I had loved the show in its entirety, and relive it again and again through the wonderful music. For me, the moment that will always live in my memory is when the shadowy figure of the Phantom emerges from behind the great mirror, shrouded in a long black cloak. He wears an elegant broad-brimmed hat that shades his masked features. Singing softly and seductively, he holds out his hands to clasp those of his beautiful young Angel of Music, drawing her into his embrace.

This beautiful musical led me to the novel by Gaston Leroux on which the show is based, and as I read of the strange and mysterious happenings which had occurred at the Opera House in Paris so many years ago, I became inspired to learn more of this man, who was a genius in many fields - music, science, architecture, magic - but known only as a monster.

I simply had to see for myself where it had all started, and so I travelled to Paris. My first stop, of course, was the Opera House. As I came up the steps from the Metro and saw that wonderful building in front of me, sunlight gleaming on the mighty Statue of Apollo atop the domed roof, a feeling of awe swept over me as I realised that this was his domain - the Phantom of the Opera!

Stepping inside, I stared in awe and amazement at the entrance hall, dominated by a hugely magnificent marble staircase surrounded by several ornate balconies and illuminated by hundreds of sparkling candles. Slowly, I ascended the stairs, imagining how it must have looked in times gone by when kings, queens and emperors mingled with high society and opera-lovers, filling the vastness with bejewelled splendour.

As I explored, I was struck by the atmosphere in the building - an air of alluring mystery, where a strange breathless excitement emanated from dark shadowed corners amidst the sumptuous, high-ceilinged rooms. I sat on a red plush and gilt chair in one of the hundreds of boxes around the auditorium, staring up at the massive crystal chandelier which played such a significant part in the story. I gazed at the enormous stage and thought of that mysterious being - the Opera Ghost - as he sat hidden behind the velvet curtains of Box Five to watch his lovely young ingenue as she sang for him.

A little later I made my way down a narrow dimly-lit stairway to the huge mirrored rotunda, the spooky ambience sending tingles up my spine. Setting my bag at my feet, I sat down in a quiet corner and closed my eyes, letting my imagination take flight as I pictured one of the masked balls that were once held there. Colourful costumes, masks of all shapes and sizes hiding exhilarated faces, noise and chatter, music and laughter, wine and champagne to help the merriment flow.

Whirling, dancing figures in myriad colours and guise, and in amongst them, a tall figure all in red with a great velvet cloak falling from his shoulders, and a hat of magnificent proportions adorned with long scarlet feathers upon his head. A macabre death's-head mask covered his face as he searched the throng for a sight of his Angel of Music, the young soprano who had captured his heart.

As I sat there, lost in dreams of "la belle epoque", gradually I became aware of a man's voice singing in my head, faintly at first, then gradually filling my senses with wonder as I listened to the poetically beautiful voice.

I knew it could only belong to the Phantom of the Opera.

When his song had died away to an echoing whisper, I heard the soft swish of his cloak, and then my hand was taken in a light, cool clasp. I opened my eyes to glimpse a dark stranger standing before me, the warmth of his lips brushing my hand before he whispered my name.

Then he was gone, back into the darkness.

The scent of roses was all around as I sat entranced by the vision I had seen, reluctant to let the dream fade. I put up a hand to push back a strand of hair and found that my face was wet with tears. Reaching into my bag for a handkerchief, I noticed a white envelope resting there. With a puzzled frown, I took it from where it lay and studied the writing upon the envelope.

Stunned and incredulous, I saw that it was addressed to me… in scarlet letters!

With fast-beating heart, I slit open the envelope and retrieved the single sheet of thick white paper where, written in the most exquisite copperplate in the same scarlet ink, was a message, poignant in its simplicity, for me.

Remember, my little one, I love you."

The message was signed … "Always and forever, Le Fantôme de l'Opera".

The messenger - was he a man - or was he a ghost?

©Jeanette Birt 2002