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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 10/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1941
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: As the Opera House sleeps, Christine receives a heavenly visitor...
Author's Notes: The title of this chapter comes from the song by ABBA, from their album The Visitors. Written for Challenge 10 at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
great_tales: Ghost Stories. A couple of lines from the Phantom libretto are quoted here, and do not belong to me.
LIKE AN ANGEL PASSING THROUGH MY ROOM
It was late.
Christine knew that she should have left hours ago. Even Madame Giry did not work this far into the evening; the company had all retreated to their various homes and lodgings and only the night-watchmen remained, but for the past few weeks she had been reluctant to return to her lonely little flat. The Opera House was a huge, intimidating building, and yet somehow the shabby, unadorned backstage area was almost cosy. Though she struggled daily to fit in, conscious of the other girls of the corps de ballet watching her and questioning under their breath the right of someone with so little talent for dance to join their ranks, Christine felt more at home in the theatre than she had anywhere since her father’s death. She had spent much of her young life in and around such places, always on the periphery it was true, a follower rather than a performer, but she found herself entranced by the colour and bustle which surrounded her. Even close to midnight, as the Opera House slept, she preferred to be here rather than sitting and staring at a blank wall and wishing she could rewrite the past few months.
A candle in her grasp, she wandered the hallways behind the stage, careful even now not to show herself amidst the gilded opulence that lay on the other side of the green baize door which separated the two disparate worlds. She supposed that she should be nervous, the constant talk of the resident spirit making her look over her shoulder, but for some reason she could not define or explain she felt at peace. The candle burned placidly in its holder, disturbed by neither breath nor draught. As she passed through the wings the ghost light burning on the stage did not bother her; she stood upon the boards gazing out into the shadowy, silent auditorium for some time, imagining how it would feel to be in the limelight, accepting the applause of an adoring crowd as she had seen the Prima Donna do so many times. It had been announced that morning that they were to have a new leading soprano, and Christine could not help wondering whether she would be grateful for the adulation or merely demand it as her right.
With a sigh, she moved towards the cast quarters, knowing that if one of the watchmen were to find her the manager would be angry. Of late she had taken to sleeping on the little couch in one of the smaller dressing rooms, a chamber that did not appear to be used by even the more minor of the performers. Christine recalled Meg whispering something once about the room being haunted, but then if one took notice of such pronouncements they would never even cross the threshold of the building for fear of the Phantom.
She was not sure whether she believed in the Opera Ghost. Certainly, if he menaced other members of the company he had yet to turn his attention to her, but she could not deny that it was hard to explain quite how the scores for the comic opera Monsieur Lefevre had just received from London came to be replaced with those for Gounod’s Faust. The manager blamed it on a prankster in the cast, but rumour had it that the office door had been locked and there were no duplicate keys or signs of a break-in. Though Christine had always been captivated by her father’s tales of Scandinavian mythology, she could not feel the same way about the fantastical stories woven by Joseph Buquet to scare the more impressionable of the ballet rats. The head fly-man claimed to have seen the Phantom for himself, and his descriptions of the creature became ever more lurid as the girls encouraged him, demanding details and squealing with supposed terror.
Christine had been present for one of the more graphic recitations and she shuddered at the thought of a face without a nose, its skin yellowing and peeling, appearing from the darkness and fixing its glowing eyes upon her, and hurried down the corridor. Buquet had a vivid imagination! As she turned into the passage from which the smaller dressing rooms opened, her candle flame quite suddenly danced and flickered. She stopped walking; there was no breeze to have caused such an effect and so she stood quite still, waiting to see if it happened again. It did not, but a cold breath touched the back of her neck for the briefest moment. Christine swallowed against the nervous lump that had not been there in her throat seconds before and reached for the door handle of the little room she had claimed as her own.
The candle guttered and then went out, pitching her into complete darkness.
She barely restrained a scream of alarm. Invisible fingers of ice crawled down her spine, and though she knew she was alone she could almost believe that there was someone standing immediately behind her. That breath of air was back on her neck, making the hair there stand on end, and she could feel eyes on her, heated eyes, staring.
Is this how it begins? she thought wildly. Think of the Phantom and he will appear?
There was a sound, like soft footsteps. They moved behind and then to the side of her, as if their owner had simply walked straight through the wall. A swish, like that of heavy fabric brushing the floorboards, accompanied the steps. Christine closed her eyes, clutching the candle in a terrified grip. Perhaps if she did not move, if she drew no attention to herself, whatever was in the passage with her would ignore her and continue on its way. After all, the Phantom liked to play tricks; he did not harm people. Did he?
Oh, Papa, please protect me...
The moments passed so slowly they became an eternity. She held her breath, listening as intently as she could. Eventually, there came no sound but that of her own blood pumping in her ears and she allowed herself to exhale. Ducking quickly into the dressing room, she closed the door and bolted it behind her. For some time she stood there with her back pressed to the wood and her fingers gripping the handle, before she convinced herself to let go and move across the room. Her eyes had become accustomed to the blackness and she managed not to bump into the furniture but it took her some time to locate the matches she had secreted in the drawer of the dressing table. She turned, striking one against the box, and gasped as, before she could touch the match to the wick, the candle flame flared magically back into life.
It was impossible, completely impossible, but there it was before her. What was happening here? Was she dreaming? The flame was burning strongly, as though it had never been extinguished in the first place. It sent shadows and brilliant reflections skittering over the full-length mirror on the wall. Christine found her eyes drawn to the glass, wondering despite the fear that gripped her how it was that a room with such a decoration should be abandoned. Without really knowing why, she rose and stood before the mirror, her fingertips following the glittering points of light. They were dizzying, mesmerising...
Somewhere, just on the edge of her hearing, someone was singing. The tune was not one with which she was familiar and there were no words, but the singer’s voice floated effortlessly over the rising and falling notes. Her eyes filled with tears; the song was so achingly, hauntingly beautiful. But she was alone - where was this person who could create such incredible music?
“Christine...”
The word was little more than a whisper caressing her ear but she heard it clearly. Spinning around, her eyes rapidly searched the room, gaze darting in and out of each dark corner. “Who is it? Who is there?”
“Christine... Christine...” The sound which answered her was as ethereal, as intangible as the dancing reflections in the mirror. Though her immediate instinct was to run, Christine found that she longed to hear it again. Her name, sung with such grace, hung in the air like a benediction. Softly, liltingly, it asked, “Do you not know me, Christine?”
“How should I know you? Who are you?” There was no way to tell the location of the voice; it seemed to drift about her head, coming first from the left and then to the right. When it next spoke, it appeared to be in front of her, but all she could see was her own face staring at her in the glass.
“Did not your father tell you about me, Christine? Did he not make you a promise?”
Her reflection dissolved, and it was almost as though Christine was back in the sick room, sitting by her father’s bed as he lay fighting the ever more frequent spasms of pain. His face against the pillow was white and gaunt, the skin stretched taught across the bones; the illness had left him a shadow of the man she had known. Trying desperately not to cry, she squeezed his hand, willing him to stay with her. He tried so hard, but he battled against insurmountable odds. He knew his time was short, even as she prayed desperately for him to be spared, for it was then that he made the promise she could not forget, a promise she should not have believed, should have attributed to the ramblings of a dying man. She had to believe, for she clung to those words, however impossible the pledge, in the cold dark sea of her grief.
“Do you not remember, child?”
She met the startled gaze of the Christine in the mirror, jerked back to the present. One of her father’s favourite stories had been that of Little Lotte, the girl who dreamed and was blessed with an Angel, but who was left to recall it now but her? It was late, she was tired, and fatigue made her fanciful. She must be dreaming, her desperate, lonely mind conjuring up the comfort for which she longed. Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against the glass and addressed whoever it was that thought to beguile her.
“I miss my father more than I can say. How can you tease and torment me by speaking of him?” she murmured. “I beg of you, whoever... whatever you are, leave me in peace.”
There was silence for a long moment. But then the voice came again, and this time it breathed gently into her ear. “Remember, Christine. Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing... Her father promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music...”
Christine’s spine tingled, and she straightened as if someone were pulling an invisible thread. “Her father promised her...” she repeated, almost without realising. “Her father promised her...”
“I am your Angel, Christine. A gift from your father, I am here to make your spirit soar.” The words were louder, stronger, ringing through the air above her head. A second later they wrapped themselves about her neck like a glittering collar of gems. Or a noose. The voice sung again its heavenly tune before it dropped to a sibilant whisper once more. “Open your mind. Give yourself to me, and we will astonish the world. What do you say?”
A smile touched Christine’s lips and her eyes in the mirror were wide. “I say... I say yes.”
Somewhere in the building a clock struck midnight.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1941
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: As the Opera House sleeps, Christine receives a heavenly visitor...
Author's Notes: The title of this chapter comes from the song by ABBA, from their album The Visitors. Written for Challenge 10 at
great_tales: Ghost Stories. A couple of lines from the Phantom libretto are quoted here, and do not belong to me.LIKE AN ANGEL PASSING THROUGH MY ROOM
It was late.
Christine knew that she should have left hours ago. Even Madame Giry did not work this far into the evening; the company had all retreated to their various homes and lodgings and only the night-watchmen remained, but for the past few weeks she had been reluctant to return to her lonely little flat. The Opera House was a huge, intimidating building, and yet somehow the shabby, unadorned backstage area was almost cosy. Though she struggled daily to fit in, conscious of the other girls of the corps de ballet watching her and questioning under their breath the right of someone with so little talent for dance to join their ranks, Christine felt more at home in the theatre than she had anywhere since her father’s death. She had spent much of her young life in and around such places, always on the periphery it was true, a follower rather than a performer, but she found herself entranced by the colour and bustle which surrounded her. Even close to midnight, as the Opera House slept, she preferred to be here rather than sitting and staring at a blank wall and wishing she could rewrite the past few months.
A candle in her grasp, she wandered the hallways behind the stage, careful even now not to show herself amidst the gilded opulence that lay on the other side of the green baize door which separated the two disparate worlds. She supposed that she should be nervous, the constant talk of the resident spirit making her look over her shoulder, but for some reason she could not define or explain she felt at peace. The candle burned placidly in its holder, disturbed by neither breath nor draught. As she passed through the wings the ghost light burning on the stage did not bother her; she stood upon the boards gazing out into the shadowy, silent auditorium for some time, imagining how it would feel to be in the limelight, accepting the applause of an adoring crowd as she had seen the Prima Donna do so many times. It had been announced that morning that they were to have a new leading soprano, and Christine could not help wondering whether she would be grateful for the adulation or merely demand it as her right.
With a sigh, she moved towards the cast quarters, knowing that if one of the watchmen were to find her the manager would be angry. Of late she had taken to sleeping on the little couch in one of the smaller dressing rooms, a chamber that did not appear to be used by even the more minor of the performers. Christine recalled Meg whispering something once about the room being haunted, but then if one took notice of such pronouncements they would never even cross the threshold of the building for fear of the Phantom.
She was not sure whether she believed in the Opera Ghost. Certainly, if he menaced other members of the company he had yet to turn his attention to her, but she could not deny that it was hard to explain quite how the scores for the comic opera Monsieur Lefevre had just received from London came to be replaced with those for Gounod’s Faust. The manager blamed it on a prankster in the cast, but rumour had it that the office door had been locked and there were no duplicate keys or signs of a break-in. Though Christine had always been captivated by her father’s tales of Scandinavian mythology, she could not feel the same way about the fantastical stories woven by Joseph Buquet to scare the more impressionable of the ballet rats. The head fly-man claimed to have seen the Phantom for himself, and his descriptions of the creature became ever more lurid as the girls encouraged him, demanding details and squealing with supposed terror.
Christine had been present for one of the more graphic recitations and she shuddered at the thought of a face without a nose, its skin yellowing and peeling, appearing from the darkness and fixing its glowing eyes upon her, and hurried down the corridor. Buquet had a vivid imagination! As she turned into the passage from which the smaller dressing rooms opened, her candle flame quite suddenly danced and flickered. She stopped walking; there was no breeze to have caused such an effect and so she stood quite still, waiting to see if it happened again. It did not, but a cold breath touched the back of her neck for the briefest moment. Christine swallowed against the nervous lump that had not been there in her throat seconds before and reached for the door handle of the little room she had claimed as her own.
The candle guttered and then went out, pitching her into complete darkness.
She barely restrained a scream of alarm. Invisible fingers of ice crawled down her spine, and though she knew she was alone she could almost believe that there was someone standing immediately behind her. That breath of air was back on her neck, making the hair there stand on end, and she could feel eyes on her, heated eyes, staring.
Is this how it begins? she thought wildly. Think of the Phantom and he will appear?
There was a sound, like soft footsteps. They moved behind and then to the side of her, as if their owner had simply walked straight through the wall. A swish, like that of heavy fabric brushing the floorboards, accompanied the steps. Christine closed her eyes, clutching the candle in a terrified grip. Perhaps if she did not move, if she drew no attention to herself, whatever was in the passage with her would ignore her and continue on its way. After all, the Phantom liked to play tricks; he did not harm people. Did he?
Oh, Papa, please protect me...
The moments passed so slowly they became an eternity. She held her breath, listening as intently as she could. Eventually, there came no sound but that of her own blood pumping in her ears and she allowed herself to exhale. Ducking quickly into the dressing room, she closed the door and bolted it behind her. For some time she stood there with her back pressed to the wood and her fingers gripping the handle, before she convinced herself to let go and move across the room. Her eyes had become accustomed to the blackness and she managed not to bump into the furniture but it took her some time to locate the matches she had secreted in the drawer of the dressing table. She turned, striking one against the box, and gasped as, before she could touch the match to the wick, the candle flame flared magically back into life.
It was impossible, completely impossible, but there it was before her. What was happening here? Was she dreaming? The flame was burning strongly, as though it had never been extinguished in the first place. It sent shadows and brilliant reflections skittering over the full-length mirror on the wall. Christine found her eyes drawn to the glass, wondering despite the fear that gripped her how it was that a room with such a decoration should be abandoned. Without really knowing why, she rose and stood before the mirror, her fingertips following the glittering points of light. They were dizzying, mesmerising...
Somewhere, just on the edge of her hearing, someone was singing. The tune was not one with which she was familiar and there were no words, but the singer’s voice floated effortlessly over the rising and falling notes. Her eyes filled with tears; the song was so achingly, hauntingly beautiful. But she was alone - where was this person who could create such incredible music?
“Christine...”
The word was little more than a whisper caressing her ear but she heard it clearly. Spinning around, her eyes rapidly searched the room, gaze darting in and out of each dark corner. “Who is it? Who is there?”
“Christine... Christine...” The sound which answered her was as ethereal, as intangible as the dancing reflections in the mirror. Though her immediate instinct was to run, Christine found that she longed to hear it again. Her name, sung with such grace, hung in the air like a benediction. Softly, liltingly, it asked, “Do you not know me, Christine?”
“How should I know you? Who are you?” There was no way to tell the location of the voice; it seemed to drift about her head, coming first from the left and then to the right. When it next spoke, it appeared to be in front of her, but all she could see was her own face staring at her in the glass.
“Did not your father tell you about me, Christine? Did he not make you a promise?”
Her reflection dissolved, and it was almost as though Christine was back in the sick room, sitting by her father’s bed as he lay fighting the ever more frequent spasms of pain. His face against the pillow was white and gaunt, the skin stretched taught across the bones; the illness had left him a shadow of the man she had known. Trying desperately not to cry, she squeezed his hand, willing him to stay with her. He tried so hard, but he battled against insurmountable odds. He knew his time was short, even as she prayed desperately for him to be spared, for it was then that he made the promise she could not forget, a promise she should not have believed, should have attributed to the ramblings of a dying man. She had to believe, for she clung to those words, however impossible the pledge, in the cold dark sea of her grief.
“Do you not remember, child?”
She met the startled gaze of the Christine in the mirror, jerked back to the present. One of her father’s favourite stories had been that of Little Lotte, the girl who dreamed and was blessed with an Angel, but who was left to recall it now but her? It was late, she was tired, and fatigue made her fanciful. She must be dreaming, her desperate, lonely mind conjuring up the comfort for which she longed. Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against the glass and addressed whoever it was that thought to beguile her.
“I miss my father more than I can say. How can you tease and torment me by speaking of him?” she murmured. “I beg of you, whoever... whatever you are, leave me in peace.”
There was silence for a long moment. But then the voice came again, and this time it breathed gently into her ear. “Remember, Christine. Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing... Her father promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music...”
Christine’s spine tingled, and she straightened as if someone were pulling an invisible thread. “Her father promised her...” she repeated, almost without realising. “Her father promised her...”
“I am your Angel, Christine. A gift from your father, I am here to make your spirit soar.” The words were louder, stronger, ringing through the air above her head. A second later they wrapped themselves about her neck like a glittering collar of gems. Or a noose. The voice sung again its heavenly tune before it dropped to a sibilant whisper once more. “Open your mind. Give yourself to me, and we will astonish the world. What do you say?”
A smile touched Christine’s lips and her eyes in the mirror were wide. “I say... I say yes.”
Somewhere in the building a clock struck midnight.
