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Name: Laura | Gender: Female | Age: 27 | Posts: 279 | Roses: 0
Old 06-25-2009 at 03:37 AM
Ange de Musique
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 Post [11] »

Love the way you tweaked this, Rose! Nicely done! This last sentence: "He had designed for eternal rest." I believe is missing an 'it.' No biggie. ;) I'm not much of a Leroux phanfic fan, lol, but I must admit you've got me hooked on this! :D


"What you do in this life echoes in eternity."
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Old 12-31-2009 at 08:16 PM
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Das ist ein Bingo!

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 Post [12] »

Wow, it's been a while. Without further ado...

The walls breathed quietly around her, their rhythmic sighs pulling her slowly from sleep. With great effort, Jammes opened her eyes and stared up at the dark ceiling. A flickering light swayed across the ceiling from a nearby candle, adding to the illusion of the breathing room. Her head hurt as if something dull were pressing against her skull. It kept her from thinking clearly. What is happening to me? She rose and fought back a sob as she remembered where she was. The blurred images of the bathroom, her nightmare and that odd, empty bedroom crept back into her memory, making her throbbing head hurt even more. She moaned. What was this place? It was bizarrely normal in appearance. Against a wall was a small desk beside a bed with white, fresh linens. A plain wooden chair faced the foot of the bed. The only piece of furniture that stood out in the room was a large mirror that covered the wall to her right. Like the small mirror in the previous room, this one had also been broken.

Jammes got up and realized that she had been sleeping on the ground. Her skin was cold and damp from where it had touched the icy floor, creating goose pimples across her flesh. There was nothing threatening about the room, except for the shards of glass that lay scattered in front of the broken mirror. She couldn’t help staring at her reflection. Her mirror image stood before her, mutilated beyond recognition. It was terrifying, the gaping holes and disconnected limbs. And the face – the face was the most terrifying of all. Her distorted features reflected themselves from separate pieces of the glass, widening and narrowing her eyes until they had almost become cat-like. Grotesque, vein-like cracks ran across her face and made her cheeks look almost skeletal. The flickering light created a haunting dance across her skin, performing a wicked ballet of illusion that exaggerated the distortion of her features.

She spun and threw her palms against her face as a short sob escaped her throat. Cover it. Make it go away! My God, my God… “Why am I here?” Jammes whimpered and looked up at the empty wall before her. She had to escape now. Where was the door? She got up and took a turn around the room. It was spacious and empty – and there was no door.

There was no door.

Impossible. She had to have gotten in here somehow. A way in meant a way out. Her small fingers frantically flew across the walls, feeling every crack and crevice. It felt as if hours had passed before she had finished searching for an exit. She had found nothing. Nothing at all. The walls stopped breathing as if sensing her panic. Nothing surrounded her save emptiness and silence. She could not take this madness.
“Help! Help! Please, God, help me!” She cried to the stone ceiling and feebly pounded against the walls. “Get me out of here!” The sides of her hands had grown red and numb and her throat had grown hoarse from her exertions.


The young dancer immediately stopped her crying and pounding. There was that voice again. She turned from the wall and scanned the bare room. “Who is that?” She shouted. “Who are you? Let me out. Let me out of here!” She scrambled to the center of the room and frantically searched the ceiling. “What do you want from me?”

“Do not speak. Your free-spirited tongue has caused you and your friend enough injury, so I advise you to simply listen.” Friend? Jammes held in a gasp, afraid to open her mouth. Lucienne! Was she still alive? “Because you have stumbled upon my grave without invitation, I took the liberty of placing you accordingly. You have the morbid honor of being the first to test a new addition of my humble home. I have taken great pains to develop it and had hoped to utilize it before my end, so you must understand my personal delight at your trespass.”

There was no “delight” in the horrid voice, only an odd mixture of boredom and pain. Jammes unconsciously took a step back before looking around the room. Its appearance was no more threatening than that of a nursery. That is, except for the shattered looking glass. Jammes could not help glancing at it again, yet again catching a glimpse of the unreal reflection.

“Is this not what you have wished for some time now? Proof of the wretched Opera Ghost?” A rumbling chuckle seeped in through the walls and settled around Jammes’ quivering frame. “Now, you will remain here as long as I require. Hopefully, when your time here is up, you will still be alive – and sane.” There came another laugh, the most sinister cackle Jammes had ever had misfortune to hear. She clenched her jaw and held in a whimper as the horrible laughter died down. “And if Fate should grace you with her generosity, you will see your pitiful friend once more. Adieu, poor little Jammes. Adieu.”

“Wait!” Jammes shot her hands into the air and reached for the bodiless voice. “Wait!” But it was gone. The weight of the voice had evaporated. She ran around the room in frenzy, calling after the voice of her captor, until she had expended all her energy. Her wearied legs slowed to a stop and she slumped down against the wall. What had the voice said about her friend? Was Lucienne trapped like she was? Where was she? Where am I?

Jammes could not help looking back at the shattered mirror. Her eyes stared back at her in a hundred pieces, a hundred brown trembling irises reflected in the looking glass. What did they see? The hundred glossy glares captivated her attention. She couldn’t look away. They spoke to her in their silent tongue, speaking through whispers and murmurs. What were the words? She blinked and the hundred eyes blinked with her. Those were not her eyes. No. Her eyes were not so evil, so sharp. The eyes in the shiny glass were sharpened to a point, staring back at her without the fear in her own two eyes. Jammes let out a cry and buried her head in her arms around her knees. At the edge of every gaze was the hint of a smile – a wicked, mocking grin.


The entertainment was over for the time being. Erik had had his momentary pleasure. He would not be able to utilize his traps for much longer. That ballet rat would be his last experiment before his death. Perhaps she would live, perhaps she would die. It did not matter to him with his own end so near. Not much mattered to him these past few days.

Erik felt his way into his room, stumbling against the walls with a hacking cough. He nearly fell through the door as his hand slipped from the stone doorframe. His hand slid across his mouth and glistened in the dim candlelight. The flames illuminated the scarlet mess on the back of his hand and down his pale chin. It wasn’t time. He could not leave quite yet.

His pale, grey eyes rose listlessly to the black Victorian desk against the west-facing wall, where the clear, glass syringe beckoned to him silently. The drugs softened the pain and had a euphoric side effect when taken in excess. Erik had come to taking them in excess quite often now. He pressed the needle against his thin, papery skin and shut his eyes as it entered him. With an expert hand, he slowly thrust the drugs into his veins and pulled the needle out, letting it fall back onto the desk. Already, he could feel the quick-acting liquid at work in his body, blanketing the physical agony and replacing it with a fantastic illusion of peace. Yes, he was at peace with his body now, if only for a few minutes.

He had lived all his life in a sort of suffering. Without motherly affection, he had been first introduced to human cruelty straight out of the womb. What a horrifying sight indeed. To endure nine months of tedious, cumbersome care only to give birth to a foul monster. Oh, poor mother! Poor, poor mother. Even after her death, Erik could not bring himself to fully curse her. No. He was her son, after all, and he had loved her as a child. Even after she pushed him away and crudely tried to hide his ugliness, he could not hate her. He hated the other children for laughing at him and for throwing rocks at him. He hated the God – if there was such a thing – that had stained his appearance. He even hated his father, whom he had never met, for having left his mother. But Erik could never hate his mother.

By this time, the drugs had taken full effect. He found himself in the salon, his legs unsteady and his mind in a haze. He was bracing himself for the hallucinations that never failed to appear. Recently, he often saw Christine somehow. Once, she was sitting by the fire reading a book. Another time, she was approaching him with a tray of tea, a curious, unreadable expression on her face.

Ah! He could see her now! Yes, yes, the drugs were playing their old tricks again. Ah, there she was. His beautiful, living bride!
Come to me, my child. Come to me quickly.
No? But why not, Christine? Are we not married, now?
Oh, please don’t cry. You know I can’t stand it when you cry. Please… stop. Stop- what are you doing?
No, Christine, please… Put it down. No!

Erik threw himself at the imaginary Christine, trying to knock the dagger from her hand. But he was too late. The cold steel had sunk deep into her pale chest, staining the softness with a deep, unearthly red. He caught her as her body became lifeless, as his living bride slowly turned back into the dreaded corpse bride.

Erik clutched her body to his chest only to find his arms tightly wrapped around his own sickly frame. He shot up and staggered back, clawing hopelessly at his bare skull. He let out an animalistic noise as his back hit a wall. Christine! Why did you leave me? The wall disappeared behind him and he found himself balancing precariously at the top of a flight of stairs. He looked down. The five steps multiplied into a hundred. He screamed, falling down atop the stairs – tumbling and screaming.

Abruptly, he was consumed in cold. His body was enveloped by a sharp, unending coldness. When he breathed, it burned his throat and starved his lungs. He was weightless. His legs kicked, but they touched nothing. It was as if he was floating in a dark, yet familiar chamber. He couldn’t see through the haze and he couldn’t breathe. He was suffocating. He was finally dying.

Yes, Death, come quickly for I am here. Take me! I am yours!

In the murky haze, he saw his mother’s face with a rare smile on her lips. She was finally happy. She laughed, but no noise escaped her throat. Her hair floated angelically around her sharply outlined face as she continued to smile at him. He couldn’t tell if he was smiling back. The cold was lessening as it continued to drain the life from his weathered body. There was no noise. Alas, he was to die in peace. The suffocation was becoming less painful now. He was not fighting it. He let it slowly consume him and eat away at the remaining leftovers of his pathetic existence.

A firm arm wrapped around his neck. Another arm wormed under his own arm. He opened his eyes and looked up, trying to smile up at his wife. She had returned as she had promised and was now embracing him for the last time. She had always been an angel. He had never deserved her kindness. He didn’t have the strength to lift his hand up to hers to feel the warmth of her fingers for the last time.

All sense of direction and being had escaped from him. Which way was up? Down? Was he still breathing? Was this death at last?
Erik felt Christine pull on him. The cold was fading now. In one long motion, she had pulled him into a familiar warmth. The weightlessness was gone now, replaced by a heaviness in his limbs that weighed him down against a rough, solid surface. Thank you, Christine. You have freed my soul at last. Her arms had left him. So this was the afterlife. His mind felt disconnected from his earthly body. So this was death. The cold was gone now because it had done its job. Now, Erik was dead.


In the darkness, Christine’s low voice called to him.


Though he could not see, he felt her hands on his chest. He smiled – or at least tried to smile – as he relished the warm touch of her fingers through the cold, heavy fabric of his clothes. They were larger than he remembered.

They pressed down violently against his chest again and again.

What- what is this?

The hands left his chest and found their way to his neck. Two fingers pressed against his upper neck, then disappeared. The pressing against his chest continued.

Christine, what are you doing?

“Erik, can you hear me?”

That wasn’t Christine.

The voice was muffled, as if Erik was listening from inside a thick, glass jar.

“Erik, answer me!”

A heat rushed through his body as the hands gave a quick, final shove into his chest. He clenched his fists and coughed fiercely. Water poured from his mouth as his lungs forced air into his body once more. His mind shot back down into his body and he felt a burning in his throat and a weakness in his limbs. His coughing shook through his entire body, lifting his head and back from the floor in fierce spasms as he heaved the aggressive water from his lungs. As the coughing died down, his body continued twitching, regaining its old vigor.

Panting, he raised his bloodshot eyes upward and saw a familiar dark figure kneeling over him.

As exhaustion overtook him, the figure's coarse, accented voice faded from his senses.

“Erik, what have you done?”

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.

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Name: Sharon | Gender: Female | Posts: 100 | Roses: 10
Old 02-16-2010 at 12:20 AM
Wandering Child
The Phantom's Lover

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Here's your critism?  Post [13] »

I am a new-comer! Sorry for beign so late and not reading the rest yet!
Originally Posted by A_Single_Rose View Post
Finally, after nearly three years of reading phan phictions and gushing over many of them, I have decided to have a go at it myself. Here goes my first phic. When reading phanphics, I usually prefer Leroux-esque stories, so mine will be based mostly off of Leroux's, with bits of ALW here and there.

Darkness There and Nothing More

Death hath a thousand doors to let out life:
I shall find one.
- Phillip Massinger



The Persian rose from his seat and walked over to the window, dark hands behind his back, as the low, quavering voice called his name. His dark, bald head was unadorned with the usual astrakhan cap and his impressive height only succeeded in trimming his sinewy form further. His skin, dark and smooth, dully glowed in the adequate candlelight, giving off a damp, unapproachable aura. He pretended to occupy himself with the busy Parisian street, filthy and glum. He turned his head, but did not fully face the man, the monster, that sat in his private parlor. His heart beat unsteadily as he listened to the lamentable tale of the once formidable outcast, now only weak and desolate.

“Daroga, if Christine holds her oath, she shall soon return.” The Persian finally turned to him, saying nothing, asking nothing. He only watched in sad silence as the sickly figure pulled itself up with strained strength. Long, haggard breaths accompanied each tiring motion. Every effort to stay alive was slowly killing him. The Persian stayed still, only watching as the dejected creature, the man he called Erik, leave his parlor, leaving behind him the last that the Persian would ever hear from or see of him again. Erik, the immortal, who haunted the stage and fell in love with one of its most prized voices, was hit by a fatal arrow. The immortal Erik, the formidable opera ghost, was dying from a mortal wound – “dying,” he said, “of love.”


Chapter One

“Christine!” The house by the lake echoed with inhuman cries, cries that did not fit in this world – so terrifying and painful was the noise. The lake rippled subtly, recoiling from the terrible shriek. A crash. Shattered glass on the floor. Another shriek. Anguished screams reverberated sharply off the walls, thrumming against everything in their path. Agonizing sobs echoed in the cavernous home by the lake, crafted by skilled ghostly hands. The moaning creature was on the floor, his bleeding hands and knees weakly supporting him so close to the ground. A shard of glass pierced his skin as he sobbed in pain. He was a ghost, but ghosts did not bleed. His head pulsed incessantly from a hellish pain, threatening to tear him apart. Soft, sweet words clawed at the fragile walls of his mind.

Poor, unhappy Erik.

The pained creature clutched at his sides, wrapping his arms desperately around himself as he had done in his meeting with the daroga. He lurched forward and fell to the ground, landing on his hands and knees. The stabbing pain pierced through his chest, causing him to arch his back and groan in the terrible agony. He could feel the cold blade taking the place of his heart – or where the heart should be.


Surely, the world must have trembled at the terrifying noise.

Erik, the dejected creature, stumbled as he rose from the blood strewn ground. Blood. There was no more reason to close the wound. The red liquid dripped generously from his hand, a scarlet thread falling from his sickly hands. What was life? Life had been hell before Christine had so selfishly injured him. He thought he knew the tortures of hell before now. He clutched at his chest, covering the white dress shirt in a red dye, and stumbled forward past broken glass and furniture.

The vast room swayed before him as his legs, heavy as lead, moved on.

The air was still, but it was not quiet. Unspoken words smothered the silence, filling the invisible void that separated two entities – angel and demon.

“Christine,” the low baritone voice blanketed the cold, damp air. It was smooth and flowed easily from the ethereal throat. Christine’s grey-blue eyes rose unwaveringly from the floor to her betrothed – a ghost. The only movement between them was the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. The demon looked at those captivating blue eyes, frightened and unsure. The angelic gaze told more than mortal words could in a lifetime. Each moment of staring into those eyes told of pain and acceptance – and of love.

Christine took a step forward, a smile suddenly appearing on her lips.

“Christine,” the ghost said again. Christine, his Christine, his Angel of Music. The young child had blossomed into a woman. She had risen to heights that she never imagined reaching. It would not have been possible without his help. He created this Angel of Music, this linnet bird that could make the gods weep and could calm the fires of hell. Her music was now his forever. Nothing could steal her away from him, not even death, now. She closed the gap between them and tilted her forehead forward. What was this? His eyes swept over the innocent face of his angel – the pale, porcelain skin, the rose red lips, the light blue eyes. The demon Erik trembled, his swollen lips quavering. She was his angel - his angel, his living, breathing bride. He leaned forward and kissed the warm flesh of her forehead.

The warmth faded. His lips met nothing.

Erik opened his eyes in the darkness. Sweat dampened his freezing skin, making the air seem to freeze around him. Christine? He sat up from his bed, the mahogany coffin, the reminder of the eternal sleep. Christine? Where was she? His bride, where was she? He rose from the mahogany box and was immediately stabbed by a piercing pain in his chest. He cried aloud as it pinned him to the base of the coffin, suffocating him. His knuckles grew pale as he desperately gripped the sides of his box. He screamed into the darkness, the chords of his broken voice tearing against the stone walls. His chest was as heavy as stone. The pain would not go away. It ate at him, tearing away at flesh and heart. Its frightening jaws found their way through the darkest corners of a long forgotten soul. “Christine! Christine!” His broken cries grew weaker and weaker as the pain consumed him, swallowing him in indefinite darkness. What was left in the world?

Soon, there shall be nothing left of Erik – nothing left of “poor, unhappy Erik.”


Constructive criticism would be fantastic! Don't worry about being too harsh. I practically feed off criticism.

More to come soon.

*And thanks, Laura, for taking the time to read and edit this!
I am a new-comer! Sorry for beign so late and not reading the rest yet!
Constructive critism? Well I can try to comment all I can. Again, my greatest apolgies for being so late in reading your magnifisent phan phic.

So far I simply must say, I adored the way you have started off your story! You have quite a talent in imagery (when an author/ress is able to make the reader feel like they are actually in the story--like they were the protagonist or as it happened to me teacher, like they could even smell the place. Yeah my teach is crazy but she's funny too) when you write your stories and I hope it will be has breath-taking as the story progresses (yeah still haven't read the rest ^^'). It kind of makes me feel like I did with Gaston Leroux's novel--fearing an end for nothing is ever the same as the first time.

At the same time you have also chosen an excellent stye of writing for such a story. It looks as if this story will progress well and I have high hopes for it later in the future. Well off to read the rest.
Yes I know it's not my best critism. I have no clue what happened. >.<
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Name: Silence | Gender: Female | Age: 19 | Posts: 2 | Roses: 10
Old 04-12-2012 at 04:14 PM
S i l e n c e
Wandering Child
Opera Performer

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 Post [14] »

Such a wonderful beginning to the story! I hadn't really liked the Leroux novel very much, but've got me hooked! I can't wait to see what happens in the story! I love your description, it is simply marvelous! I don't really have an negative, so all i can say is splendid job! :) oh and keep writing!

Stranger Then You Dreamt It!
can you even bare to look or bare to think of me?

The Phantom Of The Opera
is there, inside my head!

The Music Of The Night
savor each sensation!

Past The Point Of No Return!
no backward glances...
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