AUTHOR'S NOTE: Early update. Merry Christmas to you all.
jtbwriter: I'll leave you to wonder how exactly everybody's favourite Ghost came into being.
Polly: Pervy German owl, you call me, you pervy Texan… chainsaw? Right, sorry, that was a stupid association. Petting Gerard's ferret? I really don't want to know what that means… And I bet you'd like to get date-raped by an apparition, as you so nicely put it – how about getting ravished by your own Chaney Erik?
Pertie: You gave me the idea for the early update with the mentioning of Christmas presents. (Everybody thank Pertie!) Wow, long review! Yes, our Ghostie (sorry, my sister's influence) really doesn't know what he feels at the moment, but you're right, eventually he'll come to terms with it, once he has understood and accepted it. But this is going to take some time yet. As for Christine and "moving on"… you're touching upon an important point, I'm telling you this much. But I think you're seeing it all unravel already… All the best wishes in return.
Beregond's Girl: Scar reduction medicine? Don't even think of it, he'll need them later on, that's all I'm saying. Yes, the bit about telling his mother he's the Opera Ghost was meant to be funny, in a twisted way. And as for "lusting" for Beregond… well, at least you can keep him all for yourself, right?

-.-.-

IV. Seething Shadows

Later on, Delannay could not quite have explained why he had left his office that morning. Suddenly a feeling of unrest came over him, and he rose from his chair, abandoning the spy reports LaCroix had brought in, left the office and locked the door behind him, pocketing the key as he headed out into the magnificent corridor.

This place was blinding, Delannay thought, tempting, dazzling and blinding, and too much so. But he needed this constant reminder of what the society had been like before, of what he hated and longed to destroy, or better yet, what he would make the people's, thereby destroying the privileges of aristocracy utterly.

Smiling to himself grimly, he imagined all the aristocrats he would command to lock into this very building's cellars. The higher levels had been searched thoroughly already, and even as he was contemplating his designs, workers were already busy building the cells he was going to need.

And lower down… Apparently there was a problem. There were stories, and the men were superstitious. He had had a word with a handful of those stage workers himself, and nobody of them dared to venture down the spiral staircase any further than to the second level. "It's haunted," they had said, and in awed whispers they had spoken the name which seemed to terrify them all. "The Opera Ghost…"

Oh, sucks to them and their ghost stories! But all the same, Delannay could not help feeling unsettled by those men's strange mixture of fear and, at the same time, something that came close to adoration. One man Delannay had noticed especially, a tall, dark-haired fellow called Gaston by the others, and his lips still twitched when he remembered his words. The Lord Phantom does not suffer anyone to enter his domain uninvited, and his punishments are merciless. Yes, of course there had been stories, and the newspapers had told of murders even, and of a mysterious man who had apparently committed them, though under a quite unexplainable influence of yet another mysterious man, the papers LaCroix had brought him on his orders had not been exactly clear on that point, but this did not mean Delannay had to believe in ghost stories.

He still was not quite sure about what had happened last week at his office, though.

But he would figure it out, and no ghost or phantom would get in his way. Especially if the one in question called himself a lord.

And he knew just where to start: Gérard de Chateaupers. That accursed nobleman knew something about this whole Opera Ghost business, that much was clear. If the papers had not succeeded in telling him what he needed to know, they had at least given him a hint.

But until then, he would hire other men, and he would send them down into the cellars. He would not allow himself to be detained for too long just because of those foolish opera people's superstitions.

Aimlessly he wandered through the purple, white and gold corridors, filled both with anger at the kind of society he and his allies were hoping to overthrow and heartfelt glee at his success in driving them from one of their very temples of vanity. Now it was his. His.

No. The people's.

Just as it should be. Paris was about to become an island of justice in an ocean of oppression.

But for how long? The enemy was advancing, and who knew how long Metz would still hold? Who knew how long Léon Gambetta would still be able to keep the enemy busy?

And if he would really do what needed to be done. Delannay did not trust Gambetta. But then again, he hardly trusted anybody.

And then he stood before the entrance to the auditorium. It was still early, so there came no sound from the vast domed hall behind those double doors padded with red velvet, but soon rehearsals would begin, and then it would be filled with voices and music, with the spirit to keep the population happy. Delannay himself did not care much about music of any kind, but many of the people did, so he had seen it as his duty to open this place to everybody.

All the same, it was still filled with the rich, mainly. At times Delannay felt like having them all shot.

As he reached out for the doorknob, a sudden sense of foreboding filled him, a strange, uneasy feeling he could not quite explain. Taking a deep, calming breath, he still could not quite chase away that odd sensation in the pit of his stomach, that buzz of a legion of flies…

Decidedly he pushed the door open and entered the huge, dim hall. It was empty; Delannay was quite alone in its overwhelming vastness. Now, when the lamps were not lit, the gold gleamed dully in the shadows, and the lush red of all the velvet seemed dark, like dried blood.

And still there was this buzzing feeling inside him, and in his ears, too…

Nonsense. He had worked too much yesterday, that was all. And he had listened to far too many ghost stories.

As he gazed towards the one box that was known as Box Five, he remembered yet another one of those stories. And a foolish one, too. He had had the place checked for any occupants during yesterday's performance of Il Muto, as well as during Hannibal the day before, but the man he had sent had come back both times confirming that the box was empty. Nobody had been there. Well, maybe the man's gaze had seemed oddly… lost, somehow, but this had nothing to say. That one was not a very bright man, after all.

Was he just imagining things, or had something just moved in the shadows at the box's railing?

Of course not. He was being silly, that was all.

Continuing down the red aisle, over a red carpet that muffled his footsteps completely, Delannay still thought he heard a faint buzzing, along with a similar sensation in his stomach, but he did his best to ignore it. In a time of enlightenment, who, except a complete imbecile, would believe in ghosts?

There it was. Box Five. Above a magnificent balcony with statues covered in gold, a hole of black, like a dark maw.

Was he going crazy, or were the shadows really moving up there?

Turning his head away decidedly, he continued forward to the orchestra pit, which was deserted except for the usual chairs and music-stands, some of them littered with sheet music, some sheets even on the floor. One lonely cello waited in a corner, beside a set of impressive kettledrums.

Once again Delannay let his eyes wander up to Box Five. Could the shadows really be dancing in there?

No, not dancing. Seething.

Again he tore his eyes away, letting their gaze wander along the tier instead.

Strange, why had he never noticed that eerie skull and bones motif before?

If that was possible, the buzzing increased.

And then a fly buzzed past him, and Delannay could have laughed at himself. Of course, a place like this must contain a handful of insects, quite naturally, and its good acoustics were making their buzzing unnaturally loud.

Almost smiling, Delannay followed the fly upwards with his eyes, and further upwards…

And then he froze, and he felt as if his heart had just missed a beat.

Up in the gloom of the dome, high above his head, from the massive crystal chandelier up in the shadows, circled by several small black spots that were flies, almost invisible against the pattern of darkness around them, five pairs of feet were dangling gently…