Hello, peoples! Just a few comments. I do not own anything relating to PotO, and I'm not getting any money out of this. Please don't sue. Anyways, this story follows the storyline of PotO and has mostly the same lines and such, but this is from Erik's POV. Super funness with that. Also, most of the songs are in there, but I had to switch a word or person saying such here and there, so be warned of that. This story has nothing bad in it besides a few swear words and some mild violence, so...yeah. I hope you enjoy the story thus far. It is a work in progress, and I will finish it asap.

The Phantom of the Opera


My name is Erik, though I doubt that my name matters to anyone. I am known to many as the Phantom of the Opera, or the Opera Ghost, if you would prefer. Despite what people call me, I am no phantom, ghost, apparition, nor any other super-natural being. I am simply a man.

Unfortunately, I am not normal in any stretch of the imagination. I am an architect, magician, composer, designer, ventriloquist, and practically everything else relating to the arts which I hold so dear. My voice can be described as both beautiful and eerie, depending on how I want it to sound. I can make my voice sound like it is coming from anywhere—the sky, behind you, far away, in your ear, all around you. I doubt that anyone else on this pitiful planet can say the same.

If you looked upon my face, you probably wouldn't even think me human. God must have been playing one awful joke on the world when he allowed someone like me to be born. This is why I always wear a mask. My mask is one of the many reasons that people refer to me as a phantom. It also causes a certain curiosity for some who would wish to see my face, without even considering the reason why I hide it.

My past is a bit of a sore topic for me, between the loathing from my mother and my childhood as the unwilling member of a traveling fair. They called me the "Devil's Child." Those fools would force me to show my face to crowds of people several times every day. If I refused, they would beat me until I was too weak to fight back. One fateful day, a young girl—about my age—who was one of the people in the crowd laughing and jeering at my face pitied me. She did not laugh when the rest of those people did. After that "show," I used the very ropes that had bound me to strangle the life out of my oppressor. She saw me do this, and instead of running for help, she helped me escape. She took me to the theatre that is, to this day, my sanctuary and artistic domain.

I live in the basement of the theatre, on the shores of the underground lake. I do not take well to visitors. Most who venture into my home never return to the light of day, whether by my hands or the traps I have set everywhere. As far as I know, I am the only one who knows the safe route to my home. That isn't surprising, as I am the one who designed the traps and placed them on the path that leads to the lake. I even have a trick that I use to stop people from crossing the lake in my boat that I refer to as the "Trick of the Siren." If I don't want a person in my lair, then that person won't reach my lair.

Ever since I was born, I have known nothing of love or kindness, save that one time when the young girl brought me to the theatre. She works in the theatre, actually. She is the ballet instructor. Her daughter is one of her students, and is a rather promising talent. I think I can trust her as I trust her mother, but she isn't the one who has my interest. In fact, the girl that I have fallen in love with is another ballet student. Her father was a famous violinist, and she has quite a bit of musical talent, herself. I have been giving her singing lessons for the past three months, but she has never seen me. She believes me to be an angel that her father used to talk about before he died: an Angel of Music. Her voice, under my guidance, has become beautiful enough to make the golden angels decorating the theatre weep. Yes, Christine Daaé is very talented indeed.