October 10, 1864

Hardly a week has gone by and I am barely holding on.

My first few days here at the opera have been nothing but heartache and misfortune.

Madame Giry has allowed me to join the ballerinas in rehearsal, only to watch and learn general knowledge of ballet. But when I attempt to perform the steps myself, I stumble over my own two feet, and the girls openly mock and jeer.

The madame tutors me privately outside of rehearsal, demonstrating basic steps and techniques. I am much slower than the others, but her patience has allowed me to learn at my own pace.

Today I was taught the five basic positions of ballet, including the arm movements and posture of each. She also taught me how to point my feet properly, and to execute a Plie. My arms and legs are sore now, as are my feet and ankles from rising on my toes.

I suppose it will get harder before it gets easier, but every new course seems to start like that.

My bed where the ballerinas reside is just under the window that looks out over the city of Paris. It's a comforting sight to glimpse the twinkling lights and the gay laughter that rises from the streets. I only wish I could feel some of that laughter once more.

Though hardly a week has passed me by, it feels an eternity since I have felt what it means to laugh and be happy.

Of course, the teasing and the jokes from the ballerinas have been no help.

"Oh look," said Genevieve, one of the more advanced professionals among the ballet. "It's icky Nicky from the slums of Paris."

"Is that what that is?" Marlena joined in. "I thought a piece of trash had blown in from the streets again."

"Or a rat seeking shelter from the cold," Delphine chimes in.

The ballerinas all harmonized in laughter, priding themselves on a cleverness that only proves their lack of self-respect. At least that is what my father would say. I can only reminisce on these words by memory, but believing them is a task all its own. I don't think I will ever grasp his words the same way I did when he spoke them to me personally.

My only prayer at this point is to recover strength from this mourning and overcome this unnecessary weakness from words that are meaningless.

Or at least should render as such.

I suppose things have more power when one is hurting, and I'm forced to learn this the hard way.

Perhaps I'll sneak out and practice what little I learned on my own... which reminds me:

Once a month there is a man, friend of the opera managers, who visits the ballerinas once a month, bringing flowers and candy, and new ribbons for their hair or ballet shoes. His name is Daroga, one who sees over the entire set up of the opera. He is often highly regarded in his expertise with ropes and mechanisms, and lighting fixtures as well. Most especially what he is known for are the stories and legends he brings to frighten the ballerina's and fill their heads with nightmares.

Tonight he was here with yet another telling tale, except this one was very well known, as there was already a general idea of the foundation behind this story.

"Good evening, ladies," he climbed the steps, wearing what appeared to look like a cup on his head with a tassel.

"Daroga," the ballerinas squealed excitedly.

Every ballerina was on their toes and swarming him within seconds, reaching for their gifts and presents. He seemed a nice enough man, but I was not familiar with his culture or country. His accent was funny, and his native language was not french, though he spoke it fluently.

After all of the gifts were passed out to the girls, he noticed me and extended a hand of greeting. "Bonjour, mademoiselle. You must be new."

I accepted his hand of greeting, but I couldn't bring myself to say anything.

He seemed to notice because he knelt down next to my bed and pulled out a handkerchief. With one hand he held it firmly between his fingers, and the other he stroked it gently. Then he made a fist and tucked the cloth in, and with a flick of his wrists, it was gone. The girls were intrigued, just like me.

Then Daroga reached towards his ear and pulled out the cloth, followed, by another, and another, and dozens more.

I managed a small smile, even a giggle couldn't be suppressed.

Once he pulled out the string of handkerchiefs, he took one-off, held it gently in his palm, then smashed it between his hands, curled and revealed a small bouquet of flowers.

"For you," he handed them off to me. "One more?"

I nodded eagerly.

He plucked a petal from one of the roses, twisted his wrist, and revealed a silver coin. Another twist and it vanished, then he reached towards my ear and pulled it out.

"For you," he placed it in my palm.

"Merci," I managed to whisper.

Daroga seemed satisfied with my newly fitted smile and rubbed his hands together. "Fantastique. Now, who wants a story?"

"Me! Me! Moi! S'il vou plait!"

The ballerinas all settled together in each other's beds or sat on the floor with a blanket and pillow for comfort. Daroga sat on a chair at the center of attention, under dim candlelight, rendering in a spooky setting.

"Tonight," he said in a low voice, "I tell you the story of the Opera Ghost!"

He made the candles flicker with a wave of his hand, enticing the ballerinas.

"Do you all know the story?" he inquired.

"Oh! I do!" Genevieve raised her hand.

"Do enlighten us," he replied.

Genevieve sat up on her knees with wide eyes. "It is said that he lives in the sewers beneath the opera."

A gasp.

"And that he lurks the opera house at night."

Fenella suddenly joined in. "I have proof! I've seen him!"

All of the ballerinas gasped and squealed, whispering amongst one another.

"It's true!" she urged on. "When I was backstage, I was alone, and I heard a strange noise behind me. But I also felt I was being watched. But when I turned around, there was no one there, at least I thought. When I turned back to my mirror, I saw a shadow in the glass."

The girls hold one another in fright.

"Then, just as swiftly as a ghost, he was gone!" she cried. "I was so frightened. I didn't know what to do!"

Daroga smiled at these assumptions of the phantom. His story had hardly begun and the girls were in constant chatter. "But what more would you want to see?"

"What do you mean?" Delphine scooted forward.

He slowly stood, making eye contact with every ballerina in the room. "It is said, that he wears a mask. And whoever gazes upon this phantom foe, this shall be their final doing. For when you gaze upon the eyes of the phantom, you meet your doom!"

The girls screamed and clutched their pillows, some burying their faces.

"It is said even his shadow is a dangerous sight," he went on further. "But when you meet his eyes, the last thing you will ever see is his face! For his face, is that of the devil!"

My curiosity wasn't in any belief of this fairytale, only the interesting artifacts throughout the story.

"However, if you are brave enough, or have that wish to escape the hand of death himself," he reached into his coat and pulled out a lasso, putting the loop about his neck, "keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"

With that he tightened the rope, rendering in a terrified room of ballerinas. I, myself, was not so vocally affected by this tale, having felt my own throat clench at the mere sight and thought.

The screams must have alerted Madame Giry, as she rushed in with her cane, resulting in silence as she jabbed the tip of her cane into the floor.

"To bed, all of you!" she demanded. "But one more thing. Consider this a warning."

She began to recite a special tune to help us remember:

Those who speak of what they know

Find too late that prudent silence is wise

Daroga hold your tongue

Keep your hand, at the level of your eye!

With that said, she threw the rope at him and proceeded to usher the girls to bed.

I set my roses down on my trunk and gathered myself under the covers.

Once Madame Giry had vanished, along with Daroga, I woke around one hour until midnight and snuck down to the stage. I was unaffected by the fantastical of that story, especially with the ridiculous assumptions that a man with a mask to hide the devil's face lurked it in the night.

Now I am here and ready to retire.

I only hope these absurdities do not continue any longer. It isn't real, this I am aware of, but the story is frightening and I refuse to hear another word of it.