A/N: To answer your question, Deirdre, Carlotta is speaking English (well, it's actually French, the story has been translated into English for us American and English speaking folks) because she probably had to in the Opera so she learned it. I don't know, they may have had Italian and Spanish Operas as well. Hope this helps.

"This is Ridiculous!"

Erik sat at his organ, looking at the notes he had written in the pas few weeks. He hadn't worked on this Opera for a few days now and it was high time that he should. Yet he couldn't make himself, his mind simply refused to work. All his thoughts were directed at Christine and tonight's performance. And while he was dead calm, she was very nervous, she told me so. But he was able to calm her down a bit by playing his violin for her. How strange the child believed him to be an angel sent by her father. He didn't mind playing to her dreams, but he was a far cry from being one. Erik's hand rose to his mask. She would hate him if she knew the truth. But this was the only way, it had to be. Everyone who ever knew him, hated him because of his disfigured face.

"Oh, Christine…" he whispered into his hands. What had he gotten himself into? What started out as a simple friendship has grown into something bigger, something stronger. At least on his part. He didn't know if Christine loved him, but there was some sort of an attachment, something to do with her father. Perhaps someday he will be able to tell her how he felt, express himself to her through his organ. Someday…

Christine felt on the verge of a nervous break down. This wasn't her first performance, but it was the first one where she had the lead role. Her hands couldn't keep still for a moment and her feet refused to stop pacing across the room. Her hair were beginning to fall out of place, the dress felt too tight, and the room was getting hotter with each passing minute. What if she forgot her lines? What if the audience didn't like her? What if…?

The door opened and Meg bounced in.

"Christine! Look at you! Your hair!"

Christine smiled weakly. Right now, her hair was the least of her concerns. What she really needed was a glass of water and her Angel to soothe her. He had visited her not long ago and played on his violin for her. They sang a few tunes and then he had to go. She hadn't been able to keep still since then.

"I'll bring a brush and a glass of water for you." Meg said and left the room. Christine continued to pace the room, glancing every now and then at the door. Soon, someone will come for her, they'll have their last run-through, and then the Opera will begin. Clasping her hands together, Christine said a silent prayer. Meg soon returned with the water, a comb and some hair accessories. But attempting to do something with Christine's hair was an utter failure; therefore Meg decided it was best to just keep them down. She stuck a few more pins into them and turned her around to take one last look at her nervous friend.

"Perfect." she said.

"Oh, Meg, I'm so nervous. What if-"

"Nonsense, Christine, you'll do wonderful. I know you will." Christine was not reassured. Meg took her hand and they made their way for their last dress rehearsal.

"It's the ghost!" came the shouts from the stage. "It's the ghost!"

"Oh, quit your blabbering! There's no ghost!"

The stage was in an absolute chaos.

"It's the Ghost!" someone, a ballet dancer by the sound of it, cried out again.

"There is no bloody ghost!" Firmin shouted in reply.

"Ewwww! Blood!"

"Oh, why does this always has to happen to me! And on the eve of the performance!" Andre wailed.

"What's going on?" Meg asked an overly exited dancer.

"He's here! The Ghost! He's killed Buquet!"

"What?"

"There's blood all over the stage and no one can find him!"

Everyone was talking all at once, everyone was trying to predict how the ghost killed Buquet, and everyone was feeding their imagination with fear. Suddenly, someone let out a very loud scream.

"What is it now?"

Everyone turned to where the screaming girl was pointing and saw, to their horror, Buquet standing there, covered in blood. There was a thud as someone else fainted.

At the sound of the scream, Buquet quickly turned to look behind him to see what caused it. Then he realized that the finger was being pointed at him. Confusion set in him mind.

"He's back from the dead!" he heard someone say. Dead? Was he dead? All he remembered was painting some props when he accidentally knocked a bucket of turpentine that was sitting on a shelf above. Did it kill him when it fell on his head? Were they all gathered around his body and this was his soul?

"What the devil is going on? Buquet? What happened to you? You're drenched in…paint?"

"Sorry, M Firmin. I was painting, I swear, I didn't know anything. I knocked a bucket of paint over. That's all, honest to God."

"What were you doing, painting on the night of the performance! Do you want this whole place to stink of turpentine?"

"Sorry."

"Good grief, what is this place coming to. Well, get on with your rehearsals!" Firmin told to everyone on stage and stormed off followed by Andre and Buquet. No one moved until Mme Giry took over and then things were back to normal.

The time was passing incredibly slowly for Erik. It seemed like eons before he finally gathered his cloak and made his way to the upper floors. He was very eager to see Christine finally achieve her dream and to hear her sing, therefore he was rather surprised and irritated when he found his Box Five occupied by some whelp. He will have to talk to the managers about this. Erik took one last look at his Box and swiftly made his way back to his lair. How dare they! He was rushing down the stone stairway, His Box Five! making his way toward the lake and the boat. What will it take to show them that this is his Opera House? When will they learn?

Christine's voice floated in from above. It was the most beautiful thing Erik has ever heard. She was singing her best, he could tell, and she was singing for him. His lips curved in a small smile. She would be his yet. Her soul already belonged to him, that much he knew. Now all he needed was her heart. Erik sat down at his table and began to write.

My dear Managers,

I will admit, the performance was exceptional.

Christine was an immense success, the ballet girls

did their job fairly well, but the chorus was off key several times.

Though, I congratulate you,

This is the best performance yet. We were all hardly bereft

when Carlotta left. Christine makes for a much better

Prima donna.

There is, however, one small problem. What a nasty shock I received

upon arriving at Box Five to find it occupied. I believe

I stated quite clearly that it was to remain empty for my use.

You have disobeyed me and I do not look kindly

on those who do not follow the instructions.

I shall forgive you this time, but be warned, if you should

decide to disobey me again, a disaster beyond your imagination

will occur.

I remain, Gentlemen, your obedient servant, O.G.

"This most certainly is absurd!" Andre exclaimed. "Box Five brings the most profit and this spectre wishes to have it for free?"

"This spectre? Andre, you must be losing your mind as well! I will stand this ghost nonsense no more! No wonder this Opera house runs only on few gold coins! Half the profits are not even there! This is ridiculous. We shall continue to do as we please!"

Is that so? Well, I guess my managers need to be taught a lesson.

A/N: Well, here's a somewhat longer chapter. There's no Parodie because I just can't think of something. If I will, it'll probably appear later on.

Thanks for reading and reviewing:D