"I don't know who you are, or what your purpose is in disrupting everything everyone is working so hard on, but IT MUST STOP! I have had it with you!" She felt like such a child as she stamped her foot hard upon center stage overlooking the completely empty and deserted grand auditorium. The performance had long ended hours earlier, patrons now in bed with their prospects, the Paris elite now departed enjoying late dinners and drinks at fine restaurants. But here Meg Giry stood, demanding to know why, yet again, the Opera Ghost had disrupted the first performance of the new season. "Do you hear me: IT MUST STOP! No more of this!" Silence again greeted her. In a huff of exhausted fury, she stomped off the stage and headed back to the dormitories.

The next morning greeted the corps de ballet with the wrath of Madame Giry. Always stern yet sometimes forgiving, the ballet mistress was certainly not tapping into her forgiving side this morning. "You were a disgrace! I have never, in so many seasons at the Palais Garnier, seen such absolute abandonment of technique: such rond de jambe! Such temps de cuisse! You will rehearse into the evening if we must. I will absolutely not tolerate such carelessness and recklessness!"

"But Madame Giry, it is not our fault! The Opera Ghost -," whined little Jammes but was abruptly silenced with the loud bang of Madame Giry's cane.

"SILENCE! I will hear no complaints, no whines, not a word! I will not tolerate placing blame on an apparition and taking no accountability for yourselves. We rehearse, NOW! On the barre!"

The ballet girls scurried frantically to the barre in front of the long wall of mirrors. Practice leotards and chiffon skirts hugging muscular bodies, en pointe ballet slippers thumping rhythmically on the hardwood floors. Finally by dinnertime, bodies worn completely through, toes bleeding, sweating beading on foreheads, and the ballet girls about to collapse in exhaustion and pain, Madame Giry dismissed them for the evening. "We begin after breakfast. You may leave." Grumbles and mumbles from the corps de ballet echoed quietly in the corridors after they exited through the grand foyer of the opera house.

Remaining behind, however, sat little Meg Giry in the massive practice room, staring back at her reflection, a defeated expression on her face. "This is all your fault, Mr. Opera Ghost," she said quietly as she carefully unwrapped the ties of her ballet shoes. Ever so gently, she pulled her foot from one slipper, wincing and grimacing in teeth-clenching pain. "I blame you… you have no idea how hard we try, how hard we practice, and how excruciatingly painful this is."

Silence met her words. And her own tears met her reflection. Taking a white towel, she dabbed at the blood oozing from her big toe. A low rumble suddenly caressed her ears. "Such hatred coming from such a small ballet mouse," the voice said. Meg squeezed her eyelids shut quickly and blinked furiously, wondering if her exhaustion and pain was making her hallucinate. "So meek, so helpless, so unlike the rest of the ballet rats. No, you are a mouse. A small little mouse."

"You don't understand anything. All you do is wreck everything. You have no idea how hard this is," Meg whispered, not daring to look up into the mirror.

The boisterous laugh echoed in the empty room, "Empathy is for the weak!"

"But not being an absolute mischievous, evil, vindictive jerk isn't?!" Meg shouted. Her pain coursed through her body fueling her frustration and anger. "Stop sabotaging us!"

"Oh, ma petite souris is now a raging rat. How sweet is she, hmm?" the voice teased.

"I am neither. I am Meg Giry! I am a dancer! And what are you? You are NOTHING! You are a voice, a menace, a nuisance, and an annoyance! All I want to be Principal, and if you keep doing this, then I will end up like so many others! Leave us be!"

"Such wrat, ma petite souris! A spirit of fire."

"You just don't understand, do you? How much do we give up to be here? I know you've watched all day today what we endure for this trade. What I wouldn't give to have a hot mug of milk with honey at the end of a grueling practice; a warm, buttery croissant that melts on my tongue." Her voice dropped off silently as her eyes slid close imagining the comforting food and drink that made her stomach rumble loudly in hungry protest, echoing loudly. "I'm so hungry," she whispered. She heard the voice's chuckle again. "Tease me all you want, but please, for the love of God, please stop sabotaging me. This is all I want."

"It can't be that hard, ma petite souris, to dance like the others. Effortless."

Now it was Meg's turn to laugh bitterly, "Effortless? Effortless?! He says it's effortless!" Now she was laughing and the voice went quiet. "You are so stupid! You don't have a clue, do you?" Silence. "Fine, Mr. Opera Ghost, or whoever you are. I will show just how effortless you think this is. Tomorrow evening, ten o'clock. Meet me in the old dressing room corridor, the room with the large mirror, La Carlotta's old room. Then I shall show you just how effortless it truly is."

"A challenge, ma petite souris? Do you not know who I am?"

"A coward if you don't show up." With a stifled grunt, Meg Giry picked herself off the floor and hobbled to the door.

Erik watched from behind the wall of mirrors at his little mouse as she limped gingerly towards the door. A coward; she called him a coward? Perhaps he had underestimated this little ballet rat. He was determined that he would break her. But little did he know that she would eventually break him and relish in the victory.

"Tomorrow night, ma petite souris," Erik said.