Post by diamondgirlxxx on Sept 2, 2009 13:39:24 GMT 1
I sure lots of people are in the same boat as me at the moment stuck doing coursework 
and I was going to ask if you lovely people would be nice enough to take a quick read through a bit of mine and offereing me your opinion/advice on it as to how to improve it 
im sorry its quite long but I would really appreciate it if you would take a minute to rad and offer oopinions on it
Just to breif you, the criteria was top write a peice of ficiton with a mystery element to it based around a story that already exsisits. I have chosen to base mine loosely around phantom of the opera, including things like the Paris Opera House, the underground lake, the chandeleir, box 5 always being empty and so on.
So if you have a minute please take a read and leave your opinions any help/adive will be much appreciated thanks xxx 
He had woken me from my sleep, yet again. Even lost in my deepest slumbers and most heavenly dreams, I could sense his presence. Even when no sound broke the perfect serenity of the night, I could hear him. He called me, every word he uttered beckoned me to him.
I lay awake in my bed, the covers strewn around me. Every time their cool silk brushed against my skin I flinched slightly, imagining that sudden cool sensation was the touch of his hand.
I got out of bed and padded softly over to the window. I moved the towering array of musical scores that occupied the window ledge to the floor in order to perch on it. Once I had settled myself as comfortably as sitting on the tiny ledge would allow I flung the window open. The glass swung backwards through the sky until it halted just bare millimetres away from the brickwork of the outer walls.
It was a beautiful November night. The sky was a gorgeous midnight blue, and so clear I swore I could see to the heavens. The only light came from the moon, so bright it cast a soft white shine over the shadows of the city. Far off in the distance I could see the silhouette of the Paris Opera House.
I love the night time. I love the tranquillity that comes with darkness. I love being able to look out of my little window over the whole city. It feels as if I am the only person alive. While the whole of Paris fall into silence, I am the only one awake.
Well, not quite the only one.
It only happens at night. During the day when I am walking the busy cobbled streets, sat at my piano, chatting to my friends or simply doing nothing at all, he is never there. But when the sun has fully disappeared, leaving the whole of Paris cloaked in darkness; he is there. In my awake ness he calls to me. In my dreams he sings to me. He beckons me to his side.
I yearn to find him. I long to follow his song, for I know if I do it will lead me to him. If I let his music posses me I will know what it is that is shrouded, cloaked in magic. But I dared not. When he sings to me, when he calls me, my heart is filled with wonder at knowing this mysterious figure wants me to find him, wants me to carry his melodies, to complete his music. But at the same time, it frightens me. It frightens me to know I am the only one who can hear voice. Why does he call me? Why does the never let my night pass without penetrating my mind with his music?
As I contemplated this, I gazed out into the night. I looked the sky, the only place it seemed that was ever truly peaceful. And as I watched the stars twinkle, the sky seemed to swirl. I blinked again and again trying to get my vision into focus. But no. It wasn’t my eyes deceiving me. The night was moving, stars streaming through the darkness. I froze, in half sheer wonderment and half sheer terror. This had to be a trick. A trick of my feverish mind, so full of wonder of this strange, mysterious being I would now believe anything I thought. All of a sudden a flash of lightning, white as the light of the moon tore through the night, ripping the heavens in two. The flash illuminated the entire sky, a white so hot and pure it burned my eyes to look at it. Then in a second it was gone.
I dared to peek through my screwed up eyes. Barely glimpsing I turned my head back to the window and opened one eye a little wider, just wide enough to see. What I saw made shriek so loudly I thought I would awake the entire apartment building, let alone my mother.
The sky was now a deep plum purple, so rich it was almost seductive to look at. But it seemed to be covered in a veil of clouds and mist, so much so it was almost completely disguised. Then, slowly, oh ever so slowly, the clouds began to part, like a gateway opening up for a royal arrival. And it that second, out of nowhere, music began to play. It was an organ. It played as softly as the mist was moving slowly. It was an mesmerising sight. The mist swirled as the clouds parting, clearing the sky almost. The clouds continued to part, but getting faster and faster. And as the sky moved faster the organ I could hear grew louder. The music built until it was almost deafening. The sounds rung through the night. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t see, I was lost in this spell of music and night time. Nothing was normal, no one was safe. I knew it now, I was under his spell, I was completely possessed. The mystical figure who had called me for so many months had finally come to me. I wanted to cry out into the parting mist. I opened my mouth but couldn’t even hear myself over the deafening din of the music. It was an organ, violins, drums, cellos, everything. A full invisible orchestra was playing, their music surrounding me. I couldn’t make myself heard, even though I had no idea who I was calling to.
No sounds came from my mouth, all that could be heard was this magnificent orchestra of heaven. Then, over the top of the music, a voice. It rang out as clear and deep as thunder.
“Sing” it boomed, “sing”
I froze, it was him. He was shouting through the night at me. He told me to sing.
I opened my mouth again, and again no sound came out.
“Sing” he cried, “Sing my angel”
I drew in my breath, for I knew the only way to end this madness which frightened me so was to follow his command. And before I even got the chance to start singing, a voice came. It came from my mouth, but it didn’t come from me. A soprano voice, so beautiful, so perfect sang out. It sang louder that the orchestra, sang louder that its commander. My throat burned with white hot passion as this voice rang out of me. I couldn’t control it, the more I tried to stop, to close my mouth, the louder it sang, the higher it went.
“Sing my angel” whispered his voice. A whisper has never been so loud. “ Sing my angel” “Sing, Sing!”
I followed his orders. I sang and I sang and I sang. It scolded my chest, it burnt my throat but I could not stop. The music was getting nearer, my master was getting nearer. It was closing in, all around me. Everything was now out of my hands, I was powerless, able to do nothing but sing on. Tears spilled over my eyes and ran down my cheeks, my throat was burning, non existent flames licking at my tonsils.
It approached, the plum sky was almost at the window, the music was louder that I ever imagined music could be. My singing continued higher and higher; louder and louder. I was not the only one singing. He was singing too. The same song he had sung to me in my dreams for a long, long time. We were singing a strange duet, desperate, painful yet sensual at the same time. As he closed in around me, the organ roared in my ears and my own voice rang painfully in my throat I looked up to the impending sky one last time. The clouds had parted, his voice serenading me out of them. It was too much, too strange, too frightening, too sensual. I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t think and I couldn’t breath. With one last note, so painful, so high, so beautiful, I choked for breath and fell to the floor.
I was on stage. I was on the stage of the Paris Opera House. I was facing the audience, their faces gripped with admiration, with wonder. With Anticipation. I knew what I had to do, I had to deliver the final song the opera. The famous piece. My career hung in the balance on this performance. If I could carry off this final score, I would be hailed as the greatest opera singer ever born to Paris. As the violins started playing their sweet, lilting melodies, I smiled round the auditorium. Over 2000 faces smiled back at me. They knew I could do it.
As the music soared, I threw back my head, raised my hands to the lord and sang the final lines.
As I hit the last flourishing note, an explosion of applause rumbled all around the Opera House. The audience were on their feet. They were giving me a standing ovation. They were cheering for me. They were applauding for me. I was their musical angel. The applause was so loud the famous chandelier rattled. I stood centre stage basking in the glory of the applause. I had triumphed. I, a little, humble 17 year old girl from the city of Paris was their angel. Their angel of music.
Something was strange. Something was wrong. They would not stop applauding. The claps and cheers were not dying. They got louder and louder. I could feel the stage beneath my feet trembling. I could see the chandelier above the head swinging back and forth, faster and faster.
“Stop” I pleaded, “Please stop applauding,”
They paid no attention, for they could not hear me. I was drowned out in my own applause. “No!” I shouted, “You must stop!”
They didn’t stop. Louder, louder and louder still. It was as if thunder was rolling round the auditorium. Why was this happening? Why were they doing this?
The applause was deafening. I shut my eyes as tight as I could and pressed my hands over my ears, trying to shut out the noise. Then, it was silent. I opened my eyes. Silence. I looked around and gasped. All the seats were empty. The stalls, the gallery, the balconies, the boxes. All deserted, not a soul in sight.
An icy chill ran through me. The Opera House was deserted. But I knew; I was not alone. He was there.
Then I realised something. The noise had gone, as had the spectators. But, the chandelier, hung in all its crystallised glory, continued to swing. It looked ready to fall from the ceiling any moment. I froze in fright. Standing glued to the spot I stared up at the vast ornament. Time stood still. Back and forth it swung, back and forth, glinting in the shadows of the Opera Hall. Then it came to a stand still.
I could sense his presence. He was all around me. Holding me, surrounding me, cloaking me in his musical magic. I was lost in his mystery, so frightening, yet so sensual at the same time. I felt my eyelids drooping I felt him behind me.
A voice then spoke. It was his voice. I knew it. It seemed to come from all around, not just behind me where I knew he was.
“Angel” he whispered. “My angel”
But his voice was not warm and compassionate. It sounded soft, almost menacing.
“Angel” the voice repeated. “Come, my angel, come with me”
I was frozen, helpless. What could I do? I could follow his voice, let him lead me down to the deepest, darkest realms of wonder. What is it behind the voice, who is it that sings to me in sleep, who is it that I ache to see, that I long to know.
Or I could turn back. I could run. Run far away from his mystery. Run far away from Paris. Desperately try to escape this constant confusion. What did I want to do?
I knew it was foolish, I knew it was dangerous. But the child inside me longed to know what was there. Who was the man behind the music? Who was it that had coached my voice without my noticing? Who was it that called my name in the darkest hours? Who was it that had sung from the sky for me? Who?
I knew what I wanted to do. But a part of me held back. A little piece of my heart restrained me, warned me not to go on. What would become of me if I followed this figure, so shrouded in eeriness and mystique? I thought to myself, did I really want to enter the unknown? And in that thought I was transported back to a day many years ago. I had been about 6 years old. And I remember my father, now long since deceased, saying something to me. And what he had said had never left me, yet I had never remembered it. Until now that is. And what he had said to me had been this.
“You are blessed my child. You have a voice to rival any angel. Be safe with your voice. Protect it, it will bring you great happiness in years to come. Protect your voice, protect yourself. Stay safe my angel, that is all I ask of you. Don’t play with unknown, don’t dance with devil. Remain innocent. Naivety is bliss my sweetheart. I know you dream of being in the Opera. Hold on to your dream. Don’t let anything phase you. Protect yourself and someday, somehow all your dream, your prayer will be answered. For you have a gift that was bestowed upon you by an angel. The angel of Music. That angel will always be with you, will always protect you. Let them.”
Not long after he said that, Father died.
The Angel. The Angel of Music.
I knew what I would do.
“Angel, come with me” his whisper so low, so sinister. Yet, so entrancing, so seductive.
I opened my mouth, trying to respond. I couldn’t though, I was choked up. I couldn’t speak, I could only stand there. I felt myself swaying slightly, as if about to drift into a slumber. I could feel a curious warmth surrounding me. It was overpowering, a sweet intoxication.
“My angel, you must trust me” he murmured into my ear.
“Are you coming with me?”
I felt weak, I was hot. I was intoxicated with this sweet beautiful dream.
I was barely able to muster the energy to open my mouth, let alone produce words.
After a while, I managed to utter a faint, barely audible, but definitely there…”yes”
“Very well, Angel… We must go” his voice sounded diluted with ecstasy and excitement.
“Where are we going?” I asked. Although I knew the only way to fulfil my teenage lust to know the unknown was to follow his voice, there were no words to describe how frightened I was.
“Down, my Angel” “Down” came his response.
“Down where?” My voice was quivering with fright. I was suddenly very tempted to turn on my heel and run for my life. But I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t turn back now. He had called me to his side for months now. I was not giving up now. However scared I was.
“Down!” The voice boomed. It was no longer beside me, behind me, or surrounding me. It was coming from the left hand corner of the gallery. Box number 5. Which was for some curious reason, always empty. The legend goes that box was always reserved for a man who was killed in the fire which destroyed the most part of the building years ago. And after it was rebuilt, it was decided that box would always remain empty, for, I believe, reasons which involved the Operas main clientele believing it was haunted.
Why was his voice coming from there? Why?
Then I realised. There was music playing, the same music that played the night he had sung from the sky. Such chilling music, rich, full, dramatic. It sent shivers running up and down my spine.
I cast my eyes once more around the deserted Opera Hall. And what I saw shook me so violently, I know full well I will never forget it. The orchestra was playing. Playing itself. The bows drew themselves back and forth over the strings of the violins. The keys of the organ, of the grand piano pressed themselves down. It was a haunting sight. So chilling, yet so beautiful.
“Down,” the voice rang, “Down, Down, Down!”
“But..” I started, drowned out by the ever loudening music, “But, but…”
It all happened in a rush and a roar.
At the moment the music reached deafening point, so loud, so fast so furious, I had a snap. A snap of fingers. I looked above my head. The chandelier. It was falling.
In that moment, everything seemed to turn into slow motion. It was as if there was no longer a distinction between what was real and what was fantasy.
“Down” his voice was now so loud it was almost screaming. It sounded possessed.
“Down, Down, Down!”
As the chandelier fell towards me, I stood, unable to move, to speak in fright.
It hit the floor with an almighty crash, a crash that sent shock waves through the entire Opera House.
But I didn’t see it fall.
A pair of invisible arms with wrapped around me, I was plummeting. Down, down, down.
“Your mine now Angel!”
“Come down with me Angel!”
“Down with me!”
His voice sounded like he was basking in some great triumph. He had finally forced me to surrender to him. I was his now, I had no choice. There was no way back.
I must follow him, wherever he’d take me.
Down, Down, Down.
I was lying on the floor of my tiny bedroom. I was staring right out of the window into the night sky. I was gasping for breath.
It had been a dream. But no, it couldn’t have been. It was too intense, too real. I could still feel the fear that gripped me as the chandelier fell. I could still hear the melodies played by the violins. And, most intense and fresh in my mind of all, I could still hear his voice.
“Down” he had cried, “Down”
It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t possible. It had happened, it must have. But how could it?
One minute I was on stage in the Paris Opera House, the next lying on the floor of my bedroom, having just woken from a fainting fit after the events of the sky only that night.
I did my best to gather my thoughts together and sat up. I had to go, I had to find him.
I had come this far, I knew where he was. I knew that unless I discovered who he was, who it was behind the mystery, behind the music, I would never rest peacefully.
I knew where, I must go. I must run to the Opera House, I must find a way down. What lay beneath then Opera House?
Again I thought back to the days of my Father. Despite having little money he and Mother had taken some savings and paid for us to go to the Opera for my 7th birthday. Being the preciously musical child that I was, they felt the need to nurture my love for music. Tristan und Isolde. That was what we had seen. We had sat in the gallery, and I remember how I sat in silent in silent awe, my clammy little hands cradled together in my lap.
In the final act, the hero had disappeared through a trap door that must have gone under the stage. I remember asking my father, “What is underneath a stage?”
I had asked the question totally innocently, just out of a child’s curiosity.
And what had his reply been? I knew I could remember it. It had been something along the lines of, “The legend says there is a lake under the Opera House, and beyond this lake there once lived a man.” He then went on to tell me, “But people have explored under the stage many a time and no such lake has been discovered.”
Of course, being the child that I was, my instant reply had been, “What about the man?” “Is he still there?”
My father had chuckled fondly at my juvenile inquisitiveness, and had reassured me no such man had ever existed, “It was nothing but talk my child” he had said, “ most likely decided by someone once they’d been at the brandy”
But, I knew. I knew the truth. In the very bottom of my heart, I knew. There was a lake. It was not under the stage, it was under the very Opera House. It all made sense.
“Down,” he had cried. Down to where? Down through the opera house, for the lake was in the heart of the underground labyrinth that lay beneath the building.
I knew know, if I followed my wonder, if I followed his calls, if I followed my heart, I would reach him. I would reach his lair, the place of all his wonders, the place where he composed his music, wrote his magic.
I have to go, I must find him. I have no choice, I must leave right now. I stood up and tore off my nightgown, flinging it to one side. I grabbed the first outfit available to me with happened to be a white silk shirt that was far so big for me and long enough to be classed as a dress. Not having all that much money I was used to making do with wearing hand me down from much larger relatives, who’s garments utterly swamped my slight frame. I yanked my stockings up and pulled on my boots. I suddenly turned a thought to just how bitterly cold it was out there, last hour of night and mid November, and pulled on my thick woollen scarf and hat. My chestnut curls hung loose all the way down to the small of my back.
and I was going to ask if you lovely people would be nice enough to take a quick read through a bit of mine and offereing me your opinion/advice on it as to how to improve it im sorry its quite long but I would really appreciate it if you would take a minute to rad and offer oopinions on it
Just to breif you, the criteria was top write a peice of ficiton with a mystery element to it based around a story that already exsisits. I have chosen to base mine loosely around phantom of the opera, including things like the Paris Opera House, the underground lake, the chandeleir, box 5 always being empty and so on.
So if you have a minute please take a read and leave your opinions any help/adive will be much appreciated
thanks xxx He had woken me from my sleep, yet again. Even lost in my deepest slumbers and most heavenly dreams, I could sense his presence. Even when no sound broke the perfect serenity of the night, I could hear him. He called me, every word he uttered beckoned me to him.
I lay awake in my bed, the covers strewn around me. Every time their cool silk brushed against my skin I flinched slightly, imagining that sudden cool sensation was the touch of his hand.
I got out of bed and padded softly over to the window. I moved the towering array of musical scores that occupied the window ledge to the floor in order to perch on it. Once I had settled myself as comfortably as sitting on the tiny ledge would allow I flung the window open. The glass swung backwards through the sky until it halted just bare millimetres away from the brickwork of the outer walls.
It was a beautiful November night. The sky was a gorgeous midnight blue, and so clear I swore I could see to the heavens. The only light came from the moon, so bright it cast a soft white shine over the shadows of the city. Far off in the distance I could see the silhouette of the Paris Opera House.
I love the night time. I love the tranquillity that comes with darkness. I love being able to look out of my little window over the whole city. It feels as if I am the only person alive. While the whole of Paris fall into silence, I am the only one awake.
Well, not quite the only one.
It only happens at night. During the day when I am walking the busy cobbled streets, sat at my piano, chatting to my friends or simply doing nothing at all, he is never there. But when the sun has fully disappeared, leaving the whole of Paris cloaked in darkness; he is there. In my awake ness he calls to me. In my dreams he sings to me. He beckons me to his side.
I yearn to find him. I long to follow his song, for I know if I do it will lead me to him. If I let his music posses me I will know what it is that is shrouded, cloaked in magic. But I dared not. When he sings to me, when he calls me, my heart is filled with wonder at knowing this mysterious figure wants me to find him, wants me to carry his melodies, to complete his music. But at the same time, it frightens me. It frightens me to know I am the only one who can hear voice. Why does he call me? Why does the never let my night pass without penetrating my mind with his music?
As I contemplated this, I gazed out into the night. I looked the sky, the only place it seemed that was ever truly peaceful. And as I watched the stars twinkle, the sky seemed to swirl. I blinked again and again trying to get my vision into focus. But no. It wasn’t my eyes deceiving me. The night was moving, stars streaming through the darkness. I froze, in half sheer wonderment and half sheer terror. This had to be a trick. A trick of my feverish mind, so full of wonder of this strange, mysterious being I would now believe anything I thought. All of a sudden a flash of lightning, white as the light of the moon tore through the night, ripping the heavens in two. The flash illuminated the entire sky, a white so hot and pure it burned my eyes to look at it. Then in a second it was gone.
I dared to peek through my screwed up eyes. Barely glimpsing I turned my head back to the window and opened one eye a little wider, just wide enough to see. What I saw made shriek so loudly I thought I would awake the entire apartment building, let alone my mother.
The sky was now a deep plum purple, so rich it was almost seductive to look at. But it seemed to be covered in a veil of clouds and mist, so much so it was almost completely disguised. Then, slowly, oh ever so slowly, the clouds began to part, like a gateway opening up for a royal arrival. And it that second, out of nowhere, music began to play. It was an organ. It played as softly as the mist was moving slowly. It was an mesmerising sight. The mist swirled as the clouds parting, clearing the sky almost. The clouds continued to part, but getting faster and faster. And as the sky moved faster the organ I could hear grew louder. The music built until it was almost deafening. The sounds rung through the night. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t see, I was lost in this spell of music and night time. Nothing was normal, no one was safe. I knew it now, I was under his spell, I was completely possessed. The mystical figure who had called me for so many months had finally come to me. I wanted to cry out into the parting mist. I opened my mouth but couldn’t even hear myself over the deafening din of the music. It was an organ, violins, drums, cellos, everything. A full invisible orchestra was playing, their music surrounding me. I couldn’t make myself heard, even though I had no idea who I was calling to.
No sounds came from my mouth, all that could be heard was this magnificent orchestra of heaven. Then, over the top of the music, a voice. It rang out as clear and deep as thunder.
“Sing” it boomed, “sing”
I froze, it was him. He was shouting through the night at me. He told me to sing.
I opened my mouth again, and again no sound came out.
“Sing” he cried, “Sing my angel”
I drew in my breath, for I knew the only way to end this madness which frightened me so was to follow his command. And before I even got the chance to start singing, a voice came. It came from my mouth, but it didn’t come from me. A soprano voice, so beautiful, so perfect sang out. It sang louder that the orchestra, sang louder that its commander. My throat burned with white hot passion as this voice rang out of me. I couldn’t control it, the more I tried to stop, to close my mouth, the louder it sang, the higher it went.
“Sing my angel” whispered his voice. A whisper has never been so loud. “ Sing my angel” “Sing, Sing!”
I followed his orders. I sang and I sang and I sang. It scolded my chest, it burnt my throat but I could not stop. The music was getting nearer, my master was getting nearer. It was closing in, all around me. Everything was now out of my hands, I was powerless, able to do nothing but sing on. Tears spilled over my eyes and ran down my cheeks, my throat was burning, non existent flames licking at my tonsils.
It approached, the plum sky was almost at the window, the music was louder that I ever imagined music could be. My singing continued higher and higher; louder and louder. I was not the only one singing. He was singing too. The same song he had sung to me in my dreams for a long, long time. We were singing a strange duet, desperate, painful yet sensual at the same time. As he closed in around me, the organ roared in my ears and my own voice rang painfully in my throat I looked up to the impending sky one last time. The clouds had parted, his voice serenading me out of them. It was too much, too strange, too frightening, too sensual. I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t think and I couldn’t breath. With one last note, so painful, so high, so beautiful, I choked for breath and fell to the floor.
I was on stage. I was on the stage of the Paris Opera House. I was facing the audience, their faces gripped with admiration, with wonder. With Anticipation. I knew what I had to do, I had to deliver the final song the opera. The famous piece. My career hung in the balance on this performance. If I could carry off this final score, I would be hailed as the greatest opera singer ever born to Paris. As the violins started playing their sweet, lilting melodies, I smiled round the auditorium. Over 2000 faces smiled back at me. They knew I could do it.
As the music soared, I threw back my head, raised my hands to the lord and sang the final lines.
As I hit the last flourishing note, an explosion of applause rumbled all around the Opera House. The audience were on their feet. They were giving me a standing ovation. They were cheering for me. They were applauding for me. I was their musical angel. The applause was so loud the famous chandelier rattled. I stood centre stage basking in the glory of the applause. I had triumphed. I, a little, humble 17 year old girl from the city of Paris was their angel. Their angel of music.
Something was strange. Something was wrong. They would not stop applauding. The claps and cheers were not dying. They got louder and louder. I could feel the stage beneath my feet trembling. I could see the chandelier above the head swinging back and forth, faster and faster.
“Stop” I pleaded, “Please stop applauding,”
They paid no attention, for they could not hear me. I was drowned out in my own applause. “No!” I shouted, “You must stop!”
They didn’t stop. Louder, louder and louder still. It was as if thunder was rolling round the auditorium. Why was this happening? Why were they doing this?
The applause was deafening. I shut my eyes as tight as I could and pressed my hands over my ears, trying to shut out the noise. Then, it was silent. I opened my eyes. Silence. I looked around and gasped. All the seats were empty. The stalls, the gallery, the balconies, the boxes. All deserted, not a soul in sight.
An icy chill ran through me. The Opera House was deserted. But I knew; I was not alone. He was there.
Then I realised something. The noise had gone, as had the spectators. But, the chandelier, hung in all its crystallised glory, continued to swing. It looked ready to fall from the ceiling any moment. I froze in fright. Standing glued to the spot I stared up at the vast ornament. Time stood still. Back and forth it swung, back and forth, glinting in the shadows of the Opera Hall. Then it came to a stand still.
I could sense his presence. He was all around me. Holding me, surrounding me, cloaking me in his musical magic. I was lost in his mystery, so frightening, yet so sensual at the same time. I felt my eyelids drooping I felt him behind me.
A voice then spoke. It was his voice. I knew it. It seemed to come from all around, not just behind me where I knew he was.
“Angel” he whispered. “My angel”
But his voice was not warm and compassionate. It sounded soft, almost menacing.
“Angel” the voice repeated. “Come, my angel, come with me”
I was frozen, helpless. What could I do? I could follow his voice, let him lead me down to the deepest, darkest realms of wonder. What is it behind the voice, who is it that sings to me in sleep, who is it that I ache to see, that I long to know.
Or I could turn back. I could run. Run far away from his mystery. Run far away from Paris. Desperately try to escape this constant confusion. What did I want to do?
I knew it was foolish, I knew it was dangerous. But the child inside me longed to know what was there. Who was the man behind the music? Who was it that had coached my voice without my noticing? Who was it that called my name in the darkest hours? Who was it that had sung from the sky for me? Who?
I knew what I wanted to do. But a part of me held back. A little piece of my heart restrained me, warned me not to go on. What would become of me if I followed this figure, so shrouded in eeriness and mystique? I thought to myself, did I really want to enter the unknown? And in that thought I was transported back to a day many years ago. I had been about 6 years old. And I remember my father, now long since deceased, saying something to me. And what he had said had never left me, yet I had never remembered it. Until now that is. And what he had said to me had been this.
“You are blessed my child. You have a voice to rival any angel. Be safe with your voice. Protect it, it will bring you great happiness in years to come. Protect your voice, protect yourself. Stay safe my angel, that is all I ask of you. Don’t play with unknown, don’t dance with devil. Remain innocent. Naivety is bliss my sweetheart. I know you dream of being in the Opera. Hold on to your dream. Don’t let anything phase you. Protect yourself and someday, somehow all your dream, your prayer will be answered. For you have a gift that was bestowed upon you by an angel. The angel of Music. That angel will always be with you, will always protect you. Let them.”
Not long after he said that, Father died.
The Angel. The Angel of Music.
I knew what I would do.
“Angel, come with me” his whisper so low, so sinister. Yet, so entrancing, so seductive.
I opened my mouth, trying to respond. I couldn’t though, I was choked up. I couldn’t speak, I could only stand there. I felt myself swaying slightly, as if about to drift into a slumber. I could feel a curious warmth surrounding me. It was overpowering, a sweet intoxication.
“My angel, you must trust me” he murmured into my ear.
“Are you coming with me?”
I felt weak, I was hot. I was intoxicated with this sweet beautiful dream.
I was barely able to muster the energy to open my mouth, let alone produce words.
After a while, I managed to utter a faint, barely audible, but definitely there…”yes”
“Very well, Angel… We must go” his voice sounded diluted with ecstasy and excitement.
“Where are we going?” I asked. Although I knew the only way to fulfil my teenage lust to know the unknown was to follow his voice, there were no words to describe how frightened I was.
“Down, my Angel” “Down” came his response.
“Down where?” My voice was quivering with fright. I was suddenly very tempted to turn on my heel and run for my life. But I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t turn back now. He had called me to his side for months now. I was not giving up now. However scared I was.
“Down!” The voice boomed. It was no longer beside me, behind me, or surrounding me. It was coming from the left hand corner of the gallery. Box number 5. Which was for some curious reason, always empty. The legend goes that box was always reserved for a man who was killed in the fire which destroyed the most part of the building years ago. And after it was rebuilt, it was decided that box would always remain empty, for, I believe, reasons which involved the Operas main clientele believing it was haunted.
Why was his voice coming from there? Why?
Then I realised. There was music playing, the same music that played the night he had sung from the sky. Such chilling music, rich, full, dramatic. It sent shivers running up and down my spine.
I cast my eyes once more around the deserted Opera Hall. And what I saw shook me so violently, I know full well I will never forget it. The orchestra was playing. Playing itself. The bows drew themselves back and forth over the strings of the violins. The keys of the organ, of the grand piano pressed themselves down. It was a haunting sight. So chilling, yet so beautiful.
“Down,” the voice rang, “Down, Down, Down!”
“But..” I started, drowned out by the ever loudening music, “But, but…”
It all happened in a rush and a roar.
At the moment the music reached deafening point, so loud, so fast so furious, I had a snap. A snap of fingers. I looked above my head. The chandelier. It was falling.
In that moment, everything seemed to turn into slow motion. It was as if there was no longer a distinction between what was real and what was fantasy.
“Down” his voice was now so loud it was almost screaming. It sounded possessed.
“Down, Down, Down!”
As the chandelier fell towards me, I stood, unable to move, to speak in fright.
It hit the floor with an almighty crash, a crash that sent shock waves through the entire Opera House.
But I didn’t see it fall.
A pair of invisible arms with wrapped around me, I was plummeting. Down, down, down.
“Your mine now Angel!”
“Come down with me Angel!”
“Down with me!”
His voice sounded like he was basking in some great triumph. He had finally forced me to surrender to him. I was his now, I had no choice. There was no way back.
I must follow him, wherever he’d take me.
Down, Down, Down.
I was lying on the floor of my tiny bedroom. I was staring right out of the window into the night sky. I was gasping for breath.
It had been a dream. But no, it couldn’t have been. It was too intense, too real. I could still feel the fear that gripped me as the chandelier fell. I could still hear the melodies played by the violins. And, most intense and fresh in my mind of all, I could still hear his voice.
“Down” he had cried, “Down”
It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t possible. It had happened, it must have. But how could it?
One minute I was on stage in the Paris Opera House, the next lying on the floor of my bedroom, having just woken from a fainting fit after the events of the sky only that night.
I did my best to gather my thoughts together and sat up. I had to go, I had to find him.
I had come this far, I knew where he was. I knew that unless I discovered who he was, who it was behind the mystery, behind the music, I would never rest peacefully.
I knew where, I must go. I must run to the Opera House, I must find a way down. What lay beneath then Opera House?
Again I thought back to the days of my Father. Despite having little money he and Mother had taken some savings and paid for us to go to the Opera for my 7th birthday. Being the preciously musical child that I was, they felt the need to nurture my love for music. Tristan und Isolde. That was what we had seen. We had sat in the gallery, and I remember how I sat in silent in silent awe, my clammy little hands cradled together in my lap.
In the final act, the hero had disappeared through a trap door that must have gone under the stage. I remember asking my father, “What is underneath a stage?”
I had asked the question totally innocently, just out of a child’s curiosity.
And what had his reply been? I knew I could remember it. It had been something along the lines of, “The legend says there is a lake under the Opera House, and beyond this lake there once lived a man.” He then went on to tell me, “But people have explored under the stage many a time and no such lake has been discovered.”
Of course, being the child that I was, my instant reply had been, “What about the man?” “Is he still there?”
My father had chuckled fondly at my juvenile inquisitiveness, and had reassured me no such man had ever existed, “It was nothing but talk my child” he had said, “ most likely decided by someone once they’d been at the brandy”
But, I knew. I knew the truth. In the very bottom of my heart, I knew. There was a lake. It was not under the stage, it was under the very Opera House. It all made sense.
“Down,” he had cried. Down to where? Down through the opera house, for the lake was in the heart of the underground labyrinth that lay beneath the building.
I knew know, if I followed my wonder, if I followed his calls, if I followed my heart, I would reach him. I would reach his lair, the place of all his wonders, the place where he composed his music, wrote his magic.
I have to go, I must find him. I have no choice, I must leave right now. I stood up and tore off my nightgown, flinging it to one side. I grabbed the first outfit available to me with happened to be a white silk shirt that was far so big for me and long enough to be classed as a dress. Not having all that much money I was used to making do with wearing hand me down from much larger relatives, who’s garments utterly swamped my slight frame. I yanked my stockings up and pulled on my boots. I suddenly turned a thought to just how bitterly cold it was out there, last hour of night and mid November, and pulled on my thick woollen scarf and hat. My chestnut curls hung loose all the way down to the small of my back.
