2017

Another winter's night in Paris.

Frost curtains the windows as the wind howls a soft tune, and the snow blankets the earth in a cold powder.

I pick my steps carefully as I creep through the hall, bearing only a candle for light, and enough warmth to support tolerance of the cold. My grand'mere hums merrily behind her bedroom doors, the light of a warm fire flickering under the door.

Slowly I lurk past the door and ascend the steps to the attic.

From the folds of my robe, I produce a key and insert it into the lock, forcing it to turn through the rust.

A loud click forces a peek over my shoulder, alleviating the stress of being caught too soon.

I hold my breath and turn it once more, then gently nudge the door open.

An ancient smell enters my nose, along with the circulating dust that has gathered and collected in this space for decades. My candle light illuminates cobwebs spun from years of abandonment, casting shadows of old boxes, shelves of priceless antiques, portraits partially covered in sheets, and a single wardrobe at the other end of the attic.

Only a single path lies in the midst of this household museum, allowing enough access to reach the painting I discovered long ago.

I carefully trace along the path, cautious of rats or other unfriendly creatures, finally reaching the wardrobe, behind which the painting of my great great great great grand'mere resides.

The piece is sheltered only by the shroud of a silk sheet, preserving the colors and frame of the woman, Nicollette Donnadieu, the woman after whom I was named.

It is certainly no coincidence I am her descendant, sharing her eyes, lips, and jaw, reserved with delicate beauty and graceful posture.

"Night is the mask that protects the will of the devil."

I whirl around to my feet, startled to find the silhouette of my grandmere in the doorway. "I was only curious."

She giggles heartily as she brings herself closer. "Curiosity is no sin. But don't go looking for it in the wrong places."

A sigh escapes her lips as she lays her eyes upon the portrait as if a distant memory was recalled to her.

"Grand'mere," I say softly, "tell me about her. What is her story?"

Her eyes glimmer with spirit under the candle, a smile brandishing her soft wrinkles. "Well... I suppose you are old enough now."

She walks to a large chest and heaves the lid open. The chest is filled with gowns and trinkets, silver and jewels, sheets of music and a violin. I can only imagine the history behind each one. But the one thing my grand'mere retrieves is a small withered journal, bound in leather and strung together with twine.

"What's that?" I inquire eagerly.

"This is personal documentation during the days of Paris's most glorious opera house."

Using the most delicate touch, I cradle the journal in my hands and unwind the twine. The leather crinkles as I open it to the first page, discovering a date as far back as 1864.

"It's a diary," I analyze.

"Oui," my grandmere replies. "A personal memoir of your grandmere Nicollette herself."

Within the cover, I find a French name, with hers, printed just below.

L'oiseau chanteur silencieux

Nicollette Donnadieu

"What is... L'oiseau chanteur silencieux?"

"Ah yes," she nodded. "That was the name Paris had given her. The Silent Songbird. That was her title after her first debut."

"Debut?"

"Oui."

"And Donnadieu... that was the name given by priests to the orphans long ago."

"That was the name she was first known by. And then she became the prima donna of Paris."

My eyes go wide with glee, eagerly turning the withered pages as I strive to learn of the days she lived. The language is in the French language itself, rendering my interpreting skills useful. Immediately, I am able to discern her name, place of residence, and talent for writing.

"Incredible." I flip further and discover her residence. "The Opera Populaire... the most historic landmark in all of Paris!"

"She was a dancer there," she smiles. "And you are familiar with the legend of the opera house?"

I laugh at the mere mention of the tale, though I am always one to learn of a historical legend. "Oui. It was said the opera house was haunted by the opera ghost; a phantom. It is said he is behind the great fire that sent the opera to its depths."

"Very good," she nods. "You may find that your grand'mere is more closely associated with the history of the opera house."

My grand'mere is not the sanest member in my family, but the way she worded that phrase, and the tone she used has rendered me suspicious of something she may know.

"Well, I will leave you to your discoveries. Please, feel free to learn all you wish. But be careful with where it leads you."

As my grand'mere disappears down the stairs, I am left with only the light of my candle, and a curiosity that cannot be detained. And a suspicion suddenly aroused.

There is very little that is known of the Opera Populaire. Though it sits in the heart of Paris, no one dares approach the subject, or the building itself. It is closed down to this day, ever since the great fire that took place there and nearly turned it to ashes. But it is the source behind the fire that captures my special attention.

I am not one to believe in skeptics stories of ghosts and aliens, but something about this story intrigues me.

One of the most original, and oldest stories that live today is the story of the phantom, a ghost with a mask that supposedly lurked the halls of the Opera Populaire. A man but not a man. A monster, a demon in the form of a man, with his face as a mark of his wicked bond.

He was said to have been the reason for this great fire that destroyed the opera house, scarring the city and teaching them to fear the phantom himself, despite their refusal to believe.

Everyone knew who the phantom was that night, and it seems the legend remains.

And the way my current grand'mere hinted the history in the depths of the pages as if coaxing me into going beyond the pages and taking to the source of this history itself.

Perhaps with the access, I have received from my great great great great grand'mere, I may yet discover the truth behind the tragedy of the opera house, and what truly lead to its destruction. My grand'mere Nicolette may know from where the story originated, and inform the world of the truth.

With her documentation of the past and my access to products of the history itself, I may unlock far more than I believe.

I cannot help but laugh at myself, imagine me as an investigator. Who am I to discover the truth behind the opera house? Though with my determination, I may just do it.