January/February 2010

The old, worn curtain loomed over the stage. Chairs covered in faded, red velvet cushions were scattered throughout the theatre. A piano that had once been played in the most famous of performances now housed a family of mice. The theatre was falling apart, yet it still contained a certain beauty and elegance. If you listened closely, you could faintly hear the soft, sweet sound of a violin coming from behind the dark curtain. A single candle on the glamorous chandelier that hung from the ceiling of the concert hall flickered to life. The violin was joined by a flute, clarinet, cello, and then a viola. As the instruments grew louder, the chandelier became brighter. Soon, the music of an entire orchestra floated throughout the theatre, and the hall was filled with the soft glow of candles. Famous pieces by Tchaikovsky, Bach, Vivaldi, Beethoven, and many others were performed, yet the curtain never rose to reveal the mysterious musicians who played for an invisible audience. Just as soon as the music began, the harmonic sounds began drifting into the darkness, until only the lone violin could be heard; that, too, soon grew quiet. Who were the mysterious performers whose music was so captivating? Who were the mysterious performers whose music was so captivating? Who were they that hid behind the curtain of the abandoned concert hall? They were not of the human race, for they left no trace of their presence. Was it possible that they were beings who had once been of this world, but no longer were? If so, what reason did they have for returning to the theatre? The only answer I can give you, my friend, is to come with me, for they are what this story is all about. *          *          * Late one night, as a light snow fell over all of Paris, a boy slowly crept towards the theatre. Finally, he had made it; he was away from that orphanage he had so long called a home—an orphanage that should never have been his home. True, his parents had died when he was just three years old, but he wasn’t the only surviving member of his family. Somewhere in Paris, he knew, his grandfather was still alive. He didn’t know where in Paris his grandfather was, or even what his grandfather’s name was, but he knew that his grandfather could give him the loving home he had never had. He just had to find him first. And while he was searching, he would need to make sure the orphanage people couldn’t find him. The old, abandoned theatre would make the perfect hideout. With a quick glance over his shoulder, the boy slipped inside through a broken window. There, he found himself standing in front of two large, charred, heavy wooden doors. As he pushed them open, they creaked loudly. The boy looked around the huge room that he had just entered. It appeared that it had once been the concert hall of the theatre, and it looked strangely familiar to him, but he didn’t know why. Well, he thought to himself, I guess this is home. Suddenly, the hall was aglow with hundreds of candles, and music was coming from behind the curtain on the stage. The boy was out the doors and through the window in a flash! He tripped as he flew out the window, landing face-first in the snow. Breathing heavily, he stood up and brushed himself off. What— or who—had been making that music? he wondered. Was it just his imagination? Could it have been… ghosts? The boy shivered at the thought. No! his mind screamed at him. He would not be afraid. He, Gabriel Campeau, wouldn’t let a bunch of musical ghosts scare him away. He escaped the cruelty of the orphanage, traveled all the way here to Paris; he was brave, smart… And he had nowhere else to go. The curtains in an apartment across the alley fluttered, and Gabriel quickly sneaked back into the theatre. A middle-aged woman appeared on the apartment’s balcony, her shadow stretching across the moonlit alley. Once again, music that sounded as if it were just outside her bedroom window had awakened her. It was so familiar, and it brought back many memories of her days spent in the theatre. She stared longingly at the theatre’s faded walls. It had always held a special place in her heart, but even though it contained so many happy memories, the haunting memories of a night many years before kept her from ever reentering the theatre. If she had, she would have realized that the music she heard was much more than a dream. *          *          * On the other side of the city, an elderly man tossed and turned from the nightmare that he had relived every night for the past ten years. It was so vivid; there he was, bowing as he was introduced to the biggest audience for whom he had ever performed. He turned around, and his wonderful orchestra began playing. Just as the song was ending, a blood-curdling scream came from somewhere backstage, and smoke poured into the concert hall. Panic and terror ensued as everyone attempted to escape the burning theatre. The most horrifying part of his nightmare was when he looked back into the theatre and saw people struggling to get out. People who were his friends, his co-workers, his family; people who, when the smoke had cleared, were gone. The man wiped away a tear that slid down his face. Most of his orchestra had died in the fire, and the few who survived had left Paris soon after. He had gone from being the man in his dream, Alexandre Mierceles, the greatest conductor and composer in all of France, to nothing more than a frail old man with no friends, no family, and hardly anything left that was worth living for. His only daughter and her husband had perished on that tragic night, and their