The new managers ignored both the warnings and the hangings for the next few days and got down to business.

Firmin Richard was a brilliant composer who had been known to have very violent mood swings at times. Which could make a person wonder why he and the Phantom didn't get along better.

His partner, Armand Moncharmin, was a tone-deaf schmoozer who blew all of his time writing in his sixteen-volume diary. I actually got the chance to read it. (Which wasn't an easy trick, considering he'd put some of those little locks on the books to keep his mother from reading them.) Anyway, most of it was total drivel:

3 January

Dear Diary,

I think Jennifer likes me. She passed me a note the other day, but the vice principal…er, I mean my partner… took it away before I could read it.

25 January

Dear Diary,

I talked to Jennifer's best friend Stacey, and it turns out she doesn't like me after all. She was just trying to use me to make Tommy jealous. Gosh, I'm depressed. Maybe a nice trip to the mall will cheer me up. I'll buy one of those chocolate sundaes I like, get my hair done, maybe a manicure…

6 February

Dear Diary,

Mother and I just had a huge fight. I caught her going through my stuff again. Oh, why can't she just learn to respect my privacy? She never treated my older sister like this. Grrr, I hate her so much!

It went on like this for pages and pages. Anyway, the point is that Moncharmin was too busy doodling page after page of "Jennifer plus Armand equals love" to notice when the Phantom of the Opera snuck in and dropped a bunch of letters in bright red ink on his head. But luckily, Richard walked in not too much later.

"Moncharmin, there's something in your hair."

"Uh-oh. It's not another pair of women's underwear, is it? Because I had a devil of a time explaining the last one to Mother."

"Nope, looks like a letter." Richard cleared his throat and began to read:

Dear Richard and Moncharmin,

I'm not going to try and tell you how to do your job. If you want to keep that squawking hag Carlotta, that lumbering ox Sorelli, and that giggling airhead Jammes working here, that's your problem. However, I'm going to have to insist that you give the lead role tonight to that hot…er, I mean talented Christine Daae. Oh, and one more thing. I hear you've started renting out my private box, and am going to give you two choices; knock it off, or lie in the hospital for next few months and listen to your bones healing.

--Your pal,

O.G.

Monsieur Richard rolled his eyes. "Looks like they're still keeping up that "Opera Ghost" prank. Whole thing is pretty weak, if you ask me. Everybody knows you can't have a good practical joke without involving plastic vomit in some way."

Monsieur Moncharmin just shrugged and picked up his diary again. "Aw, give them the box back and let them have their fun. We've got more important things to do than track down some stupid prankster." He picked up a pen and began writing again. "'Dear Diary, I was just talking to Richard, and it looks like the Opera Ghost has a crush on Christine. I wonder if he's going to ask her to the prom? It's coming up, and it might be nice if they could share a limo with Jennifer and me…'"

So Box Five was empty again that night. Well, kind of. Mme. Giry was in there all evening, beating off any potential snoops with her cane, and every few seconds, nearby spectators could hear a mysterious voice echoing from the box.

"Ah, this is terrible," the voice grumbled. "We need another first bassoon, and that third trombone has to go. Then again, I might just be cranky because I'm hungry. I burned my dinner into an inedible hunk of charcoal again. Hey, Giry! Here's five francs. Go down to the lobby and grab me some popcorn and a Slurpie."

"Do you really think that's wise?" Mme. Giry replied hesitantly. "You just had two boxes of Goobers, and you know what too much sugar does to you."

"HEY!" the voice thundered impatiently. "Who's the ghost here? Just do as you're told."

The next morning, the managers found another yet another bright red note stuck to Moncharmin's head. It read;

Dear Richard and Moncharmin,

I see you decided to keep your bones intact. Good choice. Christine was brilliant again last night, and everyone else was slightly less awful than usual. Now all you have to do is give me my money and we can all be one big happy opera-house family. Well, not really, but I'll at least try not to kill any more of you.

--Your pal,

O.G.

Monsieur Richard rolled his eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake, this has gone far enough! Moncharmin, send for Mme. Giry. Maybe she'll be able to tell us who the idiot behind this is…. Moncharmin?"

Monsieur Moncharmin hadn't heard any of this. He was intensely focused on his latest diary entry. "Dear Diary, do you think I've put on weight? I've been having some trouble finding a date for the prom, and I think I might have to go on a diet soon. I tried asking Mother for an opinion, but she just told me--"

"Moncharmin!"

"Oh, what is it now?"

Finally, Richard managed to wrestle the diary out of his partners hands and he sent for Mme. Giry. She appeared in their office within minutes, smiling and waving cheerfully. "Heya!"

Richard scowled. "Can the sweet talk, lady. Are you the one who's been playing ghost around here lately?"

Mme. Giry looked insulted. "Of course not! Honestly, I'm a grown woman! To even suggest that I could be playing such a ridiculous, adolescent trick. Don't you people think I'm a little more mature than that?"

"I suppose you're right," Richard conceded sheepishly. "Moncharmin, maybe it wasn't her after all."

"Of course it's not me. The ghost is real."

The managers just stared at her. A lot.

Finally, Moncharmin broke the long, awkward silence by asking "Erm…just how do you know that?"

"Because he talks to me all the time. He's got a lovely voice too. If you ask me, he should have taken up singing professionally. He and that vampire chum of his could form a really cool band."

"He talks to you?"

"What does he say?"

She shrugged. "Mostly, he just asks me to take care of his private box and occasionally, to get him candy. Oh, and last night he wanted me to bring him a footstool--"

"A footstool? What is he, some kind of sissy?"

"No. He wanted it for his girlfriend."

At that, Moncharmin burst into tears, grabbed his diary, and began to scribble away again. "'Dear Diary, I'm so depressed. I must be the most pathetic loser alive. Even the Opera Ghost has a girlfriend and I don't!'"

Mme. Giry eyed him quizzically, then looked to Monsieur Richard as though asking for an explanation. "Uh…what's the deal with him?"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Moncharmin bawled. "You are so fired!"

While all this was going on, Raoul de Chagny had been at home pining away for Christine. Since he had never been much of a drinker, the vicomte had spent the last couple of days trying to drown his sorrows in milkshakes, and so he was nauseous in addition to all the heartaches.

Count Philippe patted his brother on the head with some concern. "Come on, sport. Nothing's all that bad."

But Raoul wouldn't be consoled. "It is too! She won't talk to me, she won't tell me where she is, and she won't answer my letters. I'm only twenty-one and my love life is already turning into a bad country-western song!" He poured some raspberry milkshake into a shot glass.

One of the servants walked into the room. "Monsieur le Vicomte, I brought you those maraschino cherries and whipped cream you asked for. Oh, and there's a letter for you from a Mlle. Daae."

"Yes! Thanks, Fred." Raoul grabbed the letter and eagerly read through it.

Dear Raoul,

I haven't forgotten you. But of course, you must understand that it would be most inappropriate for us to meet again. Have a nice life.

--No longer your pal,

Christine Daae

P.S.: By the way, I thought you might be interested to know that I'm going to be in Perros tomorrow. At the church where we used to play when we were kids. At the bottom of the hill, near the side of the road. I'll be wearing my black dress and the hat with the flower on it. I'll be there from two until seven. Just a little side note.

Raoul frowned and handed the letter to his brother. "Hey, you know more about girls than I do. Is she coming on to me, or does she just have a really short attention span?"

"I'd say it's probably a come-on."

"Yes! In that case, I'm going to Perros for a day or two." Raoul checked his watch. "I'd better get going soon. Hey, Phil, have you seen that Victorian Pickup Lines book you gave me lying around anywhere?"

The vicomte arrived in Perros that night. "Gosh," he mused, "it's great to be back in my childhood hangout. Sure brings back a lot of memories. In fact, I think I feel another flashback coming on…"

Little Christine stood crying on the beach, one hand pressed swooningly to her forehead. "Help! Oh, somebody help! My scarf blew away in the wind and I'm way too weak to go get it myself!"

She was about to yell for Superman, when --

"No, wait, we already did that part." Raoul hastily rifled through his brain for some new memories. "Ah, here we go…"

Little Raoul came over to Little Christine's house every day. He was supposed to be getting lessons on the violin from her father, but that didn't last long. Little Raoul just didn't understand what use music would be to him when he grew up and sailed for the North Pole. He preferred to spend his free time studying more practical things like trigonometry, astronomy, and elven toy factories.

He and Little Christine also liked to go around the village, knocking on the locals' doors.

"Hello," Little Christine would say. "Will you tell us a story?"

"Er…do I know you?" the villager would ask perplexedly.

"A story," Little Raoul would repeat. "We're bored."

"So you're going door to door asking perfect strangers to tell you stories?"

"Hey, what else can we do? We're only kids, and TV hasn't been invented yet," Little Christine would defend.

Finally, Little Raoul would end up pulling some of his many gold coins out of his pocket. "Here's ten francs. Now will you tell us a story?"

"Yes, sir!" the villager would reply smartly. "Would you like a lullaby with that?"

"Hey, Raoul, you know what would make this even better?" Little Christine suggested one day. "Maybe one day we could dress up in funny costumes and ask the people for candy instead of stories."

Eventually, Little Raoul would run out of money, and the children would have to go home and get Christine's father to tell them a story. The guy was an okay storyteller, but original characters weren't his strongest suit. His stories all involved a girl who bore a suspicious resemblance to Christine, and an invisible Angel of Music. Hey, cut the guy a break. He was in the grips of a fatal sickness by this point, and wasn't thinking very clearly.

After a few years of this, Little Raoul and Little Christine went their separate ways. Not because they wanted to; it was just that once they were old enough to flirt, they suddenly lost the ability to talk to each other. Little Raoul could do was blush, and all Little Christine could do was giggle.

Raoul sighed sadly and burst into song. "And they called it puppy love. Just because we're in our teens. Tell them all it isn't fair to take away my only dream. I…oh, sorry. This is the novel version, isn't it?" He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Those musical versions just have me so used to bursting into song…anyway, the point is that I miss Christine."

He walked into the local inn and Christine was there waiting for him. "Heya." She waved.

Raoul stared at her. "You, uh, don't seem really surprised to see me after all this time."

"My dead dad told me you were coming."

"Oh…erm…okay."