On Friday, 9 October 2026, I asked an entirely innocent question about a musical. What followed was a coincidence so theatrically appropriate that I half-expected a chandelier to fall.
I would like to begin by stating that I am a perfectly rational woman (most of the time).
I believe in historical facts, proper grammar, and the importance of fact-checking AI when asking its help to fix something on your website. I am also aware that not everything requires a supernatural explanation.
Having established my credentials as a sensible member of society, I would now like to report that the Phantom of the Opera appears to be stalking me.
Musically, of course.
It began innocently enough.
Recently, I developed an obsession to the title song of The Phantom of the Opera, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s magnificent musical about a disfigured musical genius who lives beneath a Parisian opera house and demonstrates his romantic interest through kidnapping, intimidation, and the occasional falling chandelier.
One might reasonably suggest that his courtship techniques require improvement.
Nevertheless, the music is glorious.
There is something about the opening organ chords that gives me goosebumps. And when the Phantom begins singing, I am quite prepared to overlook his questionable interpersonal skills for approximately five minutes.
Naturally, my current enthusiasm for learning Italian has only made matters worse.
I found myself listening to the Italian version of The Phantom of the Opera, examining unfamiliar words, and discovering that angelo, a masculine noun, does not change when referring to a woman.
Italian grammar is full of these delightful little traps.
I also discovered that fantasma, despite ending in -a, is masculine.
Apparently, even in the afterlife, Italian nouns refuse to behave.
And so it was that, on an otherwise unremarkable Friday evening, I asked ChatGPT a simple question:
“When was The Phantom of the Opera first performed?”
The answer came back immediately.
9 October 1986. Her Majesty’s Theatre, London.
I stared at the date.
Then I looked at the calendar.
It was 9 October 2026.
Precisely forty years later.
I beg your pardon?
Of all the days I could have asked that question, I had chosen the exact fortieth anniversary of the musical’s London premiere.
Not the day before.
Not the day after.
The exact date.
I had not been reminded by a theatre enthusiast nor had I consulted a commemorative calendar.
I had simply become curious.
Forty years after the curtain first rose, I had apparently decided that this particular Friday was an excellent time to investigate the Phantom’s theatrical origins.
Now, I understand probability.
There are 365 possible calendar dates on which a person might inquire about the history of a musical. And once one begins taking an interest in a particular subject, certain coincidences are bound to occur.
But understanding probability does not prevent one from raising an eyebrow.
Or both eyebrows.
Especially when the subject in question is a mysterious masked gentleman who has spent four decades insisting that he is here, inside our minds.
Well, congratulations, sir.
You have succeeded.
I can only imagine the Phantom sitting in his subterranean lair, adjusting his half-mask, and consulting a calendar.
“Forty years,” he murmurs. “Surely someone will remember.”
And sure enough, thousands of kilometres away in Asia, a woman who has been wrestling with Italian prepositions suddenly asks when his musical premiered.
Somewhere beneath the Paris Opera House, a candle flickers triumphantly.
To be clear, I am not suggesting that the Phantom has supernatural powers.
Nor am I suggesting that the universe deliberately arranged this encounter.
I am merely observing that if one were attempting to stage a suitably Gothic coincidence, this would be an excellent opening scene.
There would be a darkened theatre.
A single spotlight.
A red rose lying upon the stage.
And somewhere in the distance, the unmistakable sound of an organ.
As for me, I shall continue listening to the Italian version, attempting to master its vocabulary, and trying not to interpret every coincidence as a message from a fictional gentleman in a mask.
Although I must admit, his timing is considerably better than that of certain gentlemen I have encountered in real life.
At least the Phantom knows how to make an entrance.
And he only took forty years to do it.
Postscript, 10 October 2026:
Just when I thought the Phantom had finished making his presence felt, a parcel arrived from Amazon.
Inside was a beautifully bound copy of Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera, which I had ordered the previous week.
Before I knew about the anniversary.
Before I asked that fateful question.
Before any of this nonsense began.
The book arrived exactly one day after the musical’s fortieth anniversary.
Apparently, the Phantom had planned his entrance in advance.
Unfortunately, Amazon was running a day behind.
