There are strange happenings in dusty, old, forgotten small towns on the border of nowhere. Particularly when the end of October draws near. Sightings. Strange lights. Spirits. There are always spirits. I live in such a place. Me and my dog Jazz.
“Jazz,” I said, “it’s that time of year again.” She wagged her tail. I could have said the end of the world was happening tomorrow, and she would have wagged her tail. The beauty of a dog’s spirit, a tail wag of joy no matter what. We were walking the old town streets as we always did, enjoying the cool, crisp air of fall.
The yellowed leaves of the ancient Cottonwood tree were swirling in the wind and piling up along the curbside. As we passed by the old Copper Pick Hotel, a long, abandoned establishment right in the middle of main street, we saw her through the broken glass of the second-floor window. A pale, translucent girl, shimmering in the fading afternoon sun. Jazz gave a short bark, and she faded back into the darkened room. There are many wandering spirits in this town. After all, everyone will find their place eventually. One year a tourist dropped of a heart attack right where we were standing. Our shimmering girl, we call her Molly, had that effect on those who fail to believe in the reality of the world.
Our town is an old mining town. The mines closed decades ago but the town stayed put. We still live in the same old houses the miners used over a century ago. In that amount of time, spirits and legends and stories just accumulate. Ghosts, goblins, and spirits abounded. College kids come down from the cities to dare each other to challenge those entities. Truth be told, some never return.
It was getting a little chilly, so I ducked into the old saloon for a warm-up. We sat at our usual stools, Jazz perched on the stool next to me, stretching to try to reach my cracked bowl of pretzels. I slipped her a couple and got a wag. The saloon was its usual dark, musty self, with a sense of a century or more of wild times.
“The usual?” asked Joe, the bartender. I nodded. He set a dripping mug of brew in front of me with a shot glass of questionable liquid. He liked to surprise me.
“So, what’s new, Joe,” I asked.
“Another television crew,” he said, “here we go again.”
“Ghost hunter-type guys?” I said.
“Yep, non-believers. Going to debunk the whole thing.” We both laughed. “In fact, here comes the director of the show right now.” A tall guy, wearing a suit, plopped down on the stool next to Jazz. She barked once. I nodded at her.
“Is this the guy?” he asked Joe.
“Yep.”
He introduced himself to me. He was one of those Hollywood types. Perfect hair, tan and clothes and a soft handshake. I did not care for him right away, but he launched into a kind of interview, or maybe actually an interrogation, of my views as an old resident regarding the rumors of ghosts in town.
“I know the stories bring down the tourist dollar,” he said, “but frankly, I’m here to prove there’s a logical explanation for all the hype.”
“Actually,” I said, “there really isn’t any hype, as you say, it’s just our town.”
He had a skeptical look. “I’m told you’re kind of the authority around here on these legends.” I glanced behind the bar to see Joe stifling a laugh as he winked at me.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I said. Joe choked down another laugh behind the bar. “Where do you want to start?” I asked.
“I hear there’s a so-called apparition at the abandoned hotel. I’d like to film it if it really exists,” he smirked.
I liked him even less. “I’ll be sure to tell Molly to wait up for you, though she doesn’t really like being called an ‘apparition’,” I said.
“Ghost, goblin, boogey-man,” he said with a sneer.
“Spirit,” I said, “no need to be rude.”
He gave me a weird look. “I can see I’ll get no help from you,” he said, and got up to leave.
“It’s been a pleasure,” I said.
I heard later that after failing to film any sign of Molly at the hotel, they moved on to the mine opening and found something. The ‘old miner’ spirit was said to guard the shafts under the mountain from evil. He was quite a scary spirit, but also known to lure skeptical humans into the labyrinth of mines. We never saw the film crew again. Maybe they just fled back to Hollywood.
Joe and I got a good laugh a few days later.
“He could have just shot some film right here and been famous.” “Yeah,” I said, “Three spirits right in front of him and he was too wrapped up in his own reality to see in front of his own nose.”
Jazz barked once from her stool. Wandering spirits, all of us. I gave her a pretzel. She gave me a wag.
To the wandering spirits of our town, this is our heaven.
Text by Jim Driesen, map by Sarah Dorrance
Dedicated to Jazz – rest in peace – may your spirit wander freely in Old Bisbee!