Hey, all! A quick note - Jump, Grasshopper is definitely still in the works. I've had a bad run of luck what with cutbacks at work, searching for a new job, and on top of it all a medical crisis that just won't quit (nothing dire, just annoying). With all of that on my plate, I've just not had the concentration for my mystery/thriller epic. But...I really had to write this little story. Hope you enjoy!

Edit: I made a couple of small changes to this chapter to improve the readability. If it seems different, it probably is. :) Enjoy!

Christine jerked open the door to her dressing room with trembling hands before fumbling in the darkness for her gaslight.

Her senses were heightened in her nervous state. The thud of her heartbeat, the hiss of her breath...she could even hear the accusing tick of her clock from across the room. She was late...she must be!

A tiny jet of flame quivered weakly in the glass globe of the lamp. Each flutter sent shadows dancing across the knotted wood walls, their leering shapes towering over the pale, wide eyed girl.

Christine shivered. In her tiny, abandoned dressing room, the shadows were even worse than the darkness.

"You were very nearly late, child," said a gentle voice.

"Angel!" She stammered. "Oh...forgive me!"

An indulgent chuckle echoed through the room.

"There is naught to forgive, child...I said nearly, not were. There is a vital difference, you know."

The gaslight had ceased guttering and now burned bright and steady. The shadows faded, and Christine felt her breathing begin to relax.

"And yet," continued the voice, "it is unlike you, Christine. How could you lose track of the time, my darling? Do you wish for your angel to worry about you?"

His tone was light, but an edge of suspicion had sharpened his normally sweet voice.

"Well?"

Christine chewed her lip.

"I am sorry, angel," she said at last. "I have no good reason, I know. But rehearsal had finished, and it was so cold, and everyone else seemed to be gathering there..."

"Gathering where?" he asked quietly.

"Erm. The main prop room, the one across from the ballet changing halls. One of the stage hands had built a fire, and...I think everyone just wanted to warm up. Anyway, that's how things got started."

"What...things, exactly?"

"They were telling stories," she whispered, her eyes fluttering to the floor.

"Stories?" said the voice.

"Yes."

The angel heaved an exaggerated sigh and laughed softly.

"I know how fond you are of stories, Christine," he said, with obvious affection.

A blush formed over her cheeks.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Oh...yes," she said quietly.

There was a slight pause.

"You are not convincing me, my dear. Your expression is troubled! Are you cold? Or perhaps," said the voice slowly, "you are afraid?"

Christine inhaled quickly, her eyes snapping up to the great floor length mirror that lined the far wall.

"I - I could never be afraid when you are near, angel!"

"You are lying, my dear."

The simple statement made Christine wince. She stared at her guilty expression in the mirror, at the obvious fear in her eyes.

"I...perhaps I am bit nervous," she said.

"What is it that frightens my Christine?" the voice murmured softly.

She trembled. She was not sure why.

"The truth," she said slowly, "the truth is that they were telling, well...ghost stories."

"Ghost stories!"

"Yes...I...oh, that's wrong, isn't it? I know I'm supposed to avoid earthly distractions, but I was...feeling a bit lonesome, I suppose." Christine sighed. "I suppose it is rather stupid to keep an angel waiting to hear a ghost story, isn't it?"

A merry laugh filled the room; the warm, rich tones caressed Christine like a warm bath. She smiled in earnest; she sometimes felt it was worth anything to hear him laugh.

"Do you think me very foolish?" she asked, her blush deepening.

"Only very endearing," said the voice. "After all, what could be more natural than to linger over a ghost story on a cold autumn night?"

Christine blinked in surprise.

"I had forgotten about the cold! I was freezing earlier...but I'm not, now." She shrugged. "I suppose I just forget when I am with you."

Christine could never imagine the pleasure this simple statement brought to her angel.

"It is the gift of the blessed, my darling," he said softly. "When one's sole focus is heaven's ecstasy, earthly pain recedes. Still," he continued, "you must always practice vigilance. It would not do to ignore the chill of winter only to discover yourself with a cold."

"Yes, angel. I will do as you say."

For awhile there was silence while Christine pondered these spiritual truths.

Yet a sudden creak of wood from outside her door sent Christine flying from her chair with a gasp.

"Angel! Oh, angel, save me!"

"Christine!" he cried. "My darling, whatever is the matter?"

For she was kneeling by the long floor length mirror, her breath coming fast, her arms wrapped around her like a shield.

"Oh angel," she whispered. "I'm a fool, I know I'm a fool...but I'm frightened!"

"By that little creak of wood?" said the voice soothingly. "It was only the boards shifting in the cold...there is no need to be afraid, little one!"

She leaned back against the mirror, her forehead drawn in a scowl.

"I know, I know," she said. "I'm letting my imagination get the better of me. Papa used to say it was my greatest curse...I could convince myself that any little noise was a witch or a goblin. But angel, I really am afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of the ghost!"

For a moment, the silence hung heavy.

"What ghost, Christine?" the voice whispered.

"The Opera Ghost!" she said shrilly, her fists striking the wooden floor. "He was the one all of the stories were about tonight! How he haunts the corridors...or threatens the staff...even the managers are afraid of him, though they would never admit it. And Buquet!" she gasped. "Buquet has actually seen him! He told us all about the ghost...that he's a skeleton, a simple skeleton covered over with evening clothes. His head...his head is a death's head, a bald, rotting death's head!"

A bark of tense laughter escaped her lips. "Buquet said he had no nose, you know...just a horrible hole in the middle of his face. Or eyes! Just dead, empty sockets where his eyes should be...oh, I can't bear to imagine it!"

"Hmph," said the angel after a moment, his voice cold and rigid. "The last I heard, his eyes were yellow and glowed in the dark."

"Well, yes, little Jammes said something of...wait..." Christine held her breath, and her eyes widened with surprise.

"You know of the Opera Ghost, angel?"

"Of course," he said tersely. "Does it surprise you that I know something of the goings on of the opera?"

Christine buried her face in her hands.

"How embarrassing," she muttered. "I don't seem to be doing anything right tonight. Of course you would know. You're an angel...you know everything!"

"Hush child," he said. "Do not blaspheme! True omniscience, after all, is known only to God. Still, I do possess a certain power of...penetration, you know. In some areas more than others."

Christine frowned in confusion. "Like music?"

"...Yes. Like music."

She nodded and wrapped her arms around her knees.

"Tell me truly, child," said the voice with infinite tenderness. "Have the stories of the Opera Ghost...upset you?"

"They have," she said quietly. "I'm not brave by nature, and there has been such mischief recently. Props and scores have gone missing, and of course the backdrops have fallen more than once. There has even," she whispered, "been talk of notes. Notes that appear on their own in locked rooms, full of threats and malice, and written in...blood." She shivered, and suddenly Christine felt that she could take it no more.

"Angel! Angel, does the Opera Ghost exist?"

Her question hung heavy on the air for a long time.

"My darling," he said, "My precious, precious darling...I wish I could lie. I wish I could say to you...of course there is no ghost! It pains me to see you so afraid."

"But?" asked Christine.

"But," he sighed. "Yes, dear one. Yes. The Opera Ghost does exist."

She trembled and muttered an unconscious prayer.

"I am sorry if this frightens you, Christine," said the voice. "It needn't, you know...the Opera Ghost would never do you harm."

"But - but angel! The things they were saying about him tonight...that he guards the cellars, and kills anyone who enters! Little Giry even said that he was a warlock when he was alive...that he died trying to conjure demons from the lake, and now seeks the blood of the living to build a new body!"

"Oh, for - Christine!" he snapped. "Are you truly going to believe such a ridiculous story?"

"I - "

"Sceneshifters! Ballet rats! What do they know? What do any of them know? Those ignorant fools!"

"Angel?" asked Christine timidly. "Angel, do you mean...those stories aren't true?"

"Of course not," he hissed.

Christine breathed a faint sigh of relief, but her mind still spun with confusion.

"If the Opera Ghost wasn't a warlock killed by demons," she said slowly, "why is he so frightening? Why does he torment the Opera so?" She swallowed hard. "What...what happened to him, exactly?"

"You wish to know the truth?" asked the angel. He spoke calmly, deliberately - bordering on formal. Yet Christine was not deaf to the weariness and...was that sorrow? That tinged his voice.

"Does that...bother you, angel?"

"No," he sighed. "No...it is better this way. I...cannot bear the thought of you thinking ill of the Opera Ghost. His story is tragic, but it is very simple."

An instinctive shiver traced down the back of Christine's neck as she felt the voice whisper in her ear.

"The Opera Ghost was buried alive."