Chapter Text
Stede Bonnet, despite appearances, was not an idiot. He was quite a bit mad, certainly, but he wasn’t stupid. He realised that when the previous owners of the most successful opera house in the city put out a notice of sale - asking half its value, practically begging anyone to take it off their hands - that something was terribly wrong. He had noticed the manic glee in their eyes when he’d signed the papers transferring the enterprise to him, like school children pulling off some trick. Red flags had been raised when he found that nearly half the employees and performers on the Opera House’s retainer had already left, in the months before the sale. Alarm bells had gone off when he looked into the House’s ledgers and rosters, noticing several years of suspiciously high turnover, as well as several unexplained expenses. It seemed that for the past decade or so, several of those who sought employment at the Opera House ended up leaving within months. Actors, musicians, medics, stagehands, seamstresses - in all departments of theater staff, there were very few who had stayed for more than a year. It was unusual enough to make even Stede wary, despite his inexperience and ill-advised optimism. When pressed, no one seemed to have an answer - or rather, no one seemed to want to speak their mind to a new owner with deep pockets.
Stede Bonnet was not an idiot. In the weeks it took him to hire people to fill up all the spots on the crew, get acquainted with the existing staff, learn the machinations and workings of the Opera House, he heard the whispers. He saw the fearful peering around corners, the avoidance of dark corridors, the travelling in pairs or groups. By the time his new staff had been hired, and rehearsals were set to start for their new productions and grand reopening, Stede was sure of two things:
- Running an Opera House had been his dream since childhood, and he was going to make it every bit as grand and spectacular as he’d always hoped. He was not going to let anything stand in his way.
- He was going to get to the bottom of this “opera ghost” business, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
***
“You should be taking notes during rehearsal, Lucius! That’s how all the performers will know when and where they need to improve!” Stede threw up his hands in exasperation, pushing open the doors to the rehearsal room. Stede was thrumming with excitement; not only was he going to be sitting in on the rehearsal today, but he was hoping to finally be able to properly talk to the performers and befriend them, having only had brief introductions with each of them.
“Mm, ok, except I can’t exactly be taking extensive notes for each and every performer, can I?” drawled Lucius, following him into the room at a far more leisurely pace. “And I know nothing about opera or dance or any of it, so I can’t really be noting down when and where they’re making mistakes. That’s what the instructors are for, anyway.” He plopped down on a chair, carelessly laying Stede’s journal across his lap. His gaze flitted lazily about the room, over to the group of actors and musicians.
Stede, deciding there were bigger fish to fry at the moment than his assistant being his usual unhelpful self, turned his attention instead to the performers and their increasingly raised voices. Oluwande, their director, seemed to be handling the situation, but Stede thought this a good opportunity to make himself known to the crew. He rushed forward. The House’s resident star, one of the foremost divas in the city’s opera scene, an alto named Spanish Jackie, turned to him as soon as he got up on stage.
“You’re the new manager,” She said bluntly in a strong American accent, fixing him with a glare that made Stede falter as he stepped towards her.
“Yes! We met last week, but it is my honour to-“
“We need to talk about some of the problems around here,” she said, interrupting him half-bow and ignoring his outstretched hand. “Problem Number One: Him.” She pointed with a surprisingly realistic-looking wooden hand towards Stede’s newly hired soprano, a man who had only introduced himself as The Swede.
The Swede scoffed. “ Me?”
“Yes, you! Maybe if you could keep to the fucking tempo-“
“Excuse me, you are the one who insisted on increasing the tempo-“
“Please! All of you!” called Stede, striding forward to stand in the middle of the stage. Jackie brushed her way past him to stride towards the Swede menacingly. The pianist, a man named Frenchie, also stood, looking nervous but ready to hold his ground. The chorus swarmed around them as well, everyone talking over each other. Stede found his voice was barely heard over the ruckus.
“Should I make note of this, as well?” came Lucius’ glib voice from next to him, causing Stede to jump.
“Lucius! No!” Stede cried frantically.
“You did say ‘warts and all’,” remarked Lucius, amused at Stede’s helplessness.
“I-“ Stede’s response was cut short as he heard Jackie threaten to cut someone’s nose off, while their stunt coordinator Jim had pulled out a knife and was twirling it menacingly between their fingers. Oluwande deftly snatched the knife away from them and slammed the handle down on the wood of the piano. Immediately, there was silence.
“Right! All of you!” Oluwande looked round at them all sternly. Some members of the chorus shuffled their feet sheepishly. “Our new manager, Mr. Bonnet, wants to speak to you all, and came down here just to watch rehearsal! So behave.” He pointed the knife at them reproachfully, and then nodded at Stede once he was satisfied that no one was going to start shouting again. Jim grumpily took their knife back, shoving it back into their belt.
“Thank you, my dear man,” said Stede in relief. He moved again, stepping closer towards their little crowd, and then-
A resounding crash.
One of the backdrops, rolled up in the rafters, had fallen over the exact spot that Stede had stood a mere moment ago. The whole company started, shocked into silence.
“Who’s up there?” Stede finally called shakily, looking up at the boards and beams above the stage, where the prop master usually sat. “Pete? Are you up there?”
“I’m down here,” said Pete, peering out from behind John, the costumer. “I’ve been here this whole time.”
“It’s the ghost!” cried the Swede, before anyone could say anything else. “The Opera Ghost! He’s trying to kill you!” The man wailed, looking as if he wanted to both faint and bolt out of the room at the same time.
Immediately, several chorus girls started panicking as well, shrieking about the ghost.
“Everyone, please!” Stede called, raising his hands. “There is no ghost! Calm down! Accidents happen-“
“They’re happening a little too often for my liking,” cut in Spanish Jackie, her eyes flashing dangerously. A hush fell over the room as she spoke. The chorus girls cowered together, peering around with pale, frightened faces. “So many goddamn. Fucking. Accidents. For years. And the old managers didn’t do shit about it, and I doubt you’ve got the balls to do anything either!” She stepped close to Stede, towering over him. “You clowns just trot around, expecting us to perform ? In these conditions? Easy for you to say, when it’s not your fucking nose on the line.” She grabbed Stede’s lapel and twisted the fabric in her wooden hand.
“M-my dear lady, I can assure you-“ stammered Stede.
“You can’t assure shit. Accidents fucking happen, huh? Well as long as these ‘accidents’ keep happening, this is not happening!” She gestured to herself dramatically and stormed out of the room before anyone could stop her.
“At least she didn’t take your nose with her,” rasped a new voice. Everyone turned. A man in all black, with greying hair and goatee, was walking up on stage.
“Izzy Hands,” he said curtly, not bothering to put his hand out or greet Stede in any way.
“Who are you, sir, and what is your business here?” asked Stede warily, smoothing down his coat where it had wrinkled in Jackie’s grip. Something about this man set him immediately on edge.
“I come bearing a message from the Opera Ghost, who considers himself the true owner of this theater, and demands respect accordingly,” Izzy addressed the room at large, not looking at Stede. He held out a folded piece of paper.
Everyone was silent, watching Izzy in suspicious fascination. Stede’s eyes narrowed. “And why does the Ghost entrust you to be his messenger?” He demanded. “Know him quite well, do you? Been in this room the whole time, I suppose, watching the rehearsals?”
Izzy shrugged carelessly. “I’m not his messenger. I’m just an enthusiast of the arts, a patron of this fine hall. I pass by here quite often. Ask any of them, they’ll tell you. I just happen to bear the message, this time. Take it or leave it, up to you.” He wiggled the hand still holding the note. Stede looked around at his crew, who all shrugged, but didn’t dispute him. Stede stepped forward and snatched the slip of paper from him, darting away as if afraid he would bite. He began to read aloud, his voice getting higher with outrage at every word,
“ Dear Mr. Bonnet,
A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am sure you will do a fine job of running my Opera House. I wish you all the best in your endeavours, and would like to bring to your notice some standing arrangements I had with the previous managers, in the event that they had not conveyed these duties to you. I have but two simple demands:
I am to be paid 20,000 francs a month- an amiable amount, I trust, in return for my protection of the House and its patrons. Secondly, you must keep Box 5 empty and open for my personal use every night of the Opera.
I am confident I will find you reasonable and cooperative. To that event, I look forward to a most amicable partnership.
Yours sincerely,
O.G.
Well!” Stede exclaimed, red in the face. “20,000 francs a month! “’His’ house! Alright, then!!” He looked around him again, but no one said anything, looking just as lost.
“Care to explain yourself, sir?” Stede waved the note furiously at Izzy.
Once again, Izzy merely shrugged, his arms folded in a measure of calculated nonchalance. “Can’t explain myself, I just delivered the note. I didn’t write it.”
“Oh! Didn’t you!” Stede exclaimed incredulously. He snatched a pen from Lucius, and turned the note over to furiously scribble a response. The crew exchanged alarmed glances behind his back. “Alright then! In that case, I wouldn’t want to be rude to our resident guest, best to send him a reply immediately, to assure him of my ‘ cooperation’! ” He folded up the note, pulling out a wax sealing kit from his pocket. He dribbled the bright turquoise wax onto the paper, sealing it with his ring. All the while everyone looked on in confusion, including Izzy. It was clear that whatever reaction he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. Stede thrust his newly sealed note out at Izzy, who took it from him with a grimace.
“Don’t you open that, Iggy!” Stede ordered, waving a finger in the other man’s face.
“ Izzy, ”, Izzy growled.
“Whatever, I don’t care,” Stede scoffed. “That note is for the eyes of our friend Mr. Ghost only; after all, he has been so kind and generous to us thus far.” He spoke loudly, gesturing grandly and exaggeratedly around the room, as if the ghost were hiding in a corner.
“You think this is all a joke,” Izzy sneered. “They all do, at first.”
“Is that a threat?” Stede demanded, drawing himself up to his full height, towering over the other man.
“It’s whatever you want it to be,” said Izzy coolly, holding his ground. “Don’t say you weren’t warned, Bonnet.”
“I shall be forever indebted to you for this kindness, I’m sure,” Stede replied acidly. “And I’m confident that my reply will reach our dear phantom .”
Izzy opened his mouth, but then closed it again without saying anything further. He bowed mockingly, shooting a twisted smile around the group, and turned heel and left.
The tension hung thick in the air, an unsettling weight on everyone’s shoulders. The ballet instructor ushered out the ballet corps after Izzy’s departure, muttering about needing some extra practice. No one seemed sure of what to do.
“Not sure that was wise, boss,” said Frenchie after a moment.
“What! That horrid little man thinks he can come here and threaten me- make these demands-“ Stede spluttered, furious.
“He’s not the ghost, though,” said Pete knowingly.
Stede stared round at all of them as they muttered and nodded along. “Of course he is!” He cried, throwing up his hands. “There’s no real ‘ghost’! It’s just him, trying to leech off this house!” He couldn’t believe no one else had realised this. It was so simple, so clear! How had this worked on the previous owners? How had Izzy managed to successfully terrorise this theater for all these years? Surely everyone saw right through him?
“He’s a little shit, and there’s definitely something up with him, but he’s not,” said Jim at last, speaking slowly. “The ghost was here for years before he showed up. The police even investigated him at one point and found nothing.” They were twirling their knife again. Stede watched for a minute, the helplessness slowly creeping back.
“So what now?” Stede asked them, his voice tinged with desperation. “Surely you don’t all believe there’s an actual ghost . Why would a ghost need so much money?” The whole thing was ludicrous to him. A few things stolen here and there, a few broken props, perhaps even a few minor injuries could all be easily explained away in a theater, easily overlooked. But whatever this was…
“Of course there’s no fucking ghost,” Jim scoffed. “But some idiot’s threatening you and you’re not in any position to be taking risks.”
“But-“
“I think the best we can do at the moment is focus on opening,” said Oluwande. “Just keep our heads down, hope that nothing else happens, yeah?”
“But how ?” wailed Stede. “Jackie left!”
Oluwande sighed. “Jim and I will try to talk her into coming back.”
“And what of the note? The ‘ghost’?!”
“Maybe you can become friends with him,” suggested the Swede. Stede stared at him. “It was only a suggestion!” The Swede put his hands up defensively.
Stede let out a long, low exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose as the cast and crew slowly dispersed. His two goals were going to be a lot harder to achieve than he’d thought.
***
“The ponce sent you a reply,” Izzy growled, flinging the sealed note down onto a desk. “I’m not your fucking messenger boy, you can take care of him yourself.”
“Didn’t go well, I take it?” said a voice from the shadows. It sounded amused, which only increased Izzy’s ire.
“Can’t you turn a light on? Can’t see anything in these fucking candles. No one ever comes down here but me.”
“Hmm, no, I don’t think I will. I’m a creature of the darkness, Iz. Don’t you love the music of the night?” the voice said, teasing. Izzy rolled his eyes, storming out of the chamber without another word.
The masked figure sitting in the shadows behind the desk reached over and picked up the note, noting the seal with interest. He peeled it off gently, ensuring the seal remained intact, examining it closely and then dropping it into a drawer. He flipped the note open, a smile twisting onto his mouth as his eyes scanned the page.
“Fascinating,” He murmured, laying the note back down on the desk, the ink barely visible under the flickering candlelight.
Dear Opera Ghost,
Pleased to make your acquaintance. You can go suck eggs in hell.
Yours Sincerely,
Stede Bonnet.
***
“And his eyes glow?” Stede asked, his own growing wide in wonder rather than fear.
“Uh, yes,” replied Pete, slightly unnerved by Stede’s keen interest. The rest of the crew rolled their eyes, but Stede didn’t notice. “His whole head sort of glows, you know, because it’s made of fire.”
“Wow,” gasped Stede. “And so his eyes float, do they? Because his head is fire?”
“Um… no. No, because his head isn’t always made of fire, you know, so uh-“
“Alright, that’s enough.” Oluwande stepped forward. “Pete, you haven’t seen the opera ghost.”
“Yes, I have!” Pete exclaimed, indignant.
“Then how come no one else has? I think a lot more people would’ve noticed someone with a head made of fire walking around, mate,” said Oluwande, exasperated.
“First of all, I said his head isn’t always fire. Second of all, the rest of you never get up in the rafters! I bet he hangs around up there all the time!”
“The ghost’s a bat, is he?” joked John.
“I ha’ definitely felt th’ presence of supernatural bein’s,” piped up Mr. Buttons, their set designer. “Karl has felt it too,” he added, his eyes flicking up to the pigeon sitting comfortably on top of his bald head.
“Let’s not insult the ghost,” said the Swede, looking around nervously. “He could be listening, you know.”
“Idiotas! There is no ghost!” yelled Jim, stabbing their knife into the wood of the stage.
“Jim! What did we say about stabbing the stage?” called Stede.
“Actually, I don’t think there’s a ghost either,” said Frenchie. Stede looked at him, surprised.
“Really, Frenchie? You were insisting there were demons just yesterday!”
“Yeah, no. It’s not a ghost or a demon. It’s clearly a witch, actually,” he said matter-of-factly. Stede sighed.
“And what makes you think that?”
“Saw a cat wandering around the Opera House. Everyone knows cats are evil, and witches keep ‘em around. So. It’s a witch,” Frenchie explained.
While the crew squabbled over the ghost, Stede found himself torn. On the one hand, ghosts were not real. Obviously. He knew that. Neither were witches, demons, or whatever manner of creatures his employees imagined were lurking in the halls of the opera house. The whole ordeal, Stede was sure, was definitely the work of some very human person, definitely alive, who was just trying to scare them all and get money out of him. This was the sensible, rational, logical conclusion.
But Stede found his gaze wandering up to the rafters, almost hoping for a shadow, a flicker, of something …
***
“I hope you realise this is fucking insane”, Lucius said, struggling under the weight of several trays of pastries and a large, silk banner. “I know it’s stressful running an Opera House, but you’ve officially lost it.”
“Nonsense, Lucius!” Stede cried, hands on his hips as he surveyed Box 5 intently. “We need to show our guest how elated we are to host him! Really strike up the camaraderie!”
Lucius groaned. Stede ignored him, snatching the trays from him and arranging them on the chairs. The box was far from one of the best or biggest in the house. Stede didn’t feel the loss of not being able to let it out too keenly in a financial sense, but his pride smarted at the thought of obeying the orders of some unknown menace. He grabbed the banner and unfurled it, hanging it up at the back of the box. In large, bold lettering it said,
“Welcome, Opera Ghost”
“There!” Exclaimed Stede, slapping Lucius’ hand away from the pastries as he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“And what, exactly, is all this supposed to achieve?” asked Lucius, casting a dubious eye around the box.
“I told you! Our formidable Phantom friend deserves his own rousing invitation and welcome to our opening night!” Stede raised his voice a little. He’d been doing so ever since the ghost’s first note, as though the spectre was hidden in every wall, listening. Having finished laying out his ‘welcome’, Stede quickly ushered his assistant back to his office.
“You see, Lucius,” explained Stede in a low voice, bending his head in close, “If any of the food has been eaten, we can be sure that the ‘ghost’ is actually just a man of flesh and blood, for what use do spirits have of food?”
“But what if it is a man, and he just doesn’t eat any of it anyway?” asked Lucius pointedly.
Stede faltered. “I- well, I think- don’t be ridiculous,” he huffed. “Whatever it is, close inspection of the box after tonight’s performance will tell us something .”
“Good luck with that,” intoned Lucius. Stede glared at him. “What? I wasn’t being sarcastic, that’s just how I talk!”
Opening night went spectacularly. On that side of things, at least, Stede breathed a sigh of relief. Oluwande and Jim had been successful in convincing Jackie to come back, and she and the Swede had managed to set aside their differences, working together surprisingly well. Stede firmly ignored the mutterings among the crowd about the unconventional casting. They’d already paid for their tickets, and he didn’t care for their opinions beyond that.
Afterwards, he and Lucius snuck up to Box 5. Stede had wanted some of the crew members to accompany him as well, figuring there was safety in numbers, but most of them had already left for the post-show party (that Stede was totally fine with not being invited to).
Stede opened the door carefully, peering in as though the ghost might still be there.
“Oh ,” he breathed.
All the trays had been dumped on the floor, the pastries all smashed into crumbs. The entire box had been thrown into disarray; upholstery had been torn, chairs upturned, the banner flung into a corner.
“Right. I’m not cleaning this up, I’ve got a party to get to. Hope you find what you’re looking for,” said Lucius, clapping Stede on the shoulder and leaving immediately. Stede stood helplessly in the middle of the box for a moment. Then, inexplicably, he smiled.
“You win this round, I suppose,” he said to the empty space.
On his way out, he noticed something lying on one of the still-standing seats. It was a piece torn off from the banner. He picked it up. In the same neat, elegant calligraphy that Stede had seen before, it said, “Congrats on opening night. First bassoon needs replacing.”
Stede pocketed it, a sharp gleam in his eye.
Over the next several weeks, Stede took it upon himself to draw out the ghost. Not only did he continue to speak loudly for the ghost’s benefit, he also took to leaving his own notes around the place -Inconspicuous questions on opera, food, poetry, remarks on upcoming plans for the theater, even general updates on his life. They all went unanswered, and Stede wasn’t even sure if they’d been read. But he was determined.
“Stede, I really don’t see the point of this,” remarked Mary, his closest friend and a painter who had decided to do her new series on ‘The Opera’. She had been entirely supportive of his venture, had bought tickets to the show every night the first week and actually showed up as well, and in return he was allowing her free rein in the theater to paint whatever caught her eye. “You’re not actually trying to become his friend or something, are you?”
“Just trying to lure him into a false sense of security, Mary! Let him think I’m some fool who genuinely believes in ghosts, that all I want to do is talk to him. In his rush to exploit us further, he’s bound to slip up eventually,” Stede said, puffing out his chest with confidence.
Mary raised an eyebrow, adding another careful stroke to her painting of the Opera House’s new chandelier. It had just been installed days prior, and was Stede’s pride and joy. “You say that, but part of you hopes there’s an actual ghost, don’t you?” She said dryly, cutting straight through to his true feelings, an uncanny ability of hers, stemming from years of friendship.
“I- Don’t be silly, Mary, ghosts aren’t real,” said Stede, scrunching up his nose and looking away from her. She grinned.
“I’m not enough for you? You want supernatural friends now?” She teased.
“I think it’s time you got home, you’ve been here for hours already and clearly the paint fumes are starting to affect you,” Stede said curtly, ignoring her as she laughed at him. “Allow me to escort you.”
“There’s no need, Doug would’ve sent the carriage by now,” she replied, already packing up her brushes.
“Just you wait, I’ll ferret him out soon enough,” Stede told her at the door.
“Well, I still think it’s madness, but at least it’s entertaining. Do keep me updated on your new friend,” She grinned, giving him a one-armed hug as she left.
As her carriage faded into the fog, Stede headed back to his office. He poured himself some of his finer bourbon and sat down at his desk, deep in thought. While he hadn’t wanted to admit as much to Mary, he was starting to feel a little foolish himself. Perhaps it was all just a big farce, and he was just being silly. He had a theater to run, he could hardly afford to go running after some phantom (well, man who was pretending to be a phantom. Because phantoms were not real, obviously ). And there had been no more notes, threatening or otherwise, so perhaps it was wiser to merely dismiss the whole thing as someone’s poor idea of a practical joke. (He'd had to finally admit that, as unpleasant as the man was, Israel Hands was not the one behind it all. Stede had seen him lurking around the theater now and then, seemingly genuinely interested in theater proceedings. While Stede would've greatly enjoyed expelling the man from the premises forever, he wasn't causing any trouble).
Stede sat back in his chair with a sigh. His gaze fell upon the stack of books on the corner of his desk, and he noticed for the first time a slip of paper sticking out of one of them. He leapt out of his chair at once, looking wildly around the room. His office had been locked, and he and Lucius were the only ones who had a key. Lucius never set foot here unless Stede insisted, preferring to spend all his time with the crew and in the various dressing rooms and boxes of the house instead (Stede had a good idea of what he was doing in there, with a certain prop master, but as long as they didn’t leave behind a mess he decided it was none of his business). And Lucius would leave any notes in the middle of the desk, out in the open for Stede to see, not hidden away like this. His heartbeat quickening, he reached for the note and pulled it out. In those familiar pen strokes;
“ Impressive chandelier, Mr. Bonnet, though some might call it overkill. I, for one, am glad to see that the House is not wanting for funds, as it means I may press upon you without guilt the 20,000 francs that is owed to me. You have been most amiable so far, but my patience is running thin.
Yours,
O.G.”
Stede’s mouth ran dry. He had been here. He had been here, in Stede’s office, that had been locked from the outside. It was another threat, another attempt at extortion. Most certainly not a practical joke, then. Man or phantom, whatever this was, it was real. Stede read the note again carefully, taking in every word. A jab at the chandelier, and no mention of Stede’s notes, no mention of opening night, nothing.
Stede was furious, suddenly. All that effort he’d put in, the lengths he’d gone to, and for what? All those notes and the gifts, Stede had even spent a night or two in Box 5, waiting for the ghost. And nothing, not even in mockery! Stede had also noticed the lack of anything else after the “yours” – the first note had said “sincerely”, and Stede had been ending his with the same or similar variations such as “warmly” or “faithfully”. It was such a simple thing, and yet Stede felt immensely slighted. Who did this ghost think he was? The nerve! The audacity!
Throwing the note back down onto his desk, Stede wrenched his door open and practically ran towards the stage. The rafters, Pete had said. Well, Stede was determined to sit there all night if he had to, he wanted a word with the ghost. His mind made up by the time he reached the ladder that stood backstage, Stede began to climb.
He found it easy enough to get up there, but once there he saw the problem: There were no solid floorboards, just a network of broad, wooden beams. Several ropes hung from and in between these, to attach to the various backdrops, harnesses, and other props that would dangle from the ceiling of the stage, attached to several levers and pulleys. The network of beams extended beyond the stage to the entire main hall of the theater, in one corner of which there was a staircase that led up to the roof.
Stede stood precariously balanced on one beam, looking around. The portion where he was standing was well-lit by the stage and house lights, but towards the back there were more sections in shadows. The ghost was more likely to be in those areas, he reasoned. He reached across to another beam. Suddenly, Stede felt a stabbing pain in his arm, followed by an increasing wetness in his sleeve and down his side.
“ Fuck,” he exhaled, looking at the blood pouring from the open wound in his arm, caused by a sharp piece of wood jutting out. The blood was pouring out, thick and fast, and he suddenly realised how high up he was. “ Fuck!” He grabbed at his arm, uselessly attempting to staunch the flow with his hand. He felt himself begin to panic. He flailed around wildly for the ladder, barely managing to climb down it with the pain shooting up his arm and all the blood flowing down. It had gotten all over his hands, making his grip slippery. A few feet off the ground, he felt his grip slacken, his vision going blurry. He felt dizzy from the blood loss. He fell to the floor, his back and head hitting the wood with a thud he barely heard.
As his vision was starting to dim, he saw a figure step out from behind one of the old, discarded backdrops and come to stand over him, looking down at him. It was a man, dressed in all black, a mask over his face.
“The phantom of the opera, I presume,” Stede croaked, his words slurring. Barely any part of the man’s face was visible under his mask, but Stede in his injured haze could’ve sworn he smiled.
“You’ve heard of me?” The masked man asked.
“Oh, yes, I’ve…. I’ve heard all about you.” Stede’s voice was barely a whisper, his eyelids suddenly felt too heavy. He thought he heard a soft chuckle before he slipped into unconsciousness.