had told her the truth. She wanted to cling to the idea that the Angel of Music had finally found her because her beloved father had sent him for her. But then what did she do with the feelings inside her that wished he were more? How could she account for the dreams she had when his soft dark wings transformed into strong arms that he could wrap around her? Did her angel truly exist? Did the ghost? Who was the voice that called to her and taught her to sing and made promises of protection? The one who left her roses?

  “But, why, Meg?” Christine asked in confusion. “Why would the ghost decide to personally help me, when he has never done so before? Why would he say he was an Angel?”

  Meg inhaled deeply and took Christine's hands in hers. “I don't know anything for sure, Christine, but as you know, my mother has been delivering the ghost's salary for years. She is the only one of the opera staff who is allowed to set foot in Box 5. Over the years, she has…sensed …certain things about him.”

  “What things, Meg?” Christine asked.

  “Well, he has a great love for and understanding of music, for one. His demands have done much to improve the quality of the musical program here at the Opera House. He cannot abide cruelty, which was probably the main reason for his long-standing feud with Carlotta. And…” Meg paused, as if not sure to go on.

  “What is it, Meg?” Christine urged, intrigued now by what her friend had shared. “Come on, you must tell me.”

  “Well, there have been sighting over the years—mostly by the younger, more hysterical ballerinas—and they all agree on one thing. That he has a hideous, terrifyingly ugly face. They say it's as if his face isn't even there!”

  “Oh dear!” Christine shrunk back in horror. “How is that even possible?” Could it be that the ghost was real? An actual spectre living in the shadows?

  “My mother tells the story,” Meg began, “of a time from her childhood, when she and her family attended a gypsy fair. There was an exhibit—The Living Corpse, they called it. When my mother went into the tent to view it, she saw that this “corpse” was merely a boy, younger even than herself, who had a dirty sack covering his head. When the gypsy master stepped forward and removed the sack, he exposed the horrible deformity in place of the boy's face.

  “Most of the other patrons fled in terror, but my mother was moved with pity. She stayed and she watched for a time. The boy hung his head, and did not look up, but after a while, the gypsy master demanded a song. The boy hesitated at first, but when the master threatened with his whip, the boy did, in fact, begin to sing.

  “My mother called his voice unearthly, as exquisitely beautiful as his face was ugly. In that voice, she heard the call of the angels—the soft, sweet whisper of their wings, the powerful strength blazing in their eyes. And after his song, as she stood there, transfixed, he finally looked up, and directly at her. She said that his eyes seemed to hold the glow of intelligence and the fire of determination, and all the sadness of the world. It was a moment she has never forgotten.

  “Later that year, she'd heard tell that the gypsy fair's “living corpse” had disappeared. He had escaped his confines after killing the cruel master. It was just a passing piece of news, but my mother never forgot it, and she often wondered what had become of that poor young boy. When she started to hear tales so many years later, of the Opera Ghost and his hideous face, there were many times when she was reminded of that poor child, and the intelligence burning in his eyes. And she wondered…”

  “Meg, why are you telling me all of this?” Christine asked, shaking her head. For some reason, she found herself trembling.

  Meg took another deep breath before saying, “What if the Phantom was not a ghost, nor an angel? What if he was simply a man?”

  “No,” Christine shook her head.

  “A man who hid because his face was too horrible to behold? A man who hid because the world had always thought him a monster?”

  “NO!” Christine's voice was a little louder, tears of frustration springing to her eyes.

  “No more than a carnival attraction? What if he hid, Christine, because the world had always hidden from him?”

  “I would not hide from him,” she answered, springing to her feet with conviction. “I could not hide from my Angel. He has shown me a kind and tender soul. He is brilliant, and musical, and encouraging, and sweet, and—”

  “What if he were a man?” Meg interrupted.

  “If he were a man he could love me!” Christine blurted, before she could stop herself. She gasped and brought her hand to cover her mouth.

  “You love him,” Meg supplied simply.

  Christine looked at her friend and sighed. “I think I do, Meg.” She looked down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “And I do admit, I had dared to dream that he might…” Christine stopped and shook her head. “But I have angered him, and now…he is gone.”

  “Christine, he is not gone!” Meg encouraged. “If my belief is indeed correct, he is still here somewhere. I do not know if it is true that you have angered him, or if he was absent for some other reason, but you must not let him think his work with you has been in vain. You must hold your head high and continue to practice confidently—whether he is with you or not. For on opening night, I know he will be there, watching you from Box 5. The Ghost is always there.”

  Christine listened to her friend and recognized the wisdom of her words. She hugged her tightly, saying,
“Meg thank you. You have given me so much to think about.”

  “Hold it close to your heart, Christine,” Meg warned. “Do not speak of it to anyone, but remember, he will be watching.”

  She nodded her head and took a deep breath, “Meg, you are right. As always. But now I really do have to dress for rehearsal.”

  Meg smiled and leaned forward to give Christine another hug. “You will be flawless, Christine. And mark my words, he will know. He always knows.”

  “Brain injuries…” he muttered to himself, as he used his index finger to travel down the page. He had checked on Jenna a little while ago, and she was still resting after the traumatic events of the previous night. The Daroga had taken his leave after much…convincing, and Erik was now using the quiet to pore through his medical texts to try to find some type of supporting information for the revelation that he had had earlier. Everything happening right now had to somehow be related to the injury Jenna had suffered before arriving here—he was just sure of it. And somehow, she was existing in two different worlds at once. He knew the idea was absolutely insane, but regardless, it was the only thing that made sense in Erik's mind. Somehow, the stitches that he himself had placed in Jenna's head had vanished. Someone had to do that for the sutures could not have simply disappeared on their own. Was that same someone somehow still interacting with her now, creating the health problems that had recently beleaguered her? The headaches, the dizziness, the seizure—they had to be related. Or are you grasping for straws, Erik, trying to find some way—any way—that your touch was NOT to blame for the horror that befell her?

  Erik took a deep breath as the traitorous voice filled his mind once more. He had heard that voice his entire existence—that voice which was so much like his mother's. It had reminded him time and again throughout his life that love would never find him, that it could never find him, for if it touched him in any way, it would die. The Living Corpse can know no love…

  But now, by some miracle, after a lifetime of believing love had no interest in him, somehow, it had seized him in its grasp, holding tight to him, consuming his entire being. Jenna had woken in him, joy and laughter, excitement and desire. They had been about to make love—her touches, and kisses, a sweet succor that he had never before imagined, healing wounds that long had festered, making the broken whole. And he had kissed her and had touched her as well, all at once the discovery that he had a heart making him eager to give it away. They were just about to join their bodies as their time together had already joined their hearts, when her tremors had begun.

  But did that mean one had caused the other? He had spent a torturous night, staring at the fireplace, certain that he was somehow responsible for her suffering. He had wallowed in the dark, pondering on how he had stained her, tainted her with his wicked desires. But one thought rebelled against the voice in his head preventing him from diving head first into his own personal pit of despair. It was the knowledge that he would never hurt Jenna. He could never bring himself to harm a single precious hair on her head. He loved her, and he only wanted to protect her. And it was for that reason that he had to discover some way to help her. He had to find out, once and for all, how Jenna had come to him, and how it was all connected to the ailments that had been plaguing her. But your touch is poison, Erik, The voice still whispered. Everybody knows that.

  Her body ached all over. Her muscles screamed, and her head throbbed, and it was as if her lungs had been set on fire. She felt awful. She felt confused. She felt lost.

  Jenna's eyes fluttered open to survey her surroundings. The soft glow of the candlelight revealed that despite her disorientation, she was still in her small bedroom in Erik's home, her covers drawn to her chin. She pushed the blankets down a bit to discover that she still wore the peach colored gown she had on when she and Erik had…

  Jenna shot up in bed and tried to ignore the way the room began to spin, as shards of memory swirled around her foggy brain. His body against her as they danced in the candlelight; that first feathery brush of their lips; his arms tightening around her; his hands tangling in her hair, stroking her face, cupping her breast. Jenna felt a heat begin to enter her body as she recalled their night of passion. Christine—she had been so sure he was in love with Christine. But he had been kissing her, touching her, moaning her name. My Jenna, he had whispered as he pulled her closer. She smiled at the memory, because she could finally admit she was his. There was no going back now.

  But then it had all gone blank. She remembered kissing him, knowing that they were about to make love. One moment her lips were on his, and the next, an inky black nothingness had washed over her. For a moment she felt herself shaking, and she'd thought she heard Erik call her name. But she couldn't answer him, though she tried, and then the darkness took over and she was out.

  Erik. Oh, he must have been so frightened. She had to get to him. She had to show him she was all right. She swung her legs around and off the bed. The room still spun, but she managed to get to her feet, coughing harshly with the effort. She put aside the pain in her head and the screaming in her chest, and she walked over and opened her door.

  “Erik?” he heard her small voice call his name, and Erik looked up from the tome he had been perusing. Jenna leaned in the doorway to her room. She was still wrapped in her now wrinkled peach gown, her hair a wild, coppery cloud around her head, her skin pale and drawn. He saw her shoulders shake as she held her hand to her mouth and covered a cough, giving the impression that she was weaker and much more frail than he had ever seen her look before.

  In a heartbeat, he was across the room. “How are you feeling, Jenna?” he asked quietly, reaching out as if to grasp her hands, but never quite touching her. His voice was full of concern, taking in every detail of her appearance, watching her for any signs of distress. “Are you alright?”

  Despite the pounding in her head, and the ache in her chest, she smiled at him and said, “I'm a little sore, but I'm alright now.” She was all right—for she was with him.

  When Jenna smiled at him, Erik felt his heart leap in his chest, and he had the unmistakable urge to take her in his arms and hold her close. He had been so worried about her, and to see her standing and talking to him—it was all he had been hoping for! His Jenna was all right. He reached out his arm to touch her cheek when he heard it. Your touch, Erik.

  Jenna smiled and she saw Erik's hand reach out to touch her. Yes, this was what they both needed—that connection—that touch. But before his fingers could reach her face, she saw a darkening in his eyes. It was as if he remembered something, and his hand fluttered, trembling, back to his side.

  “Erik?” Jenna looked at him, questioningly, wondering why he had held back, why he hadn't touched her. When she reached for his hand and she saw him pull away, she felt a pit begin to form in her stomach. “Erik what's wrong? What happened?”

  “You had a seizure, Mademoiselle,” Erik told her guardedly, and the term he always used to distance himself from her was like a blow to Jenna’s gut. “You've been unconscious ever since.”

  A seizure! She thought she had merely passed out again. No wonder Erik was so distant. It must have been terrifying for him. “Erik…I'm sorry, I…”

  Erik interrupted, “No, Mademoiselle. You have nothing for which to apologize. I am the one who should…”

  Jenna reached out and touched a finger to his lips to stop him from saying what she was sure was about to spill from his lips. “Erik, no. You did nothing wrong.”

  She was so close, her finger on his lips to quiet his fears. Even though she was the one who had suffered the horrific convulsions and had been unconscious for the better part of a day, she was still comforting him. He wanted so badly to fold her in his arm, to hold her close to him and stroke her hair, and just feel that she was all right. He longed to kiss her lips, to feel that connection he had been so sure he'd never again feel. He knew she would welcome him. Nothing had changed in her eyes that had always looked at him with so much acceptan
ce, so much longing, so much…love.

  And yet, he couldn't. The voice in his head was stronger. Poison, Erik, it screamed in his ear. Your touch is poison. And though his logical side warred with the voice—tried to drown it out, tried to identify it as the remembered ravings of a heartless woman who could not overlook her own son's imperfections long enough to love him—the voice still won. He might claim to never be able to harm a hair on Jenna's head, but he could not take the chance.

  Moving away, and out of her reach, Jenna heard him ask, “Can I get you something to eat, Mademoiselle?” She noticed that he did not meet her eyes.

  All of a sudden, all semblances of an appetite left her, and she shook her head. “No, Erik,” she muttered. “I think I should just go lie down and rest a bit more before dinner.”

  She saw him nod, still not looking at her, as he uttered, “Very well.” He turned and walked back over to his reading chair in the sitting room that had, at some point, been set to rights.

  Jenna retreated to her own room, shutting the door. As she made her way back toward her bed, she surmised that the benefit of Erik not being able to look at her was that he would not get to see her cry.

  “I am sorry to have to tell you this, Ms. Wilson,” Dr. James, Jenna's new neurologist said from across his desk. The last few days had been a whirlwind for Penny. She had finally done what she felt was the right thing and dismissed Blaine from Jenna's case. Seeing how much Jenna's original doctor cared for her made Penny realize, once and for all, that he really should be the lead physician on the case, since he seemed to have a vested interest in her well being. No sooner had she made that decision, however, than Jenna had suffered a massive seizure, and the sweet young doctor had attacked Blaine and gotten himself suspended. So now, Dr. James, the Chief of Neurology, had taken over Jenna's case, and from the ominous look on his face, he was not optimistic about her prognosis.

  “I do not foresee Jenna getting any better.” The look on his face was sad, but calm. Delivered with cool professionalism softened by genuine compassion, Dr. James’ declaration seemed to cut straight to Penny's heart. Gone was the passion with which she had seen Jenna's previous doctor fight for her niece; gone too was the arrogance with which Blaine had held fast to his own view. Dr. James told her the news as if he was simply stating a fact, and the finality of his statement sent a chill down her spine. Jenna was not going to get better. Jenna was…gone?