Chapter Text
Your first impression of the Naples Opera House was that it was very intimidating. The enormous Baroque-style building stood before you, gleaming and brilliant. The massive courtyard bordered with wrought-iron fences and the wide steps carved from white marble seemed all too tall and towering compared to you. You got the sudden feeling that you were under-dressed, simply clad in your everyday clothes, carrying a bag containing your ballet slippers and other essentials.
No, you reminded yourself, they wanted you here to join the ballet company, this is your job now. You had worked your ass off for years to get where you were now. Dancing had been your passion ever since you were a kid, and you knew that it would be hard work going professional. There had been so many bruised feet, rolled ankles and days spent practicing -- too many to turn back now -- but here you were, at the most prestigious opera house in Napoli.
You gathered your courage and headed up the front steps to the entrance, past the ornately carved reliefs of human figures in the marble pillars, and right up to the stately, wooden double-doors. Once inside, you were greeted by a handsome man in a white suit. He had a sort of professional air about him, he smiled at you and it was restrained, but not unfriendly.
“Excuse me, are you the new dancer?” The man asked. “Yes, I am,” you replied, your voice wavering a little. “ Bene! I am Bruno Bucciarati, the Opera’s ballet instructor.” He smiled warmly at you, extending his hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Signore Bucciarati,” you replied.
“Please, follow me. Monsieur Polnareff would like to have a word with you,” he said. Signore Bucciarati led you through the backstage entrance, which became more crowded and hectic the further you walked. Stagehands and dancers rushed to and fro, carrying set pieces and putting on costumes. It seemed a dress rehearsal of Verdi’s Otello was about to take place. On the other end of the room, was a middle-aged man right in the middle of the chaos. He was tall and a little thin, with white hair. One of his eyes was covered by an eyepatch and he was walking with an embellished underarm cane. You recognized him as Monsieur Polnareff, the owner and manager of the opera house.
Signore Bucciarati waved him over and his eye lit up when he spotted you standing next to the brunet ballet instructor. “Hello, ma belle , I’ve been waiting for you to arrive!” Polnareff greeted you warmly, “I think you’ll like it here at the Naples Opera.” His enthusiasm was overwhelming but nonetheless contagious. “I’m sure Signore Bucciarati doesn’t mind showing you around, it seems I have a dress rehearsal to attend to. Adieu .” With that, Monsieur Polnareff hobbled off in the opposite direction, leaving you with Bucciarati.
“I should give you a tour, then, and introduce you to some of the other dancers,” The brunet said. You followed him through the winding backstage area, filled with stage crew rigging up curtains and the huge lights that illuminated the stage. Bucciarati took a swift turn down a long hallway that cut through the backstage area of the opera house, and it was then that you realized that you’d fallen behind from your tour guide. You broke into a jog in order to catch up with him, but then you heard something that made you stop dead in your tracks.
Your name.
You could have easily blamed it on the wind or simply brushed it off as your mind playing tricks on you, but no; someone in the hallway had just called out to you and said your name. It sounded like it had been whispered on the air, like it was coming from every direction at once. Your mind kept replaying the sound over and over again: it was a deep and dangerous voice, a man, you decided. A man had just said your name. Every syllable rolling off his tongue and wracking your spine.
Your gaze whipped back and forth but you could see no one. You were broken from your reverie by Signore Bucciarati calling you from the other end of the hallway. “Coming!” you spluttered and raced after him.
Bucciarati took you into a room that must’ve been where the ballerinas practised. One wall was covered in floor-length mirrors and there were groups of ballerinas in their dancing slippers loitering in the corners of the room. Three of them, sitting against the far wall, seemed to perk up when you and Bucciarati entered the room. “Hey, Bucciarati!” one of them called. It was a boy perhaps a few years younger than you, with messy black hair and a golden tan. “That’s the new dancer, right?” asked another, pointing to you. “Yes they are, and you should probably address them with a bit more respect,” Bucciarati chided. The first boy scrambled to his feet and approached you.
“I’m Narancia, nice to meet you,” he chirped. You shook his hand politely and he sat back down with his friends. “We will be meeting here later for practice,” Bucciarati informed you before you were left to your own devices.
“Have any of you heard the tales of ghosts in the opera house?” It had been a good month or so since your first day at the Naples Opera House, and you had gotten much more used to the hectic day-to-day schedule. You had taken to hanging around the backstage area in between practice and watching the rehearsals. You felt a little jealous of the singers on stage. As much as you loved to dance, you couldn’t help but feel like singing was what you were meant to do. That being said, you didn’t like being around a certain group of the stage crew. They were very intimidating and all seemed to hang around each other in a group, leering down at you from the rafters.
That brought you to the present, where two of the said stagehands were trying to scare some of the ballerinas by telling ghost stories. “There have been multiple occasions where people inside the opera house have seen and heard things that they can’t explain,” Sorbet and Gelato were two of the head stagehands, practically connected at the hip. They were like imps who enjoyed causing mischief. Gelato was sitting across Sorbet’s lap, speaking to a gaggle of ballerinas who had stopped by on their lunch break.
“They call him the Phantom of the Opera,” Gelato was saying, “No one knows who he is or why he’s here, but they say his spirit haunts the opera house.” The ballerinas giggled and murmured nervously to each other, but motioned for Gelato to go on. “The Phantom is the reason Box 5 is always kept empty, it’s to appease his undead spirit--” You turned to gaze up at the private boxes high above the floor of the auditorium, and noticed that the lights in it were off, unlike the others. Now that you thought about it, you’d never actually seen anyone use it during a performance…
“That’s ridiculous,” you blurted out, turning back to Sorbet and Gelato, “Monsieur Polnareff doesn’t seem like the superstitious type.”
“ Oh ?” Gelato sneered, “You haven’t even been here for very long. Give it a few more months, maybe the Phantom will come along and snatch you up-- ” But you were already walking away. You didn’t like how scared his words made you, and how this ‘Phantom of the Opera’ was giving an answer to all the strange things you had experienced since you arrived.
You turned a corner in the hallway and almost ran into Narancia. “Oh! Hey! I was looking for you!” he said, “I have to hurry and meet up with Mista, and… we kinda snuck into the west storage room earlier and I left my bag there by accident… could you go grab it for me?” he sheepishly asked. “Sure, I’ll leave it in the dance studio for you.” you replied. “Awesome! You’re the greatest!” the boy cheered as he disappeared down the corridor.
You found the west storage room within a few minutes and stood awkwardly in the doorway. The cold, musty air of the room seeped out and caused goosebumps to break out on your arms. It was completely dark save for the few thin windows near the ceiling which let in a feeble amount of light. You cautiously stepped into the storeroom, moving carefully as not to run into any boxes in the darkness.
To distract yourself from the unease you felt, you began to mindlessly sing the first song that came to mind:
Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green
When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen
Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?
T’was my own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.
As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you spotted a dark blue backpack sitting next to one of the tall, industrial shelves. It had an orange handkerchief tied around one of the straps. Just as you picked it up, a strong gust of wind blew through the room and the door slammed shut, making your heart leap into your throat. You stood completely still, not daring to look behind you. The gust you’d felt was caused by someone in the room with you . You heard breathing coming from a few feet away.
“Who’s there?” you heard yourself say. Your voice shook. “ Don’t be afraid ,” You felt your blood freeze in your veins. A deep, dangerous voice answered you, the voice of a man who had called out your name only a month earlier. “I am merely a patron of this fine opera house,” the man explained. His voice sounded like a predator who had caught his prey. “I have seen many different faces come through those doors but none have I been so fascinated with as you, mio fiore .”
“Who are you?” you asked nervously. “I am the one they call ‘Phantom of the Opera’.”
“Impossible,” you muttered, “the Opera Ghost is just a myth… A ghost story they call to scare new dancers and stagehands.” The Phantom chuckled menacingly, a deep intoxicating sound that sent a different kind of shiver down your spine. Your palms began to sweat.
“I can assure you that I am very real, mio fiore ,” he continued, “and it seems there is something you desire that I can provide for you.” You gulped, “What is it?”
“Do you dream of becoming a star? One that crowds will travel miles for, just to hear you?” he purred. “Not really,” you replied, “I just want to sing.”
“I can give that to you,” the Phantom said, “I will be your tutor and coach you in the ways of music.”
You felt compelled to face the mysterious Phantom, and shifted to look behind you. “ Don’t ,” the Phantom hissed, causing you to halt, “ ...turn around . I must keep my identity a secret, you understand.”
“Be here tomorrow at exactly 3 o’clock after your practice is done. This room is left unsupervised for exactly one hour and that is when your lessons will begin.” He commanded. You opened your mouth to reply but another gust of wind cut you off. You stayed there a moment longer, feet frozen in place, until you heard the sound of the door creaking open behind you.
You were alone in the room.