Danny Phantom: Aucun squelette ordinaire

By Hordak's Pupil

Gaston Leroux

"It is with great honor that we bury this capsule so that future generations may know the glory of our times," M. Adrian said proudly as I sighed looking around the cellar. This whole assignment was ennuyer especially for someone like me who lives for adventures. However the editor says this is the type of story I should focus on. 'People want high culture, not adventure,' he told me a few years back when I returned from Fez.

I had covered the uprisings there for Le Matin. There I disguised myself as a local and infiltrated the insurgents' camp. I went undetected for months until someone had overheard me speaking French and was sentenced to prison. Even in jail I continued writing articles and earned the respect of my colleagues. While the world was in awe my boss wasn't and chided me for being reckless. "He does not know true…," I began to say until I saw something written on a nearby wall, "what is this?" I asked walking towards it and found a simple phrase written on the wall- J'existe!

Something about that simple statement sent a chill up my spine. Who would have written such an ominous phrase and why he would be compelled to prove his presence by scrawling it on the wall. While I pondered this mystery until nearby screams from the burial site snapped me back and raced to the crowd which had huddled around the hole in shock and horror.

Ghostwriter

I ran my fingers through my hair as I stared at the blank sheet of paper before me. My mind was straining to make my work come to life but nothing would come to me. "Curse this demonic block!" I spat crumbling up the paper and threw it to the ground. "Maybe there is something about dying that cuts off inspiration," I mused to myself, even though I had been deceased for several years now this world still has mysteries I have yet to probe.

I decided if I could not write I would at least read something. I looked behind me at all the books in my collection looking for something to interest me when I heard a knock at the door. "Who could that be?" I asked walking over to the door and opening the door. Before me was the ghost of a beautiful woman. She was dressed in a white gown and a face hidden behind a mask that mysteriously floated in front of her.

"Are you the angel of words?" a hoarse and distant voice asked as she floated in front of me. Though her features were obscured I could make out a gnash on her forehead and her throat seemed to be slashed with a knife. I told her that while not of that Heavenly troop, I was indeed a writer. "s'il vous plait monsieur, j'ai besoin de votre aide," she pleaded desperately as as I tried to calm her down. "Merci, Monsieur," she said as a piece of music materialized in her hands. "This will help you, I must go Au revior M. Auteur de fantôme," she said vanishing into thin leaving me with this mystery.

Stranger

My master would not be pleased by this discovery. Hordes of people were gawking at the corpse that was discovered. Theories abounded about who the wretch was, "He's a victim of the Commune," a Dr. Donat told the people there. The man had no business stating that as he was regarded as quack by his peers and monster by most people. He had been involved in the Valdemar case a number of years back and earned him the scorn of the people.

Another man further down caught my attention, he was a native of France but I could have sworn I had seen him a few years ago in Morocco but I had little time for such trivial things and turned my attention back to the crowd and their ideas.

Others speculated he was a prisoner of the First Revolution buried here lest the Committee for Public Safety seek to invoke a Cadaver Synod and posthumously execute him. I suppose that is a blessing that no one save me knows the identity of the person. I am one of the only two people who know the truth. It is a dark secret that I have sworn to keep until Heaven releases me from this duty.

While everyone was busy with this discovery, I went to inform my master of this advancement. I called a Taxi. "Portez-moi à 67 Rue de Rivoli," I told the driver as I climbed and sped off to inform my master of what had happened in the basement of the Opera house today.

A few minutes later we arrived and paid the driver his fee before getting out and entering the building. I walked up the steps to his room and knocked on the door. No answer came but I could hear the sweet sound of someone praying in Arabic. I knew this was a sacred time and should not be disturbed but the event I have seen must me made known. I slowly open the door and find and elderly man lying prostrate on a prayer rug. "Darius, what is so urgent that it interrupts afternoon prayers?" the man asked grabbing hold of a nearby cane and slowly stood up to face me.

"I am sorry for this offense but the secret we have kept for so long is…," I began to say until my master started coughing up blood. The terrible consumption had tortured him for three years now and it broke my heart to see him suffer. I had often thought that maybe it would be better if I were to slip him some poison to ease him into eternal sleep. However I would do so at the risk of my soul as no matter how benign my purpose it would be still be murder.

"I knew this day would come," the man, my master, said as in between his spasms. He asked me if anyone of note was there. I informed of Dr. D's presence as well of the man I thought I had seen in Fez. "Yes, I too know of him," he said as he ordered me to leave so he may rest.

Ghostwriter

I stared at the shred of paper that was given to me. I was no musician but knew a little bit of music to read the notation. It seemed to be full of contradictions; beautiful and nightmarish-tender yet violent. "This is amazing," I said trying to think of how I could use this clue. No ghost I knew of was a master of music and to search through my books would take ten eternities. "Wait! Eternity that's it," I said as flash went off in my mind and rushed out of my library to one the being who could help me.

I sped across the vastness of Limbo until I came across a lone clock tower and phased inside it. I called out if anyone was home but no answer came. Several times I repeated this until a deep voice replied, "Welcome Ghostwriter," as the figure of the legendary Master of Time appeared before me. "I know why you are here," he said as transformed into a child before my eyes. Many thought of him of a legend, Father Time he was called or as the Greeks named him Chronos, but he was real-Clockwork was real.

I showed him the music and smiled I explained to him how it came into my possession. "You were the only one I knew who could tell me how to start this mystery," I explained as he smiled and told me that the answers would be found in Paris. "Paris? You mean Paris as in Paris, France," I asked as he nodded as he opened a portal and I left to solve the mystery of this mysterious piece of music.

Gaston Leroux

When I returned to the site I was shocked to find a crowd gathered around the hole. I pressed through the crowd to the front and saw the most unbelievable sight. Lying in the hole where the capsule was to be buried was a corpse. Time had dissolved most of the soft tissue leaving only the bones. Some of the people began speculating it was the victim of the Commune. "It can't be the poor souls the butchers slaughtered are buried on the other side," I pointed out.

The Marxists had used the half completed Opera House as a prison and munition store house. Those monsters who desecrated our noble city used any structure they could and even after their bloodstained banners flew no more Paris suffered under tyranny for five years.

I stared at the body with terror and awe. I was transfixed but this person and a voice in my mind seemed to echo the words on the wall- J'existe!- was this the person who wishing to tell us of his life carved those words on it. Why was he so desperate to prove he was real and who was he? I continued to stare at the body until I heard a noise coming from deep inside the basements.

I followed deep into the bowels of the cellar, no one, not even employees of the Opera allowed to travel this deep inside the cellar for fear of being lost or injured and no one able to reach them. The more I traversed the darker it got until I could barely see. "là où est ma lumière?" I asked fumbling through my pockets until I saw a light up ahead. "Bonjour?" I asked thinking it was another person down here but no answer came.

I ventured deeper until I came to large ornate door and the whole area bathed became bathed in light. I could see standing in front of the door a man dressed in a purple coat and a gray scarf. I walked up to him and again greeted him. "Uh, oh I am sorry," the man said turning around revealing a pale face with messy black hair, green eyes covered by spectacles, and a small beard. I apologized to him and said it was not my cellar but the Opera's. "I won't be too long here I just need to solve a mystery and I will be gone," he said looking to the door again.

"I am sure they will not mind no one travels this deep," I tell him as he sighs with relief, "Pardonnez-moi, I have forgotten my manners. I am Gaston Leroux, a reporter for Le Matin," I said holding out my hand. He told his name was Ghostwriter and shook my hand. A chill want up my spine it was almost as if he was a specter. "Tell me M. Ghostwriter what brings you here," I asked him as he explained he was visited by an apparition that told him to help her. He showed me a piece of paper with music written on it and something clicked in my mind- somehow the phrase on the wall; the corpse that was found; and now this piece of music were related. "I think our paths have crossed for a reason," I told him as I related all I had seen.

"Incredible," Ghostwriter said stunned, "if that is the case then we could help each other out," he said as I smiled at the thought of adventure. It seems fate had brought us to this door and past the point of no return as we faced a mystery that is truly that seems to be ripped from the pages of a grand opera.