A/N: Pioneering the thought that Erik may be the worst reviewer I've ever had. It baffles me utterly that he keeps reading my stuff when he so obviously hates it. Perhaps its because I make him and he has no choice in the matter. (takes a bow)

Chapter Four: Death of Meg

I had just finished arranging Madame Giry on the lounge (because putting her on the bed next to Raoul and Christine just didn't seem right, somehow) when I got a terrific idea for a phic and hurried to the computer to write it.

It was the story of Christine and I, told from her perspective, only she was a complete ditz. She dithered about everything, and couldn't make up her mind, and was in love with me, and I wasn't really in love with her, and the whole thing went by rather breathlessly, with lots of innuendos. I wrote it and chuckled fiendishly to myself the whole time.

When I was done I discovered that Random Battlecry had, for all intents and purposes, already written it. Curse that woman! The bane of my existence.

I sent her a long and extremely nasty e-mail detailing what I was going to do to her cat when I discovered where she lived. Then I sighed deeply to myself and went to enlist some more help in making proper burial arrangements for the three corpses on my bedroom. Before I left, I made sure to leave a light on for them. Even dead people get afraid of the dark— which is rather sadly ironic, if you think about it.

The next logical person to beg for assistance was Meg, the daughter of Madame Giry, and so I went to give it a shot.

Now, this may seem peculiar and somewhat sick-making for a few of you, but Meg Giry has had a crush on me for aeons. Or at least, for as many aeons as she's been alive, which, I suspect, isn't very many— she may in fact not be even an aeon old. I'm beginning to think I should make the effort to find out how long, exactly, an aeon is, so that the next time I use the word I won't have to include all the boring explanation you just sat through. Gosh, I'm sorry.

Anyway, to put all that aside for a minute, I went and found Meg.

Or rather, Meg found me.

I don't know about that child. She has some weird sort of sixth sense about when people wish for her presence— likely it was developed when she was younger as a way to avoid her mother when it was time to do chores. I don't know. Regardless, I was halfway up the stairs to the main floor when I heard her coming down them.

She does this at least once a week. Gathers a candle, puts her hair back in a ribbon, and enters the passageway through Christine's mirror. Barefoot— always barefoot. With her toes turned out exaggeratedly, to prove the fact that she's a dancer. Myself I don't quite understand how she manages. She's far too top-heavy. I wouldn't want to be the male dancer who has to throw her around the stage.

And I don't quite understand what the fascination is— undoubtedly she's heard stories of how I mercilessly killed Buquet, the obnoxious stagehand. There's an entire backstory there, but it would take too long to explain at this moment.

Ah, who am I kidding.

It all started when I caught him trying on my shoes.

What?

Stop there?

Alright.

Moving on.

I could see Meg several steps ahead of me. She had her lantern and was holding it up next to her head, her mouth gaping open. I could have told her what was going to happen.

Moths and other bugs are notoriously attracted to flames.

The kamikaze moth flew right into her mouth, she choked, gagged, and swallowed. A coughing fit ensued that sounded like she was trying to regurgitate an elephant that wouldn't quite fit through her trachea.

The really bad thing about this is it happens quite a lot.

I stepped forward to assist her. This included giving her the Heimlich maneuver, for which she thanked me excessively once she had stopped coughing up a lung.

"Oh, thank you Erik! How can I ever repay you?"

"Well, someday I may come up with a price, but till then—"

"A price? Oh, Erik, you're so funny, I can't hardly credit it, you make me want to faint, just faint away—"

Meg is one of those people with the disconcerting ability to speak almost exclusively in italics. I find this interesting and also rather frightening. Yes, the truth of the matter is, Meg scares the crap out of me.

I didn't dare let on, however, otherwise she would have undoubtedly have pressed her advantage. And one thing I can't stand is people pressing.

"Hello, Meg," I said, a bit nervously. "Eggnog?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I was just offering you a drink."

I stopped talking and cursed myself for speaking disjointedly, almost at random— but that was what Meg did to me. She stood and stared at me with huge hollow eyes. The effect was distinctly unnerving.

"Er—" I said, "were you looking for me for something?"

"No, just the basic aimless and morbid searching for the Opera Ghost. You know, like I usually do. I forgot to thank you for having me down for tea the last time."

"I didn't have you for tea the last time."

"No?"

"No. There were biscuits served but no beverage as I recall."

"Oh. Well—"

There followed a bit of an uncomfortable pause, in which she smiled and giggled and I threw up in the corridor, took balloon-blowing lesson, brewed up a nice cup of decaf coffee, ran for President of the United Nations, didn't get elected, stalked Geoffrey Rush, wiggled my eyebrows, corn-rowed my hair, churned butter, gave myself an Indian name (Scrawny Beaver), mailed love notes to Texas, got shot in the buttocks, made shrimp scampi, walked in a circle, and began backing away slowly. I think all this made her confused, but she followed me anyway.

"Did you want me for something, Erik?"

"Want you? Good God, no!"

I'm reasonably certain my tone was horrified, but somehow she managed to overlook this. She smiled sweetly at me and I began to feel distinctly ill.

"But you were headed up—"

"Yes, well, there are some dead people in my bedroom, I wanted a little assistance, but now that I think about it, it is highly unlikely that you will be able to provide me the help I need. Unless you're experienced at sewing fop bodies together."

She stopped still and blinked at me.

"Er— no, not that I know of—"

"Ah, see," I gave a nervous chuckle. "Then, see, I didn't really need you at all."

"But I'm a fast learner!" she chirped.

Clearly I was stuck for it. However, I thought to myself, should she be of any assistance at all, it would be worth the annoyance.

She bounced closer to me and took my arm. I changed my mind. Nothing was worth this— this—

She smiled up at me. Her breath smelled like lizards. I didn't dare ask how she managed that.

"Fop bodies, you say?"

"Yes, fop bodies. There was a mishap in the alligator pit."

"Oh dear. How tragic and morbid."

"Well, yes, death by alligator is tragic and morbid— death in general is rather morbid— although in this case, considerably less tragic, considering who it was that died."

She blinked at me trustingly. I gulped audibly.

The silence became too much for her, apparently, and she lunged at me.

I stepped backwards, and she fell to the ground, clutching me around the knees and making a high keening sound that immediately attracted all the dogs in the vicinity. As soon as she was covered with the baying canines, I ran for my life.

When I showed up again, she'd given up the ghost.

Some people just can't take being attacked by ten vicious dogs.

I laid her next to her mother and thought to myself that the day was exhibiting a worrying trend.