The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  “Daroga, I see you've returned.” They heard a soft voice coming from the lake behind them.

  Omid and Jenna turned at the sound, only to see Erik walking from the shore carrying several dresses draped over his arm. When he arrived before them, he placed the dresses on the chair and took one look at Jenna's dripping form before turning to Omid and demanding, “Were you trying to drown our guest?”

  Omid held his hands up, as if in defense, beads of sweat running down his face. “Erik, I only helped her out of the lake, honestly.” He reached into his pocket, grabbing his handkerchief, to wipe his brow. “I had nothing to do with how she got there in the first place.”

  Erik glared at Omid before turning to Jenna. “And why, Mademoiselle, were you in the lake?”

  “I…” she stumbled a bit over her words at the intensity of his gaze, “I fell in. I was looking for the door, and I…”

  “Looking for the door?” Erik cut her off. “Do you mean to say that you went into the cavern alone? With your bad ankle?”

  Jenna didn't like the tone in his voice. “Yes, I went into the cavern alone. It's not like I'm some helpless…invalid…who can't do anything for herself.”

  “And yet,” he pointed out with a sarcastic smile, “you fell into the lake.”

  “That's because it was dark and the footing was uneven—” she began defensively.

  “Which is exactly why,” he cut her off, his voice raising angrily, “you should not have gone into the cavern alone searching for some door that I have told you doesn't—“

  “Well, you weren't here!” she yelled, rising from the couch, her voice as loud as his now, meeting his gaze without reservation. “I was alone and it was dark. Do you have any idea what it's like to be left alone in the dark?”

  Omid was frozen as he watched the tense scene between the Erik and the girl. Once again, the mental patient had said perhaps the worst thing she could possibly have said. Erik knew better than anyone what it was like to be left alone in the dark. He had spent his entire childhood in a room with boarded-up windows, locked away by a mother who couldn't abide his face. He had spent his young adult years retreating into shadows to hide from the ridicule and derision he faced from the pointing crowds at the gypsy fair. He had risen to prominence in the courts of Persia, by imparting the most twisted forms of torment in the bleak torture chambers he was forced to design—only to fall prey himself to the blackness of addiction. And here in Paris, he had learned to take solace in the obscurity of eternal night, seeking its comfort against the garish cruelties of light.

  Erik stared at her in silence for a moment. When he answered her, his voice had fallen to a hushed whisper. “Indeed, Mademoiselle. I do.”

  In the moment Jenna saw the shock of indistinct emotion flicker in Erik's mismatched eyes, she knew that she had said something wrong. Being alone only for a short time in the candlelight and shadows had seemed almost oppressive to her. But if this was his home, then this must be his life.

  “Erik,” she said in a penitent voice, reaching out for his hand. “I'm sorry.”

  Erik looked down at where her hand touched his. No one had willingly just taken his hand before. Yes, she had clasped his hand when he had helped her up, but this touch was freely given, and it felt so different. The awareness of it had almost caused him to miss the fact that she also used his name, another thing that few—other than the Daroga—ever did.

  Erik cleared his throat and extricated his hand from her grasp. “Did you further aggravate your ankle, Mademoiselle, in your travels through the cavern?” he asked, still not looking at her.

  Now that the cold of the lake water was wearing off, Jenna could feel her ankle beginning to ache again, but she wasn't going to complain, since she knew it was entirely her own fault. “I'm fine.”

  “Of course,” Erik returned, and the half of his mouth that was unobstructed by the mask turned up in a small smile. “Well, since you are now dripping all over my rug, perhaps you would like to take this opportunity to enjoy that bath you had asked about and change into some dry clothing?”

  Jenna felt her own mouth turn into a smile. “Yes, Erik, thank you.” She hobbled over to the chair where he had left the pile of clothes, quickly going through them. After rifling through the entire pile of unfamiliar clothing, she looked up once again and asked in confusion. “Gowns and corsets? Really? Could you not find any jeans or t-shirts?”

  Omid looked at Erik questioningly. Erik met his gaze and, shaking his head, muttered, “Mental patient.”

  The doctor watched as Jenna shifted and flailed in her hospital bed, even making some soft moaning sounds. He knew that sometimes coma patients experienced these involuntary movements, and that it did not mean they were any closer to waking up, but he couldn't help being hopeful. These were the first movements he had seen from Jenna since she'd come in. He would take them.

  “That's right, Miss Wilson,” he said, encouragingly, “Get angry. Fight your way back to us if you have to, but do come back to us.” He watched her agitated movements a few moments more before he reached out and gently took her hand. He couldn't help but smile when she reflexively squeezed his hand and held on. Her other movements ceased, and she was peaceful once more, but she did not release his hand. He reached out with his other hand and smoothed her strawberry blond curls away from her face. “Please come back,” he whispered again, as her mouth relaxed into a serene expression. “For me.”

  7 PLANS

  Jenna eased her head back to rest against the old-fashioned, porcelain tub. A warm bath was exactly what she needed right about now to soothe her aching muscles and calm her rattled nerves. So much had happened in the last…had it really only been one day? It was so hard to tell in this place that was ever shadowy and always dark.

  She thought about Jake and how he had betrayed her. How could she have been such a fool? She was always falling for the wrong kind of man—the flashy kind that made her feel like she was something special, only to use her and then dump her like yesterday's news. Did he even know about her accident? Did he even realize she was missing? Would he begin to care only when she did not return to get her things and they began to get in the way of his new girl? Would she ever be able to get out of here and retrieve her belongings? Or Red? He was the only male in her life who was always loyal and never betrayed her.

  She allowed herself to sink deeper into the tub, wishing the water would just wash all her troubles away. But then again, it was water that had helped get her stuck in this situation in the first place. What had truly happened when she drove her car into the river? She did not remember anything after the initial splash—only that she was suddenly in that passageway leading to the door, the door that she had not been able to find, even after she had thoroughly searched the cavern where she had entered the day before—the door which everyone kept telling her simply did not exist.

  Maybe she did die, she thought, closing her eyes. Maybe the accident had killed her and she was now stuck in some type of limbo where nothing was real. That would certainly explain this strange windowless house, the cold dark passageway, and the door that had disappeared.

  But it did not explain Erik. Erik was real.

  She began to run a soapy cloth over her arms and neck, wiping away the dirt and filth that was covering her skin. Erik was very real. He was somehow so familiar, almost as if he had always been a part of her life. Those thoughts were ridiculous, she knew, as she allowed water to cascade over her back, rinsing away the grime and the suds. Surely if it were true that she had known him, Erik would know her, and he would be able to get her home. But even though she knew he was a stranger, when she looked at him, something inside her almost…recognized him. Even the fact that he wore a mask did not seem incredibly unusual to her. That too was almost expected. It was if she should know him, but somehow, something was holding her back. Her fingers reached up and brushed the stitches on her forehead. Maybe that head injury had knocked something loose, for it was almost as if there
was a physical barrier blocking any memory she might have had of Erik from before the accident. She snickered mockingly as she reached forward and rubbed the dirt from her legs. “Maybe that's where my door went!” she quipped to herself. “Maybe it's in my mind.” She would be entirely ready to believe this whole experience was in her mind, if it had not been for the presence of Erik.

  Jenna stopped washing as she remembered how stricken his eyes had looked when she had yelled at him about being alone in the dark. She felt a wave of guilt wash over her for that. Despite the fact that his notions were as crazy as they come, and his demeanor was a bit…ornery… he had treated her with nothing but kindness. He had closed her wound, and had seen to her comfort. He had even gotten her some clean clothes to change into—never mind his very strange choices. And if she were honest with herself, she had missed him when he was gone. Despite his sarcasm and eccentricities, like wearing a cape and not knowing what a cellphone was, she found his presence oddly comforting. “Sheesh!” she said to herself in disgust “Pretty quick to be developing Stockholm Syndrome.”

  For the truth was, she knew, as she began to rub suds into her tangled, matted hair, no matter how kind or comforting she found Erik to be, neither he nor his friend Omid had done anything to help her get home. In fact, they continued to insist that she was somehow in Paris—speaking French of all things! And yes, Erik had provided medical care for her wounds, but what he should have done was take her to a hospital! “Surely, they must have hospitals, even in France,” she muttered out loud to herself. Somehow, she knew, she was going to have to find her own way to get home—and wandering around the back cavern, looking for the way she got in and almost drowning herself in the lake was obviously not going to work.

  Maybe she should play along with Erik, she thought. Perhaps she should stop talking about getting home, stop telling him where she lived, and just pretend that she was satisfied to be right there with him. After all, as oddly charming as he was, it wouldn't be so hard. Then, the next time he went out, she could perhaps join him—and then maybe she could figure out where she was and find her way from there. And then she could send help, because the idea of Erik living here, all alone, truly upset her. Maybe he was insane, she thought, but that was no reason to leave him alone in the dark.

  “So I see you have not told your guest where you make your humble abode,” Omid said, once Jenna was in the bath.

  “I told her we were in Paris,” Erik said, apathetically, pouring the Persian a glass of Cognac.

  “Really?” Omid challenged, taking the brandy Erik offered. “And you think that is sufficient?”

  “She doesn't even believe that,” Erik told Omid, raising his shoulders slightly, as he took a seat in the reading chair across from the settee. “She thinks she's from New York.”

  “New York?” Omid asked confused, taking a sip of his drink.

  “Yes, as in America,” Erik clarified. “She refuses to accept that we are in Paris. She doesn't even believe she is speaking French.”

  Omid shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around what Erik was saying. “What does she think she is speaking?”

  “English,” Erik answered, rolling his eyes.

  Omid shook his head again. “That's very…perplexing. Still, with all of the traps you have set around this lair of yours, don't you think you should give her some more details about her surroundings? She already got herself into trouble today while you were gone.”

  Erik envisioned what further tumult might have occurred if the mental patient had decided to explore other areas of the house and shuddered. “You have a point, Daroga. The traps could be very detrimental. I shall just have to lock her in the guest bedroom in the future when I am away.”

  Omid rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, that's certainly the most logical course of action.”

  “It would be for her safety,” Erik insisted, artlessly.

  “You could just acclimate her to her surroundings,” Omid offered sensibly. “It worked with me. I can enter your home freely, and I never trip the alarms.”

  “Don't remind me,” Erik muttered, dryly. The Persian was the only person, beside himself, who knew how to enter the lair without becoming entangled in his labyrinth of traps set against intruders. Erik frequently rued the day he taught the Persian the correct route, since the man could not seem to help himself from using it at will. He supposed it would be safest for him to simply explain to the girl the more nefarious features of his home, so that she did not harm herself in the traps. Still, the alarms had been silent at her arrival. It made Erik wonder how exactly she had gotten into his home in the first place. He knew she insisted that it was through some sort of secret door in the cavern at the end of the lake. But Erik knew that door did not exist, for no one kept secrets from the Phantom. No, he was certain that the door was merely a fabrication of the girl's hysterical mind, and yet, the fact remained, she had gotten into his home somehow.

  “So, how was the trip above, Erik?” Omid asked, taking another sip from his snifter and disturbing Erik's pondering. “Your visitor seemed to think you were gone a long time.”

  Erik's spirit leapt at the mention of the opera house, as his thoughts turned to the beautiful Christine. “I saw the new arrival of whom I spoke the other day, Daroga,” He said, his eyes taking on a sparkle Omid had not seen before. “She is working as a seamstress in the costume department.”

  “In the costume department?” Omid repeated. “I had assumed she was another ballet rat.”

  “Oh, not a rat, Daroga.” Erik shook his head, with a look of absolute awe on his face. “Surely, if she were a dancer, she is possessed of enough elegance and grace that she would be none other than the prima ballerina.”

  Omid raised an eyebrow at Erik's effusive praise. He had never seen the man quite so rhapsodic about another human being before. In truth, it was rather disturbing.

  “But she is not a dancer?” Omid asked when Erik's voice seemed to trail off.

  “No, as I said before, she is presently working as a seamstress. And further, she was being quite horribly abused by La Carlotta—that swine!” Erik scowled and Omid noticed his fingers curl into a fist. Well, at least that was characteristic of the Erik he knew. Carlotta had been vexing him since she had started at the Opera House, and Erik had long enjoyed tormenting her in subtle yet distressing ways as he took on the persona of the ghost.

  “But I am going to fix that, Daroga,” Erik asserted, and Omid once again noticed the worrisome gleam in his friend's eye.

  “Erik, what are you planning?” Omid questioned, nervously.

  “I shall be taking her on as a pupil,” Erik said in a self-satisfied fashion.

  Omid coughed a bit on his cognac. “Carlotta?”

  “Christine!” Erik huffed, impatiently.

  “Christine? Who's Christine?”

  “Daroga!” Erik snapped. “Do try to keep up! Christine is the new arrival who is being abused by Carlotta.”

  “And you are taking her on as a pupil?” Omid asked in disbelief. “What are you going to teach her? How to haunt conceited divas?”

  “No, I'm going to teach her how to sing.”

  “To sing? I thought you said she was a seamstress.”

  “No,” Erik corrected him, “I said she was presently working as a seamstress. There is a difference.”

  “Oh,” Omid threw his free hand up into the air, “of course.”

  “I heard her sing, Daroga,” Erik explained, his eyes taking on that faraway glint that made Omid so nervous. “She has the voice of an angel. With proper training, she will rise to the status of first lady of the stage—and finally that fraud Carlotta will fade into oblivion.”

  “And you are going to provide that training?” Omid asked, skeptically.

  “Of course,” Erik said simply.

  “Where, Erik? Are you going to bring her here? Perhaps she and the mental patient will take lessons together?”

  “No, Omid,” Erik said, in annoyance. “I will
instruct her in the opera house. She will never even have to see me. She does not need to see my face to hear my voice.” And she will never know that she is being taught by a monster, he thought to himself.

  “You're going to teach her as The Phantom?” Omid was incredulous. He had never seen Erik act quite so impetuously.

  “No,” Erik said in a whisper, almost as if talking to himself, that faraway look once more in his eye. “I am going to teach her as an angel.”

  “WHAT?!” Omid cried out, in absolute astonishment.

  “Oh never mind!” Erik growled in irritation. “It is no concern of yours, and I do not even know why I am telling you anyway.”

  “What about the girl, Erik?” Omid reminded him of his unexpected houseguest who was still currently in the washroom. “You were supposed to be deciding upon the best course of action for her. Have you yet decided, because it seems awfully foolhardy for you to be taking on this seamstress—”

  “Pupil!” Erik broke in to correct him.

  “Whichever!” Omid dismissed Erik's correction and continued with his thought. “It seems awfully foolhardy for you to be taking on a second girl when you haven't even determined what to do with the first.”

  “I admit I do not know what to do with the mental patient, Daroga.” Erik let out a troubled breath. “She is quite puzzling, indeed.”

  “She speaks of wanting to go home, Erik. She has never once mentioned a mental hospital. Do you think it is possible that we were wrong? That she is not a mental patient? That she has a family out there that is looking for her, trying to get her back?”

  “She thinks her home is an ocean away, Daroga,” Erik commented. “While I concede it is possible that she is not actually an escapee from the asylum, I hardly see how it can be possible that she is truly from New York. And once again, she is a conundrum.”

  The two were silent for a few moments, Omid savoring his Cognac and Erik lost in his thoughts. The only sound in the lair was the quiet rush of the lake waters as they made their never-ending journey out the opening in the cavern. When the door to the bedroom opened softly, two sets of eyes looked up to meet the sight laid out before them.