Virginia City Haunts

A weekend of ghost tours brings the author a deeper awareness of the possibility of ghosts and their ability to communicate.

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

It's difficult to be in rural Nevada without bumping into its past. Nowhere is that more likely than in Virginia City where the ghosts of its Wild West culture walk around town in full upscale mining town regalia. The buildings still smell of  old wood and the uneven floors creak and groan with each step. It wasn't until a weekend trip to celebrate my daughter's birthday, however, that I discovered the claim in a brochure is true. The spirits of the Comstock DO still inhabit the place.

As I watched two women strolling down the street, I wondered whether they were docents in costume or something more ethereal. It could've been the way their long skirts flowed gently around their legs. Or perhaps because we had scheduled a ghost tour that evening I was primed for ghostly encounters.

Ghost tours may seem silly, but they're a fun way to learn the history of a town. Many small towns, especially those hanging off the edge of demise, incorporate ghost tours into their economic development, along with train rides, costumed re-enactors, and wild horses wandering among the houses. Tee-shirt stores aside, nothing beats a band of wild horse nibbling on someone's apple tree.

Not only does a tour take you through the landmark buildings, the storytelling is well worth the price and trek up and down the hills. The tales can break your heart or make you laugh, but all reveal the secrets behind a town's culture and how the locals relate to it, be they born and raised there or newcomers.

Such a cultural interaction took place when Val and I visited the antiques store above the Territorial Enterprise newspaper office where Samuel Clemens morphed into Mark Twain.

We climbed up a rickety staircase that sashayed from side to side leading up to the store. Its semi-detached handrail and uneven steps gave me vertigo. Val offered her hand to brace my ascent. Once on the landing, I surveyed the rooms and realized this must have been a stylish apartment at one time. An elderly woman greeted us from behind a glass counter displaying jewelry. When I asked her about the place, I instantly regretted doing so. It isn't wise to ask an old person about history unless you're ready for a long and, in this case, spirited conversation.

At first, she told us the owner's daughter lived there in the 1930's. As the woman spoke, her eyes glistened in a strange way. Her stories grew more bizarre as she pointed toward the vortex supposedly located in a dumbwaiter shaft between the apartment and the first floor.

"It got pretty busy last January, February. Like Reno at rush-hour," she said matter-of-factly. "People winking in and out of here like blinking an eye. Then, one day, I walked into the kitchen and there was a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt just standing there. He looked awfully confused." It suddenly dawned on me she was talking about ghosts traveling between the dimensions. Her watery eyes glazed over as if entering a trance. 

"Where am I," the man asked her.

"You came in through the wrong portal," she instructed him. "Go back through and try another." The woman giggled at this little dialogue as she fingered the jewelry she was sorting.  

"Gee, he was probably trying to find Kona," I remarked, hoping to hold the serious tone of the conversation. I do believe in the paranormal and have had my own experiences; but to be in a whole town of people who acknowledge such entities as a normal part of the scenery takes my breath away.

I peeked around the corner to see the kitchen. The open door at the back led to a sheer drop of more than three stories. The stairway had disappeared long ago. So, it was apparent he didn't sneak in the back entrance. Besides, the old woman claimed she could see through him. I was convinced she was truly demented and her material realm more of a gravitational anomaly like the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz.

Her eyes wide with the mischief of a child, I couldn't tell whether she was serious or taking us on a wild ride. Most likely she performed this little skit for any tourist who wandered up those stairs. Exaggeration is a time-honored tradition in the West.

"Oh, if you want to meet the General, just go into that front room there. Like I said, we have people winking in and out of here all the time. You never know who's going to show up."

By this time, I was suspending my foot over the first step of the staircase, ready to wink out myself. "Well, it's been enchanting talking to you, Ma'am. Have a nice day." I grasped the handrail, hoping it would sustain my weight as I carefully placed my feet on the shallow, slanting stairs. This excursion felt like a trip through a funhouse. Once outside on the sidewalk, I leaned against the building, a bit dizzy and trying to recover my bearings.

Val regarded me with a bemused smile. "I wonder how many times Mark Twain winks in and out of her store? I could use a stiff drink right about now. Maybe he'll join me."

Photo by Vidar Nordli-Mathisen on Unsplash

Later that evening we reported to the Silver Queen Saloon for their ghost tour. While waiting, one of the tour guests sat down at the piano and played some really good Scott Joplin. Totally impromptu. He wasn't part of the ghost tour entertainment to get us in the mood. Such is life in Virginia City.

Minutes later, the guide began her recital about the building and its ethereal inhabitants. After touring the remodeled hotel and its magnificent stained-glass skylight, we entered the street to venture further afield.

The nighttime vibe changes drastically after dark. Vintage street lamps cast a pallid glow that creates eerie shadows under the balconies. Only the hum of barroom banter filters into the street; not even the tinkling of an out-of-tune honky-tonk piano. This silent shift from the hubbub of day served to heighten our ghostly anticipation.

 My favorite story of the tour involved a subterranean saloon that required a certain ritual be performed to appease the resident spirits. Before closing, the bartender must leave a shot of whiskey on the bar for "the Madam." Then he offers a respectful goodnight to "the ladies" before locking the doors. If he doesn't do this faithfully every night, the daytime bartender will open to upended chairs, broken glass, and other chaos. The present bartender affirmed this story with his own experiences.

After descending the two-story staircase from the saloon to the next street, the guide told us that Julia Bullette's funeral coach, drawn by six black horses, would soon roar furiously along the road to her eternal resting place among the other unsavory citizens, including her accused murderer.

As we waited for this spectacle, the guide told us of the Mackay's resplendent mansion and how we would hear footsteps inside the house. I did heard banging sounds that, frankly, didn't sound anything like footsteps. The guide sighed and admitted the current residents liked to trick tourists with their shenanigans. These ghost tours are fun and the stories are delicious, but how much of it is a coordinated effort to enhance their tourist offerings?

I decided it didn't really matter. Ghosts are a kick and, because traces of their electromagnetic energies are embedded in the woodwork, they help us relate to the soul of a community.

Another location in Virginia City that hosts ghost tours is St. Mary's Hospital. At present, it provides cheap living and studio spaces for working artists. Of course, we had to join one of their tours. After an initial orientation of each haunted space, we were set loose with EMF meters and our own cell phones to explore the four stories of the hospital.

"Make sure to snap photos often as you walk around because you may pick up something you didn't see with your eyes," the guides told us. Indeed we did, but I got nothing on my photo gallery. I felt intrusive peeking in one of the inhabited rooms as the artist tried to concentrate on his work. That must be part of the deal in scoring the cheap rent. Ya gotta deal with the amateur ghost hunters.

Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash

After we did our due diligence with our phones and the little EMF meters, we gathered in the main hallway for a post-mortem, if you'll pardon the expression. Just for giggles, I asked the ether if there was anyone there among those of us still living who would want to talk to us.

All the lights on our meters flashed wildly. Someone was there.

"Did you die here?" I asked. Stupid question, I know, but you've got to start somewhere. The lights flashed "yes."

"Did you die in the big fire that burned the town?"

No response.

"A mining accident?"

Again, the twinkling lights. We were getting somewhere.

"If I start counting at, oh say, fourteen, can you tell us your age?"

It agreed and responded finally at eighteen.

I was feeling a bit cocky, but my imagination was building a physical appearance for this young man. I assumed it was a man anyway. How many women would spend their days deep inside a sweltering maze of mine tunnels that could collapse at the slightest twitch of the earth? It was much more lucrative to be a sporting gal.

Many nationalities mined the Comstock Lode, but all I could see in my mind was a young man of European ancestry standing in the middle of our circle.

"Are you a blonde?"

Lights flashed!

"Are you about this tall?" I held my hand up to my height of 5'7".

Nothing.

"How about here?" I raise my hand higher until the lights flashed. So, he wasn't a particularly tall man, but then even a six-footer was remarkable back in those days.

By this time, the people around me buzzed with amazement at this conversation with a ghost. Actually, so was I. We had basically learned as much as yes or no questions could reveal, so we bid him farewell. The event closed with a stunning occurrence that couldn't be faked. We had all conversed with a spirit.

Returning to the car through the shadowy parking lot, I remembered that some entities and elementals sometimes follow people home. Thinking of how elementals can wreak havoc on one's life, I was glad I'd only engaged with a spirit. How would I feel, though, if this young man followed me home like a stray puppy seeking a comfortable and loving home? My storyteller's dreamscape conjured all kinds of silly scenarios, none of which, thank goodness, came to fruition.

We ended our weekend in Virginia City the next day, having a brief chat with the proprietor of our inn. She informed us that her establishment had been deemed as "psychically clear." Still it took time to come down from that visit to Virginia City and its haunts. Traveling always leaves me disoriented for a few days, but Virginia City left me with a psychic awareness I can't really dispute.

If you enjoyed this essay, feel free to explore more stories and poems in the Ring Around the Basin Archives.