The music rises to a crescendo, heavy with strings, salted with mellow brass and percussion, and the atmosphere in the auditorium swells to a rising, pulling the spirit upward and toward the ornate gilt ceiling, soaring until the heart is filled. The darkness and shadows above give way as the harshness of a bare lightbulb, hanging above the master light control panel, probes into the baffles above the stage curtains.

“And, now on the docket,” intoned the young man with a heavy southern rhythm, “is a magnificent chandelier from the grand and glorious early days of Minnie Pearl, it has graced the Grand Ole Opry, illuminatin’ all the family of country for years and years. It has a wealth of history and tradition in the dust alone that adorns its every part. Now, ladies and gents, what am I bid for this wonderful piece of nostalgia?”

“Oh, sir. Young man? Isn’t this the very chandelier that has some dark secret connected with it?” asked a frail old lady.

“No, Ma’am,” said the young man emphatically, a gleam in his eyes.

“Oh,” she said, and turned to her friend and frowned. “Are you sure, young man?” said the frail old lady, persisting. “I understand the Phantom of the Grand Ole Opry caused a serious accident with this chandelier.”

“No, Ma’am,” said the young man. “Nothin’ as sinister as that – you must be thinkin’ of another Opry.”

He paused, and winked at the frail old lady.

“But,” she started…

The young man continued, “There is somethin’ of a story about the next item on the docket, though, that might interest you. This magnificent guitar was crafted by the great master guitar maker, Giovani Giovani Martini. Legend is that the Phantom owned it, and left it hid high amid the dark and secret places above the stage, right above this very spot!”

He paused, and eyeing the gathered tour group, nodded knowingly. “One night, Willie Nelson was scheduled for a concert at the Grand Ole Opry. This was just before he started bein’ famous. His stage crew was caught in a devil of a thunderstorm on a train between Murfreesborough and Nashville when a bridge washed out, and they had all the band’s equipment with them. When the time came for the concert to start, Willie was here without his crew, without his instruments and sound equipment, and without his favorite guitar.

So, someone brings Willie this here guitar they’d found someplace, and he decides this one unfamiliar guitar is better than none at all, and besides, he can’t disappoint his fans. Heck, he was just startin’ out and couldn’t afford to lose any of ‘em. And without his band, without any equipment, with only this here guitar, old Willie went out there and gave the concert of his life! He razed the roof and brought down the house with a good old-fashioned foot-stomper…!”

The young man’s eyes were ablaze, a look of pure delight on his face.

“It turns out that Willie thinks this guitar sounds pretty good. Better’n his own, in fact, and he wants to take it with him after the show. Well, no one has a real problem with that, ‘cuz no one’d stepped forward to claim it as theirs. But after the concert, the guitar turns up missin’, and no one can find it.”

“You see?” interrupted the frail old lady, “That guitar belonged to the Phantom, and he came out of the rafters that night and reclaimed it as his own.” She turned to her friend, and nodding her head toward the young man, whispered, “He’s just so young; he don’t know the tradition, and he don’t know what happened here in the shadows that night.”

The two women nodded. “I was here, and I saw it all.”

The frail old lady took in a deep breath, and eyed the young man, her eyes now half closed, her brow furrowed.

“I know what you mean,” said the frail old lady’s friend, and she put her hand on her old friend’s arm.

His eyes fixed on the young thing in the pale blue-green dress, the fabric iridescent in the spotlight. The dress was of the softest silk, sequined, and clung lightly to her frame accentuating her lithe figure. It was the same hue as her eyes; he had been close enough once to note that.

Her skin, the color of alabaster, white, creamy, clear. Her face was framed in auburn tresses, with a little color in her cheeks, her lips ruby-red, and she glowed white hot under the spotlights.

She seemed at once petite and fragile, but with a backbone ramrod straight, and when she sang, it was as though the curtains of the heavens were blown wide apart, and the husky voice of a honky-tonk archangel shattered the silences of the grand auditorium. And when she held her face toward the upper balconies, her eyes flashed and burned with a fire he could not describe, but knew ever so intimately.

From his vantage point in the shadows, he could watch her movements, her stance, and could hear her crystal voice above all else. He had eyes for her alone, and his heart hopelessly belonged just to her.

“Oh, would that she could know,” he thought to himself, but he knew she would never know his love for her. He could only hide here in the dark places of the Grand Ole Opry, up here where eyes could not see, except his own. And from various places on the catwalks and superstructures high above, he watched and observed from afar, longing for his one beloved, the beautiful Reba McEntire.

When she sang, her voice filled the auditorium, and it fair shook its foundations, and it went from there out over the airwaves. Thousands heard her, perhaps more, and every one fell in love with Reba. And each night, the Phantom ached within when the curtain came down and she left his palace and his heart. She didn’t know he existed.

The frail old lady looked at the young man, “The Phantom lived right here in this auditorium. He lived in the dark places, the places of shadows. It was his sanctuary, his safe house, and he owned it all. He hid because of something that gave him cause to hide in shame.”

The young man nodded in apparent knowing, his eyes glued to those of the frail old lady.

“So, what was the reason?” asked the young man eagerly.

“Ah,” said the frail old lady. “Something you shall never have to face. It will never be in your life experience to face the world with this affliction.”

“But, what was it?” pleaded the young man.

“Why, it was his accent,” smiled the frail old lady gravely. “His family was from New England, and he spoke with a Boston accent!”

“How sad,” sighed the frail old lady’s friend, a look of deep sadness overtaking her face.

“I don’t understand,” said the young man, “What does that have to do with anything?”

The frail old lady held the young man’s gaze, a benevolent knowing smile playing with the corners of her lips.

“Young man, now tell me, whoever heard of a country singer from Boston?” The two women smiled, a smile of sadness.

“One could become President with such an affliction,” said the frail old lady gravely, “but you would never take Nashville with such alien windings of the voice,” and the two women smiled their sad smile again.

The young man nodded, a bit confused. “So how did he come to be in a place like Nashville?” asked the young man. “Why was he here at all?”

The frail old lady walked over to the guitar lying on the table, and picked it up. “Some say the master guitar maker, Giovani Giovani Martini, was the Phantom of the Grand Ole Opry,” and her eyes misted over. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and turning toward the young man, said, “Don’t you see? By creating such a magnificent instrument, he could be near the music he loved. He could be near the artists he loved. And, that day he saw Ms. Reba for the first time, his heart skipped a beat, and was captured forever!”

The frail old lady’s friend put her hand on her friend’s shoulder, “Are you sure you want to go there?” The frail old lady paused, and nodded her head ever so slightly, and rubbing her hand over the beautiful instrument, let out a deep sigh.

“They say the sound box of the guitar was fashioned after the body of a woman. They say loving hands worked and molded the original wood, warming it, teasing out the beautiful lustre and depth of colors; and, the master craftsman’s deft fingers caressed the body and neck, and rubbing across the strings drew out the sensuous song of love.”

The frail old lady looked over at the young man, and held his gaze, and he blushed, fidgeted, and swallowed hard.

The Phantom’s eyes fairly glowed, and his heart raced. Reba was coming to the Grand Ole Opry tonight. He dressed in his black tie and boots, polished to a high sheen. He brushed his Stetson, and drew his velvet cape over his shoulders and fastened it with a silver broach.

As the hour approached, he walked the catwalks and superstructures above in the dark, his soft footsteps lost in the rustling and murmurings of the adoring crowds now gathering below in the auditorium.

Memory traces began to work a magic on the Phantom, and visions of Reba filled the fields of his mind’s eye, and he felt flushed, warm, whole again. It was that same feeling that overcame him as his fingers put the finishing touches on a master guitar.

Reba was coming home. He would be alive once more, he would feel once more, and his heart would leave the darkness behind, and would soar once again.

The young man cleared his throat, and still a bit flustered, asked, “Whatever happened to the Phantom of The Grand Ole Opry? Did Reba ever learn about him?”

“No, young man, she never did,” said the frail old lady, sadness filling her voice. “She went on to bigger things, and of course she had so many that loved her,” added the frail old lady’s friend, “But not like the one.”

“That’s right,” said the frail old lady. “And no one ever saw the master guitar maker after that. They say he still longs for his beautiful Reba, and that his ghostly spirit still haunts the catwalks somewhere above us.”

The frail old lady’s friend nodded, “That’s so beautiful. And they say he’ll wait for his beautiful Reba to return to his Grand Ole Opry, and when she sings again, he will soar again on wings of love.”

The frail old lady and her friend turned, and slowly walked up the aisle on their way out of the Grand Ole Opry. At the doorway, they paused and turned, and looking up into the darkness above, the frail old lady sighed deeply, and blew a kiss to the silent shadows above, “Good night, my love…”