“That still leaves the matter of tickets.” “There is one box available,” Sam said reluctantly, remembering the rumors she’d heard. “Or rather, it’s reserved for someone less . . . corporeal.” “Box number five,” Hel said. Seven years ago, a stagehand had been found hanged in box number five. It was rumored that his ghost had cut the line on the seven-ton bronze-and-crystal chandelier, sending it crashing down from the auditorium ceiling, killing the concierge who dared seat people in his box. It had been reserved for the phantom ever since. “We’d have to appease the phantom. We don’t have time
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