Every year about this time, Fred, my muse and history buff, and I meet. This year, I located him hanging in the closet. He assured me that many people have skeletons there.
“Have I ever told you about my years in Cripple Creek?”
Chewing on a piece of Halloween candy, I shook my head.
“In 1891 the population was less than 500. By March the next year, the Florence & Cripple Creek Free Road opened for stage traffic. The place — about 15 acres — turned to ashes in 1896 thanks to the first of two fires. Lesson learned, residents turned to brick and mortar.”
“Come on, Fred, get to the good stuff, the ghosts that are there now,” I said peeling a wrapper from another piece of candy.
“Ghosts aplenty,” he said. “Let me take you to a high spot, the first church built in Cripple Creek, The Old Congregation Church.
Photo by: Tim Stewart/Flickr
“This was not only a gathering place for sinners, but also for the dead. When the snow was yah high, (Fred raises himself about four feet off the floor), and the ground froze, it was impossible to dig graves. Thus, the deceased, often more than one, waited in a narrow closet on the main floor — until the annual thaw.
“To this day, when some unsuspecting… opens that closet door, a green vapor follows the person around, until it chances and escape outside. Then it dissipates.”
I shivered. “Does the green stuff smell?”
“How would I know?” He smirks.
“Until a few years ago, my buddy, Sam flushed toilets there, but only when a living person was in the building.” Fred practically giggled at this point. “That Sam is a joker, he is. Live people may see a figure passing by, maybe through, the windows on the upper floor, particularly at the rear of the edifice.”
Chills climbed my arms and I changed the subject. “Fred, is it true that on winter days, the local band of donkeys sun themselves near the front door?”
“Yes, but they’re not all ghosts. A body can feel those sharp little hooves or a nibble if said body doesn’t have a treat. One person I know — alive — coaxed one donkey inside.”
We both laughed at the many possibilities for a story and jokes.
Fred finished laughing and continued: ‘Built in 1896, the Colorado Grande (Casino and) Hotel has hauntings by a ghost named, Maggie. Many have observed her through the front windows working through the night in her gray dress and white apron. Her long hair, fashioned in a bun on the back her head, stays put as she swiftly glides back and forth bearing pans of hot biscuits.
Teller County Jail, in use from 1901 until 1992.
“The jail,” says Fred.
“I’ve been there,” I tell him.
“What’d you steal?” He smirks.
I explain the tourist attraction. “The worst part, Fred? Are moods of guilt, and sorrow, and loneliness, panic and plain evil that exist there.”
“From the prisoners or the lawmen?” He asked, swiping at another crow.
I shrugged. “Prob’ly both.”
Mt. Pisgah Cemetery
“Aspen trees weep blood near children’s graves.” If Fred could sigh, he would.
“Fred,” I say. Aspen trees can’t cry. Especially blood. What you’ve witnessed is sap. The red color is from the iron-rich ground.”
“Whatever you think,” he says rattling off down the hallway toward the closet.
This blog is meant for entertainment, authors and history buffs.
I wrote this prior to a tragic accident that happened in the Molly Kathleen Mine last week. My prayers are with the victim and his friends and family, as well as others on the tour.