The winding staircase went spiraling down into the foreboding darkness. The stairs ended at a short tunnel, which lead to a massive cavern. In the center of the was an expansive lake. Thousands of candles lined the walls, their light flickering off the water. A rowboat was hitched to a wooden post in the ground at the edge of the underground lake. Over half a mile of water, on a hill, sits a once shining throne. Years underground have dulled the glint. A few steps away from the throne is a massive organ. Hundreds of silver pipes extruded from the base,  so huge they could swallow a man whole.

A mysterious figure emerges from the darkness behind the organ. This cave is his. The cave is a prison he built for himself. He never has left the darkness of this abyss.

Photo Credit: Morguefile

The water drips from the ceiling as the Phantom walks out of the shadows…

Drip… Drip… Water hits the cold, black stone,

The walls, a cold hard monotone,

Light glistens of the water on the cobblestone,

A the organ plays a note in baritone,

The phantom, almost monochrome,

 

Descending the steps of his staircase in slow motion,

Then, playing the organ with devotion,

Causing much emotion,

Noises in the opera house above, making a commotion,

The Phantom fading away into the shadows between the stair and wall,

Towards the surface, a legacy set in motion,

The legacy of emotions,

 

Chandeliers falling,

Carlotta bawling,

The opera house rotting,

 

The Phantom’s lair still intact in the commotion of the Night…

 

 

 

A thick, heavy mist shrouds the room from my sight. The fog is moist as it begins to fade. A tall, carved arc swoops across the cavern entrance. it is engraved with strange markings of skulls and roses. My eyes refuse to adjust to the darkness. I feel a sharp grip on my wrist. His fingers are like frozen bones crafted of ice, but the touch is light, like the gentle caress of your cheek. He guides me, his fingers intertwining with mine. As my hands tingle with the cold of his bones, I struggle to get away. Yanking away from his grasp, his bony fingers tighten and his pace quickens. I stumble blindly across the slippery tiling. Suddenly I am shoved sharply to the ground. He releases me and hisses into my ear. “Beware…” His dry whisper echoes throughout the hollow cavern, and with a mighty sweep of his midnight-velvet cape, he disappears into blackness.

I am left stunned with a cloud of dirt cluttering and cramming its way into my nose. I let out a dusty, raspy cough and bolt to my feet. Gone. He was just there, in front of me. He was just there! But now…

He’s gone.

I brush my hands off on my dress, a dusty grey mark stains the fragile fabric. Rubbing my eyes, I glance around to see if there is any sign of HIM… The whole room is old-style. Beautifully romantic, yet tragically dark. The cavern is mysterious, with a thin fog flowing along the ground, and darkness spilling into every crack and crevice. Furniture is usually plenty in many normal homes.

and this home is anything BUT normal…

In this horrible labyrinth, the furniture is minimal, only adding to the discomfort. Hiding in a corner, I peer around and spot a vast, broad bookcase. The carved wood is grand, with swirling curls and markings that match the arc in the entrance. I envision the wonderful case sporting hundreds of books in the library. My vision is shattered when I realize that only one lonely book sits upon the crooked shelf. I can tell it used to be a clean, pearly white with fancy gold lettering. Now the spine is tattered, the cover is worn and grubby, the letters are peeling and dull. The words spell something I can’t recognize. French maybe? I turn away and grit my teeth.

I step over to a shadowed table, draped in a blood-red cloth. Gingerly, I take the fabric between my fingers, it is soft and heavy. Velvet. White rose petals are strewn about, and a piece of paper flutters from the wind blowing from a window. Light streams in gently, it is darkening into a soft grey outside and I observe that the window is taped over. I turn back to the piece of artwork. The paper is crackly at the edges and is blackened. I lift the paper from the table and stare at the sketch. It is filled in black with only a perfect white rose in the middle.

A voice pops into my mind and startles me. “I drew it myself…” The deep voice echoes through the hall. I drop the sketch onto the tabletop and fling my head around to face him. I see a dark, shadowed figure, he stands in front of a long wooden case. The case isn’t very tall, maybe two feet high. It is lined with shimmering white candles, perched in gold carved holders. All of them are lit, the flames flicker in the dark, sending bits of light sparkling across this mask. Cracked white ceramic appears to be what the mask is made of. He glides forward soundlessly. He seems to float towards me silently without his feet even skimming the floor. The masked figure stops abruptly, right in front of my face! My throat weaves knots across my vocal cords, making it feel tight. His bony, pale arms shoots out without warning to the side and all the candles disappear into wispy swirls of smoke. His arm quickly tucks back into his cloak. My heart is racing. He smoothly draws back his hood and extends his arm, reaching out to my face. His long, slender fingers just barely brush my cheek.

I try to scream but no sound comes out.

Then, I peel off his mask.

This time, when I scream, the sound is clear and shrill. My vision begins to blur as I hear maniacal cackling spurting from his mouth. His shrieking laughter rings throughout the cave bitterly as the last thing I see is, He evaporates into thin air. All that’s left is a pale swirl of smoke, and a white rose… laying gently at my feet.

That is when I collapse onto the crimson carpet and black out.

The delivery man had groaned when he had gotten the assignment. “300 pounds of plywood to be delivered to the 14th opera lair” the note had read. Anyone who saw 14th opera lair on their order form knew that they had a rough day ahead of them. It was heck to get to, down meter wide tunnels, and across bottomless lakes. The journey was nearly impossible for a man alone, much less bringing 300 pounds of wood. The poor man knew he hap no choice though, the company had a slogan: “Every costumer satisfied”. So it was with a heavy heart that he strapped the desired cargo into the back of his truck-barge.

He coasted down the service tunnel, a newly installed passage to beneath the opera, before taking a right towards dream bottom. He deciphered the way from the map on his dashboard. After a quarter of an hour, the lake loomed into view of his headlights. He pressed the blinking blue button on his stick-shift, turning his vehicle from land-crawler to water-skimmer. It was another half an hour from shore to shore, but once across the water it only took 5 minutes up a winding path, the only barrier between two halves of a huge chasm, to arrive an iron door in the face of the rock.

This was his destination.

He tentatively stepped out of the 8 wheeler, eyes fixed on the door as A feeling of foreboding fell on his form. He slowly paced towards the portal, dreading the moment that he would have to knock. And then he was there, at the door with nothing to do but announce himself to the person within.

He steeled the nerves trembling inside of his body, and rapped on the cold steel of the passage.

Almost immediately he heard an “ah-ha!” from the other side. It was not but a second before the threshold was emptied of the metal door in it. Through the new opening in the rock, he saw a figure back lit by a small chandelier. “Come in! Come in and bring with you my wood!” The figure bellowed, accompanying the words with a hearty laugh. The delivery man stood awestruck, gazing upon the once was Phantom. When he was last seen he was an evil and contorted soul. Through time however, he had transformed from a scourge to a person who seemed to glow with happiness.

“Come in and see what I’ve done with the place”, said the converted man. So John obliged, obediently shuffling through the portal from dark to cozy.

The opening room was softly lit, the ceiling tapered to the base of the miniscule chandelier, its candles flickering and soft. The predominate color of the room was red, the shade of which being the hue of a young rose. Candle lit tunnels branched off to rooms unseen.

“The tunnel to the right leads to the bedroom”, explained the Phantom, “the middle one branches off towards my library, and the one on the far right will connect to my under ground green house. I’m going to use state of the art equipment to grow plants under ground, and the wood you’ve delivered will help me create some of the things I need.”

John was too busy marveling at the room he was currently in to pay much attention to the masked man’s words, but he soon listen up.

“Now that I’ve shone you all of this, I’m afraid I can’t let you leave” were the next words to come, and as the Phantom said them he took a length of rope out from under the couch.

John could only stare in horror as the monster calmly walked towards him, forming the rope into the shape of a lasso….

 

 

 

Photo Credit: WatchTheFlash_Photography via Compfight

 “You will now sing only my music,” the Phantom’s soft yet commanding voice said as he and a dazed Christine entered a dim, reclusive dwelling.

  Massive stone walls towered above the Phantom and Christine, amplifying the Phantom’s voice. In various sections of his lair, candles flickered, with some getting extinguished, dimming the dark lair even more. As the Phantom led Christine over to his immense organ, a small lake of water with a petite raft came into view. The torches and candles faintly illuminated the lake, with dazzling silver glints barely visible, yet sharply contrasting the dark atmosphere. Small dust clouds billowed up as they walked, and the occasional rat hurriedly scurried about, their frantic, unpredictable squeaks being the only source of sound, other than the two’s barely audible and almost nonexistent sounds emanating from the two’s footsteps . While Christine was slightly startled, the Phantom continued on, nonchalant to the whole situation.

Soon the two arrived in front of a massive, white organ. Large deposits of dust and dirt had settled on the organ, untouched, with long, slender, green vines of ivy climbing up and down the huge structure, giving the impression of an area that had never known another soul besides the Phantom. With one, swift motion of his cape, the Phantom swept away the deposits, creating a cloud of swirling, rapidly dissipating particles, along with a vortex of cool, moist air, with droplets that clung to Christine and chilled her slightly.

“Sit here,” the Phantom commanded. Christine obeyed, as she was still trapped in her trance-like state. The Phantom walked to the organ, sat down, and played a note, which rang out in the crisp, silent atmosphere. Another followed. And another. Soon, a marvelous melody was flowing from the organ, like a cascade of water droplets flowing from a mountain summit.

 Then the Phantom began to sing.

  “Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light.” The Phantom’s loud voice boomed, the sound of it resonating on the loud walls. The candles placed around the Phantom suddenly flared up, a dazzling orange glow showering the Phantom, the organ, and the walls, almost breathing an entirely new life into the room. The glow also illuminated the Phantom himself, and a piercing, sharp white mask became visible, changing everything around again, and revealing to Christine just exactly what she was dealing with. Christine, still trapped in her trance-like state, slowly crept up to the Phantom, wondering just what her “Angel of Music’s” mask hid…

   Unaware that is was a cold and contorted face and soul.

 

Photo Credit: Zahira via Compfight Photo Credit: Zahira via Compfight

Winding stairs slithered down into the depths beneath, leaving the brightly lit opera house behind. Candlelight didn’t reach down more than half a dozen steps. Instead, the shadows appeared to seep upwards, swirling in tendrils at the mouth of the stairwell. Delving deeper into the pitch black, smoky waves rose from a murky lake. Its vast reach extended from one side of the cavern to another. A lone, isolated boat sat on the near shore, the only way to reach across the foreboding body of water. On the other side there was a narrow hallway cut into the smooth surface of the cave. The passageway seemed to just lead further into darkness, with no signs of an exit, no light at the end of the tunnel.

But if you dared to enter that tunnel, you would hear the faint hums of a pipe organ being played. For on the other side of that hallway was a room. Not a cave, but a room: four walls, a floor, and a domed ceiling, all made of obsidian-black stone. Hanging high above from the ceiling was an ornate chandelier– but not a candle on it was lit. The only light source came from a lantern resting atop the brass organ. It glowed softly as the music played on. Long, slender fingers flew across the keys, the song dreary and forlorn. When the piece came to an end, the figure stood up from the seat. The small lantern cast a shadow of his slender frame onto the wall. The man turned to the flame, and scowled at it from under his mask. The white face he wore hid his own from the world, so nobody would be forced to set eyes upon its gruesomeness. For that, they called him the Phantom.

The Phantom placed two fingers over the tiny lantern flame, extinguishing it with a hiss. He turned away and strode across the room to a writing desk. It was made of a dark wood, and it was littered with sheets of parchment. The Phantom sat down and set one of the sheets in front of him, a music score. He dipped his pen into an inkwell and began writing notes onto the paper. The scratching of the quill echoed in the otherwise silent room.

Many hours later, it was hard to tell time without the sky, the Phantom rose from his desk and paced to another corner of the dark room. Here sat a large, four-poster bed. The blankets were a charcoal-colored velvet and the wooden framery was beautifully carved. Such a nice bed, all to himself. The Phantom gazed around the room– his room– and looked at all there was in to see. The living area was only sparsely furnished, the pipe organ easily the most impressionable object in the room. But he didn’t need much from these obsidian walls and what they contained. No, it simply served him as a place to inhabit.

His real interest lied in the world above.

It, or rather her, made living in this isolated miniature-Underworld purposeful. He wrote his opera on his desk, played its melodies on his pipe organ, and at night blew out the tiny accursed light atop it. He would then lay on his vast four-poster bed, a bed fit for more than just one. But that’s all that resided in this room, this forgotten room black as night. Only the Phantom resided in his lair.

 
Photo Credit: Kevin Dooley via Compfight

The dark, dank, and dull walls stare back at you with disgust. From the start, you realize that you are not supposed to be here… that no one is supposed to be here. A stench of dried out food and wood fills your nose and mouth. Old books and scripts lie on the ground. The cold floors bring no welcome from down below. The phantom’s lair, the phantom’s “dungeon of despair”.

Foot steps hurry down the dusty, creaky stairs! But no one is there, just the sound of whatever tormented thoughts hide here. For no one has been here for… years. The emptiness can be felt in your bones, in your thoughts, in your steps…

In the center of this cavernous room, stands an old, cobweb-covered organ, the plugs and pipes holding rat villages. A chair, once brown, is white from wear. Dust covers the floor, turning it pale-brown. But no foot-prints. A mirror covered in dirt sits on a table. At the edge of the room, a throne sits . Only an owner-less mask lies in it. Dark shadows loom here, this is not a happy place, you know that much. Someone, and not just anyone, has been here.

The Phantom, or whatever is left of his presence, is in that chair. This is  no place for the living, its a “dungeon of despair”.

Photo Credit: aussiegall via Compfight

Light

Flashing through the mirrors

Voices

Carry down the stairs

Deep, black despair

Descending into darkness

Cold, unfeeling

Turned away from thoughts of light

Music floating, soft, foreboding

from across the lake, it seems…

There’s no Phantom here today—

he left, many, many years ago…

Still, beware the waters—

Lights dance in the depths

But do not dare to cross alone

For the night hides what it does not wish for you to see…

Or shows you things that are not there

 

The shore

Materializing from the darkness

An illusion

No more solid than a dream

The lights, they lead you to the edge

Where the grand room fills with new light—

New light—

Light

The crimson candles in the golden chandelier flicker

Once again awoken

Your presence causes stirring in the shadows…

Ascend the steps away from the dock and shore

You made it… alone…

The bloodred wax from the candles pools in the floor

Stirred by the footsteps of the Phantom

He has returned—there is no Christine to persuade him to see reason

A cabinet of masks

Illusions in gold and midnight blue

And at the organ, the spectral organ

The Phantom of the Opera begins to play

Photo Credit: MorgueFile

Ω

Deep in the cold; down by the river side.
I spy the music stand that let’s my dreams take flight.
Around the room candles, candles light the way.
Light the world so that I could see music,
the one he wrote for me and so that all could see,
the sheet that lays before my eyes for his music to reunite.
As I stand before this, these notes on paper,
stare around the cave: the lake, the river bank, even the giant throne. And still yet to see is the musical instrument that all are afraid to hear.

Once I turned to strike back in fear;

That the Phantom of the Opera is here

But to think this is different he’s no longer in my mind,
He’s Here

Running out pass the mirror that held me in,
trapped without anything.

Staring at the reflection of me;
suddenly a candle appears and the light is bright,
bright enough to see the Phantom.

To see the Phantom put it out.