L'Opera Garnier was no longer an Opera House. The French and their love for the ballet! That horrible, clumsy art created by horrible, clumsy people! From that year forward the Palais Garnier would perform ballet almost exclusively, unless rented out for some other purpose. It was cheaper to perform ballets, the managers noticed, without the lofty fees virtuosic singers charged. Without having to house, feed, and pay a cast, performances became virtually pure profit! The little ballet rats paid to live in the dormitories and be taught, and collected only a meager salary, and even giving the stagehands a small raise increased the profits more than one hundred fold.
The increased profits of the ballet allowed the managers to hire a generally more skillful staff, something the Opera Ghost was admittedly pleased about. Most of the lesser talented orchestra members had been promptly sacked in favor of more skillful musicians, something that the Ghost had actually praised the managers for in spite of his rage at the loss of the Opera.
What a waste ballet was! The ballet was like watching newborn calves stumble around the stage. Ballerinas were hideous little things, the Opera Ghost thought to himself as he watched them practice one afternoon. They were at terribly homogenized breed, with awkwardly long limbs, high waists and small torsos, no breasts of any substance, long necks and small heads. For the most part, their looks made girls awkward and gangly, like pale little African giraffes.
One of the new members of the staff did not fit this mold, however. The woman the managers hired to replace the boy they had caught stealing after their custodian of nearly ten years was killed for sport (made to look like an accident, of course), was singularly remarkable to watch. The Ghost could still remember the day he first saw her upon the stage, dancing with a broom as if it were a soon to be departed lover. She was built the same as any other ballerina, but with such different style… Russian, the Ghost had noticed, with strong, clean lines that still somehow appeared to be effortless. The Russians were known for the strength and power in their dance, as opposed to the mindless grace the French attempted and often failed at.
The Ghost had watched her dance several times, having first noticed her out of the corner of his eye as he returned to his dwelling below the theatre. He was compelled to watch by her beauty and power, and by the heart wrenching loneliness her movements conveyed. He could remember nearly calling out to her as she was nearly swallowed up by the stage, if only so she would know she was not alone in the darkness.
While on his way back to his dwelling below the theatre one night, the very same lonely little dancer ran into him head long, rounding a corner directly into his chest. Panic and anxiety filled his blood, and the Ghost immediately lived up to his name and vanished into the shadows of the hallway, fingering the thing string of catgut rope tied neatly around his belt, hoping silently she would simply think herself clumsy and walk away.
But she didn't. ""Monsieur? I didn't hurt you did I? Monsieur?"
"You are the new street rat the managers hired, aren't you?" He sneered, throwing his voice behind her to cause her to turn away from him and watching with cruel delight as she turned in confusion. Perhaps she wasn't so different from those stupid little ballet rats after all. Pretty enough but without a single ounce of sense.
"I am, Monsieur," The Ghost nearly laughed allowed at how offended she was by the remark, marking it as a personal triumph; if he couldn't manage to kill the girl he could at least wound her pride a little. "I beg your forgiveness, Monsieur, but really, if you're all right I must go or I'll be terribly late."
It was now or never… it would be so easy. The catgut seemed to have a will of its own these days, wrapping itself around the necks of people who would never be missed. Snapping the frail neck of a misplaced ballerina would be effortless. So why did it feel wrong? 'When have you become concerned with the difference between right and wrong?' The Ghost asked himself. 'Just a month ago you hanged a man for no reason, but it is 'wrong' to kill a dirty street rat?'
It is wrong to kill a kindred spirit, he reasoned quietly. A fellow artist, albeit in a far less respectable art, who was by what he could tell nearly as out of place and alone as he was. And besides, he had never killed a woman before… would he be able to start now? He had been seen by the little ballet rats in the past and had allowed them all to live, why was it necessary to kill a working woman? It simply wasn't.
"…All right, you may go," he announced after a long period of silence, apparently not the answer the woman wanted to hear.
"Where are you? Why can't I see you?" She pried, stupidly.
"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to," the Ghost warned the girl for both their sakes, eager for her to leave and forget she had ever run into him. He wanted more than anything to disappear into the darkness and be lost to the world once more... but that was not going to happen, not tonight.
"Are you the Opera Ghost the ballerinas have warned me about? You are, aren't you! Why I have half a mind to-" This set The Ghost off, and in a half-second motion he took his handkerchief and dipped onto it a trace amount of chloroform he kept on his person in case of just such an emergency. The girl crumpled against him. He had originally planned to just leave the girl and make his escape, but suddenly it was all he could do not to prop her up against one of the walls and rape her on the spot. A woman in his arms! Even if she was unconscious, it was a glorious feeling to hold such a supple, if dangerously inquisitive beast in such a way. But he must show a little self control… at least until they were down out of the public eye. Then perhaps he would finally indulge himself and take the only thing women were of use for. Rather than simply leave her sleeping form to wake with a chloroform headache in an hour or two, the Ghost gathered up the girl and began to move in the shadows.
The Ghost carried her light frame down through the underbelly of the theatre, to a world that would never see the sun. The woman began to stir, much to The Ghost's upset; he would have to drug her again once they were inside. Though perhaps a struggling victim might be enjoyable, he thought wildly. If he was going to commit a rape, why not thoroughly enjoy it?
The woman clutched her head some as he picked her up once more, pressing a hidden leaver against the otherwise flat wall at the opposite end of the lake to let them inside the dimly lit compound. Home sweet home, he thought, and what a sweet, sweet night it would be.
Anya looked around as her head throbbed, unfamiliar with this place… or with the masked man who carried her, she realized, heart leaping in her chest in panic. "Who are you? Put me down!"
"You seemed to know exactly who I was an hour ago," purred the man condescendingly, and again Anya's heart fluttered in panic. The Opera Ghost!
"Put me down!" She demanded, struggling fiercely. "My husband will-"
"Your husband?" The Ghost laughed maliciously. "Tell me about your husband," the figure demanded, almost as if he already knew about her husband already.
"He is a strong man, and he carries a gun," she lied. "He would kill you in a moment if he knew you had taken me! Unhand me this moment!"
The Ghost was so amused he decided to put aside his nighttime diversions and play a little cat and mouse first.
"Is he now?" The Ghost asked in a manner that set Anya on edge, though he did set her down on her feet. She looked around wildly for any sort of exit, bolting to the nearest door and flinging it open to find an ordinary little bedroom, something quite unlike what she had expected in the dwelling of a masked kidnapper calling himself the Opera Ghost.
"...Yes, he is," she stated again firmly, gathering her wits as the tall masked figure stood in the doorway of the room she had now trapped herself in. "A soldier, as brave as there ever was. He'll notice I'm missing soon, so you had better return me-"
She was interrupted by an ugly, cruel laugh which caused Anya to hold herself uncomfortably… somehow, her kidnapper knew the truth. "That is not the story I heard," announced the masked figure in sing-song as he ventured forward into the room. "I heard your husband was an artist, and a coward, but I do believe he was very capable with a gun, was he not?"
"Stop it…" She demanded as the man approached her, covering her ears against his words and backing away. The Ghost did not relent, delighted by her upset and rapidly forgetting his desire to abuse her lithe little body in favor of abusing her cracked mind.
"So I heard correctly! I cannot imagine how horrible it must have been for an artist to go blind. A painter, wasn't he? Oh, how it must have ruined him!"
"No, stop it!" Anya demanded once more, closing her eyes tight against the sight of the man as she stumbled back against the bed, but now her mind was filled with visions of red as the monster in front of her continued to speak.
"Unable to appreciate the beauty of the pattern the back of his head created on the wall when he blew his brains out-" Suddenly Anya threw herself at the man in a rage, pounding on his chest ferociously.
"You're a monster, a sick, twisted animal!" She shouted at him as she beat on his chest. "Don't speak as if you knew my husband! NEVER speak as if you knew my husband! He was a good man!"
The Ghost was so taken aback by her rage he had no idea how to react; he had not been attacked by a woman before, not in this manner. It was… pathetic. Endearing, almost. The woman collapsed at his feet, too upset to even weep. She sat on the floor in agony, no longer caring about the man in front of her or whatever it was he intended for her.
"Do you not have family in Russia?" The man demanded, though Anya knew it was another loaded question.
"You know that I do, Monsieur Fantôme," whispered the woman, not sure how he knew her past so well but knowing that he did. "Why not just say what you mean to say?"
"I would much prefer to hear it from you. You have a sister-"
"Who was having an affair with my husband," she snapped, standing again. "Now if you're quite satisfied, I'm already impossibly late for my shift. Do whatever it is you're going to do with me and either put me out of my misery or take me back."
The Ghost seemed taken aback by her frankness, and was quiet for a long moment. "I brought you here to rape you. But you know that."
This news was met with a small nod, and the ghost could swear there was more gray in her eyes than green now. "I am obviously powerless to stop you. I have no idea where I am, or how I got here. I could be back in Russia for all I know… If it would truly satisfy you, by all means have your way with me, God knows I certainly can't do anything about it. It's not as if you could ruin me anyway, after fifteen years of marriage there's nothing of value between my legs anymore," she grumbled, more to herself than to the man in front of her; why else would her husband have run into the arms of her younger sister?
There was no way he could go through with the act now. The urge was gone, and the woman's words had caused him to think… would it truly satisfy him? What was sex but an exchange of bodily fluids if there was no meaning behind it? He could derive just as much satisfaction from his own hand if that were simply the goal. He had already stripped the girl of any power she had; it didn't seem to him that raping her could harm her any more than his words already had.
He was quiet for a long moment before finally speaking. "I will return you on the condition you tell nobody of what you have seen down here. I am a very… private specter, and I do not desire any visitors," the Ghost explained, and Anya nodded.
"I don't care for idol gossip, Monsieur. You needn't worry about your privacy."
With a quite nod, the masked figure stepped outside of the room allowing Anya to follow him. After several strange movements by one of the parlor walls, the wall seemed to open entirely on its own, allowing them to pass through to a lake beyond.
"How did you..?"
"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to."