Unfortunately, the young couple's music exercise was badly timed. Less than a minute after they started, the cellar was disturbed with another powerful sound. The orchestra at the opera house started playing the overture.

Christine stopped singing in mid-sentence. Eric at first stubbornly continued playing, but started making mistakes.

"Keep it down!" the Phantom shouted to the orchestra.

"They can't hear you, you know," Christine reminded.

"I know," he said, defeated. After a second's thought, he stood up and in a dry furious movement got his cape and mask.

"Wait, where are you going," the ex-singer asked.

"I'll show them how to disturb THE PHANTOM," he yelled and moved towards the portcullis. Christine put her hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"What are you going to do," she asked. "They don't even have a chandelier right now!"

"Yes..." he said thoughtfully and turned around. "They probably didn't get a chance to buy another one yet... I'll go tomorrow..."

He put away the coat and the mask and lowered himself back into his seat. The opera was just getting into full swing. The Phantom threatened the ceiling with his fist.

"So it is to be war between us! WAR UPON YOU ALL!"

He was about to do his long-rehearsed laughter, but one look at his wife made him reconsider.

Instead, he murmured, "Let's just go to sleep."

I looked around the desk, trying to find something to chew on. It was one of the habits I've gotten into – if I'm running out of ideas, I chew on something inedible. When I'm writing, I chew on a pen. When I'm drawing, I chew on a pencil. Now that I'm typing, what can I chew on?

The wire looked pretty appealing...

I quickly pushed the though out of my head for fear of electrocution.

Christine woke up earlier than her husband. She attended to some chores and cooked breakfast. She expected the smell of omelet to gently wake Eric.

But what woke him up was the morning rehearsal from above. So when he got out of bed, the offence from the day before was again fresh in his mind.

"How are we going to raise children when they're always making noise?!" he complained.

The next morning the manager found another note from the Phantom. In addition to his usual demands, now there were to be no plays or rehearsals before 6:00 AM or after 8:00 PM.

"Why do I feel like this is a failed chapter," I asked myself, munching on the remains of the computer.

Author's note: "Cellar Life" was supposed to be a one-shot. This chapter was entirely the result of the reviews. Thus, the above is what you get when the will to write comes before an actual idea. Hopefully nobody is too disappointed.

Again, I'm very grateful to everyone who reviewed. If it weren't for you, this 'lamentable mess' wouldn't have been written.