DISCOVERING A LEGEND
by Fay E. Simon all rights reserved
CHAPTER ONE
BEGINNING
OF THE INVESTIGATION
Do not reprint or copy without permission of the author
Of all my writings and research, the most fascinating and only
one for which I received any true recognition came from the haunting of L’Opéra
Garnier, also known as the Paris Opera House. How my heart thrilled to meet Carl
Laemmle, a
filmmaker from the United States! Fate brought us together so I might learn how to
make movies and that
Carl would have a new idea for his next film. For some strange, unknown reason,
I offered Carl the story which had intrigued me all these years. I had no
inkling he wanted to make it into a movie. I would have settled for verbal acclaim
and the sale of countless copies.
Whether or not Carl Laemmle believed in the existence of the
Opera Ghost or not, I never knew. I know
the press didn’t believe me. They
laughed at the opening line of my novel, which simply said the opera ghost really
existed.
Yet, to my happiness and surprise, all my investigation and
hard work paid off. Carl introduced me
to the actor chosen to play the title role of my book, Lon Chaney, the man of a
thousand faces. I couldn’t believe
it! The fame of this actor had spread
worldwide and he would play the lead in my novel. Incroyable! (Unbelievable!) The
talents of Lon Chaney created the face of
the Phantom so the audience as well as I would get a glimpse of the beast which
haunted the opera house so many years ago.
When the film debuted in 1925, everyone knew my name, and
the story many say influenced filmmakers and writers everywhere. But still, no one
believed me when I said the
opera ghost really existed. The public
assumed we had another gimmick to sell the movie. Tell the world it’s real and
ticket sales
will soar.
The current year is 1926. My name is Gaston Leroux and this is an account of how I
came to write
one of the most famed stories of all time, Le Fantôme de l’Opéra ; known
in English as The Phantom of the
Opera.
Journalism had always been my forte, yet the desire to become
a successful novelist never died. Unfortunately,
some said my news articles stirred more interest than tales drawn from my
imagination. Criticism like this
generally led me to drink at my usual haunt where only the barkeeper and
painted ladies seemed entertained with my wild imagination.
In October of 1901, on an evening at the Queen’s Eye, a dive
that always welcomed the struggling journalist, a young man interrupted my
latest tale with the discovery of a house by an underground lake five cellars
beneath L’Opéra Garnier. At first, I
ignored the lad when he babbled about some of the staff burying old phonographs
in a box. A time capsule I believe they called it. They had hoped in a hundred
years someone
would find and display them to reveal our history. However, when he mentioned a
mysterious,
unaccounted for wall which had been broken, only to find a house with a
skeleton by its well, my ears perked up. The lad said the remains looked quite
hideous and wore a gold band on
its finger.
All men are ugly after death, so I wondered about the
comment. Then I heard the words “Opera
Ghost” and “haunting of a young diva”. This piqued my interest and I had to know
more. The young man only knew of what he’d blurt
out, but directed me to the ancient building which housed the rumors. So I ingested
some very strong coffee to ward
off the haze liquor induces and headed for the opera house.
Let me say France has always believed in the supernatural and superstition definitely
flourished. The current managers refused
to speak to me as I knew they would. They feared a restless ghost would return to
wreak vengeance, so I
sought other resources.
A decrepit stagehand allowed me to explore the underground
lake which came into existence when a worker broke a pipe, flooding the
area. I marveled at the maze of tunnels
and crevices in which anyone could easily hide.
For a few more francs, the old fellow took me to see the
broken wall and the house which lay behind it. Workers had moved the skeleton to
the National Archives, but the
interior of the house beckoned to me. The stench of the dank enclosure
tormented my senses, but the decaying furniture and rotting organ captivated the
eye.
Evidently, the workers had removed other items from the
house. I noticed the drawer of a great
oak desk had been forced open. Certainly they removed whatever caused the
large, square imprint in thick dust. A box, perhaps.
Again, I jotted down more notes, before we left. I only wish I had been allowed to
photograph
what I’d seen. The old stagehand only
allowed a few sketches. He didn’t want
the burden of me getting caught with a camera. He’d be blamed and loose his
job.
Upon my arrival upstairs, some half frightened dancers
whispered the name of Madame Giry, the old woman who worked as a box attendant
at the time. And then I wondered when
all this happened. The young girls
claimed to know nothing more. From their pale complexion, fear kept them
quiet. This led me in search of the box
attendant.
Finding any old woman the opera house had employed would be
less than simple, except Madame Giry had a daughter named Meg, who had married a
title and I found her with not much difficulty. However, little did I know at the
time, the quest had only begun. It would take some nine years or so to gather
sufficient evidence to write this amazing story. Did I say evidence? Perhaps
evidence is the
word, since proving the existence of the Opera Ghost became my main objective.
I saw the Baroness as quite a stately woman for her
sixty-five years. With regret, I did not
make note of what area Meg ruled as baroness, but I vividly recalled the
sparkle in her eyes, when I spoke of her mother.
Sadly, Madame Giry died at least ten years prior, yet Meg
still could not speak of her dear mother without tears. When I mentioned the Opera
Ghost, the
demeanor changed and a strange look washed over her. At first, I couldn’t tell if
fear and dread caused
the look or some sort of twisted delight, until I listened to the account of
what she witnessed and heard. Her hands
trembled as she took a swallow of cognac she poured for herself and then
offered me a glass. At the moment,
liquor didn’t entice me. I only wanted
to know more of this haunting story.
In brief, Meg recalled the rumors and tales of a darkly clad
creature that lurked in the shadows and terrified all who had the misfortune to
see him and his glinting, ember-like eyes. She claimed to have seen him twice, once
when he brought down the
chandelier and again when he breezed passed her just before the lights went out
and Christine vanished from the stage.
Only once did she hear it speak to Christine. Many times Meg had walked the hall
passing
the young diva’s dressing room, but only this one time did she hear a man’s
voice conversing with the girl as though they had some sort of
relationship. Lovers? I think not. According to Meg, Christine treated him like a
father, yet her voice sounded
full of anguish and doom.
According to the Baroness, the voice touched her like none
she’d ever heard. The feelings it
stirred she could not describe, except hypnotic. Had the door not separated the
two, she would
have done anything it demanded. A mix of
abject terror and pity filled her and in that moment of recollection she wept. Her
emotions overwhelmed me, and I became
speechless. What kind of man or spirit
could evoke such emotions?
When she composed herself, she recalled the notes written in
red which the spectre sent to the managers demanding money or giving
instructions. The ghost demanded twenty
thousand francs to prevent accidents occurring. So far, I’d found a ghost that not
only scared people, it hypnotized, and
blackmailed as well. Interesting
creature!
For additional proof of the ghost’s existence, the baroness
referred me to Christine Daae, now also married into nobility, and a man she
only referred to as the Persian. When I
tried to question her, she claimed to know about him from Christine’s
letters. After all these years, they
still wrote to each other, and yet one regret remained. When I inquired about the
regret, Meg simply
said, speak to Christine.
Searching for the Persian felt like looking for a needle in
the proverbial haystack. I had no name
of any kind and no description. All I
knew about him suggested he had a history with the Opera Ghost like no other.
The local police did not hesitate to answer my
questions. They even allowed me to read
over records which pertained to the haunting. It seemed that Paris held the ghost
responsible for the death of a stagehand named Joseph Buquet and
a woman who should have replaced Madame Giry as a box attendant.
Buquet had seen the spectre numerous times and tried to
follow it. He claimed it looked like a
man in black opera attire, wearing a fedora and a black death’s head lurking in
the shadows and in the darkest corners, just as the young dancers had said. Yet,
again the glowing, yellow eyes came up in
the description. The next account said
another stagehand found the body of Joseph Buquet hanging in the third cellar
near backdrops used in previous operas. The
account said he hung himself with a sickening, yellow thing, I later discovered
they called a Punjab lasso. The gendarme claimed catgut made the
lasso. Who’d ever heard of such a thing? Some called Buquet’s death a suicide while
others blamed the ghost since the Punjab lasso
appeared to be his signature weapon. So
now I’d found a blackmailing, money hungry ghost that frightens and kills. How
intriguing, but how did the young diva
fit in?
In the police records, references of the Persian came up time
after time, along with an address. Accordingly,
the Persian demanded the police stop the ghost he called Erik. Ah, yes, at last the
ghost had a name,
Erik. Why didn’t the police hunt down
this monster? In Carl’s movie version
they did. In reality, the law enforcers
like most Frenchmen believed in things which had no scientific
explanation. Being filled with
superstition, they refused to look for Erik and no one could ever find their
way to his lair nestled within the labyrinth beneath the opera house. In truth,
very few workers had access to a
map of the underground lake, and more than a few had ventured upon it, never to
be seen or heard from again.
Finding Meg and getting a few answers here and there seemed
simple enough. The police records told
me a lot and I rejoiced in all they allowed me to copy. However, when I sat down in
the Queen’s Eye
to review my findings, I didn’t have enough for anything more than a short
article of maybe three or four paragraphs. My intent to write an explosive story
about this Opera Ghost drifted
away. So much I didn’t know. So many loose ends dangled in the wind. This time I
welcomed the brew the barmaid
offered.
I tried looking for the Persian, but he’d moved from the
last address the police had, and no one seemed to know where he went. Frustration
churned my insides and I wanted
to scream. The first really good story I
hear, I can’t find the people involved. Had my life been a waste as my father
constantly reminded?
A dozen handed down stories from frightened dancers didn’t
mean a lot. All the accounts I deemed as
hearsay, since the girls lacked the age and knowledge of first hand experience. If
only I could find someone like the
Baroness. The Persian would prove a
great find, or even Christine. Why I
couldn’t find her, I did not understand. Meg had given me the address and
directions, but at the time, I didn’t
realize Christine’s name had changed insomuch that no one connected her to the opera
house incident, especially her dear friend, Meg, would have known.
When I arrived at the château from Meg’s address and
directions, the maid who answered
the door kindly informed me I had made a grave mistake and
requested I please not come again.
The architecture appeared ancient and massive. I felt like an ant compared to the
building
and surrounding land. I’d never seen so
many stone and brass figures and fountains in any one place. Several armed guards
volunteered to escort me
from the grounds; a humiliating gesture I could have lived without. As they drug me
away, I glanced up at the top
most window and saw the figure of a woman peering from behind the
curtains. It felt as though she wanted
to speak but couldn’t. Who watched
me? Christine?
As I picked myself up from the ground where I had been tossed
by the guards, I couldn’t help looking back at the window. This time, the woman
pulled open the curtain
and I saw the entire, thin shape of a very handsome female of age. Sadness emanated
from the eyes and I wondered
if I’d ever get to speak to her.
When I returned to my usual haunt, I settled my weary bones
at a table in the far corner of the establishment. I couldn’t go home. Not now.
My wife said I drove her to madness with all my drinking and
carousing. I loved her, but she never
understood my obsession with this ghost story and why liquor gave me comfort
and she didn’t.
Drinking my favorite brew helped me pull together all I’d
found in some sort of order. The who and
why still remained unanswered. For some
reason, I just couldn’t let go of the rumor. I had to know who Erik really was and
what relationship he had with
Christine. The investigative reporter in
me needed to understand why the entire opera house lived in terror of a spirit
or man or whatever fueled their fear. The woman who allowed the guards to
bodily remove me from the premises had to be Christine. So why did she do it? Why
not talk to me? From whom did she hide?
Too many questions swirled around in my weary mind. All I wanted lay in the answers
I sought from
Christine and the Persian. No story ever
obsessed me like this one. I had to
write it. I would write it, if it was
the last thing I did.
At least five years passed in search of Christine and the
Persian. Eventually I discovered a
Madame Valérius who had watched over Christine when her father died. Unfortunately
for me, she had died as well.
Once again, the evening found me at the Queen’s Eye ingesting
my favorite poison while mulling over my notes; trying to make sense of things. As
I drained the last drop of fermented
nectar from the stein, the image of a woman hovered over the table. A lace trimmed
ebony gown enveloped the thin,
frail figure. The word dress would not
be correct; it looked most definitely like a gown. The blue of her eyes still
captured the
attention if not the heart. With the
extension of a gloved hand, she introduced herself as Christine Daae.