Ghost of The Opera
I was listening to The Story of The Phantom (any other musical geeks here??) on my way to work yesterday and FAHK I could not stop thinking about our bby gurl Simon Riley as The Phantom!! I mentioned this forever ago too so why not finally bring it to life.
GN reader x Phantom!Simon "Ghost" Riley
You swear that this creaky old building is haunted. Your father bought a rundown theater a few months ago, determined to make it the greatest opera house in the country. All with you in the spotlight, of course. He's made millions off of your talents, your voice and your stage presence. Even so, when you walked through the depressing building for the first time, you were sure he just sank you both. You were already planning your Fall from Stardom interviews for pennies.
Every week, you come to practice on stage. Dancers mumble about how they feel like they're being watched even in the dressing rooms. You scoff and tell them it's all in their minds. But that's really for your own sanity. You know they've seen the way you glance over your shoulder, knowing something is there.
Ghosts, some actors say. Apparently, the last owner hung himself from the rafters after falling into debt. It's how your father got the building so cheap. The city's people whisper about it being cursed. Something about the owner before last disappearing mysteriously. To their faces, you brush it off as idle gossip. But when sitting alone at the grand piano in the late night, you're not so sure.
The stories swirl your mind, making it nearly impossible to focus on the keys. Your fingers move stiffly, striking the wrong notes which earns a wince from you each time. You've been stuck on this new piece since the move. Your worries weighing too heavily to allow your hands to glide with the needed effortlessness.
Above, there is a creak. You've grown accustomed enough to it to know there will be nothing if you look up, so you sigh and roll your shoulders instead. "Alright, again..." You mutter to yourself, starting again at the beginning.
You hum along, trying to force your usual air of ease. First the words escape you, then you hit the wrong key. You swear and stand up from the bench. An hour straight of practicing and still, you're getting nowhere. Huffy, you gather your pages.
Above, there is another creak. It's quiet, like a mouse's whisper, but there is an odd intent behind it that has you pausing. Looking up, you see that frustratingly familiar nothing. A growl leaves your throat.
"Enough already!" You shout, your voice echoing through the empty theater. "You just go on and pester someone else because I've had it for tonight!" You slam your papers back on the piano before storming off to your dressing room.
It was childish, you know. So you only allow yourself to sulk for a moment on your plush couch before stepping back out onto the stage. You've sat down to resume playing before you realize your pages are missing. "You dunce," you mutter to yourself, ducking beneath the piano, expecting that they'd flown off in your fit. Seeing nothing, your brows furrow. You stand and circle the piano, you even check inside the bench, and nothing. They've disappeared. It's as if they'd never existed at all.
"I've earned a drink." You declare, slamming the piano's lid shut. After your shitty week, you're not about to accept this shitty night.
Back in your dressing room, you pour a glass nearly to the brim. Something your father would chide you for. You can almost hear him calling it "uncouth". You grin as you chug the whole thing. Wiping your mouth free of a loose dribble, you freeze.
There it is again. That whisper of a song in the building's draft. For two weeks, you were convinced there was some recording playing. You even searched for speakers in the walls. Finding none, you told yourself it was all in your head.
But this song is new. It's your song. The one you've been struggling to learn. And that certainly can't be in your head. Right?
You stand there a moment, just listening. Despite how quiet it's being played, you can tell that it's correct. Every key, perfect. It draws you slowly out from your room. You tiptoe through the backstage areas, hoping to find the source before the song ends.
Despite playing this game before, you have a newly found need to find this mysterious piano. Its player. Especially its player. The entire song plays with you as dumbfounded as when it began. You sigh, knowing your chance has ended. The songs never play twice.
Turning for your dressing room again, your breath halts. The first chord reaches your ears. So tiny in the grand, weathered building. But there. It is playing again, so your hunt resumes, more fevered this time. You rush onto the stage, hoping to catch the slightest hint of a direction.
The room spins too fast as you turn, helplessly trying to hear anything with a semblance of an answer.
"End this torture!" You shout at last. The music ends abruptly. You'd meant "show yourself", not "cease your beautiful playing." With the beginnings of a frustrated sob bubbling in your chest, you throw yourself onto the grand piano's bench to hide your face in your hands. For a moment all you hear is your own ragged breath. A sniffle.
Then, like an angel's hum, the song picks up. There is a hesitation to it this time. It's slower, as if unsure if it should continue.
You jerk to your feet, your lungs holding still, in case their next inhale drowns out the sound. As always, there is no direction sourcing the noise. It simply floats through the air, surrounding and passing through you at once. Like a lullaby, you think. Your eyes close, trying to picture the notes as they travel. Instead, you see the lyrics. Not so much the literal letters, but it's suddenly all there, in your head in a way you've struggled to accomplish all this time.
So you sing. You let the music draw out each verse from your throat as if magic. It is only at the song's end that you open your eyes again. You hardly register that you're smiling.
"Thank you." You call. Not quite a shout, but loud enough to reach your mysterious miracle. "You are very kind, if not unconventional," you giggle to yourself. The realization that you're stood in center stage speaking to no one at all sets in and a frown pulls at your lips.
You're a loon. You shame yourself, then quickly gather your things. This place really is making you lose your mind. Still, as you reach the back door, you can't help but glance back. The urge to call out "Good night!" presses. For fear of giving in, you shove through the doors with more force than necessary.