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 This is one of my favourites, and i’ve been meaning to finish it for absolutely ages. I’m not sure it’s entirely there yet, but it’s so much fun I thought i’d get it to a point where I could happily share it! It’s my ‘Opera Ghost’ story, which is basically a ghost who haunts a theatre and turns the last night performance of every play or opera into her own playground. I thought of giving her backstory but I quite like it as is, she probably wasn’t the majestic opera diva she thinks she was, or is in death – writing a character this pompous is great though, and i thought i’d leave it to the reader to decide exactly what they think of her. Particularly I enjoyed the idea of a stage performance of a murder mystery bursting into spontaneous opera due to the ghost’s influence. She’s not named, and not remembered (or is she?) but I like to think she was called something like Sally Brown, and perhaps was not as successful as she claims to have been. Delusions of grandeur transferred to a strangely powerful and particularly specific haunting.

Valkyrie

All theatres have their ghosts – sour old ‘gentlemen’ and dour moaning mistresses most of them. They lurk in shadows like the weak, idle things they were in life. Frankly, it’s embarrassing – they have nothing.. are nothing, were nothing. A severe lack of talent, that is, if they had any to speak of in the first place. Pitiful excuses for Un-Dead really. They never had any vita in life, so now they cling to their pathetic excuse for an afterlife. It’s honestly beyond my comprehension.. Amateurs! It galls me to comprehend. I am a Grand Dame, they are barely a chorus.

I am a Diva, Valkyrie

Ho – Jo – To – Ho

I am Sigrun, Brunhilde, Grimgerde

Ho – Jo – To – Ho

I am Spearmaiden, Thunder-God, Mjolnir

Ho – Jo – To – Ho

I have talent – I am talent. These… these amateurs, though that gives them too much credit, appal me. They should have the decency to dissipate. Half of them don’t know how to haunt. What use is a spirit who does not go to battle? They do not deserve their afterlife if they must use it so pathetically! In life, I stuck them with awe and terror, and brought them to tears with my voice. In death, I have become my art. These others are paltry things, clinging to the paltry things they did in life, echoes of banality. I excel, though I was majestic alive. In spirit I am one of the Valkyrie, .

These ‘theatregoers’ don’t appreciate real art – Opera, darling, is beyond their uncultured peasant minds. They’re more suited to bawdy cabaret or – god forbid – those who sing in English! It’s not acceptable, it demeans the Art. It removes the life from performance. An Aria in broken cockney is as repulsive as a penny dreadful, not even worth the strain on one’s ears that is the inevitable recompense.

I am a Diva, Valkyrie

Ho – Jo – To – Ho

I am Sigrun, Brunhilde, Grimgerde

Ho – Jo – To – Ho

I am War-Muse, Battle-Mare, Bifrost-Rider

Ho – Jo – To – Ho

They should have the decency to remember me. That damned ingénue who had the audacity to poison me has a plaque, for what? She’s still here too! This is my theatre. Every performance, every Opera, is mine now. I sing through them, over their ratty little warbles transformed to grand art. I once made the leading lady of some dreadful little detective story sing of the ride of the Valkyrie through her entire exposition. English country houses become battlefields of haunting melodrama when I enter stage. It’s been a hundred years, and in every performance, on the last night I perform. Let the understudies and their silly little voices play until then, but the last night is always my grand performance.

I am a Diva, Valkyrie

Ho – Jo – To – Ho

I am Sigrun, Brunhilde, Grimgerde

Ho – Jo – To – Ho

I am Carrion-Caller, Frigg-Voice, Horn-Chord

Ho – Jo – To – Ho

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