by Christine Dessler



Paris 1881.

At the Place de l'Opera, stormtroopers in shining white armor kept watch on the street corners while citizens bustled past, going about their business unconcerned. The occasional tourist came to gawk at at the magnificent statue of Octavian, the city's emperor, that adorned the roof of the Opera House. At the caf across the way, the students gathered as always for tea and talk.

Nestled between the caf and a millenery, a small oddities shop took up comfortable residence. The front was well-kept and a small sign above the door proclaimed "Antiquities". Inside, it was pleasantly dim as such shops seem to be, with a faint musty smell and a transparent film of dust that covered everything to complete the mood. A loud thud came from a back corner, accompanied by a cry of pain.

"Christine?" Meg Giry hurried towards the source of the noise with amused urgency. She found Christine Daa in a heap of skirts, on the floor between two bookcases, bruised but triumphant. "Christine, are you all right?"

The young woman grinned impishly, picking herself up and retrieving her prize from the floor. Holding it out, Meg found it to be an old, obscure book. "Look, Meg! Faerie Tales of the North. Papa used to tell me these stories." Christine motioned for Meg to go ahead of her--the space between the bookcases was extremely narrow. Then she righted the stool she had upended. "Maybe it'll even have the Angel of Music."

"Did you find what you were looking for, my dear?" This inquiry came from the front of the shop.

"Monsieur Vincent! Why didn't you tell me you had this book?" Christine hurried up to the front counter with mock indignance, and the proprietor of the shop smiled kindly at her teasing. Peter Vincent was a relatively short man in his late fifties, a transplant from Britain who had befriended Christine--and later Meg--when she had first come to Paris. Both she and Meg had come to love the poky little shop almost as much as Peter's stories. He claimed to have been a famous vampire killer in his homeland.

Taking the book from Christine, he blew a little dust off the cover and opened it, flipping carefully through the pages. "Why, Miss Daa," he chuckled, "I had forgotten I had such a volume in my possession!" When Meg put a disapproving look on her face, he smile broadened. He hadn't missed the twinkle in her eye. "I assure you, you would not have had to take a fall off your footstool. I trust you aren't hurt?"

"No." The man's good humor was irrepressible. Though he was able to affect melodrama with the best of them and could be very serious when need be, he had a cheerful streak that always came to the surface in the company of his two good friends. Christine settled herself into her favorite chair, a plush thing from the Orient that sat in a niche between the front desk and a curio cabinet, and began to look through the book of fairy tales while Peter retook his place on the high stool behind the counter, searching through a catalogue for new acquisitions. Meg picked up a stray dustcloth and moved towards the back bookshelves with purpose. "You really ought to dust back here more often, Monsieur Vincent," came her muffled voice, along with a cough. "It must be an inch thick in places. You'd fail the white-glove test miserably."

Peter didn't look up from the catalogue. "It gives the shop character. Don't you agree, Miss Daa?"

Christine smiled at the formal title and gave an affirmative. "I think it's quite cozy." She was a slight young woman at twenty years of age, shy and serious with dark hair and gray eyes, unusual in her native Sweden. Meg was of similar stature and the same age, golden-haired and perky-faced. Both were employed as chorus girls at the Opera.

Meg coughed again, doubtlessly raising a fine dust cloud of dust. "Cozy it may be up front, but back here it's a crypt. I daresay you ought to string up some cobwebs to suit the mood better!"

An explosion of noise boiled onto the sidewalk in front of the caf next door, shattering the relative quiet of the shop. Peter sighed, shutting the catalogue, and Christine gave him an inquiring look; Meg's head poked around the side of a bookcase. "Troublemakers," he muttered wrathfully, coming around to stand at the open front door. "Those students are going to get us all in a lot of trouble."

Putting her book down in her seat, Christine went to join him. Outside, perhaps twenty students, all regulars of the caf, were rallying exuberantly around some central character. Interested and curious passersby were steadily joining the crowd.

"What do you think it is now?" Meg had come up behind her, standing on tip-toe to look over her shoulder. All three were careful to remain in doorway.

Peter waved a hand in irritation. "Revolutionary fervor." He made a distasteful face. "They think they're going to liberate the world. It's their belief that Octavian is a steel-hearted tantrum-throwing youngster who ought not to be on the throne at all, but they forget he's done a lot for this city." He shook his head. "Why don't they actually go to school for a change?"

"Look!" Meg pointed towards the nearest street corner, where twin suits of gleaming white armor were marching purposefully towards the crowd, whose ranks had swelled in number. All across the square, stromtroopers were quickly converging on the disturbance with their blaster rifles raised menacingly. Peter, Christine, and Meg quickly ducked back into the relative gloom of the shop as two went by. One learned very quickly to steer clear of the armored troopers; these were unusually trigger-happy.

"Break it up. Move on," the ubiquitous voice of one trooper commanded through the electronically modulated helmet speaker. The crowd of students fell silent. "Move on or be arrested for disturbance of the peace."

A general murmur of discontent rose from the assembly. No one liked the stormtroopers, or knew what they were in Paris for; they were merely nuisances to be tolerated.

"Now is not the time, my friends," proclaimed the obvious but unseen center of attention. "Soon--soon--the people of Paris will be ready to rise. Their blood is stirred, but the time is not right. Until tomorrow!"

Shouts of "aye!" erupted from the students. Several thrust emphatic fists into the air.

Peter shot a knowing look at Christine and Meg, who was nibbling a fingernail in contemplation. "That's treason," Christine whispered as all three watched the crowd disperse, with the unwanted aid of stormtroopers. "They're lucky the stormtroopers didn't just have them all executed on the spot, but I suppose they think it's none of their business."

"And well it's not," Peter said firmly, turning away and going back to his stool.

Meg suddenly let out an exclamation of horror. "Oh my! Look at the time! Christine, we're going to be late for rehearsal!"

Peter had a fascinating array of clocks lined on a shelf above and behind the front counter; turning her gaze, Christine's jaw dropped. "Your mother will kill us!" She snatched up her hat and gloves, hurriedly shrugging on her coat. The Opera was only a short walk away but it didn't befit a lady to go out without her hat. Meg did the same, apologizing profusely. "We'll be around tomorrow, I promise--and I'll dust for you!"

Christine slid the book of fairy tales across to Peter. "Will you hold this for me, please?"

Peter lifted her hand and kissed it affectionately, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Of course, my dear. You two run along now--I don't want to cause any trouble."

Meg waved a farewell and pulled Christine out the door.

Hurrying rapidly across the square, the two girls were intercepted at the base of the Opera stairs by a fine carriage and a shout. "Christine! Wait!" A young man jumped enthusiastically out of the carriage and caught her arm.

"Raoul, whatever are you doing here?" She knew it sounded cross and regretted her tone, but there was no taking it back now. She nodded to the man perched on the driver's bench, a trim fellow with a sharp nose and graying hair. "Bonjour, Andrew."

The faithful Chagny servant of many years touched the brim of his cap and smiled. "Bonjour, mademoiselle."

Raoul was straightening his coat. At twenty he still retained a certain boyish charm, accentuated by his fair hair and pale blue eyes. He and Christine had known each other for several years. "I was summoned to an emergency meeting of a sort by the Opera managers. I suppose being principal patron makes me privy to matters of high importance, but ..." He shrugged. "Why are you in such a hurry?"

Christine shot a sideways glance at Meg, who was fidgeting from foot to foot in impatience and giving her a meaningful look. "Meg and I are about to be late for rehearsal. If you'll excuse us?"

Raoul held up a hand for them to wait and turned to his driver. "I don't think I'll be very long. Wait for me here."

Andrew nodded smartly. "Yes, monsieur."

Raoul turned back to Christine and Meg. "At least allow me to escort you inside."



Opera managers Richard Firmin and Gilles Andr traded doubtful glances, then looked at the four men seated before them. "Are you sure, completely sure, you can rid us of the Opra Ghost?"

"Oh, absolutely." The self-appointed spokeman of the group nodded self-confidently. "It'll cost you, though."

Firmin swallowed. At least they don't think us mad. "How much?"

The four men exchanged looks. "Ten thousand. All in advance."

Firmin paled visibly and opened his mouth to protest, but Andr caught his arm and hastily replied, "It shall be as you wish it, messiuers, but first we must await the Vicomte de Chagny, our principal patron. It was thought best that we consult him in dealing with such a serious matter."

"Serious financial matter," Firmin muttered.

Andr glared at him

Firmin cleared his throat. "The vicomte should be arriving shortly. We will settle the deal then, yes, Monsieur ... ?"

"Venkman. Peter Venkman." It was the spokeman again. He wasn't much to look at, seemingly more of a showman than a scientist. His touseled hair gave him a frumpy appearance. At least his companions looked more suited to their roles. They had presented themselves as parapsychologists--it was such an odd word.

But if they could rid the Opra of its troublesome Ghost, it didn't matter to either manager if they were scientists or common beggars. "If I mat ask, why such an exorbitant fee?" It was Firminagain. Andr was nervously watching the tallest of the four, a thin bespectaled man with brown hair, who had taken a strange-shaped gadget from his coat pocket and was studying it intently.

"You have to keep in mind the way we work," Venkman said. "Our equipment is very expensive--"

"And state-of-the-art," cut in the man with gadget absentmindedly.

"--and the upkeep is pure hell. Plus a little extra for storage of the monster. Very costly." Venkman smiled smugly. "Of course, if you're not willing to pay ..."

Andr shook his head vehemently. "No, no, monsieur, we will pay what you ask. Anything for your great service to the Paris Opra." Venkman's eye lit up with a monetary greed that could almost rival Firmin's, but the third man, short and slightly heavyset, elbowed him sharply. Venkman winced.

From somewhere beyond the suite of the managerial offices, close by, someone screamed loudly in terror.

One word sprang to the managers' lips: Opra Ghost. As one, they jumped from their chairs and ran for the outer offices. Hastilym the four men scrambled after them, the one with the glasses eagerly scanning his instrument for some kind of reading.

Coming out onto the promenade that ran around the grand front lobby, the managers were immediately joined by their fresh-faced secretary, Rmy. The parapsychologists were directly behind him. "What in God's name is that?" Rmy hissed.

Leaning over the railing, an extremely paranormal sight met their eyes. Down below, just inside the front doors, two young women cowered with stricken faces before a kind of hovering greeen blob that seemed to be snarling at them. A man aout their age was unsuccessfully attempting to fend it off. "Vicomte de Chagny!" Andre exclaimed.

"Miss! Miss!" came a shout, uncharacteristically clouded by a Scottish accent, and a man dressed smartly in an usher's uniform ran out from underneath the manager's position on the promenade with obvious concern. As the girls had their backs to him, he couldn't see the apparition which had frightened them so. "Acres," Rmy whispered to Firmin. "Head usher."

The vicomte didn't turn around, but he addressed Acres directly. "Monsieur, don't come any closer!"

Acres skidded to a halt, confusion etching lines on his face. Taking a tentative step forward, he replied, "But sir--"

"Stay back!" Raoul bellowed.

"Raoul, please," Christine muttered between clenched teeth, gripping Meg's arm fiercely. She stepped backwards. The apparition snarled louder.

Behind the managers, the parapsychologists were whispering amongst themselves. "What the hell is Slimer doing here?! I thought we told him to stay home!"

"Maybe he got lonely."

"Lonely my ass! He's down there growling at a bunch of chorus girls!"

"Easy, Winston."

"The PKE isn't picking up any paranormal activity in the area."

"What do you think's upsetting him?"

"Do you mean to say that that ... thing ... is yours?"

"Sir!"The green apparition--Slimer--went to divebomb Raoul, Christine, and Meg, howling incomprehensible chatter. The vicomte let out a cry and threw himself to the marble tiled floor, inadverdently dragging Meg with him; Christine backpedaled frantically, tripping backwards over her skirts. Acres leapt forward and deftly caught her just before her head hit the floor.

"Get down!" he cried as Slimer hurtled at them, and instinctively ducked low, automatically shielding Christine from the unholy flourescent terror--not a moment too soon. A thin trail of slime was left up the back of Acres' jacket.

Not losing momentum for even a second, Slimer looped upwards--straight for the managers.

It happened to fast to react. The parapsychologists threw themselves out of harm's way, but Firmin and Andr were left on the floor, covered in green slime. Slimer had vanished through a wall.

The moment of stunned silence was broken by an indignant sputter from the lobby floor. "I say!" Raoul snapped with all the pompous fury of the aristocrat, hauling himself to his feet and shaking his head to clear it. He proferred a hand to Meg to help her up, as always a gentleman. Impetuous at times perhaps, but a gentleman nonetheless. "What the devil was that? I've never seen anything like it." Then he looked towards Christine, still on the floor, who had twisted around to look up in wonder at the promenade while Acres sat up from his duck, quietly asking is she was all right. Ever the jealous one, Raoul barked, "Kindly take your hands off the lady, monsieur!"

Acres looked stricken, as all underling do when reprimanded by those of higher stature, but Christine's face twisted in anger and annoyance. "Quiet, Raoul, for once be quiet! You ought to be thanking him, not treating him like a rapist!"

Turning back to the usher, who was still kneeling next to her, she smiled with genuine kindness. "Thank you, Acres. Are you harmed?" He helped her to her feet, answering a negative. "But you have slime on your back!"

"It's nothing miss, only a small stain."

Christine cocked her head at him pretended to heave a long-suffering sigh. She was friendly with a lot of the staff in the Opra and they all loved her for her unfailing kindness to everyone from the highest-paid diva to the lowest stagehand. Acres had been one of the first people to strike up a conversation with her in her first lonely days at the Opra. "Oh, come along and let me clean that jacket for you ..." She led Acres off into a side corridors without even a second glance at Raoul, her voice growing fainter until it finally disappeared.

Raoul fumed. He wasn't even engaged to Christine--yet--so he had no right to order her around, but part of him couldn't help but be overly protective of her. Well, jealous. He just didn't want to lose her. That meant Christine had to associate with as little men as possible. Cruel, maybe, but then he'd always been alternately cursed and blessed with a paranoid streak.

Up on the promenade, Andr and Firmin were finally beginning to show signs of stunned movement. Three of the four parapsychologists were clustered around them, while Venkman stood aloof to one side in apparent boredom. Rmy had been sent for something to clean off the managers.

"You think we ought to find Slimer, Egon? He's bound to cause of lot of trouble in the mood he's in. Whaddaya think got him so upset?"

The brown-haired, bespectacled man glanced briefly up from his PKE meter to the shorter, pudgy scientist who knelt across from him over the managers. "Let him run off his steam," Spengler replied his his characteristic deadpan voice. "He'll show up when he's ready." The meter beeped quietly.

"But he's bound to--"

"Drop it, Ray," Venkman said. He seemed to be contemplating the mark on the ornate wall where Slimer had disappeared.

Ray Stantz drooped a little.


More to come .....

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