Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera in any of its mediums. Nor do I own X-Men: Evolution.

Thanks very much to Tailfeather (yes, Martha is based on me...how'd you tell? ; ) ), Readerrr Grrrl and peices of me. And I'd just like to say I'm REALLY REALLY sorry for not updating when I said I would. I know how dissapointing that is.

But I do have an excuse! My document manager thingy wasn't working, and it wouldn't let me upload any documents. It was like that virus check thing was still going on, except everyone else was updating (which peeved me to no end). But all that seems to be over, thank goodness. And the next chapter'll be updated on Tuesday, to make up for this.

Another note… I wrote this story before I saw the Phantom of the Opera musical, so everything within this story is book-material, not theatre-material. Just clarifying that.

Chapter Seven: Martha's Revelations

"So that's basically it." Lance finished, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "After that, Fred suggested we get you to help us."

Martha nodded, and made yet another notation in her notebook.

Through Lance's explanation of the morning occurrences, she had frequently made such notes. She had also continually interrupted him, having him repeat part of his story, or explain something in greater detail. It was rude and annoying, but Lance had tolerated it because he figured she'd need all the facts.

And at any rate, the chick had proven herself unprejudiced. Fed up with her repeated questioning of 'And exactly how were you going to capture him after you'd lured him out of the attic?' Lance had admitted without shame that he was a mutant, and that the Boardinghouse was solely occupied by such people. Martha had taken this piece of information fairly well, merely raising her eyebrows, then asking all three of them to clarify exactly what their powers were. They had done so, and she had immediately gone back to questioning Lance.

Smiling, Martha shut her notebook and stood up.

"Well gentleman, I have made my analysis. And I would first like to apologize: my theory was wrong. You do not have a poltergeist in your house."

"Yeah!" Todd whooped, jumping up out of his chair. He paused. "Wait...izzat a good thing, or a bad thing."

"Well, it's both." Martha said. "It means that your intruder isn't a murderous, vengeful poltergeist. That's always a good thing. However, your intruder isn't a spirit at all, vengeful or otherwise. He's flesh and blood. And that makes him dangerous too, though easier to combat. I hope."

"You hope?" Lance raised an eyebrow.

Reaching into her notebook, Martha pulled out the letter that had been left on the fridge. She had demanded to see it, so Lance had rooted it out of the trash and given it to her.

"This letter," Martha said, holding it up. "Is the most substantial piece of proof we have. not only does it confirm that the writer is not a spirit, but it also confirms who he is trying to be. Or who he thinks he is, depending on whether he's delusional or simply obsessed."

"So who is this guy trying to be?" Lance asked, tone impatient.

Martha laughed. "Why, the Opera Ghost, Monsieur!"

There was a collective gasp around the room.

"The Opera Ghost!" Todd shrieked.

"The Opera Ghost!" Martha confirmed.

"Who's the Opera Ghost?" Fred asked, scratching his mohawk. He was sitting on the floor by the door, and looked extremely confused.

"A man who haunted the Paris Opera House in the late 1800's, taking money from the managers and living in the lowest sub-basement. The Phantom of the Opera is his full title." Martha said. "It's also the title of the book Gaston Leroux wrote about him. It's a mystery novel, labeled as fiction, but in truth it's anything but fiction. The Phantom was not a ghost, but a real man. An extraordinary man. A singer, a writer, a jack-of-all-trades. He could do anything."

"Anything?" Lance said. "He sounds like a mutant."

"Oh no, most definitely not!" Martha said. "His skills came from his genius, not from the evolutionary gene you boys possess. Besides, he was horribly deformed. His head was a living skull, his skin yellow and dead, his eyes burned with a hellfire that could only be seen in the dark."

"That's cool." Freddy said, smiling.

"Not for him, it wasn't. To the world, he was a monster. He lived and died as one, befriending less than five people, and only ever touching one."

"Wait...he died?" Lance asked. "But if he's dead, and not a real ghost, the how is he here haunting our house?"

"I didn't say it was the true Phantom!" Martha responded. "I believe your intruder is merely an admirer of him, using the Phantom's methods to get what he wants from you. In the book, The Phantom takes what he wants from people through means of trickery, trapdoors and ventriloquism. He makes a horrid singer croak like a toad, then he drops a chandelier. The same has been done to you...though on a marginal level."

"So we've got a nutcase running around the attic, pretending to be this Phantom dude?" Lance asked.

"That is my guess."

"So how do we get rid of him, yo?" Todd asked, hopping from foot to foot.

"Well, all attempts to locate the real Phantom ended in either death or near-death for the searchers." Martha pondered. "But with your powers, we should be safer than Joseph Buquet or the Comte de Chagny ever could have been. So we'll play this Phantom's game. We'll follow the book, and use our heads. And together, we shall discover this Phantom's whereabouts!"

Reaching into her backpack, Martha rummaged around, and pulled out a strange, middle-eastern looking cap. Smiling, she jammed it securely on her head.

"It's a good thing I cleaned out my locker today. Come, gentleman! The Daroga shall lead you! And keep your hand at the level of your eye!"

"What?" Todd asked.

"Never mind. I'll explain later."

tbc.