## Part 1: The Arrival

Who would loathe the quiet airs of Cheyenne’s serene suburbia, or so thought Bernie Allen, the paranormal investigator as he drove down the silent streets? Bernie had a habit of doing two things — picking at his spectacles and debunking myths. However, he wasn’t sure which knack found him headed towards St. Mark’s Episcopal Church this late at night. The prospect of hearing the ‘phantom choir’ filled him with a tingling anticipation. Bernie, the empirical soul, did not trust folklore, and the silent roads only strengthened his belief that this was another tall tale.

The stone-agged architecture of St. Mark’s abruptly broke the surrounding suburban monotony. Bernie parked his Ford near the cobbled driveway and was immediately sucked into the solemnity that loomed around the empty chapel. The large cherry-wood doors creaked desolate under the moonlight, and Bernie’s heartbeat echoed his questioning uncertainty. Ignoring his creeping doubt, he stepped into the cold emptiness, inhaling the old musky smell and stepped into the dimly lit chapel.

## Part 2: The Exploration

His starched leather footsteps echoed in harmony with the elegant arched ceilings majestic in their silent strength. Shrouded in the tranquility broken only by his own breaths, Bernie felt an unease replacing his scepticism. His gaze fell on the choir section – rows of empty pews centred around the decaying organ. Kneeling, he began to place his equipment for the ultimate role, the listener.

Stillness around him sighed a thousand stories bound in hushed whispers. He had one question in mind – did the so-called phantom choir, who supposedly hummed tuneless hymns in the deafening silence, exist? With a press of a button, the recorder began its patient vigil, and so did Bernie.

## Part 3: The Entity

The night crept like a silent predator, while the frigid coldness of the chapel numbed his senses. Bernie—now rendered desperate by the absence of sound—made his way to the vacant choir loft. As he approached the old organ that towered ominously, he saw a layer of gossamer dust on its once-polished wood.

Similar to the maestro prepping his orchestra, Bernie dusted down the piano and ran his fingers over the time-worn keys. He pressed a couple, and the organ bellowed a heart-heavy sigh, sending chills down his spine. Just as Bernie let go of the last key, the recorder stirred to life, and a sweet lullaby piercing through the silence filled the room.

## Part 4: The Choir

The disembodied melody hung in the eerie gloom, ebbing and flowing in the darkness. The spectral song stole Bernie’s breath away, wrapping him in horrified awe. The timid notes of the recorder seemed to dance with those airy tunes, bringing about an unexpected symphony that sent chills down the investigator’s spine. Bernie froze, the frigid, hushed beauty sending goosebumps across his trembling body.

The phantom choir was nearer than he could imagine, breathing life into the ancient forgotten hymns, and the bleak darkness around him reeked of a spectral melancholy. The melody seemed ghostlier somehow, laced with a strange sorrow that filled the chapel with its spectral reality.

## Part 5: The Departure

With the break of dawn, a misty silence settled over the church again, and the phantom choir retreated into the shadows. The tissues of Bernie’s denial shredded, leaving him fascinated yet terror-stricken. His device, the sentinel of sound, had borne witness to a phenomenon that transcended the contour of his rationale.

Without daring to touch the organ again, or haunting his senses with the resonance of the phantom hymn, Bernie packed his paraphernalia with shaky hands. As the sun’s first ray penetrated the spectacle of the stained glass, he stepped outside, leaving the legacy of the phantom choir behind in the forgotten corners of the chapel. He was never skeptical again.

Indeed, nestled in the heart of Cheyenne lay a tuneful secret that masks the wretched quietude of the night. Legend has it that in this part of Wyoming, the twilight was the congregation, and the moon was the patient listener to the serene spectacle of the phantom choir of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church.