by J. Smith
THE
SECRET DOOR
A PHANTOM OF THE OPERA NOVEL
J. M. Smith
Copyright © 2014 J. M. Smith
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1495922766
ISBN-13: 978-1495922763
DEDICATION
I would like to dedicate this book to my dear friends F.P. and E.M.C. who helped me tremendously during its creation. Without your thoughts, contributions, and editing skills, I never would have finished this book. The laughs we shared during the writing process are treasures I will always carry with me!
I would also like to dedicate this book to my dear husband. Thank you for your patience, your support, and your encouragement as this story took over my life for the better part of a year. I love you! Forever!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1 COLLISIONS (PROLOGUE)
2 WAIT, I THINK, OMID, WE HAVE A GUEST!
3 ANGELS OF MERCY
4 WHAT IS THIS PLACE
5 CELESTIAL ASPIRATIONS
6 ALONE IN THE DARK
7 PLANS
8 THE FROG PRINCE
9 REALIZATIONS
10 INTOXICATING TONES
11 MORNING DELIVERY
12 ANGEL OF MUSIC
13 YOU WIN
14 GENIUS
15 LET THE DREAM BEGIN
16 A NEW PET
17 SOMEDAY MY PRINCE WILL COME
18 THAT VOICE WHICH CALLS TO ME
19 LADY GHOST
20 TRICKS AND ROSES
21 LESSONS LEARNED
22 AN ANGEL’S BETRAYAL
23 UNMASKING A SOUL
24 WARMTH
25 A DOOMED REHEARSAL
26 CHRISTINE DA’AE CAN SING IT SIR
27 A NEW PRIMA DONNA
28 BLINDSIDED
29 WICKED GAME
30 TERROR IN THE DARK
31 MISSING YOU
32 A DANCE WITH AN ANGEL
33 BROKEN
34 WHISPERS THAT SCREAM
35 A WORTHY OPPONENT
36 HER CHOICE
37 HIS HEART’S RESPONSE
38 HOME
39 OPENING NIGHT
40 FOREVER
41 NOTES
42 HAPPILY EVER AFTER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While obviously being a Phantom of the Opera novel—and thus, inspired by Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and all the other wonderful authors who have woven tales of the mysterious masked genius living beneath the Paris Opera House—this story was also inspired, in large part, by the song “The Secret Door” by Evanescence. That beautifully haunting melody conjured up images in my mind of dimly lit passageways, red roses, and a dance in the dark. What would one find if they opened The Secret Door? This story has been an effort to find out.
1 COLLISIONS (PROLOGUE)
1884
Erik ghosted through the secret tunnels of the opera house, his cloak billowing behind him. Having just gathered supplies at the kitchens, he was making his way back to his home beneath the world when he heard the sound. It was a low wail, a keening bellow, and Erik found that he had to move toward the pitiable moan, to ascertain if perhaps some innocent wounded animal had made its way into the Palais Garnier in search of kindness. He knew, if that were the case, the creature was unlikely to find benevolence above, and while he was truly not in the market for a damaged pet, he had never been the type to allow mistreated innocence to go unaided.
He walked in the direction from which the sound was issuing, and as he got closer, he realized that this was no poor animal yowling in pain, but a girl… Erik almost turned back upon his way once the realization had been made. He would attend to abused innocence, but rarely had he been able to find any such blamelessness in the realm of men. And yet, the cries were full of such…anguish—an emotion with which he was very familiar. He had almost reached the source, and so concluded that he might as well investigate the origin of such a bitter dirge.
When he was certain he had reached the point of the cry's provenance, he determined that he was behind the walls of the chapel. Stealthily, he slid to the tiny crevice between the stones, through which he could peer into the room unobserved. There, on the cold, hard floor, hunched over on her knees before a glowing candle, was sorrow itself. Clad simply, in a white dressing gown, her long dark curls fell forward to shield whatever face she possessed from his view. She was still weeping, and her heaving back showed tangible evidence of each sob that escaped her tiny frame. As she shuddered to draw in a shaky breath, she lifted her head to look upward, and he could tell that she clutched a framed photograph to her chest. Her face, though tear stained and red from her wailing lamentation, still possessed a delicate beauty, and it seemed entirely wrong to Erik for tears to ever fall from those eyes—which were now such an iridescent blue from her crying.
“Papa, I miss you,” she entreated to the air around her, in a voice thick with tears, “Why did you have to go? Why did you leave me here all alone, in this place that is not my home?” She looked down again, her hair once more obscuring her face. “I have no home.” Her body shook anew with excruciating sobs.
Erik was consumed by the scene before him. As he gazed at the girl in her sorrow, he was certain that he was witnessing not just a girl, but a desolate angel fallen from the celestial heights. Surely there could be no other explanation for her boundless misery, which pierced through his very heart with its sharpness. He ached to reach out to her, to offer her some measure of comfort, and indeed he felt his hand reach yearningly toward the switch which would open the chapel wall. He longed to let her know she was not alone—that she could live in his home, if she would only agree to share it with him. But he knew that he could do nothing to ease her pain. An angel could not be comforted by a monster. Any attempt he could make to console her, would only grieve her further.
And so, his fingers curled and his hand fell to his side. And though it seemed as if his feet had transformed into stone—locked to the very spot on the floor where he stood watching—Erik somehow managed to turn from this tragically beautiful fallen angel, to make his way home—once more, into the abyss.
2014
Jenna retrieved her purse and slammed the door of her locker shut, wincing once she did so, as it made the pounding in her head even worse. She had been scheduled to work a sixteen hour shift, but she felt the beginnings of the flu coming on, and luckily her charge nurse was able to find her coverage. After clocking her first eight hours feeling miserable and grumpy, she was definitely ready to go home.
It was raining when she put her old Chevy in gear and pulled out onto the road. Even at this late hour—after eleven at night on a Tuesday—New York didn't sleep, so there was more traffic than she really wanted to maneuver through to get to her little apartment. She comforted herself with thoughts of peeling off her scrubs, crawling into bed beside Jake, and just drifting off to sleep. She would shower in the morning—although if she still felt like this tomorrow, she was calling out sick.
When she opened her front door, after climbing two flights of stairs, thanks to a broken elevator, she was greeted by the welcoming “Mreooows” of her cat Red.
“Hey, Buddy,” she said, gently, scratching his soft head as he began to purr. It was odd that he was out here. Jake was surely asleep by this time, since he had the early shift tomorrow, and since Red was the most spoiled cat in the entire universe, he always slept in bed with them. Maybe he had simply sensed her coming, and wanted to greet her at the door, like the human child he thought he was. Jenna picked him up, and nuzzled him
close to her face as she made her way to the bedroom.
As she got closer, she heard muffled noises coming from her room. Had Jake fallen asleep with the TV on again? She noticed the door closed, and once again thought it odd, since they always left their door open at night. She quickly shoved it open and then wished she hadn't.
There, in the middle of her bed, was her boyfriend with some blond. And they were… and he was…
Jenna turned her head away in disgust. “Oh God,” she groaned, tossing Red down to the carpeted floor. She shielded her eyes with her hand and staggered from the room, feeling as if she would throw up.
“Jenna…” she heard Jake call after her, and then, apparently to his date for the evening, “Get dressed, will you?” His voice raised, as he called after her again, “JENNA!”
Jenna shook her head. There was a pit in her stomach and her head pounded a thousand times worse than it had earlier. No, she could not deal with this right now. Not the way she was already feeling.
She grabbed her keys and purse, just as Jake made it out of the bedroom, jeans unbuttoned, no shirt. “Jenna,” He reached out toward her, but she backed away before his hand could touch her arm. “Let me explain…”
“NO!” She held up her hand to cut him off, fighting back the tears that were threatening to break loose. “I'm a big girl, Jake. No explanations necessary.” She put her hand on the door handle.
“Jenna, come on…” he continued. “Where are you going to go at this time of night anyway?”
“Goodbye, Jake.” She pulled open the door and stepped out of her apartment, “I'll be back for Red.” And for the second time that night, she slammed the door.
She bolted down the stairs which led to the garage for their building and hopped back into her car. She didn't know where she was going as she turned the key in the ignition, and she didn't care. She just knew she had to get away. Away from Jake. Away from the string of disastrous relationships that had plagued her life since…well… forever. “You're so smart, Jenna,” people had always told her. “You'll do great things in life.” She snorted in self-derision. Wow, if they could just see me now! she thought. Supreme idiot, capable of doing nothing but picking loser after loser.
She turned on the radio in frustration. The loud guitars which immediately started blaring out of the speakers matched her state of mind nicely, even if they did nothing for the screaming pain in her head. She had thought Jake would be different. He was intelligent, and sexy, and funny. They had seemed to bond instantly—a whirlwind romance that had taken her breath away, and had her moving into his apartment much sooner than she had initially thought was prudent. But hey, love was love, right? Apparently not.
The tears were flowing freely now as she thought of how sure she had been that she had finally found the right guy. They were around the same age, had about the same level of education, worked in the same field—those things were supposed to matter, right? It was no big deal that he sometimes scoffed at her interests and never seemed to want to spend time with her friends. They were good together, and that was all that really mattered, right?
Wrong.
Jenna's head had had enough of the guitars, and the pounding rhythm was really more than she could take. She changed the station to something she hoped would be a little more relaxing, trying to calm the storm in her mind. The music now on the radio was from one of her favorite Broadway musicals—the one about the deformed madman who lived under the opera house. Even though they lived in midtown Manhattan, Jake had refused to take her to see a performance—just another one of those interests of hers that he'd always ridiculed. As she listened to the swell of the strings in the soothing song, she remembered how she had seen images of the heroine fainting into a dead sleep at the end of this song. Oh, how Jenna wished she could do the same. Her eyelids were heavy, her head was still pounding, and she ached all over. Sleep would be so comforting—and for awhile she could forget what had just happened. But like the poor heroine in the play, she knew that in the morning, she would awaken to an unmasked horror, and she would have to deal with the shards of another broken relationship.
Looking out her side window, she realized she was down by the river, which looked rough and choppy in the rain. How had she already driven this far? She was going to have to look for an exit soon, so that she could find a place where she could stay for the night. She was so incredibly exhausted…
The oncoming headlights and blare of the horn startled her to consciousness—but too late. Jenna swerved to avoid the oncoming vehicle, and in her panic, stepped hard on the gas. She heard a scream as her Chevy left the road and headed straight toward the river below. Right before the sickening splash, when blackness of the night water took her, Jenna realized that the scream was her own.
2 WAIT, I THINK, OMID, WE HAVE A GUEST!
Erik tied the boat to the makeshift dock on the lakeshore, immediately ascertaining that he was not alone. “Daroga,” Erik called in a singsong tone to his uninvited guest, “I'm home.”
“Good evening, Erik,” Omid Javed said, looking up from the book he had pillaged from Erik's bookshelf.
“I had hoped it would be,” Erik responded sarcastically, unfastening his cloak as he made his way to the sitting room. “But it appears I must entertain company.” His tone did nothing to belie his annoyance as he draped his cloak over the leather chair. “Although, truly, if you continue making yourself comfortable in my commorancy while I am not even present, I may have to begin charging you francs for the privilege.”
The Daroga let loose a maddeningly cheerful laugh, and Erik sighed deeply, taking the small sack he had carried from boat and moving toward the kitchen to put away the supplies he had procured. “Oh, come now, Erik,” Omid began, following close behind, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling in amusement. “I am responsible for your flight from Persia, so you know I must keep tabs on you.”
“Oh,” Erik agreed in a sardonic whisper, rolling his eyes. “You must.” He began stocking cupboards and drawers with the necessities he had acquired on his trip.
“After all,” the impossible man continued, “it would not do to have the Angel of Death running loose unchaperoned around Paris with his Punjab Lasso!” He finished his thought with a chuckle and Erik turned slowly to scrutinize the man before him. Swarthy and dark, as most Persians were, Omid Javed could be said to be the closest thing that Erik had ever had to a friend. That did not, however, make him any less insufferable—especially with that self satisfied smirk spread across his features.
“You should know, Daroga,” Erik began, his voice a menacingly soft whisper, “That I have not used the Punjab Lasso since my arrival in Paris, eighteen years ago. Although that is not to say,” he allowed his voice to trail a bit as his mismatched gaze sharpened, “that I have not been tempted.”
Omid Javed averted his eyes from Erik as he cleared his throat with a cough. “Yes, well…” He began awkwardly trying to shake off the momentary discomfort that Erik's tone inspired. It was difficult to do, when the visible half of Erik's mouth had so obviously curled into a disconcerting smile. “Where have you been? Your supply trip seems to have taken longer than usual, and I expected you would be home when I arrived.”
Erik recalled the sorrow he had witnessed in the opera chapel, and he silently cursed the Daroga for ruining the fun he was having threatening him. “There appears to be a new arrival in the dormitories,” Erik said in a guarded tone. He turned back to arranging his cabinets. He truly did not wish to speak of the somber figure he had spied on his return trip. He had not been able to stop thinking about her until he had found the Daroga rudely sprawled upon his reading chair, but now when directly questioned about his activities, he was reminded of the heartbroken angel and his mood, if it were possible, soured even more.
“Which new arrival is that?” Omid asked, reaching past Erik to the bowl piled with apples. As he made to snatch one, Erik gave him a sharp glare over his shoulder. Was there no end to this Persian's fam
iliarity with his belongings?
“Please, help yourself to an apple,” Erik hissed, acerbically. When Omid did precisely that, Erik added, “I do not know the arrival's name—only that she seemed quite…grieved.”
“Grieved about what?” the Daroga asked, mouth half full of apple.
Erik looked at him once more in disgust. “I do not know why she was grieved.” He could not very well have told the Persian that her grief was about a fall from Heaven. “And honestly, man, have you no manners? Must you speak with your mouth full of my apple?”
Omid looked at the half eaten apple and back at Erik. “Want it back?” he asked, proffering the fruit to his irritated friend.
“What?!” Erik started with a huff, “NO!” He was just about to throw the Daroga out of his lair once and for all, promising to set new traps, when they heard a crash from somewhere back by the lake and an accompanying scream. The two men looked at one another, and in silent agreement, made toward the sound, Erik stopping near his cloak long enough to obtain his lasso. They had to walk a bit down the lakeshore, partway into a cavern before they found the presumable source of the noise. There, sitting on the banks of the lake, filthy, bleeding from the head and clutching her ankle, was a girl—apparently another new arrival at the Opera House. When they stopped short at the sight, she looked up at them, a look of complete confusion on her face, and said, “Where am I?”
“We've got a crash victim, Traumatic Brain Injury, non responsive,” the paramedic said efficiently as they quickly rolled the stretcher into the treatment room. “Uneven pupils, blood pressure elevated, pulse and breathing slow.”
The ER nurse walked alongside the stretcher, jotting down notes as she went.
“Actually works here, believe it or not,” The paramedic continued, “Genevieve Wilson, ID said. RN up on the 5th floor.”
