Jean rose early the next morning despite his pounding headache. He dressed in a hurry, almost forgetting his glasses in his rush. He needed to get to work; he couldn't find the plans the shadowy figure had given him. He must've left them there. He had no idea what his boss Mr. Waldegrave would do upon finding them. The thought of explaining this to the American, would've given Jean a headache if he didn't already have one.

He exited the building onto the street. Instantly he was drenched by a puddle splashed by a coach wheel. He considered lying down right there and giving up on the rest of the day. What bliss that would be - but no. He had his boss and a strange customer to see to.

He finally made it to work and burst through the door, out of breath.

"Jean, you look horrendous," Mr. Waldegrave said, barely glancing up from his newspaper.

"Bonjour, Mr. Waldegrave," Jean muttered through clenched teeth.

"Yeah yeah, banjer to you too," Mr. Waldegrave said dismissively.

Damn that fat American bastard.

Jean went to his desk, looking for the papers from last night. They weren't where he left them. He was about to rummage through all the drawers when he heard Mr. Waldegrave stand up. He turned around and saw his boss holding the plans from the stranger.

"Jean, I saw these and had a look. Wild stuff. I was going to say toss them in the trash, but I found this as well." He picked up the envelope from his own desk. "Five thousand francs! Also, a note. I can barely read it, but it says, 'Follow my instructions to the letter. Keep this quiet. More payment when I return in a week. Yours, the eccentric customer.' More payment!" He beamed.

"Yes, but sir, the specifications are too much!" Jean cried out while his brain drummed in his ears. He sat down before he could fall over.

And he'd thought yesterday was long.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out." Waldegrave waved a hand dismissively.

"The man said, he didn't give me his name, he said he was going to sleep in the coffin!" Jean's head was about to burst from all the building pressure.

Waldegrave shrugged. "Come on. We just do what we're paid to, Jeanie boy!" He slapped Jean on the back a bit too hard, nearly knocking him over. Waldegrave turned away, quietly but audibly chuckling at Jean's discomfort.

Jean's eyes widened in horror, "B-but Monsieur! Mr., Mr. Waldegrave, you did not see his face." If he had to be horrified by the situation, Waldegrave did too. "It was not human."

Waldegrave stopped, "Oh?" he said with interest.

"It was dark…" Jean felt bad, but Waldegrave had to understand, and the stranger had threatened him after all. "I think he had no nose, and his skin was discolored like paper, and he was more bone than anything else! Oh, but his eyes, his eyes, Monsieur, I can never forget them

"Mister, and please just get on with it!" Waldegrave snapped. He was becoming even more irritated by the second.

Jean flinched but continued. "They were yellow. Have you ever met a man with yellow eyes? They glowed. It was unnatural. And…" Jean paused, taking a shaky breath. "He smelled like death Mr. Waldegrave. I think…" He paused again, but spoke when he saw Waldegrave turning red. "I think he's not of the living, Mr. Waldegrave. Also, he threatened me."

"Not… of the living?" Waldegrave's anger melted into a disturbing glee. "Oh, Jeanie boy! You've made a fine catch!" He clapped Jean hard on the back. "Either he's undead, or some ghastly human oddity! Either way, there's a story. And stories, my boy, can be sold!" Waldegrave went to his desk and pulled out two cigars. "We'll make the thing what it wants, Jean, we will. It won't be able to carry that coffin itself. We should help, yes?" He proffered a cigar to Jean.

Jean remembered his childhood days filled with his father's cigar smoke.

"N-no thanks." He stuttered. His palms beginning to sweat lightly.

"Jean, I insist." Mr. Waldegrave wrapped Jean's hand around it.

They got to work on the arrangements.

- One Week Later-

Jean had spent the week trembling and exhausted. Every waking moment seemed to filled with poring over the plans, taking measurements, and sending off for materials and craftsmen. And listening to Waldegrave talk about "it". All the time it was, "Jean, tell me more about 'it'" and, "Jeanie boy are you sure 'it' is story worthy?" and "I can't wait to meet the walking corpse! In the flesh!"

Now the day - or rather the night - was here. Jean had turned most of the lamps off. His health was failing, or at least it felt that way. After tonight he'd be free. Maybe he'd even quit this wretched job.

The door swung open, and the strange customer arrived.

Mr. Waldegrave's eyes flicked up and down, taking the sight in. He smiled. He offered a hand for a shake, "I'm the owner of this establishment, Horatio Waldegrave. And you are?"

"here for my casket," the stranger said. "You will follow me to the Palais Garnier. I know I am not able to deliver it on my own, so I suppose you may help me." He stood frozen in the shadows by the door, yellow eyes fixed on Jean's brown. He pulled his hat down more, "I shall inspect it; then we shall go."

Jean coughed. "It's, um, in the other room."

The stranger nodded and went to look without stepping out of the shadows.

He soon returned. "A few things are off, but otherwise, your efforts are… actually commendable, Mortemer."

"Well, he had my guidance, didn't'cha Jeanie boy?" Waldegrave nudged Jean hard in the side.

"Y-yes sir," Jean said.

The eyes pierced through Mr. Waldegrave. The, now noticeably less cocky, owner gulped.

"Let's go. My patience wears thin." The stranger opened the door. The chilled night air wafted in.

Jean shivered slightly. He did not know if it was from the air or from the presence of the yellow eyed figure. Waldegrave's unconcealed joy about his scheme certainly wasn't comforting.

After much lugging, mostly by Jean, they ended up far beneath the awe-inspiring structure of the Palais Garnier. Now they were in the damp mazes underneath. Mr. Waldegrave was too busy looking around in amazement and trying not to slip to help with the carrying down the seemingly endless depths.

The strange man seemed to be carefully considering each step. He muttered to himself every once in a while, but it was unintelligible. He stopped at a door and let them in. He disappeared into a corner for a moment; when he turned back around he was wearing a black mask. He then went to move some things around.

Waldegrave whispered to Jean, "A freak in a mask? Who sleeps in a coffin beneath an opera house? Sensational!" And to himself he whispered, "I can pay him back…"

It took them half an hour to place it to the liking of the strange customer.

"No, no! You imbecile!" the stranger cried and slapped Waldegrave's hand aside. He and Jean moved the coffin two inches to the left. "Finally, this is acceptable. It's so frustrating when people can't accomplish even the most minute task properly!" He ran his hands over the smooth wooden lid slowly. He appeared to be doing another, hopefully final, inspection.

"Poor fool," Waldegrave whispered to Jean.

Jean looked at Waldegrave with wide eyes, but said nothing.

"Hey mister, uh, Mr. Designer. It's been a long day. We did some good work. How about we go out for a drink?" Waldegrave had a horrible grin on his face.

"No," the stranger said.

Waldegrave smirked. "You sure? I bet you need one. It'll be good to get out, it's damp."

"Mr. Waldegrave, I don't-"

"Hush Jean, no one asked you," Waldegrave snapped.

"Leave. Your payment will arrive tomorrow. It is in your best interest not to cross me," the stranger said, artificial coldness barely disguising fire. His back was still turned.

"Too bad," Waldegrave said quietly. His hand went into his jacket. To Jean's horror he was pulling out a revolver, yellow with scratched paint. Waldegrave cocked the gun. "Mister, better turn 'round. I don't know what or who you are, but I can guess."

The stranger laughed. "Can you? Can you? Can you?" With each word he came closer.

"Waldegrave, stop!" Jean cried.

"It's not human, and it has enemies. And I have debts!" Waldegrave said, but he was panicked, backing away.

The stranger kept coming closer.

Waldegrave's shaking hands started to pull the trigger.

"No!" Jean leapt towards him and knocked the gun out of his hand.

The terrifying man lunged for Waldegrave, knocking him against a wall. "You thought you could betray Erik? You thought that you could hurt me that way? DID YOU THINK YOU WERE THE FIRST?!" His crazed yells were only heard by Jean; Waldegrave was already unconscious… or worse. Soon the stranger, the artist, Erik, turned to Jean with yellow eyes like hellfire in their sunken sockets.

He started to approach, pulling a rope out of the depths of his cape. His steps were firm. Determined.

Jean's were shaky; he edged backwards. "P-please. I tried to stop him. I-" He gulped. "I can help you. I can get-" He stumbled and fell to the ground. Sobs started to wrack his body. All he could smell was the memory of cigar smoke. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. "Erik. I'll- I'll do anything for you."

The steps stopped. Jean heard a laugh, hollow and filled with sorrow. Something was tossed to the side - the rope? Jean still wouldn't open his eyes. Erik sighed. "Oh, if only that were true."

Jean peeked at Erik through his fingers; was that a tear slipping out from under the mask? Surely not. Jean was the one who had been crying. No, of course not. This man was a murderer; why would he be crying? Jean tensed up again and closed his eyes.

"Get up."

Silence.

"Get up."

"Wh-what?" Jean said. He opened his eyes and uncovered his eyes.

"Go." Erik gestured towards where the stairs were.

"Why?"

"This is not a terribly advantageous question for you, is it?" Erik said, Jean noted the irritation and scrambled to his feet.

As he was going a skeletal hand grabbed his arm. His blood ran cold. He froze to the spot.

"Mortemer, I admire your resolve. I will take you up on your offer sometime in the future. I trust you will not tell anyone what you saw here?" His eyes bored into Jean's soul. Expectant. Waiting.

Jean thought about it. He should tell the police. He should tell the press. Waldegrave was dead. Waldegrave was no saint, either. He had been spared. Plus, Jean had no idea what else Erik was capable of. He was terrifying. But Jean had saved his life for a reason. Jean shook his head. "I won't, I won't say anything." He meant it, too.

"Good. You will receive the rest of the payment soon. I would suggest turning up to work tomorrow, but not after that." Erik let go of Jean's arm. "Look out for a note, Mortemer."

Jean left the corpse and the specter behind, wanting to look back but deciding against it. This underworld was no place for him. He doubted he'd return here. He wasn't sure he'd want to anyway. He should leave Paris. Ignore whatever notes. Never speak of this.

But he knew that that was unlikely. This was a night he'd never forget. He emerged into the dawn of the new day not the same as he had been before.

Epilogue:

Dear P,

I am near distraught to hear about your mother! You must tell me these things sooner. If you had told me a week ago I would've been there at once. As it stands now, I am entangled in some business that may go on for weeks or months. Regardless, I send my condolences to you and all the family. She was truly a light that brightened the world.

Now, on to your queries about the "Opera Ghost" that has captured the popular imagination as of late. While I did live in Paris at the time, I was quite young, around twelve I think. Considering my circumstances I certainly was in no position to be attending operas or balls, masked or otherwise. However, I am friends with an older man - he prefers to remain anonymous but I'm sure you'll be able to tell who it is - who says he can share some insight.

He tells me - yes this is what he said - that he was the Opera Ghost's errand boy. Yes, that grand, gruesome, and mysterious personage needed shopping done occasionally. Apparently this friend of mine was even given a pretty penny for it. He described to me one such occasion. He was at his office when a girl with dark skin and eyes, and bad attitude, gave him a note. The note said, and he told me to quote it:

"Procure four dozen flowers. Normal method of delivery. Am attempting to recreate Eden for a visiting angel. Listen tonight and you will know what I mean.

Signed,

Your favorite customer."

And then he did just as asked.

He told me the man was a terrifying genius as everyone said. He said other things too but they don't bear repeating. I do believe my friend is caught in one of his fantasies again. He slips into them often these days. His own intelligence is fading, changing into something else. Memories turned into things much more elaborate. Still, imagine if it were true!

All my love and deepest sympathies to the family, do remember to write again soon.

-F