Prologue

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AUDIO VERSION COMING SOON!

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It must be terrible to be a catfish beneath the Palais Garnier, Andrew Khan thought to himself as he tore bits of bread from the small loaf his wife had packed him for lunch. He told her she didn’t have to, but Fatimeh said she still had the urge to make sandwiches in the morning, even though their nest was now empty. 

Catfish have taste buds all over their bodies — every damn inch. He couldn’t imagine what the water of the reservoir would taste like all day, every day, least of all when the firefighters came to practice their diving. 

But it could be one of those things that you get used to, like waking up without the sound of teenagers squabbling over bathroom time after years of mornings filled with chaos, or like the constant smell of cigarettes near the tube. Or, worst of all, like speaking with a man turned legend of nightmares and romance on a daily basis. 

“You’ve come to tell me what I already know,” that voice that reminded one of an aged wine said from the shadows. 

“How’d you find out?” Andrew asked as he pulled himself to his feet with a grunt, feeling his back pop as he did so.

"You forget that as the stories evolved and this opera house was renovated, I changed with it," the man said while he walked to stand over the still nibbling catfish. “You should unsubscribe from the New York Times if they’re going to spam you daily.” 

His email. Of course. 

Andrew tossed the bread's remnants into the reservoir, sighing. “It’s only eight weeks.” 

“Eight weeks?” the specter of a man asked with a crack in his voice. “Is that all? Only eight weeks to have this woman-,” he exploded at the unshakeable man, throwing his arms out for emphasis, “this girl wander around my home, destroy compositions, and make me into more of a joke than I already am, and let’s not forget, try to film me to prove that I am either a story made up by terrified ballerinas or a real monster-” 

“We need this. You need this,” Khan said as he finally turned to face the mask, the same one his long-dead great-great-grandfather followed to Paris out of some misguided debt, and jabbed his finger into the creature's chest like a warning. “The second that show left Broadway, we lost interest. You may not realize this, Erik, but young people don’t exactly get excited to see the opera anymore.” 

“Because they forget what art is,” the phantom scoffed. “That interactive thing in that art house is doing enough. People will come to their senses, and we will survive.” 

“I will, but will you?” Khan said. 

The phantom said nothing as he began to walk. He wondered for a moment if he should do what he did the last time he was stuck as the main attraction in a circus. 

“Erik, please.” 

Erik turned to look at the man. When Khan pleaded with him — whether to stop Erik from strangling a soprano, to let him pull a stunt to keep the Opera Populaire alive, or just to listen — he forgot this was a different man. This was not the Daroga. 

But he was still family in a way.

“She may come and stay for those eight weeks,” Erik finally acquiesced as he approached the wall he had come through. “But let her know I do not welcome her.”