FEBRUARY PROMTS: ONE YEAR OF PROMPTS!

[Christine Daaé]

A full year has gone by here on the Phantom Manor, and so have a full year of prompts! That’s right! In the Manor’s past, there have been twelve previous opportunities for members to respond to various prompts in order to help boost their muse and to earn a few euro in the process. Now, this month, I present a prompt that is slightly different from the various prompts in the past. But before I go any further, let’s have a look back at all of the previous prompts that have been posted here in the manor.

February Prompts – Saint Valentine Edition! (by Izzi)
Prompt: Dreams (by Kristine)
Prompts: Letters – Experiences (by Pau)
Prompt – Mother’s Day (by Kristine)
June Prompts – Father’s Day (by Kristine)
JULY PROMPTS – NATIONALISM (by Kristine)
AUGUST PROMPTS – LOVE EACH OTHER <3(by Gabby)
SEPTEMBER PROMPTS – BACK TO SCHOOL (by Kristine)
OCTOBER PROMPTS: Fears and Nightmares (by Kristine)
November Prompts – Family, Food, and Giving Thanks (by Kristine)
DECEMBER PROMPTS: ‘TIS THE SEASON OF GIVING (by Kristine)
JANUARY PROMPTS: GOALS AND RESOLUTIONS (by Kristine)

Yup! One prompt for every single month – and now, it comes to number thirteen now that a full year has gone by, and so for this specific prompt, there is going to be something a little different, involving the previous prompts as a sort of tribute. There is only one option for this prompt, but there are several options within that one, so listen up now…

PROMPT

Your character is going about their daily routine there within the Manor when, inside of the library, they come across a door they’ve never seen before. For some strange reason, they feel extremely compelled to go open the door and see what is inside, and to their surprise, find it to be unlocked. When they open it, it leads into a small office-like room full of files and files worth of paper documents, all scattered about as if someone has recently been going through them and searching for one in particular. Your character walks to the desk and finds a file folder with their name written on the top of it, and so they open up the folder. Inside of this folder are all of the previous responses that YOU THE TYPIST have written to various prompts in the past for that specific character who found it. Your character reads through one or more of these prompt responses that you have written regarding them. What is their reaction to reading this material? Do they know that it is about themselves? Who do they believe has written the writing that they’ve found? What are their general thoughts on the content?

In five or more paragraphs, write your character’s experience and reaction to this rather bizarre situation. Your response must contain proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation. Your post must be written as you would a normal in-character post in third person (or first person as the case may be for a few characters which had the admin approval to be written this way). Please note that in order to respond to this prompt, you need to have responded previously to at least one of the other prompts that have been up. If you have not done so, please go respond to one of the other prompts beforehand, as several of them are still up in the Manuscript section and are able to be replied to. Once you have responded to the prompt, please post in the IOU list to receive your fifteen euro. Happy writing everyone! And happy anniversary to Phantom Manor!

[Erik Lenoir]

Erik awoke early one winter morning. He saw a small stack of books he had borrowed from the library sitting at on the floor near his bed and he had finished the last of them the evening past. He needed to bring them back and find something new to read. He dressed and left his lair with the books. The library door was propped open. Erik looked about, but didn't see anyone. He laid his books on the table and was about to look for some new ones when he saw a door he hadn't seen before.

Now Erik had come into the mansion a year ago through a door in the library; a door that had disappeared later. This one was in another place. A different wall. He could have sworn it was not ever there before. It had been a blank wall before, between two of the inset bookcases. He glanced about the place. The other things were the same. The many books, some very old and falling apart. Others newer and dated after Erik's own time. He had long since stopped being upset with that knowledge. He knew he was living in a new time, a future time. As he glanced about the large room, he could see the same sombre paintings of long-dead people, perhaps relatives of the man who up till recently had owned the mansion. The paintings frowned upon him with their dark stares, all seemingly in a black mood.

He turned his attention to the strange door. It was ajar. Ever curious, Erik entered cautiously, but no one was about. It looked as if someone had entered and was looking for something. There were many books and files filling up the set in bookcases on the walls. A desk sat in the middle of the room with a chair under it. Papers were scattered everywhere. He frowned and started picking them up and stacked them on the desk. Then he sat down at the desk and saw a set of folders sitting in a file with names on them. But one pulled his eyes to it. It was sitting on top of the desk. In shock, he read the title of it, which was: Lenoir, Erik. The Phantom in 1986 Phantom of the Opera. Musical. He frowned. Why was his name on a folder and what the hell did 1986 musical mean?

He opened the folder and saw quite a few pages of typing. The titles were: February -Valentine's Day; March – Dreams; April – Letters; May – Mother's Day; June - Father's Day; August – Friendship; December – Greatest Gift. Puzzled, he started perusing them and discovered little vignettes of his life written out in each article; they almost seemed themed. He frowned. He had the feeling again that someone was watching him; knowing everything he did and he didn't like it. It was frightening. In one of them it mentioned the murders. Not many here knew about that. Suddenly he became aware of someone else in the room.

Erik looked up to see a small lady with short black wavy hair standing across from him. He could see through her, partially. She was wearing black trousers and boots and a colourful jacket. Probably someone from this strange future time. And yet, was she a spectre?

“Who the hell are you?” asked Erik, still sitting at the desk, somewhat stunned.

“My name is Rachel, but I don't suppose that will mean a thing.” She smiled. She had a midwestern American accent and a pleasant voice.

“Are you a spectre?” he said, sure that she was.

“Not really. I'm much more real than you are.” She pulled up a chair and sat across from him, “You're my favourite character, you know.”

“And I want to know what that bloody means...” He was getting annoyed now. She was talking in riddles and he didn't care for that.

“You don't have to swear, Erik.”

“Oh, we are on a first name basis, Mademoiselle?”

“Just call me Rachel. And I know you better than you know yourself, Erik. I'm your typist.”

“Again, riddles. Typist...someone who uses a typewriter?”

“Nowadays, in the 21st century, most of us use computers. But it comes out the same. And I've typed out some of your adventures and life vignettes so others can read them.”

He gave her a look so black it almost made the room darker. “Some of the ghosts that reside here have said that some of the residents here that have been pulled in from Paris are merely characters from a book, play, musical or movie. As it says here. Are you saying that's correct?”

She nodded. “Sorry, Erik. It really is true. But wouldn't you rather have a life here with a past and a future than no life at all?”

“Are you saying you are one of the ones who brought me to life? If, of course the rumour is true...”

“No, I didn't do that. It's a rather long story. I doubt that I could relate it correctly so that you would know. But as long as I continue to write about you, you will live here. And I expect if I stop writing about you, someone else will take it up.”

“Why does anyone have to write about me? Why can I not have my privacy?”

“I'm sorry, Erik, really I am...” She reached out for his long fingered hand which was resting upon the desk and touched it with her own. She felt his cold hand for only a moment before hers passed through his.... like a spectre. “I had hoped you would understand. King William is correct, he is indeed a spectre, a man once alive. But you are only a character from a musical. And yet you are alive, in a sense. But you can't survive anywhere else but here, in the mansion or it's grounds or any further than the village.”

“Please, Erik, don't be sad. I am very fond of you. You are an extraordinary man, talented and interesting and you never cease to amaze me. Perhaps “man” is not quite the word....I suppose I shall have to use “character.” I know you don't care for that, but I have to tell you the truth.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his left forehead in frustration and annoyance. He opened them to find Rachel was gone. He stood up, and went back in to the main room of the library to see if she was there, but she had disappeared completely. He decided he wanted to keep the typed notes in the file, and he went back to bring the folder. He put away his books and found a few new ones. He was somewhat distracted now. He put the file folder in one of the books and went back to his lair. He sat down, pondering what this all could possibly be... sometimes his life seemed very good here at the manor. And other times, he learned disturbing truths.

Even though it was still the morning, Erik was feeling weary. He lay back down on his bed after removing his coat, boots, waistcoat and tie. He fell into a troubled sleep. Some hours later he awakened. He sat up on the bed, “Good lord, what a nightmare,” he said to himself. He was still dressed in his nightshirt and the books that he was planning to take back to the library were still on the floor next to the bed. He smiled. It had indeed been a ridiculous nightmare. He looked at the books to see if the file were still there. It was not. He smiled again, then dressed to take the books back to the library.

He left the lair and entered the library. He smiled. There was no strange door, there, open or closed. The wall was there as always. He was still carrying his books to return. He looked at the first one's title then stopped. It was one of the ones he had taken from the library in his dream, not one of the ones he was returning. It was a book he had never read, as were the other three. He dropped them unceremoniously and left the library with a look on his face that was half puzzlement, half fright.