Hey there, hi there, ho there!

Looks like I was wrong about my writer's block. I seem to be on a creative streak this week! After reading Dante's Inferno for inspiration and reading your reviews, I'm back on track, baby!

That being said, I would like to respond to a few of my favored readers:

Mina-Chan AMD: I truly feel your plight of a tight schedule. You didn't have to wait long for more of my story!

Inumaru12: Your story is quite good. Great minds think alike I suppose. Just ask Danny and Sam.

Ultimate TH: You have been the first one to make a true suggestion. I'll try to work your idea into the story; it's really good!

Faith's melody: I owe much of this streak to you, my dear. Words cannot express my gratitude.

As much as I would love to write to my other viewers, I'd really like to start the chapter.

Ready, set, READ!

Chapter Seven: Thy Evil Spirit

This was the best time of day for Sam. The time just before daybreak, just before the sun crawled over the Eastern horizon and encompassed the world in light. The time when she could just lie in her bed and think about her dreams. The time when her dreams could most accurately be remembered.

The time when she could think.

Sam looked at the clock radio on the night stand beside her bed. It read 5:18 A.M. She would have to get up soon. The velvety music box had been left open, as it seemed to make her dreams even more vivid.

Danny and Tucker had first seen the music box about a week ago, on the day she had first gotten it. All agreed that the song was soothing, yet only Sam seemed to appreciate the beauty of the notes it strummed out. After all, it helped her get over the horrid screech of the grand piano the other day.

Sam had a basic understanding of piano music from the lessons her grandmother gave her when she was a child. Her playing could never quite match her teacher's, and she gave it up soon afterwards. The benefit from that, at least for now, was that she could at least read the notes on the music sheets that she had discovered. Apparently, Don Juan Triumphant was the name of the song played on the music box.

She had made plans to show the music to Danny, who she had heard was in the hospital. As she felt around for the music, which she kept under her bed amongst a collection of punk vinyl-albums, her fingers picked up no trace of paper. Sam got off the bed and looked with her eyes, finding nothing. She spent fifteen minutes tearing apart her room looking for the piece, yet made no find.

Sam fell back onto her bed in frustration. It was then that she saw a note sticking out of the music box. Her amethyst eyes grew wide as she read the lofty red scrawl:

Dear Samantha,

I give you great thanks for keeping my piece well for me. Do not bother looking for it; it is safely in my possession. Make no attempt to locate it as of now or anytime in the future.

You may keep the box. I trust you enjoy the overture?

Your most humble and obedient acquaintance,

O.G.

Danny grew even crabbier the day after his assault. After his little spat with Jazz – which everyone in the wing heard, by the way – his mood had done nothing but worsen by the hour. It was almost as if Danny's former self had been drained out of his body right along with his ghost powers. The knowledge that Spectra and the Phantom were out there, free as could be to enact whatever scheme they were planning, with no one being the wiser, made him feel even worse, if that was possible.

That afternoon, after school ended, Danny heard a knock on his door.

"Come in," he growled with immense irritation.

Sam stepped into the hospital room, holding a small, velvet-covered box under her arm. Danny felt somewhat better knowing that he could finally talk to his friends again. The doctors had restricted access to his room to only allow family in, and he was in no mood to talk to any of them. He gave a weak smile in his friend's direction.

"How are you, Danny?" Sam asked.

His face drooped back into a scowl. "Lousy. I don't have my powers, I look like a human corpse, Spectra's out there with 'Erik' doing who-knows-what–"

"Hold on," interrupted the Goth. "What do you mean 'with Erik'?"

"That Phantom ghost at the party. He's working for Spectra."

Sam looked confused. "That doesn't make any sense. What would he want with Spectra?"

"Don't know. He thanked me for something in Spectra's letter, though."

"Speaking of which, I got a letter from him too." Sam handed Danny the slip of paper she had found in the music box. As Danny read, his eyes seemed to grow narrower with every sentence.

He gave a frustrated growl as he threw the paper to the floor. "They think they're so darn smart!" His eyes glowed green with frustration.

"Danny," said Sam, "didn't you even hear what I told you about the music he stole from me?"

The ghost boy was too busy seething in his own anger to listen. "They just can't stand to see me happy! They just sit there, laughing as they watch me squirm! When I get outta here, I'LL SEE HOW SMART THEY ARE WHEN I –"

Danny's head shot to the side with the force of the slap across his face. His eyes, which were starting to gleam red, now welled up with tears. He glared at Sam as he nursed the afflicted area.

"Calm down!" shouted Sam. "I didn't come here just to see you make a big revenge speech like some other half-ghost I know!"

Danny lowered his hand from his pale, gaunt face. Was he really sounding like Vlad?

"Sorry," he said, his voice no longer a roar.

"If we're going to find out what Spectra's doing, we have to use a more subtle approach. Understand?"

Danny nodded.

They went on to discuss how all the events of the past week might have been connected to each other. After that, Danny did not become angry for the rest of the day. Sam had that kind of effect on him. It was impossible to describe, but he just felt comfortable around her.

At Casper High, misery ran rampant like the bubonic plague. Jazz made a point of avoiding Dr. Spectra and her assistant whenever she could, knowing what they had done to Danny. The very speculation of the subject angered her to no end.

Yet, sometimes confrontation was unavoidable; and when Spectra so much as said "hello" to her, she would shoot a glare that would freeze molten metal, blocking out whatever thoughts she would put in her head. However, this was easier said than done, as Spectra had already gotten to Jazz once before. She was determined not to let that happen again.

As Jazz shut her locker, she saw Spectra striding down the hallway, filling the vicinity with her vivacious, yet icy presence. Jazz made a mad dash to avoid the doctor, dodging through several depressed freshmen to reach another hallway before she was spotted. As she was looking over her shoulder almost every five seconds, she did not see Mr. Lancer in front of her until they were mere inches apart.

"Zorba the Greek!" exclaimed the vice-principal in his usual way. "Would you please watch where you're going, Miss Fenton!"

"Sorry, Mr. Lancer! I'm kinda in a hurry, so if–"

"While you're here," Lancer interrupted, "I might as well introduce you to our new music teacher. Come out here, my good man!"

A tall, thin man in his mid-twenties stepped out of Lancer's office. He wore a medium-length beige coat over his gray suit-jacket, and sported a matching fedora. Jazz also noticed that he bore an extraordinary resemblance to her little brother, as he had slicked-back jet black hair, kind green eyes, and the exact same facial build.

"Miss Fenton," said Lancer, "meet Mr.–"

"Claudine. Erik Claudine, at your service."

Mr. Claudine offered his abnormally long-fingered hand to Jazz, who shook it politely. There was something familiar about this man that she didn't like...

"Nice to meet you, Miss Fenton," said the man with a voice like that of a British schoolmaster. "Hopefully our paths will cross again soon. Goodbye." With that, Lancer and Claudine walked back into the office.

Jazz looked at the had that Claudine had shaken: it was dusted with a sparkling, green powder that almost seemed to glow.

The bell rang, signaling the one-minute warning for the start of the day. All current thoughts were pushed out of Jazz's mid as she hurried off to her Psychology class.

I apologize for the shortness of the chapter, but my tangible plot line has ended here for now. I'll try to make the next chapter longer, I promise!

By the way, keep the reviews coming, please! The future of this story is at hand!

I'm sure we'll have loads of fun!

Your sincerest regards,

Monsieur Caracal.