(A/N) This chapter involves some insane plot of a friend of mine's. She seems to think Andrew is the deceased reincarnation of Eric from Phantom of the Opera. I decided to humor her…for once.

Tears came now, obscuring my vision. I was vaguely aware of Lydia nearby, along with everyone else.

"Lira?" Chris tried to get my attention.

"Yeah," I returned, not looking at him but letting my tears fall to the masonry.

"It's a hard blow. You'll get through it. If you want, Lydia said you could stay here for awhile to get your sea legs…"

I nodded and let a small smile escape my stone face. Maybe everything could turn out all right… It would take a long time, but I felt that my mother had to be in a better place if she was kept from haunting.

I remembered that she had problems of her own, and now they were all over. All that was left for her was to make sure I got out of school and established myself in the world. Pending as of then was a scholarship to a fine writing school on the West Coast, along with plenty of money saved up. I was almost done with high school. She set the stage, and now all I had to do was to take up the mike and perform.

Finally, I took Chris' hand and he led me away from the edge of the pier.

Suddenly, I felt the cold brush of air and a dangerous presence next to me. A disgusted sound reached my ears, and I instantly recognized it as Andrew's voice.

Before I knew what was happening, I was hanging by my left ankle from Andrew's iron grip, about a dozen yards out to sea. I looked down, to my up, and saw the frigid waves crashing against the jetties.

Andrew held me up menacingly, and I looked at his face. There was no foolish joking in those eyes. They glared down at me with a wild wisp of insanity among the glimmer of disapproval.

"Andrew! What are you doing? Bring her back!" I heard Lydia demand frantically over the din of the waves.

"Why? Let the conclusion of her life's story be a happily-ever-after? Let her become a tragic hero and rot away through the rest of her pitiful mortal life, knowing that her greatest story yet ended so plainly?" he yelled back.

I strained to meet his eyes again. "What are you talking about?"

"You said so yourself in your autobiography that you thought the best way to die was to die a hero's death! Cold and empty of emotion, with nothing left in you but contempt for the rest of the world. You were being honest in that story! That piece of work was your honest thought! Don't deny it!"

"It was just a story, Andrew! This is real life! Not one of the works of fiction I wrote! It wasn't real…"

"But it was, Reese Night! That name…you preach of façades, of faces one shows the world to hide behind…when you use one yourself! That pen name represents everything you are! Now, you don't have to hide! In death, you can become Reese Night. You can return here and write more stories, never hampered by the trifles of a mortal existence. And you shall be my muse…my angel of music…as I write symphonies throughout eternity!"

My eyes went wide as I realized he was entirely serious. The distant calls of the ghosts on the pier were washed out. Everything went into slow motion as I watched Andrews's fingers uncurl one by cruel one as he let a smile tear across his face.

"One of the most important rules in music, Lira…"

I heard his dramatic voice rise over the crash of waves and screams of others.

"You need to know when to let the symphony die."

Suddenly I was alone in empty space. Andrew was gone. I began to fall, spinning slowly to see the jagged rocks below. I could already feel the spray of the waves, the crushing blow against the stone I would receive on contact...

The sun faded. Clouds passed over. For on infinitesimal minute I prayed…but for what I don't remember.

Then I felt my fall jerked to a stop. My shoulder popped and my arm became sore. Dimly I felt pressure around my right wrist. Raising my eyes, I couldn't believe who I saw holding me up.

"B-Beetlejuice?"