The Masque of Paris ( Phantom of the Opera )

Chapter 5 - A Game of Power

Marie made her dramatic exit shortly after the incident once the attention was off her.
"I am appalled that my managers and crew could be so incompetent as to let this happen under their watch! My very safety here is being compromised and I will not tolerate it any further!" She smartly exclaimed. I wasn't aware a lady of today could be such a brat.
She'll be back in the morning.

~*~

The events of the day settled like a silent dust over the theatre. It's residual effects, however, costed me a the night's grace of sleep. From the snuffing of candles until late into the night, the women in the sleeping quarters fiddled with nonstop ideas of the Opera Ghost— and whom he may strike next.
It was quite a challenge to sleep when your colleagues shriek like school girls. Stories drifted from one end of the lodging to the other, old and new rumors alike stirred like a boiling soup, and the performers jumped at the slightest sound of the settling Opera House.

"I heard that the ghost has no skin, just a skeleton!" One cried.
"Did you hear that just now? It's coming from upstairs!" Another shrieked.
"You've angered the ghost, Elodie! You're next!" A flurry of giggles.

This whole affair was oh so sadly interrupted when Madame Giry finally marched in to hush the girls and send them to bed.
"Girls! Enough! I can only take so much of your chatter during the day, let the night be at peace!"
An eerie hush falls over the sleeping quarters, the girls fearing Madame Giry more so than any ghost. Satisfied, she turns to exit and as she does, I notice a blonde girl trailing her by the heels, hiding from our stares.

Even with the cries turning into whispers and then turning into blissful silence, sleep fled from me. I could see the darkness of the night slowly grey as the sun inched closer to the horizon. Groggy thoughts itch my mind but nothing really sticks. It's frustrating, like I'm wandering through a dream but I'm aware enough to be awake. I laid still in my firm bed, floating somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness.

What shall I do?

At last, I finally obtain a non-abstract thought. What shall I do indeed. My show is being tampered with. Everything is at the mercy of this trickster ghost that enjoys dragging me into his games.

A game.

Yes, that is exactly what this is. A game.
He does not wish to be a respectable artist— to create an incredible story— to entertain the weary and sore. He much rather entertain himself, and we lot will just let him.
My mind slowly eases out of the foggy, unsatisfying sleep as the first beam of sunlight peeks over the horizon. I watch the new day being born out the only window. My thoughts brew and settle like tea, and suddenly, a waking determination rose within me as well.

Fueled with a delusion that maybe I could gain power in this game with a phantom, I strip the sheets from my body and only bother with a thick coat to accompany my nightgown and slippers— and fresh bandages for my hand.
The cold, wintery world nips at my exposed skin as I slip out the quater's door.
As I exited— a new kind of cold grasped my body— a sort of chill that claws at your very soul. It is of the devil— and a reminder that hell can also be cold.

I'm being watched
This slows my pace and lured me to examine my surroundings for any... unwanted guests lurking about— but my brief search returns with nothing. Without a moment to lose, I scurry down four flights of metal stairs, in a dizzying motion. As I descend to the main floor, my soul thaws from the earlier encounter. I breathe a sigh of relief— perhaps I lost those eyes.

At the bottom, I'm met with a fork in my path. I flee to the corridor on my right where I am shrouded with darkness. My eyes slowly adjust to the new world, one that juxtaposed the pure wintry one upstairs.
Though the walls here are more insulated— the chill returns to the pit of my stomach.

I'm being followed.
With a sense of dread tucked away in my pocket, my face remains ignorant to the fact— an attempt to not cue such beings I know of their presence. After years of working in the Opera, I've trained myself in the art of physical deception. Nothing about my posture or expression gives a hint away of my knowledge.
I tread through the hall when I'm finally met with a pair of heavy oak doors and enter yet another corridor, but with more of the sunrise fluttering into depths of the hall. A few twists and turns in the hidden corridor and I arrive at the Opera House's grand entrance.
Just as I do, I spot Monsieur Léfevre entering his office to begin the day's work of managing finances and public relations.

"Monsieur Léfevre!" I call out as I dash towards him.
He spins around with alarm and shock slaps his face as he sees my appearance.

"Good God, Mademoiselle Benóit, what are you wearing?" He exclaims. Perhaps it was highly inappropriate to present myself in only a nightgown and coat, but there was no time to lose.

"Never mind that, it's of no importance! I have something urgent to discuss with you." I insist and the look of surprise falls to one more of demise.

"You run around as if the place is on fire; what is it?"

I take a gulp of air to ease the exercise from the previous corridors.
"In light of the events from yesterday," I begin, "I'm afraid I cannot dance in this season." I watch his face contort in protest, and before he can—
"My Opera needs me. We can't have any further interruptions as the one from yesterday. So, with all do respect, I'm retaking my position as one of the stage managers."

There's a pause as Monsieur Léfevre processes all of this.
"I respect your passion, Mademoiselle Benóit, I really do. But you must be aware of the conflict you're starting if I let you do this." He warns me.
"I feel obligated to inform you that... someone else casted you this season." He was delicate in his wording before he continued, "If you choose this, you will have to accept all responsibility and consequences."

I give an affirmative nod and he returns the gesture.
"Very well, I grant you to return your work as one of the stage managers."
I feel my face glow, opposing Monsieur Léfevre's darkened look.
"I swear to you, I will not disappoint." I reassure him. I could feel excitement bubble up in my chest.
"It's not me you should worry of disappointing," again he warns. However, this doesn't waver my spirit. What of it? If the ghost doesn't appreciate my defiance, he can simply find another victim to play tricks on. Now that I've elevated back to a position of power— I can be aware of and control the return of the Phantom going forth.

Pleased with the quick and painless conversation, I spin around and return to my work.