The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  “Omid,” she supplied with a smile.

  “Yes,” Chris chuckled, looking a bit confused. “How did you know that, Jenna?”

  “I…heard the name…somewhere before.”

  “Hmmm. Anyway, even though Christine had fallen in love with him, as the story goes, it actually took him some time to reciprocate those feelings.”

  Jenna's eyes narrowed, “Really?”

  “Yes. I know it seems strange, since the story everybody knows paints the Phantom as a love-obsessed lunatic who would do anything to win the girl, but my great-great-great-grandmother wrote that there was a sadness in Erik's soul that she found hard to break through.”

  “What happened?” Jenna asked in a hush, truly surprised by this turn of events. The only reason she'd left him was because he'd said he was in love with Christine. Yet, if she loved him in return, why would he hesitate?

  “Well, everybody quaked in fear about the Phantom—who rarely did anything but perform harmless pranks, like leaving toads and spiders in Carlotta's dressing room.”

  “I see…” Jenna smiled and nodded, remembering her own role in those events.

  “But after Erik had finally come clean with Christine, he really didn't do a lot in terms of haunting anymore. He was too focused on training her and enjoying her rise to fame. But little things continued to happen around the opera house, which made people believe the Phantom was still active. Most of these incidents were easily passed off as accidents, which is why Erik paid them no mind. It did not bother him when the curtain tore due to careless handling, or a trap door on the stage opened at the wrong time, making the ballet rats shriek about The Phantom of the Opera. It kept his salary coming and it kept Box 5 open for him when he wished to hear Christine sing on stage.

  “One night, though, the auditorium's grand chandelier came crashing down, killing one of the audience members in the front row. When the chandelier's hanging mechanism was examined, it was discovered that the counterweight that held the great light fixture in place, had been tampered with. Suddenly, the mischievous ghost was a murderer.”

  “No,” Jenna murmured, shaking her head, “Not Erik.”

  “It was at that point that a former employee made his renewed presence known…”

  Jenna felt herself catch her breath. “Joseph Buquet? He came back?”

  “That's… right,” Chris affirmed, once again with narrowed eyes. “He did. Christine wrote that at some point, after she and Erik had begun seeing one another in person, he snuck back into the opera house and started hiding out there in one of the cellars. She and Erik understood at that point, that the little accidents around the opera house had not been accidents at all, and that while Erik had been busy training Christine and generally keeping out of the way, the drunk, lecherous former chief of the flies had started to cause mischief where the phantom had left off.

  “But the realization came too late. Buquet was busy making certain that all the blame for the chandelier incident fell on the Phantom. He told the managers and the gendarme that he had seen the Phantom, and that the ghost was really just a flesh and blood man who wore a mask. He then shared the knowledge he had gleaned about the cellars from slinking around there himself, and he intimated that Erik's home was even deeper beneath the opera.

  “And so, with the gendarme crawling all around the sub-basements of the opera house, Erik realized that his home was no longer safe for him, and he told Christine he was leaving France. But to his surprise, she insisted on going with him, telling him that she loved him, and that the opera could never be her home if he was not there with her.

  “They left on a boat to America, and during the voyage, they were married by the ship's captain. They arrived in New York as husband and wife, but at Castle Garden—the predecessor to Ellis Island—when they were asked to give their name, apparently my great great-great-grandfather said, “Erik, sir,” as he was not even aware of his own last name. The clerk, unfamiliar with French accents, wrote down the name Eriksson, and it stuck.

  “Erik and Christine Eriksson lived out the rest of their lives in New York, in the house still owned by my father, along the Hudson River.” He saw Jenna smile quietly when he said this, but since she said nothing, he continued. “Christine sang occasionally at the Met, but the majority of their time was spent raising their two children, a son named Gustave and a daughter” he paused, smiling at her, “named Genevieve.”

  Jenna gasped and asked, “Genevieve?”

  “Yes,” Chris nodded. “The story goes that Erik encouraged Christine to name their son after her father, but when they had a daughter, he insisted upon the name Genevieve.”

  “Why?” she asked, as her eyes welled up with tears, a thousand emotions coursing through her veins. He may not have loved her they way he loved Christine, but he had cared enough to name his baby girl after her.

  Chris reached out and stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “My great-great-great-grandmother Christine wrote that he said it was the most beautiful, most melodious of all names.” His voice hushed as he leaned a little closer to her. “I find that I agree.”

  Jenna reached out and cupped his cheek, and closed the distance between them with a quick kiss. “Thank you, Chris,” she whispered when they parted, her forehead resting on his. “For telling me that story.”

  “Does it make you feel better, Jenna?” he asked her, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

  “It does, Chris,” she sighed. “I'm sorry I ruined our evening.”

  “No, you didn't ruin anything,” he promised her. “The musical moved you. Your great compassion is one of the things that I…” he trailed off, as if reconsidering what he was about to say, but then decided it was time to finally let his feelings be known. “Jenna,” he said, taking both of her hands in his, “You are so beautiful. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I wanted to get to know you. But I was always too shy. Then, when you were lying in that hospital bed, I…” he shook his head and closed his eyes, “I cursed myself so many times for not telling you how I felt about you when I had the chance. And here we are—six months into a relationship, and I am still holding back. I can't do it anymore, Jenna. I've got to tell you that I…” he paused and gazed straight into her eyes, saying, “I love you.”

  Jenna's mouth fell open into an O, and Chris continued quickly. “You don't have to say anything back. I know it's been…difficult for you, since the accident, and that you need time—and you can have as much as you need. But Jenna, I can't wait to say it anymore. I love you—so much. I love your sweetness, I love your laughter. I love your fire and your sense of adventure. I love your tenderness, and I love your passion. I love you, Jenna, with everything that I am, and I know that there will never be another woman for me. That is why,” he took a deep breath and reached into his breast pocket, “I want to give you this.”

  He produced a flat, wide box that obviously held a piece of jewelry inside.

  “Oh, Chris,” she gasped, “You already did so much for my birthday, you didn't have to…”

  “I know, but I wanted to. Besides, this was something I already possessed. You see, there is a tradition in my family, Jenna. Ironically, it dates back to my great-great-great-grandfather Erik. On the day his son Gustave was to be wed, Erik pulled him aside, and gave him a beautiful necklace to present to his bride. It was not something that had belonged to Christine, but nevertheless, Erik told him he had had it for a while. He said it was fitting that Gustave give it to his wife, as it was a symbol of love that was always new, and love that would never fade; a love that would give courage and support in the darkest of moments; a love that would bring out the best in you. So Gustave gave the necklace to his bride, and later, when their eldest son Charles was to wed, he was bestowed with the necklace to give to his bride. So on and so forth, the necklace passed down the generations through the eldest sons and the women they loved. I am the only son in my family, Jenna, and now I want to give this to you—because I know that my love for you will never f
ade, and it will always make me strive to be the best man I can be—for you.”

  He held the box before her, and with trembling fingers opened the lid. Inside, lay a beautiful cameo with a carving of a rosebud, just about to burst into bloom. Jenna felt herself begin to shake as she removed it from the box and held it tenderly in her hand. Though the black ribbon was gone, it was the very same cameo Erik had given her—the one she had placed by the shore of the lake when she left him. He had found it and kept it, and had turned it into a symbol of enduring love—the kind of love he had for Christine. Though it had hurt her, had broken her heart when he told her, she realized now, that if he hadn't loved Christine, she would never have been able to gaze into the beautiful eyes of the man who was now before her—the man whose love brought her back from her coma, pulled her through her recovery, and waited patiently for her when she was afraid to offer him her fragile heart. But now, seeing that everything had been real, knowing that Erik had truly gone on and lived out his life surrounded by love, she found the courage to do the same.

  She brought the cameo to her lips and mouthed a silent “I love you”—one she wished could span the ages, so that Erik could hear it and know that, in a part of her heart, it would always be true. And then she looked up at Chris.

  He was watching her with eyes full of hope, and when her gaze met his, he asked, shyly, “Do…do you like your gift, Jenna?”

  She looked intently into his gaze, as she said strongly, “You are my greatest gift, Chris. And I love you. So much.” She reached up and tangled her fingers in his soft brown hair. Slowly, she pulled his face toward hers, and gently, sweetly she kissed him fully on the lips. When they separated, a look of pure joy lit his eyes, and Jenna was humbled to know that she was the cause of such happiness. “And I love this, Chris,” she whispered, holding up the cameo—the tangible evidence she needed to finally know for sure that she had not been dreaming. Her time with Erik had been real. “Will you please help me put it on?”

  He nodded happily as he took the cameo and reached behind her with trembling fingers to fasten the chain around her neck. After he was done, he loosed a quiet moan when he felt her lips touch his again. This time, their kiss lingered and deepened, their arms wrapping around each other. When they parted, breathless and shaking, they gazed at one another, eyes glazed with desire.

  “I will treasure it always,” Jenna muttered, stroking his face with her fingers.

  “As I will treasure you. Always, Jenna. Forever,” he whispered soft and low. And then they were lost again in one another's arms. Forever had waited long enough to begin.

  Chris awoke the next morning to sunbeams dancing playfully in Jenna's strawberry blond curls, her head resting peacefully on his chest. He reached out his hand to stroke her hair. It was like a dream come true. He had spent weeks watching her as she slept, but never before had her smile looked so serene, or her lips so enticing. They had tasted heaven last night in each other's embrace, and he could not resist placing feather soft kisses along her hairline, her eyelids, her cheeks as their passion played on his memory.

  Jenna's face shifted upwards, and without opening her eyes, she caught his lips with hers, their kiss deepening, their tongues dancing in memories of their euphoric night. Jenna sighed as she felt Chris's body responding anew to their kiss, feeling desire beginning to spread within her own core. She reached below the blankets to rest her hand on his naked hip, pulling their bodies even closer together, and earning her a husky moan of approval. “Oh, my Jenna,” he whispered as he kissed her even more deeply, and began to shift above her.

  They heard a muffled mreeeeoooow as Red joined them on the bed, landing in between them. Startled, Jenna opened her eyes to see the remains of an apparently delicious red rose still in his mouth. “Red!” she scolded good-naturedly, “I told you not to eat them!”

  “Well, to be fair, my love,” Chris chimed in, placing a sweet kiss on her lips, “We haven't exactly gotten up to feed him.”

  “Well no,” she agreed, kissing him back, “but you gave me those roses.”

  “I plan to give you plenty more roses, Jenna,” he deepened their kiss a little more, tangling his fingers in her curls, “enough to last a lifetime.”

  “Mmmmmm,” she sighed, pulling him closer, leaning her head back, as his lips began to slowly travel down her throat. “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Like heaven,” he murmured.

  Mreeeeeooooow! They heard again, and groaned at the sound. “But first,” he said, chuckling to himself. “I'd better feed the cat.” He sat up and reached for his pants, which had been lying in a heap on the floor with the rest of their clothes. Pulling them up, he looked over at her and raised an eyebrow as he asked, “Wait for me?”

  Jenna snuggled more deeply into the bed and whispered, “I'd wait for you forever.”

  41 NOTES

  Jenna stepped off the final stair and looked at the room around her. She rubbed her arms with her hands for warmth. It was cold and damp—as most basements were—and even with the benefit of the naked bulb above her head, the room was full of shadows. And boxes.

  They had inherited so many boxes of things when Chris's father had decided to move down to Florida, leaving them in charge of the family home. While they were grateful for the extra room the house afforded them—especially with their first little one on the way—they had both agreed that something needed to be done about the multiple generations’ worth of stuff down in the basement. It was a large space, and would make a great playroom if they could just get it cleaned out. So, while Chris was away at the Medical Symposium in San Francisco, Jenna decided to use her day off to begin to do just that.

  Rummaging through the boxes was almost like going through a museum of the Eriksson family. Clothing, and books, old dishes and plates were just some of the treasures Jenna found. She enjoyed looking through the old photo albums that were also stored down here and seeing what the Eriksson family had looked like through the years. Page after page depicted running, laughing children—most with straight black hair or bouncy brown curls. Chris's mismatched eyes seemed to be a trait that was prominent in the Eriksson family through the years. Seeing those eyes appear in picture after picture made Jenna fondly remember their source.

  Erik. Oh how thoughts of him still played on her mind. Her husband reminded her of him in so many ways every day, in his mannerisms, in his looks, in the things he would say. Chris even sang to her at night, as he strummed his guitar, his voice every bit as mesmerizing as Erik's had been. The similarities between them were almost eerie at times, and at first she had been afraid that she was attracted to Chris mostly because he reminded her of Erik. And though time had proven her wrong, and she had come to love and adore her husband for the unique, exciting man that he was, she could not help but note the likenesses between the only two men who had ever truly held her heart.

  Chris had told her the story related in Christine's journals—and she had read them herself. Chris alone was proof that Erik had lived out his life with a wife who loved him and children who adored him—one of whom he'd named after her! As she reached down and rubbed her own slightly swollen stomach, contemplating the child that lay therein, she wished somehow she could talk to Erik—and tell him that she too had found happiness.

  She recalled the last time she saw him—when he had told her that he was in love with Christine. How it had broken her heart at the time. She had fallen to her knees, unable to even look at him. And then he had walked away and she had never seen him again. She wondered what he thought when he'd returned home that night after the ball and found her gone. Had he realized she'd gone home? Had he worried about her at all? He may not have been in love with her in the same way she was with him, but she knew that he at least cared. He named his child after me, she thought. He must have cared at least somewhat.

  She wished she could tell him that everything had worked out for her—that she had made it back home, and that she was now married to the man of her dreams
, who just happened to be his great-great-great-grandson. She smiled to herself, thinking of the coincidence. Erik had once told her that she should hold out for a prince. Because of Erik, she had found him.

  Exhausted by all of her rummaging, Jenna sat down to rest. Her head fell back gently, and she was surprised to hear an echoey sound from the wall behind her. Jenna turned her head to look at it. It was just a plain white wall, like all the other walls in the basement. There were no identifying marks of any kind, or anything to make it stand out in anyway. She stood and walked a few feet and rapped against the wall with her knuckles. Here, she only heard a light tapping. She crossed the basement and knocked on the other wall. Again, only a very light tap, tap, tap ensued. She returned to her original spot and lightly hit the wall again. Sure enough, there was no shallow tap-tap-tap, but a resonant thud. As if there was open space behind the wall. As if it were hollow. Hollow.

  An undeniable certainty came over Jenna. This had been Erik's house. He may have left the opera house, to live with Christine in the sun, but Jenna sincerely doubted he left all remnants of the Opera Ghost behind. It was too much a part of him. And he was a master architect. Surely he could have built secret places into his home. It would be just like him to do so. And the basement would be the perfect place!

  Jenna looked at the wall again. Just a wall. Simple and unmarked. Except, now she saw, two tiny cracks that ran from the ceiling all the way down to the floor. They were almost imperceptible—and if she had not known what to look for, she never would have seen them. But she had lived with Erik—she recognized his style.

  Jenna stood on her tiptoes and reached her left arm up to the level she'd often seen him do at the Opera House. She could see nothing there, but in this case, as with all of Erik's secret passageways, feeling is believing. As she pressed gently on the wall, she felt a small, fingertip sized section press inward—just slightly. A soft click sounded, and those floor-to-ceiling cracks got wider, as the wall before her shifted, revealing a door.