In case you haven’t noticed, Halloween is here. Actually, you’d have to be from another planet to not know this.
We are in the midst of a month of skeletons in yards, pop-up retail with all the gruesome stuff you will ever need, and best of all — endless grocery aisles of miniature Twix, Snickers, Milky Ways, and Peanut Butter Cups.
Netflix is streaming movies with scary stories and, not to be outdone, I have a scary story for you.
My story takes place in Bisbee, Arizona, where Patty and I went to climb the hilly town’s staircases, check out the art, and enjoy the excellent eateries. And deal with the supernatural.
Did I mention that I hate Halloween? I like the trick-or-treat stuff and the clever costumes, but I don’t like the gore or the ghosts. I believe in the paranormal. Spirits, demons, and things that go bump in the night scare the crap out of me. My condition actually has a name: Phasmophobia.
Patty doesn’t believe in any of this.
So off we go for a weekend in Bisbee, a mining town established in 1880, which in addition to having a thriving art scene does a thriving scary-hotel business. Apparently, a lot of people who died in Bisbee stuck around to haunt the rooms.
The Copper Queen says it has more than 16 “spiritual entities” including “Julia” a frisky bordello queen. Then there’s The Oliver House where in the last century 26 people have died, including those killed in a mass murder.
I knew not to book a room at either of these places. Instead I called around and asked about the ghost situation. Most everyone told me yes, that they had plenty of creepy stuff for me to enjoy during my stay. Except for one proprietor who, now that I think back on it, really didn’t answer my question but did give me the impression that her place wasn’t Ghost Central.
So, I booked a room and Patty and I road-tripped to Bisbee arriving at dusk which, as we all know, is when apparitions appear. My first clue that things weren’t going as planned was when we entered the lobby and were greeted by Vlad the Impaler, a life-size statue that made me jump. (See picture.)
Patty says a vampire isn’t a ghost so, okay, I guess we’re still good to stay here. We checked in, and friends let me tell you it was surreal. The woman at the desk completely misread the situation and was leaning into the ghost narrative. Even with Patty shaking her head and mouthing, “No. Stop.”
Madame Hotel Manager then directed my attention to a handy three-ring binder full of pictures and stories from previous guests who’d experienced encounters from beyond the grave.
Holy freak-out, Batman!
I wanted to go somewhere else. But where? Serene Patty convinced me that we needed to get the room and go get a nice dinner. So, we registered and only then did our host tell us that we were the only ones staying at this hotel.
Say what? This is a two-story hotel with a creaky staircase and 20 rooms. And we’re going to be the only living guests here for the night? Are you kidding me?
But wait, it gets worse.
Then she tells us she is leaving for the night and leaving us in charge of locking the hotel’s front door after not one, but two ghost tours.
That’s another thing: Ghost tours generate an impressive revenue stream for the locals. At night a Bisbeean (Bisbeeite?) leads a group of thrill seekers around town, visiting all the nightmare spots. And we’re staying in one of those spots.
By now I am mentally in a fetal position. The clueless hotel manager finally seems to notice my condition and offers to give us the room closest to the front door because hey, your friend seems like she’ll need a quick escape if things go sideways.
Sure enough, when we got back from dinner and walking around the well-lit and scenic downtown, reality came crashing down in the form of the ghost tour which was in full swing.
We could hear the tour guide going on and on about who died and what kind of haunting they were doing at our hotel. At this point I started giggling. Hysterically. I’m in the lobby, standing next to my friend, Vlad, and I am losing it.
Patty’s trying to shush me, but it’s too late. Tour Guide is coming and she’s annoyed and wants to know if she “can help me?”
No, she can’t. She’s part of the problem. But I take her point. She wants me to shut up because high-pitched, frantic laughter is crushing the vibe.
Needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway, I didn’t sleep much that night. I wasn’t happy about the transom window over the door which was open to allow air-flow and to let in poltergeists. Like any five-year-old I left the bathroom light on and hid under the covers. Patty, in the next bed, slept like a log.
The next morning, I was much calmer mainly because I was sleep-deprived but also it was daylight and nothing looks scary in daylight unless you’ve seen The Shining where the brightly lit hotel corridor has otherworldly, super-creepy twin children saying, “… come play with us, RaMar, forever and ever.”
And there was breakfast, a glorious event which involved lots of soothing maple syrup and a side of Belgian waffle.
All was well. Until we returned to our hotel. Madame Hotel Manager was back on duty and she had a concern to share with us: Had we left the door to our room unlocked and open?
No, we had not. Patty was in charge of the key, because Patty’s hands didn’t shake. And Patty was quite certain she had locked the door.
Well, we were told, the door was wide open when Madame arrived. But not to worry, sometime the entities do that.
Patty snorted her disbelief. My eye started to twitch.
For someone like me with paranormal paranoia this was ghost boot camp. Either I’d be worse or I’d be cured.
In case you’re wondering: No, this didn’t cure my phasmophobia. But it did make me rethink room reservations for this charming Southern Arizona town. From now on when I visit Bisbee I will stay at the new-ish chain hotel outside of town. As far as I know no one has died there yet.
The Upstory 