The Stagehand

I didn’t sign up for this. Things really haven’t been the same since the old manager retired. Unfortunately there’s only so much you can do when a ghost was threatening the lives of everyone in the building. I just wished he had explained the more clearly the way things were run to the new management. Maybe he did and they’re just to naïve to believe in the ghost, but he’s there. They never listen to me, but I’m always in the shadows during all the shows, and I’ve seen him watching the chorus line.

They didn’t listen to the previous manager, they didn’t listen to the Persian, why then should I expect that they listen to me? That’s why I started working for the ghost. Just a few pennies more, but every little bit helps. He would pay me to clear the basement of rats. For what? I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t want to know. The only thing that I know for sure is that if he’s kept happy, then I am kept alive.

But here come the new management to fuddle things up. They challenged the ghost and almost dared him to do something. And it isn’t just them. There’s the insufferable Prima Donna and her sycophantic tenor friend. He was happy for a little while. I remember hearing music the night before that chorus girl took center stage. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but it was beautiful. But then her old childhood friend shows up and all this trouble ensues.

So much broken glass here to clean up, so much blood. This was supposed to be a grand night for the elite, but look at them now. This man had some sort of invention that made him millions. This couple owned hotels all over Europe. Here is a lady that needed no man to make a fortune, as she owned one of Paris’ most renowned restaurants. Oh, and look over there, on the other side of the room, that’s the rest of her. Here are the twins. I heard they never worked a day in their life nor did they have to since their grandfather did all the work for them.

I can’t say I’d miss this lot. But being crushed under a chandelier is a nasty way to go. There are those who call me foolish for spreading the story of the Opera Ghost, and believing he exists. And some of them seem to be crushed under the weight of all this glass and metal, smoldering in their own blood. I may be a fool in heeding to the demands of a ghost, but at least this fool is still alive and well.