The opera house erupted into chaos, everybody trying to guess what had happened to Christine.

"I guess she got impatient and ran off with the vicomte a few minutes early," said Moncharmin. "Or maybe that Opera Ghost fella kidnapped her."

"No, isn't it obvious? The real perpetrators are Quasimodo and his evil sidekick Bigfoot!" Firmin declared.

"Naw, they're still at home sleeping it off," Little Meg Giry clarified. "She must have been abducted by aliens."

Then Mercier burst in. "Hey, somebody just offed all the guys who work the lights. I'm calling the cops."

"Ooh, this is way more exciting than opera!" one of the audience members exclaimed.

"Yeah," one of his friends agreed. "I wonder if I can get them to do this next Saturday. I've got a date, and this scary murder/kidnapping business would make a great excuse to put my arm around her."

"I'm buying season tickets!"

M. Richard's face brightened. "Well, this may be damnably inconvenient, but at least it'll be good for business, huh Moncharmin? Moncharmin?"

M. Moncharmin was no longer sitting beside him. He had locked himself into the office and begun crab-kicking around in circles. When he saw Richard, he took a flying leap over his desk and shook his partner by the lapels. "Quick, Richard, gimme a safety pin! No, wait, make that a roll of duct tape! No, make that both! And some Super-Glue! I'm…uh…starting a craft project!"

M. Mercier whacked M. Richard upside the head. "This is all your fault. I told you he'd start having withdrawal symptoms if you took that stupid diary away."

"RAAAAAAGGGGHHH! I am surrounded by idiots!" Richard roared, beating mercilessly on an innocent marble statue in his frustration. His hands were bleeding profusely, but he didn't seem to notice.

Mercier sighed. "That's it, I'm out of here."

After using a few handy calming techniques he'd picked up from Mme. Giry's pamphlet, Richard got ahold of himself enough to ask what Moncharmin really wanted with pins, duct tape, and Super-Glue.

"Well," said Moncharmin. "It's time for us to pay the ghost off again tonight, and you remember what happened last time."

"Yeah," Richard grumbled bitterly. "We gave him an envelope with twenty thousand francs, and he snuck it back to us full of Monopoly money."

"Well, I was just thinking, if we duct-tape ourselves to the envelope, we won't be able to help noticing when he switches them because it'll be really painful, just like pulling off a Band-Aid."

"Sounds good. Better put the tape on."

"I'm not covering myself with duct tape. Jennifer just dumped me again; I've got enough pain in my life."

"Oh, all right," sighed Richard. "I'll do it."

Moncharmin stared dumbly at his partner. "You took that surprisingly well."

He opened his palm, revealing Mme. Giry's little red anti-stress ball. "It's this ball Mme. Giry gave me. It really has a calming effect."

As if on cue, Mme. Giry strolled into the room, wearing an enormous diamond solitaire around her neck and a gold ring on every finger. "Evening, gentlemen. The Opera Ghost asked me to give you this letter." She began to read it aloud.

Dear Richard and Moncharmin,

GIVE ME MY FREAKING MONEY. Again.

--Your pal,

O.G.

"Grrr…" snarled Richard, mercilessly squeezing the anti-stress ball.

"Oh," added the box-keeper. "He also wanted me to give you this to put the money in." She held out a self-addressed envelope that read:

Opera Ghost, c/o Mme. Giry

Gothic Baddies, Inc.

OP Box 0005

Paris, France

Moncharmin looked her over thoughtfully. "What makes you want to run errands for some moody extortionist, anyway?"

Mme. Giry shrugged. "Well, there is the matter of all the raises he keeps getting me, of course, but what really clinched the deal was when he told me my daughter Meg was going to be made an Empress."

"He predicts the future now?"

"Oh, he's a jack of all trades. Fortune teller, composer, architect, extortionist, seismologist, illusionist, broadcast technician, acupuncturist, sculptor, freight inspector, accountant…"

"All right, we get the picture…"

Mme. Giry hadn't finished. "…inventor, orthodontist, certified veterinary assistant, systems analyst, hydrologist, choreographer, air traffic controller, regional collections supervisor for Gothic Baddies, Inc…"

Richard was ready to explode. "I'd pick her up and stuff her in a closet somewhere, but I haven't the time." So he whistled loudly. "Hey, Mercier, get in here and stuff her in a closet."

M. Mercier grudgingly picked up the still-babbling box-keeper and tossed her over his shoulder. "All right, but I'd better be getting time-and-a-half for this."

They set to work attaching the note to Richard with half a dozen safety pins, nine staples, some Super-Glue, and so much duct tape he looked like a very shiny mummy. Once that was done, they headed up to Box Five, shut off all the lights, and waited for the ghost.

Moncharmin shivered. "I guess this might not be the best time to mention that I'm scared of the dark?"

"Well, tough luck, because there's no way I'm hugging you after what happened last time."

They sat and waited, but after a few minutes, M. Moncharmin could stand no more. "I've got to at least have a night light! Richard, turn on the lamp so I can go look for it."

Wringing the life out of the stress ball, Richard lit the lamp, and was shocked to discover that the money was gone. The pins were still in place, and the many layers of duct tape lay in a heap at his feet. "What?" He was astonished. "How did he past that tape and Super-Glue?"

Moncharmin picked up an empty bottle that had been discarded near his feet and examined the label. "That clever fiend! He used Dissolve-It!"

Out in the chaos surrounding the kidnapping, the chorus master, Gabriel, turned to the secretary Remy. "Well, the managers both seem to be, ahem, mentally incapacitated. Guess that leaves us in charge."

"Cool!" Remy exclaimed. "Let's give ourselves a raise!"

"Later. Right now we need to figure out what's up with the managers. They're acting slightly weirder than usual."

"They're insane? M. Mercier's the one who just stuffed poor Mme. Giry into the closet."

"I can't say I blame him. She was starting to get on everyone's nerves. Kept singing this stupid song called 'Erik, the Not-So-Friendly Ghost'."

Meanwhile, Raoul was fighting the urge to go grab himself an extra large chocolate milkshake. "I can't believe Hollowman stole my woman again! This isn't funny anymore! I've got to save her!" He ran up and tapped Gabriel on the shoulder. "Do you guys know where I could find Mlle. Daae?"

"Duh, no! The story would be over if we did. But you might try checking with the cops."

"Oh, very well." Raoul impatiently marched over to the commissary of police. "Excuse me, sir, I'm looking for Christine Daae."

The commissary groaned. "I know that voice. You're that stupid kid who kept making all those prank 911 calls about the 'singing skeleton man'. Just stay away from us!"

Raoul tried to protest, but was interrupted when Mercier walked in and let out a yelp at the sight of the commissary. "Gah! The cops are here!" He shoved a key into Gabriel's hands. "Quick, man, they're on to us. Go get Giry out of the closet while they're busy with the crazy nobleman. And act natural!"

Raoul chased after the commissary. "No, wait! I have some important information about Mlle. Daae. She's been kidnapped by her invisible friend, the Angel of Music!"

The commissary burst out laughing. "This isn't exactly an appropriate time for jokes kid, but I've got to admit that was a good one."

Raoul followed the commissary up to the managers' office. "Seriously, the Angel of Music and the singing skeleton are really the same person, also known as the Opera Ghost, but his friends call him Erik. He lives in a freaky maze of trapdoors he built in the basement, on an island in a lake full of green Jello, with his friend Cesar the Counting Horse."

"Uh…huh…"

The viscount sighed. "Man, now I know how Christine felt when I made that insensitive comment about her pills."

The managers' ears perked up. "Did you just say "Opera Ghost?"

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, I'll have this madman thrown out at once--" the commissary began.

"No!" Richard exclaimed. "This man has valuable information about the ghost! Why aren't you taking notes?"

"Oh, no, not you too!"

Raoul stamped his foot angrily. "You police are worse than useless! I'm going to go try Ghostbusters." He stormed out of the room, running smack into a large band of gothic monsters traipsing toward the exit. A shady-looking Persian man in a Middle-Eastern ensemble that looked like it belonged on a monkey music box led the gang.

"Oh, sorry…" the viscount began to apologize. "Hey, wait a minute! You're the Phantom's friend, aren't you?"

"Yep. I'm his old fraternity brother from Mazenderan A&M, back in Persia." The Persian pointed to several of the gothic baddies at his side. "This is his good pal Bigfoot, his college roomie Quasimodo, his business partner Frankenstein, his cousin Von Krolock, his childhood chum Dracula, and his pet, the Loch Ness Monster."

The enormous amphibian trotting between Dracula and Quasimodo dropped the stick he had been holding on the Persian's head. The Daroga cursed. "Ow! For the last time, Nessie, I'll play fetch with you after we get to the park! Hey, Frank, give him another Monster Munchie. Maybe that'll keep him quiet."

But Frankenstein had already devoured the entire bag of monster treats and was now chewing on the bag with a guilty look. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"What are you all doing here?" Raoul demanded.

"Well, we were planning on having another party at Erik's place tonight." Dracula smiled proudly, displaying his bloodstained fangs in a disconcerting manner. "We wanted to celebrate, you see. Gothic Baddies Inc. just beat out its biggest competitor, Gallant Goodguys Megacorp, for the fifth straight year!"

"Yeah, we had a big bash all planned out, but when we arrived, Erik had a necktie hung on the doorknob. That means he's got a girl in there." Quasimodo explained. "So we decided to leave the two of them alone and go Goofy Golfing instead."

"That's my fianceé Christine he's got with him, you fools!" Raoul cried.

The Persian groaned. "He kidnapped her again? But he promised me he wouldn't! He pinky-swore!"

"Oh, my poor Honeybear!" Raoul moaned, pacing relentlessly. "What if he's strangling the life out of her even as we speak? What if he's ruthlessly torturing her? Oh my gosh, what if she gets the Stockholm Syndrome! I've got to hurry!"

The vicomte broke into a run and promptly tripped over his own untied shoelaces. "Rats! I'm so clumsy lately! I'd be fine if I had a milkshake to steady my nerves, but I gave my beloved Christine my word that I'd go cold turkey." He sighed, tying the laces neatly. "It's going to be a long night."

The Persian gently patted Raoul on the head. "Uh-huh. Listen, kid, maybe I ought to come along on this little rescue mission. I know a lot of Erik's weaknesses, and you're in no condition to be facing a homicidal mastermind alone."

Raoul brightened. "Thanks, man, I really appreciate your help. So, since we're going to be going off on an adventure and risking life and limb together, I guess we ought to properly introduce ourselves. My name's Raoul de Chagny, what's yours?"

"I-I, uh, I don't have one. Just call me 'Daroga' or 'the Persian'."

"No name? That doesn't make good sense."

"I don't have a name, I said! End of topic!" the Persian barked.

"Are you sure?" Raoul persisted skeptically. "I could have sworn I heard some of your friends calling you 'Nadir' earlier."

"That was the Kay version! This is supposed to be Leroux! Kay isn't out of copyright yet, so shut up before somebody sues!" Nad…uh, that is, the Persian hissed. "Now that's settled, let's get moving."

He led Raoul back to Christine's dressing room and began to feel the walls.

"Are you checking for some kind of magic switch?"

"No, I just love this new wallpaper. It has a fascinating texture. I think it might be imported." He stroked the wallpaper lovingly.

Raoul gave him a funny look.

"Wallpaper's a passion of mine. I run the Wallpaper, Carpet and Tile Division of Gothic Baddies, Inc.," the Persian explained, tearing away a sample of the wallpaper to study back at product development headquarters.

"Look, I'm sorry to interrupt," Raoul spoke up, "but shouldn't we be trying to find Erik and Christine?"

"Oh, yes. So sorry, I'm just not myself when I'm around wallpaper." The Daroga whipped a pair of pistols out of his pockets andtossed one to Raoul. Aiming carefully, he fired the other one at the mirror.

The bullet bounced off the glass, rebounding and striking Raoul squarely in the chest. Luckily, there was no blood and the vicomte seemed to be unharmed.

"Woah, how did you do that?" The Persian exclaimed.

Raoul unbuttoned his coat and shirt, revealing a bullet-proof vest. "I guess it's a good thing the singing skeleton man has had me so paranoid these past couple of days, huh?"

The Persian examined the mirror with a frown. "Looks like our masked friend bulletproofed the glass. I guess that only leaves us one option."

"Oh, I get what you're saying!" Raoul grabbed a nearby fire ax off the wall and smashed the mirror into a fine powder. "Ah, good old fire-axes. Is there anything they don't do?"

Raoul and Nad…uh, the Persian…crept quietly down the pitch-black tunnel behind the mirror. Then they crept down a narrow side tunnel, which led them back to the first. Then they crept through a short passageway that brought them back into Christine's dressing room through the closet. Then they went back through the shattered mirror, and around a kind of loop that took them back through the narrow side tunnel to the entrance again. Then they reluctantly agreed to consult a map, and were off to the Phantom's lair.