The Death of Joseph Bouquet.
The Opera house was silent. It was the one day of the week the nothing was preformed, Sunday, the day of rest. Joseph Bouquet, the scene shifter, made his way through the old set and abandoned props. Almost nothing was ever thrown out if there was the faintest hope of it ever being used again.
He found his way deeper into the cellars, touching the familiar masks as he passed them; a carved stallion with eyes that glowed in the dim light, an ornate bed with a skull grinning from underneath the canopy, a suit of armer holding a sword, despite having no hands.
He had sent the message the previous day, but gods only knew if the stubborn bastards would come. He had been in one of his moods when last they had spoken.
At last he arrived at the secret door, and rapped on it before opening. It never hurt to be polite, even to a mad man. Especially to this mad man he reflected.
"Your late."
Bouquet closed the door behind him, and sat in the old worn arm chair. The room's other occupant was also sitting. He put down the paper he had been reading.
"I'm getting old." Replied the scene shifter. "I though I might be losing my way, had to keep checking the signs."
The masked man was regarding him oddly, a strange mixture of distain and concern.
"Other than frighting ballet girls, what have you been doing with your time, you old wretch?"
Bouquet grinned. "Oh, they like to be frightened now and again. And it doesn't do your reputation any harm if I tell them about the ghost now and then."
"I was not speaking of my 'reputation'" Sighed Erik. "I was referring to you chasing after them in dark. Madam Giry is becoming quite worried for their venture."
"A man's got to have some fun when he can, even an old one. Besides, that old witch knows I'd never do anything that they didn't want, and that probably hasn't been done before. Between you and me, I suspect that she wishes I'd chase after her in the dark..."
He broke of into a dirty laugh, that soon turned into a dirty cough.
"You are a disgusting old man with a filthy mind." Retorted Erik. The idea of Madam Giry longing for the touch of the old scene shifter, it would be laughable if it wasn't so disturbing. His voice softened. "Have you been to the doctor?"
It took Bouquet a moment to catch his breath. "Yes. Nothing good."
"I'm sorry." Replied the opera ghost.
"That is what I wanted to talk to you about. I don't want to go like that, slow and painful, in a sick bed, pitied. They say it's like drowning on dry land." He paused. "I almost drowned once. It is not something I wish to repeat.
"Maybe it's being in this place too long, but I want to go with a bang, something dramatic." He looked at Erik.
"Go on."
"Well, you know I always help you with your, reputation. Spreading rumors that you could vanish into thin air, see through walls, all that."
"Yes," Erik interrupted. "And apparently I have eye that glow yellow in the dark, no nose, and the skin of a corpse. According to rumor, I can spite flames and make a grown man fall into a dead faint with a glance too."
The scene shifter shifted under the steady gaze of the Phantom. "Well, I might have got a little carried away. But that's what you told me to do, spread the story of the ghost."
"And you have, and I am much obliged, even if you did let your imagination run away with you."
"Well, I was wondering, if I could ask a favor?"
"And that would be?"
"I'm dying. I'm going to die, and soon. Why not make it something dramatic, and something that will also put the fear of the ghost into those new managers of yours?"
"What?" Erik sounded truly shocked.
"If I kill my self, I'll be an old fool, pitied, and then forgotten about. But, if I'm a victim of the ghost. Well then, that's a different matter."
Erik was still shocked. "You want me to kill you?"
"If you wouldn't mind, or, at least make it look like you did. I've got a rope and a beam all lined out. I was thinking of doing it in the middle of one of the operas, what do you say?"
"I think your mad."
"Well, that's two of us. I'm going to do it." He was serious. "I would like your help."
The old man got up, and went to the door. He was in the act of opening it when the voice stopped him. "I'll help you. Later this week, be ready, make your peace with those you'll leave behind."
He turned. "Thank you." An idea crossed his mind. "Perhaps I might end up haunting this place. Funny if that happened."