Let's play update before Julia and Vanessa get to read the other update! Then we can play run screaming from Julia's giant backpack of doom! Anyways, here's a pretty warmnfuzzy Erik chappie for you all…don't worry, there will be more angst to come, and of course more Raoul ;-) I know how much you all love him (snark). I do love the Vicomte, and you should too!

Doomed Delight- Ah, yes there have been many of these stories about lately, but mine was first, started a bit less than a year ago. sticks out tounge

MegChristine- If this story continues along the lines I plan it, there will be more of the kids involved as they get older, but it will also focus on developing the characters we know and love throughout!

ERIK

It really is funny how the older I get, the more stairs the opera seems to grow. A journey that just a few short years ago- before Christine- would have taken me fewer than thirty minutes seemed to be taking about an hour. I dragged myself along, frustrated with my own inability to match the speed and dexterity of my prime. Sighing at the sight of another staircase, I mentally reminded myself, you're not ready for the grave yet, Erik. You've got a six-month old daughter to take care of. The easy way out is no longer an option.

After hauling myself through the remainder of the never-ending trek through the cellars, I finally came upon the trapdoor I was looking for. I was directly below the manager's office. I paused, listening for the slightest flutter of breath in the room above, but heard nothing. The room was empty; perfect. I deftly opened the larger trapdoor, and pulled myself up through it, careful not to snag my cloak on the sides. I had learned that lesson long ago. Luck was the only thing that had saved me; imagine if those dolts had come back while I was still fervently trying to untangle myself! What a convincing ghost I would have been then! Look, the shade has got his cape pinned to the floor! How absolutely terrifying!

Swelling a bit from the nostalgia, I stealthily entered the office. Only one desk seemed to currently be in use; the other was covered by haphazardly piled junk, some of which probably hadn't seen the light of day for weeks. I wrinkled what I had of a nose in disgust. So the new manager was a slob? All the better for me, I could use that against him. Someone obviously prone to misplacing important items doesn't think much of it when they disappear.

I deposited my note on the desk on which a small island of blotter had been excavated to use as a writing surface, and went out through another passage. This one led to a false vent that I could use to observe this new fellow: Monsieur Pierpont, his stationary had declared him. I was quite interested in the finer details of his personality.

Producing a small book from my cloak, I sat on the floor of the passage and prepared to wait as long as I had to. Nadir would figure out what to do if I took to long. Besides, it wasn't as if Etoile would get hungry or anything. No, she would just scream because she wanted me, and as I had business elsewhere that couldn't be avoided.

It was a wonderful sensation though, to be screamed for. Every time I thought of Etoile's cries an odd, unfamiliar warmth washed over me, like the elixir of the gods had rained upon my very head. People had screamed in fear of me, screamed for me to get away. No-one had ever needed me before. I was little more than a shadow passing through, frightening, but easily ignored, and even more easily forgotten. Now I was a being of flesh, no matter how twisted that flesh might be, because there was a child who would cry and scream until I went to her, and there was nothing else that could be done to quiet her.

The door creaked, and I looked up from the book. I had been reading the words, but not processing them, and I realized as I shut in silently I had been reading the same page over and over again. I tucked the book back into the inside pocket of my cloak, and peered through the vent, eager as a child in a candy shop to scout out my newest pray.

He was short, with brown hair already turning to white, and a prominent mustache. He wore a pair of thick, round spectacles and a brown suit. I noticed particularly from my singular vantage point that his feet were rather to large for his petite stature, and they were housed in a pair of gargantuan brown shoes, so worn that they shined at the toe.

Monsieur Pierpont traversed the room, and slid into his seat at the desk I had chosen. He rifled through some papers for a while, my note for the moment unobserved. He had a frazzled, harassed air about him, I noticed; his hands seemed to shake constantly while he shuffled the papers and god-knows-what-else on his desk about.

After an eternity, he finally noticed my letter, as indicated by an intricate little jump move he performed. I blinked. I would have very much liked to see him do it again. It ranked fairly high on the list of interesting things I had seen in my life.

I watched his eyes as he scanned the page. His pupils dilated and undulated frequently, bringing to mind a prairie dog sticking its head in and out of its hole. As he set the letter down, I noticed a thoroughly confused look plastered across his face. He shrugged rather as dramatically as he did everything else, and the letter disappeared into the black hole created by the other memos swamping the desk. I sighed. I was beginning to see that this particular fellow was going to require more direct means of persuasion. I waited for a while longer, and when nothing else happened, I turned to go. Nadir would be needing help with Etoile by now, I had been gone much longer than I had promised I would be.

I was just leaving the passage, when I heard the door to the office creak open, and footfalls, heavier than those of Pierpont, make their plodding way into the room. Intrigued, I swallowed my guilt about Nadir and Etoile and headed back to peer through the vent.

It was Gabriel, the chorus director, dropping off the ticket sales report for that night's production of "The Magic Flute". I had heard about the production, and intended to keep my distance: I had no desire to hear La Carlotta butcher the role of the Queen of the Night, one that had always been a personal favorite. Pity, the soprano was so over trained. She really did had a lovely tone; it was just buried under mounds and mounds of technique. Perhaps I would have given her a few pointers, had she not been so needlessly cruel to Christine.

Through the vent, I saw Pierpont stand, and make an odd little gesture of welcome to Gabriel. "Monsieur Gabriel, you are exactly the man I wished to see…well, perhaps not exactly, but I suppose you'll do…as a matter of fact, I really didn't have a person in mi…"

"Yes monsieur?" Gabriel interrupted.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm always going off at the mouth like that. I really can't help it, I don't know what I'm saying. If I start doing it again, just feel free to interup…"

"Monsieur?"

"Yes?"

"You're doing it again, Monsieur."

"Oh, there I go again, terribly sorry…"

"What is it that you wanted to ask me?" Gabriel said, his tone full of barely concealed frustration.

"About this Opera Ghost fellow, does he really get a salary?"

"We've found that it's for the best if he does."

"Oh, you theatre people, and all your ridiculous suspicions. Well, we'll be turning over a new leaf now that I'm manager! No more throwing away money on good luck charms and ghosts! No sir! Not on my watch! A new leaf I say…"

Exhausted by this form of pointless conversation, I left before I started to go insane. I found myself becoming more and more aware of the weight caused by my Punjab lasso in my cloak with every word he said. But I had gained one thing from listening to that rubbish. Direct measures would indeed be needed. Pierpont would most certainly be attending "The Magic Flute" that night, and if I wanted to confront him, I would have to resume my position in the hollow column now.

Arriving in Box 5, I looked out over the stage briefly. The corps du ballet was getting in some last minute rehearsal. A lone pianist sat in the pit, and the little ballet rats pranced around the stage in time to his unforgiving accompaniment. Madame Giry struck her walking stick against the floor, dealt out several sharp reprimands, and ordered the accompanist to begin again. Watching the girls dance with greatly varying degrees of grace, I noticed the absence of little Giry. I wondered if this was perhaps that insufferable manager's doing. Things, it seemed, had changed. The Opera Garnier was long overdue for a good haunt.

-

One book and three quarters of an hour picking at my fingernails later, I was frightfully bored. The dandies and their bedecked little maidens had just begun to trickle in to the auditorium, and it would be at least another twenty minutes before the production would start. As I had assumed, Pierpont took up his seat not an instant to early, and lo and behold, it was right in the box where I sat in hiding, in direct defiance of my letter, I mused. He was making this too easy.

Not willing to wait until intermission, I decided to make my move during the first act. Carefully manipulating my voice, I spoke to him. "Monsieur Pierpont, a moment if you please…"

He performed the jump move from earlier, but on a larger scale than before. It was quite a sight to behold. Now that I had seen it again, I could go to my grave in peace. "Where is that voice coming from?" he squealed. "Who is it?"

"Now monsieur, I know much about you, including your slovenly habits, so I am willing to forgive…"

"I know! I know what this must be! This is one of those divine revelations that people are always talking about! You're god, aren't you?"

This caught me by surprise. I blinked, contemplating. Why not be god, if it would get him to pay me? "uhh…ehhm," I stuttered, temporarily dropping my pretense in my indecision. Then finally, in as majestic a tone as I could muster, I replied, "Yes. This is god speaking to you, regarding one of my agents who is in need of his due pay…"

"One of your agents? Oh Lord, you are too kind. You know, everything those priests say about you is true! You need not repay me; it is I who must repay you!"

I blinked, unable to respond.

"This opera business is wonderful and all, and I hate to give it up on such short notice but when the lord calls, you had better answer, eh? Eh? EH? Yes, I am going to study to become a priest now! Thank you, lord, for providing me with a direction in my life! I shall sell this lovely business first thing tomorrow, and then seek to tell the world what you have revealed to me in this moment of truth, as I stand here at the crossroads of my life…"

I left, discretely out the back, figuring any attempt to remedy the situation would be futile. I headed back across the endless stairs in a daze, still rather stunned and confused by the absurdity of what had just happened. What a sad, strange little man that Pierpont was…

Still shaken and wide-eyed, I worked the mechanism that unlocked the door and guiltily strode in. I expected a thorough scolding from my dear dargoa. It was nearly nine o' clock, and I had left him and Etoile around noon. However, what I did see left me as wide-eyed as the ridiculous little manager.

I lit a candle, only to see Nadir sitting on the couch, with Etoile in his arms, asleep. I motioned to wake them, but then, on second thought, blew out the candle, and decided to leave them. On my way to my room I stepped on something that made a loud crackling noise. Frozen like a thief in the night, hoping I hadn't woken Etoile, I listened. Nadir stirred briefly, but then all was quiet and still again. I picked up the piece of paper, and brought it into my room. Once I had the door safely shut, I lit a candle.

It was a rather lovely drawing of a rose and nightingale, I assumed had been composed by my friend to keep Etoile entertained. In the lower corner, there was another rose, smaller, childish. I wondered if it was the work of my daughter. I remembered the story, of course. Nadir had told it to me in Persia…and I had told it to Christine…

It really was a beautiful story.