I. What a splendid Party!

The order had been issued that the cellars were strictly out of bounds for everyone, and that Opera personnel should only move about in pairs, if not in larger groups. After that, the managers felt that they had done what they could do. But the accursed Ghost would strike as well above ground, anyway.

Currently they were doing their best to forget all their troubles, though. In their private office, a rather large party was assembled, consisting of some of their friends as well as of some members of staff and other Opera personnel. And the later it got, the jollier the managers' guests became.

Everybody froze as the door was suddenly thrown open with a bang, and they all stood transfixed in the crowded office, staring at the figure regarding them from the shadows.

He was a man, tall and pale and with dark hair down to his shoulders. His brow was high, his profile sharp, and a scrap of cloth slung around the head covered the place where one eye should have been, on the right side, where an old, deep scar ran across the eye socket, like cloven with a sword. Yet still, his one-eyed gaze was captivating, that one single bright eye's power nailing everybody's feet to the ground just where they stood. His tall form garbed in flowing black robes, the stranger stepped over the threshold and then remained where he was, subjecting everybody to his scrutinizing gaze.

"The Opera Ghost!" a few voices cried.

The one-eyed man smiled.

Messieurs André and Firmin exchanged a nervous glance. This certainly wasn't part of the program, but it was not the Opera Ghost, either. Surely they could not be that drunk yet?

"'Oo is zat sinisterr man?" hissed Carlotta Guidicelli, the Opera Populaire's acclaimed diva, dramatically.

The one-eyed man's smile widened as he turned his single pale eye on her, and Carlotta winced under his gaze. "A pleasure to meet you, Madame", he proclaimed with a mock little bow. His voice was rich and deep, yet lacked all warmth. "And you all, Mesdames and Messieurs. A good evening to every single one of you. What an entertaining little party, I must say. I hate to cut your celebrations short, yet it is best if you meet your new patron right now."

There should have been an outbreak of surprised whispers, but instead, the silence was complete. The look André and Firmin exchanged was frantic this time. No, no chance of blaming the alcohol this time.

The man was still smiling, yet it never reached his one cold, empty eye. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Créon, and you may call me Master. I am the one in complete control of this Opera House and of every living soul within its walls, including your Opera Ghost."

There was movement in the semidarkness of the doorway behind him, and the shape of a man appeared at his shoulder, tall and athletically built, though less tall than Créon, and with fair hair cut short. He would not have seemed exceptional, apart from the five gauges running over the right side of his face, like from a hand dragging its clawed fingers through it. Suddenly there were gasps, and some of the assembled guests staggered, on the point of fainting.

Not acknowledging the newcomer's presence in the least, Créon continued, "Indeed, the rebellious young man known as the Ghost, or the Phantom, is nothing but my vassal, there to do my bidding. He may believe he is resisting, yet already I am steering his every action, and I have been doing so before tonight, longer than he can possibly imagine. He is mine completely. And so are you, from now on. All of you.

"However, if some of you think that rebellion is a wise option, be warned: All the people recently meeting their end here have in fact, despite what you may have heard and believed, died at my own sentence of death, though perhaps at another's hands. But what does it matter whose hands do the service? The will is still mine, and all who oppose me will die."

There was a dull thud as two ladies fainted and hit the ground simultaneously, but none rushed to help them. Everybody stood transfixed, unable to move.

"Indeed", Créon said, very softly, very gently, "the mere thought of opposing me is a death sentence in itself." Once again his pale eye's gaze swivelled to Carlotta. "So you had better banish that thought from your head right now, Madame."

Carlotta's jaw dropped, then began to work furiously, as if trying to form words, yet none came out.

"I have a little task for you", Créon continued, "one you will not be able to refuse. From now on, you will serve my vassal the Phantom as his bedfellow, keeping him entertained in whatever way he wishes, and reporting everything to me, even the most delicate detail."

The thudding sound was repeated as another lady fainted. At Créon's shoulder, the man with the claw-marred face smirked.

But Carlotta had finally found her voice again. "Zis is outrrageous!" she screeched. "I will cerrtainly meet none of yourr imperrtinent demands!"

"You will, Madame", Créon answered calmly. "You will. As I said, you will not be able to refuse, and I do not like having to repeat myself."

Carlotta seemed to be going to say something, but then her dark eyes met his one blue, and she swallowed visibly, the colour draining from her face. She was a tall woman, taller than most, yet Créon towered over her like a monstrous shadow.

André was shaking quite obviously, raking his hands through his already dishevelled hair, while Firmin was tugging at his moustache incessantly.

"Excellent", Créon stated. "I see you all have understood. As yet, there is nothing in particular I have to do for you, no orders as yet. But expect them to be issued soon. And expect to be punished most grievously if you do not immediately obey. Serve me, and maybe be rewarded beyond the wildest dreams of man. Disobey me, and you will have a lifetime to study an entirely new dimension of pain." He bowed his head to the assembled in greeting. "This will be all. Adhemar, after me." Turning on his heel sharply, he strode out, the man with the claw-scars following immediately in his wake.

After he was gone, there was stunned silence for several seconds, in which yet another lady fainted. Then, at last, throats were cleared, and there were several nervous coughs. A few stunned murmurs rose, but barely enough to dissipate the silence.

"Créon", André muttered, now resorting to tugging at his moustache just as well. "They mentioned that name. All the time."

"He's real", Firmin whispered, pale beneath his voluminous dark forelock. "He's real…"

"And Adhemar."

"He's real…"

Carlotta drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Zat man", she began shakily, "zat man…" Then she fell silent again.

"Blimey", André murmured, "we need that Ghost."

Firmin could only nod to this.