Post by Erik Lenoir on Mar 15, 2012 20:06:16 GMT -5
After leaving the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny and going in the direction he had pointed out as a sleeping area, Erik continued walking down the designated corridor. He kept on walking, but there was nothing, just several turns with not even so much as a window or door on either side. He frowned. "De Chagny must have sent me in the wrong direction on purpose," he muttered to himself. "He is probably laughing at this very moment to think of sending me off to get lost..."
Then Erik made another turn into a short hall with nothing but a strange looking pocket door at the end of it. It was recessed and the two sides met in the middle, with no apparent knob or handle for opening it. The doors were made of metal with a metal finish. It looked quite out of place. On the wall next to the door was a single button. Erik fingered the button, then pushed it. Surprisingly it lit up, from within and he heard a low whirring of machinery and the doors opened. Steram lifts had been around for some thirty years and the first electric elevators had been installed only a few years before this, but Erik had not experienced any of them, although he had heard of them.
Erik entered the lift, wondering how many storeys this house really had. The door closed after him with a soft swish. He looked at the panel to the side of the door and saw that there were over a dozen buttons lined up, a few had names next to them. He was startled to see his name listed next to one of them: Erik Lenoir. He pushed the button to see what would happen. Again the soft whirring of machinery and after going past several storeys, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Erik stepped out to a small hallway with large wooden double doors, carved in dark wood and immediately in front of him. He stepped forward and opened one of the doors. He entered, let go of the door and it shut quietly behind him.
Erik stood there a moment, not really believing his eyes. He wondered if he were dreaming. After all, he had not had any sleep in ...well, he couldn't remember. But stretched before him were the rope bridges inside the bowels of the Opéra Populaire, leading down to the lake and catacombs and caves five storeys below, to the place he called home.
Erik blinked. Could this be a trap? Should he continue? But why not? If it were a trap, how could he be better off by staying here and wandering about the mansion, than perhaps discovering who had abducted him and all the others he had met ...and what their reasons were. He started off, across the rope bridges which always swayed and moved whenever anyone crossed them. For a person who had neer used these types of bridges, or anyone who was a bit afraid of heights, it could be frightening and even treacherous to walk upon them. But to Erik, it was nothing.
Erik continued walking until he was at the level of the lake. There sat his beautiful wood gondola with its intricately carved prow in the shape of a dragon. He climbed into the boat, untied it from the pier, and picked up the long wooden oar and began to move it across the water to his place of residence, the place that was called the Phantom's Lair. He rather didn't like that epithet, it made him seem like some type of animal that preyed on unsuspecting victims. He hadn't meant for anyone to think of him in those terms. But it didn't really matter, as long as they had a healthy fear of him.
After making a few turns, Erik reached the other side of the lake, tied up the gondola and alit from the boat onto dry land. Entering the "lair," Erik saw the many candles that he kept burning, still lit. He frowned. This was entirely too strange. The huge, odd black statues he had erected near the edge of the lake stood as they had when he fled the "lair" not too long ago. He continued on past his beloved organ, where he composed much of his music, and on to the living quarters. There were the small rooms, caves really, of his private residence, just as he had left them. The catacombs had formed small natural caverns which he made his bedroom, his tiny kitchen and pantry and his washroom. All his possessions were here, his musical insturments, his books and myriads of candles that he alwayskept burning in the caves for light. He smiled, happy to be home. But then he shook his head again. It wasn't home, it couldn't possibly be home, and yet, it was perfect to the very last detail.
But Erik was dead tired. He took off his clothes, filthy with the dirt of the places he had been, most recently the dungeon, which had been the worst. He washed, made himself some tea and a bit of food and feeling extremely exhausted,lay down on the piles of animal furs and thick blankets that he used for a bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
Then Erik made another turn into a short hall with nothing but a strange looking pocket door at the end of it. It was recessed and the two sides met in the middle, with no apparent knob or handle for opening it. The doors were made of metal with a metal finish. It looked quite out of place. On the wall next to the door was a single button. Erik fingered the button, then pushed it. Surprisingly it lit up, from within and he heard a low whirring of machinery and the doors opened. Steram lifts had been around for some thirty years and the first electric elevators had been installed only a few years before this, but Erik had not experienced any of them, although he had heard of them.
Erik entered the lift, wondering how many storeys this house really had. The door closed after him with a soft swish. He looked at the panel to the side of the door and saw that there were over a dozen buttons lined up, a few had names next to them. He was startled to see his name listed next to one of them: Erik Lenoir. He pushed the button to see what would happen. Again the soft whirring of machinery and after going past several storeys, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Erik stepped out to a small hallway with large wooden double doors, carved in dark wood and immediately in front of him. He stepped forward and opened one of the doors. He entered, let go of the door and it shut quietly behind him.
Erik stood there a moment, not really believing his eyes. He wondered if he were dreaming. After all, he had not had any sleep in ...well, he couldn't remember. But stretched before him were the rope bridges inside the bowels of the Opéra Populaire, leading down to the lake and catacombs and caves five storeys below, to the place he called home.
Erik blinked. Could this be a trap? Should he continue? But why not? If it were a trap, how could he be better off by staying here and wandering about the mansion, than perhaps discovering who had abducted him and all the others he had met ...and what their reasons were. He started off, across the rope bridges which always swayed and moved whenever anyone crossed them. For a person who had neer used these types of bridges, or anyone who was a bit afraid of heights, it could be frightening and even treacherous to walk upon them. But to Erik, it was nothing.
Erik continued walking until he was at the level of the lake. There sat his beautiful wood gondola with its intricately carved prow in the shape of a dragon. He climbed into the boat, untied it from the pier, and picked up the long wooden oar and began to move it across the water to his place of residence, the place that was called the Phantom's Lair. He rather didn't like that epithet, it made him seem like some type of animal that preyed on unsuspecting victims. He hadn't meant for anyone to think of him in those terms. But it didn't really matter, as long as they had a healthy fear of him.
After making a few turns, Erik reached the other side of the lake, tied up the gondola and alit from the boat onto dry land. Entering the "lair," Erik saw the many candles that he kept burning, still lit. He frowned. This was entirely too strange. The huge, odd black statues he had erected near the edge of the lake stood as they had when he fled the "lair" not too long ago. He continued on past his beloved organ, where he composed much of his music, and on to the living quarters. There were the small rooms, caves really, of his private residence, just as he had left them. The catacombs had formed small natural caverns which he made his bedroom, his tiny kitchen and pantry and his washroom. All his possessions were here, his musical insturments, his books and myriads of candles that he alwayskept burning in the caves for light. He smiled, happy to be home. But then he shook his head again. It wasn't home, it couldn't possibly be home, and yet, it was perfect to the very last detail.
But Erik was dead tired. He took off his clothes, filthy with the dirt of the places he had been, most recently the dungeon, which had been the worst. He washed, made himself some tea and a bit of food and feeling extremely exhausted,lay down on the piles of animal furs and thick blankets that he used for a bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
