The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  I still miss you.

  ~~ Erik

  Jenna smiled and rubbed her belly, where her unborn child grew. “Oh Erik, I wish you knew that this child I'm carrying would be carrying on your line as well.” She thought of Chris's beautiful features that were so similar to Erik's in so many ways. “This child will be beautiful. He or she will make their great-great-great-great-grandfather very proud!”

  Jenna reached in the box for the final letter. It was dated three years later.

  Dear Jenna,

  Life is wonderful. I know it has been awhile since I last wrote, but it is because my life has been so full. Christine and I had a son, Jenna. She named him after her father, Gustave. He is so beautiful. With pitch-black hair and a bright, joyful smile, he is exactly how I would have looked if I had not been born disfigured. He has my mismatched eyes, but set in his exquisite face, they do not seem a curse. He is two and a half years old, Jenna, and already he sings and reaches for books. In the evenings, I sit with him on my lap at the piano. He plays a little like you right now, Jenna, (I'm sorry, dear friend. I couldn't resist.) but one day, he will fill concert halls with his masterful music. Or he will build magnificent buildings. Or he will do whatever else it is that sets fire to his heart. The world is open to my son, Jenna, in a way it was never open to me. And I will see to it that he has every advantage, every benefit that I never had. He already has the benefit of a wonderful mother. And now, a beautiful sister.

  Christine has just given birth to our second child. It is a girl this time, Jenna, the most exquisite one I have ever laid eyes upon. Also, the most bald. But she has eyes as blue as the sea, and I can envision brown ringlets running down her back one day. Since Christine named Gustave after her father, she told me I could name our daughter anything I wanted. And so I called her Genevieve. Because it is the most beautiful and melodic name I have ever heard. And because it belongs to you.

  None of this would have been possible without you, Jenna. I look around at my home in the sun, at my wife, and my beautiful family, and I am amazed that I should call it my own. I know I would never have emerged from beneath the veil of the ghost if it had not been for knowing and loving you. You told me to be a man, Jenna, and you made me want to be a good one. And I will always love you for that. And now, I honor you with my daughter. I will do my best to raise her to be as kind and as spirited—and as fiery as you. She already screams just as loud! I just wish you could hear her!

  ~~Yours, Erik

  Jenna sniffled as she folded the final letter—the final words Erik ever wrote to her. Oh, how her heart swelled with joy at the way his life had turned. How grateful she was that he had not been alone in the dark—that he had found love again with Christine. There had been times, over the years, when she had felt guilty for loving Chris so much. It almost seemed a betrayal of her feelings for Erik somehow. But knowing he had found happiness she no longer felt that pang of guilt. She could love Chris freely, just as Erik had loved Christine. She only wished there was a way she could tell him—that she could let him know that everything had worked out for her—and that his choices had unknowingly shaped her own life.

  Jenna set all the letters back in the box, and replaced it in its spot on the shelf. She was certain she would be back to reread them again and again, but first, there was something she had to do. She ran upstairs as quickly as her swollen, pregnant feet could carry her, and sat down in the office she and Chris had set up on the first floor. She reached into the drawer and removed a sheet of paper and a pen…and began to write.

  Jenna found an envelope and sealed the letter inside, writing the name Erik across the front. The day had grown dark while she sat and read Erik's last words to her, but still, she took the letter and walked outside to the riverbed behind the house. The world had changed so much since Erik had occupied in this same spot, gazing out across the choppy waters, thinking of her. But tonight, across a century, their hearts were still united.

  Jenna took the envelope and pressed it to her lips, sealing it with a kiss that she hoped would span the ages. “I love you, Erik,” she whispered, and she let the letter go. It fluttered from her hand and drifted down into the Hudson. She watched as it teetered a bit at first, on top of the bobbing waves. And then, finally, it succumbed to the water, sinking beneath the surface, until it slipped out of sight. Jenna reached up and clutched the cameo that even now hung around her neck. “Forever,” she whispered as she gazed out into the dark waters. And then she turned and walked inside.

  The Persian walked into the sitting room using the passageway by the kitchen. It had been years since he had seen his friend, and truly, he was looking forward to the upcoming trip. He was eager to see how Erik and Christine were coming along. Two children of their own now! He recalled the delight his gruff friend would take in spending time with his own dear Aziz. Still, caring for two children at one time? Erik must be out of his wits on a daily basis! Omid found that the thought made him smile.

  He had had the urge to visit Erik's old home while he and Antoinette had been packing their final bags. He did not know whether it was a sweep of nostalgia, or something else that had drawn him to venture once more beneath the opera house, but venture he did, and now he stood once again in Erik's domain.

  The house looked the same as it always had, Erik not having had much opportunity to clear things out before he moved. But it was lacking his presence, it was lacking his force. The Opera House without its ghost was just a theater, no longer the seat of splendor it once was. No more chandeliers fell, no more notes appeared, and Antoinette had long ago stopped depositing the Phantom's monthly salary in Box 5. They no longer even staged operas here any more. The auditorium was now used strictly for ballet. While that made Omid's new wife and stepdaughter very happy, Erik would be appalled. If he cared. The Opera Garnier no longer held his heart. Christine had a firm grip on that now.

  Omid walked along the edge of the murky lake, remembering a night—which now seemed so long ago—when a crash in the cave led them to find an angel. Oh, they did not recognize her as one that fateful night. They thought she was an escapee from the asylum! But the change she brought forth in his friend—she must have been a miracle. If not for her, Erik would still be here, languishing in loneliness, dying a little more with each passing day. But Jenna taught Erik how to live, and Omid would forever be grateful for it.

  Something white and crumbled on the lakeshore caught his eye. He approached it curiously, and knelt down to see what it was. An envelope, wrinkled and worn, with the name Erik scrawled across its front. Omid lifted it in his hands, and felt a surge of excitement run through him. The envelope was filthy and battered, made of much thinner paper than Omid was used to seeing. It looked different from any other envelopes he had seen in his day, and it was completely out of place just lying here on the lakeshore, just as she had been. It didn't belong, just as she hadn't. But Omid had the feeling that this letter was exactly the thing Erik needed—just as Jenna had been.

  Omid carefully opened the envelope. He knew he would pay for this later, but Erik always found something to complain about—might as well earn his lunatic friend's ravings this time. An amazed smile spread across his face as he read Jenna's heartfelt words of love to his friend. It was astonishing to him, how closely intertwined their fates were—one to the other—how the universe had endeavored to keep them connected. While he was truly happy that things had worked out so well for both Jenna and Erik—and while it was clear that they were both madly in love with their respective spouses—he imagined for a moment what their lives would have been like if they'd ended up together. They would have been magnificent!

  With a happy sigh, Omid put the letter in his breast pocket, eager to deliver it when their boat arrived in America. But there was one last thing he had to do before he left. He sauntered over to Erik's liquor cabinet, certain that he would have been too distracted by the events of his last days here to hide the Cognac. Sure enough, there was a bottle inside. As Omid
reached for the amber liquid with a laugh, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Bending, Omid found one of Erik's customary notes, written on heavy parchment. Unfolding the note, Omid guffawed as he read, Enjoy, you thieving Persian!

  He felt a sense of completion wash over him as he made his way out of his friend's old home, for what he knew would be the last time. He paused at the passageway by the kitchen, and looked back one final time over the lair. This place, just as the Opera Ghost himself, would fade away into oblivion. It would become the stuff of legends—a story for the ballet rats to titter about in the dark, a seat of mystery that brave men would seek but never find. The opera house would guard its secrets well, but Omid knew the real treasure that had been revealed on the shores of this lake—the true story that played out within the lonely walls of this musical kingdom. It was the one about the angel that fell in love with a ghost and turned him into a man. And his world was never the same.

  Omid took a deep breath, saying a final goodbye to Erik's dark domain. And with one last smile, and a tip of his hat, Omid closed the secret door.

  42 HAPPILY EVER AFTER

  “Oh Young Master,” Antoinette said, as she knelt down to ruffle the wispy black hair on the little boy's head, “You are so much like your father!”

  “Oh don't give the poor kid a complex, Annie!” Omid teased his wife, earning an eye roll from the father in question.

  “Omid!” Antoinette glared at him, rising to her full height. “Remember your manners!”

  “No worries, Madame Javed,” Erik interjected to the woman whom he had always held in the highest regard, “I am well aware that he has none.”

  Shaking her head at the hopeless pair, Antoinette once again turned to Gustave and asked, “Dear Sir, would you be so kind as to escort me to your mother and sister? I find I have had enough of these two…gentlemen…for the moment.”

  Erik smiled down at his son, who seemed a little uncertain as to what to do, and crouching down to look him in the eye, encouraged him gently. “Go on, Gustave. Take Aunt Antoinette to see Mama and Genny. It's alright.”

  The little boy reached out his hand quietly for the older lady to take, and led her from the room.

  “Fine young man, you have there, Erik.” Omid remarked, as soon as Antoinette and Gustave were out of view.

  “Yes…” Erik agreed, leaning against the stone fireplace, arms folded in front of his chest. “Parentage notwithstanding, of course.”

  “Now, Erik,” Omid quipped, making his way to the small liquor cabinet at the far side of the room. “I am sure that Christine is an excellent mother.”

  “Mmmm…” a rueful smile tugged at the corners of Erik's mouth as he watched the Persian help himself to a snifter of brandy. Some things, it appeared, never change. “That she is. A wonderful mother. And wife.”

  Omid looked back to his mysterious friend. Yes, Omid agreed, Christine must be a wonderful wife. For the change in his friend was astonishing. Though still on the thin side, Erik appeared to have gained a few pounds, so that his figure did not look quite as gaunt as it once had. The stern furrows of irritation and the hard set to his jaw that had always given the visible side of his face a rather sharp appearance had softened into lines of laughter and an almost kindly countenance. His eyes, which had so often seemed guarded, uncertain and defensive, appeared alight with happiness, and it did Omid good to see such a transformation in his friend. Truly, the love of a good woman had done wonders for him. “You are happy, my friend.” Omid stated, rather than asked, since the answer was so obvious. He took a seat in Erik's new reading chair, taking a small sip of his drink.

  “I am very happy,” Erik admitted, the smile on his lips now genuine and warm, rather than sarcastic. “The people here seem a bit more accepting of my…” his voice trained off as he gestured toward his mask. “It seems that if a person can pull his own weight, the neighbors don't really seem to care much what he looks like. I am composing again, and I have sold a number of my compositions to the local opera house. And the children… and Christine…they are such a joy to me.” Omid noted how Erik's voice seemed to hush as he uttered his wife's name. It had been about four years since they were married on the passage over to America, and he was still so enchanted…

  “Whoever would have thought it possible, Daroga,” Erik continued, taking his own seat now on the sofa across from where his friend sat, “that I could be a father? A husband?”

  “I always knew you had it in you, Erik,” Omid answered, his voice plain, with no hint of jest. “And so did Jenna.”

  “Jenna?” Erik said the name with a hitch in his voice. It had been years… “What makes you mention her?” he asked.

  “Do you ever think of her, Erik? Do you remember… ?”

  “I do,” he said with a wistfulness in his tone. In fact he thought of her often. Some mornings, when he was graced with his wife's first gentle morning smile, or rewarded by his son's peals of shrieking laughter as he tickled him mercilessly after dinner, then his red haired visitor would spring to mind. It was at those times that he would remember how thankful he was that she made him realize what a thrill it was to smile and laugh. And now, whenever his beautiful baby girl would tightly squeeze his finger, as she gazed with wonder into his eyes, he would occasionally recall those first tentative times when Jenna's fingers had reached for his hand, and taught him that his touch was not poison—a lesson Christine had enthusiastically furthered through the years. Jenna was to thank for so much of what was now his. If it had not been for her teaching him how to live—how to love—he would never have reached out to his beautiful Christine, preferring always to remain a shadow, instead of a man.

  “What do you think ever happened to her?” Omid asked, taking another sip of his drink.

  “I can only hope,” Erik said, earnestly, “that she has somehow found the same happiness that I have. She was right all along about Christine, Daroga. I never needed to be an angel for my wife. She completely accepted me for who I was, right from the start—just like Jenna once did. I can only hope Jenna has found love and joy—since she made those same things possible for me.”

  “I was down in the lair the day before we departed—” Omid began.

  “Down in my lair, Daroga?” Erik asked, incredulous. “Whatever for?”

  “I wasn't really sure myself, Erik, until I got there. Something was calling me there, making me visit just one last time.”

  “Was it the lure of free alcohol?”

  “Yes, I found the bottle you left—along with the note. Thank you.” Omid smiled, as Erik shook his head. Then, quietly, Erik asked, “How did the old place look, Daroga?” He braced himself for the worst. He knew that when he left, the Gendarme were hot on his trail. He was uncertain as to the fate of his old home.

  “It was a little dusty,” Omid answered, putting his friend's mind at ease. “But beyond that, it was the same as always. It appears that even with that cad Buquet's assistance, no one was ever able to find your lair.”

  Erik let out a breath he realized he had been holding in and nodded. He was gratified to know that his secrets were still hidden.

  “Are there any of your old possessions that you would like me to ship over here to you, Erik?” Omid asked.

  “No,” Erik answered without hesitation. “There is nothing I need from my old life anymore, Daroga. The only treasure of any importance to me from the Paris Opera House accompanied me when I left, and became my wife on the passage over to America.” Erik smiled proudly as he thought of Christine, and the new life they had forged together.

  Omid looked at his friend and smiled, before reaching into his breast pocket. “While I was down there,” he continued his tale of his time spent in his friend's old home. “I also found this.” He held out a small, battered envelope that had Erik's name scrawled across the front.

  Eyes narrowed, Erik reached for the note. “What is this?” he asked, examining the strange missive in his hand.

  “I found it along th
e lake shore, in the back cavern.” Omid explained, as Erik's eyes shot up to meet his. “It's from Jenna.”

  Erik felt the breath leave his body. “Jenna?” he whispered, in confusion. “But how…?”

  “Read it Erik.” Omid encouraged gently.

  “But, Daroga,” Erik sputtered, “I fail to understand how… “

  “Your fates are connected, Erik. They always will be. It was no mistake that she showed up on your lakeshore that night. Now read it.” Omid urged again, knowing all would be clear if Erik just read the words written by the first woman who loved him.

  Erik looked down again at the strange communication from the woman who had given him the courage to change his life—the woman whose encouraging words had replaced the corrosive abuse that had, for so many years, plagued his soul, preventing him from truly living, making him choose to hide away in the bowels of the Paris Opera House. Jenna—no longer his, but still so dear to him. He took a deep breath as he turned the envelope over with trembling hands, intending to break the seal, only to find that it had already been broken.

  “You read my mail!” he looked at Omid with accusing eyes.

  “I would hardly call it mail, Erik!” Omid dismissed his friend's irritation with a wave of his hand, and another sip of his drink. “It was lying on the lakeshore in a home you had vacated years ago!”

  “My name was on it,” Erik hissed.

  “Still is, in fact,” Omid pointed at the appellation scrawled on the front of the envelope. “Now are you going to read it, or shall I summarize?”

  When Erik only glowered at him, Omid rose with a smile and said, “You know, I think I am going to find Antoinette and your lovely wife. I have yet to meet your darling daughter.”

  “Good idea, Persian,” Erik seethed, icily. “Down the hall, third door on the left.”

  “Thank you for the directions,” he said, making his way to the door. As an afterthought, Omid shot back a joking, “Should I keep my hand at the level of my eyes, old friend, as I traverse your domain?”