Jerome - The Final Destination

I

My name is Charlie Furlow. I'm 42 years old, graduated from MIT with a degree in interferometry, and I live in Phoenix. My hobbies include traveling, jogging, and history. I wear glasses to see the road and take pills for high blood pressure. I don't shy away from working in a team, especially if the team listens to me, and I'm willing to work paid overtime if absolutely necessary.

So, with this ad I won the competition for a technician at Glendale TV Channel 6 Plus. Channel 6 Plus was a new, ambitious private television station at the time, which initially aimed to compete with mainstream news channels, later a TV station offering unconventional sports, such as pulling wood to the forest, running on a tire, or abdominal swimming, until it finally became a source of insignificant local news, which was produced exclusively by its employees, regardless of their profession, basically based only on where they were and what they heard from whom.

We learned that Mr. Joseph Button, age 64, had a leak in his garage after debris blown onto his roof damaged the mesh under the thatch. The report was sponsored by a local roofer who repaired the problem within an hour, with his name and phone number appearing at the bottom of the screen throughout the report. This paid for the entire hour and a half of broadcast.

Similarly, Elizabeth Goodwater, a 70-year-old retiree and widow of Jonathan Goodwater, a Fountain Hills gardener, said in a television interview that local grocers sell very good and inexpensive strawberry jam during the summer, made entirely from Arizona strawberries. The news was again sponsored by the grocery store, although it initially refused, and the cameraman who went to the store one morning had to persuade the reluctant owner to at least give Channel 6 Plus some change so that the three-person field crew could buy lunch at Jack in the Box.

So, programs interspersed with long religious songs from YouTube (to get contributions from Christians, as the most easily influenced group of people, who, both out of regret and also because of the truth constantly repeated on television by paid pastors that one should share one's earthly goods with others, otherwise God will take them from them anyway, mainly with honest altruists from Channel 6 Plus) filled the entire morning and part of the afternoon broadcast.

At around 5pm, our star presenters began their regular hour-long programs. Jake Westerlund, for example, talked engagingly about how much the bushes in his garden, where weeds are most common, had grown since yesterday, how many weeds he had to pull out on a busy day, and exactly how he did it. At the end, he always filmed himself with his face covered in sweat from working in the garden in a hundred-degree heat and uttered his own rhyming slogan, of which he was rightly proud: "Let us place a smile on our face!"

Mike Cockroach and his wife Jane hosted daily live broadcasts of washing dishes. Jane usually washed, explaining with almost bewitching enthusiasm that she first put the dishes in water with washing-up liquid to degrease them, and only then rinsed them with clean water. Mike then demonstrated the technique of wiping dishes so that he could handle as many dishes as possible with one cloth before it was all soaked with water and he had to use another. With their own humor, indicating the comfort of the family hearth, they commented on their joyful work: “Hey, Mike, you didn’t wipe it properly here. Do you see that dried spot?” “Oh, yeah, honey, I’m clumsy, I’ll fix it right away… But look, honey, there’s a little lipstick left on the glass here. Could you wash it again?” “And you, idiot, couldn’t have told me earlier?! It’s your fault anyway!”

So, it was no surprise that one day Mr. Halloway, the owner of the TV, came to our kitchen, where the TV technicians had their facilities, and asked us: “Hey guys, don’t you have something we can do to maximize our TV time?” “Well, my aunt is a fortune teller…” said Miguel. “Excellent!” replied Halloway, and we made a few nice episodes about reading cards. However, as it turned out, Miguel’s aunt had only a limited supply of stories. Basically, she only knew 12 different predictions, which she always chose based on how she guessed each customer. So, the show soon died out.

But then Joe pulled a bunch of stuff out of the attic. It was some equipment that his uncle, an avid ghost hunter, used. Although we didn't really know what each piece of equipment did, let alone what units like microalzheimer or megatrottel meant, we began to figure out, partly empirically and partly from Joe's uncle's notes, how each was used and what the readings showed.

The popular show The Arizona Ghost Riders was created with a star-studded quartet of ghostologists: Miguel – a paraactivist and spookologist with a Ghost Bachelor Arts degree from the prestigious spiritualist university in Show Low. Then there was Joe – a professor of electrical engineering and energy science at Trans-American University in Kingsman. Mayra – an astral geologist and séance historian, owner of the constellation consulting office Rodriguez and Co. in Mesa. And me – as I already mentioned, a graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, an interferologist. Together we photographed all the mysterious places in Arizona and, equipped with Joe's uncle's equipment and the most powerful flashlights from Outdoor World and Cabella's, analyzed the activity, cause and meaning of paranormal phenomena.

Even though our primetime broadcast time, always on Saturdays at 8pm, brought us ratings that often-reached hundreds of people and we became the most successful program on Channel 6 Plus in history, the team members gradually left. In short, they despised the television that launched their stellar careers and were lured by offers from larger and more successful companies that also provided them with a larger and more stable income. Joe went to work as a salesman at McDonald's, Mayra joined a New York law firm with a branch in Arizona, where she helped clients as a parapsychologist, and finally Miguel went to work as an assistant to his aunt.

So, I was left alone. The Arizona Ghost Riders show changed its name to The Arizona Ghost Rider, and for a year and a half I've been towing my pickup truck and Joe's equipment, which he gave me with the words "the stuff just takes up space in my garage at home anyway," around the Arizona countryside. My weekly salary is based on ten cents for every viewer who watches my Saturday show, so I make extra money in local pubs by explaining the work of a ghost hunter and demonstrating Joe's equipment. My lectures usually follow concerts by small local bands, that is, late at night, when the very drunk audience still occasionally throws a coin on the stage, thinking it's an interlude in the show, with the occasional shout of "Play it again, Sam," or something like that.

Once, after one of these shows in Cave Creek, I was packing my fiddles, and I sat down at the bar and ordered an Arizona Rye Whiskey. “Can it be Sacred Stave?” the bartender asked. “Sure, I’ll have that,” I said, wanting to finish it quickly and go to bed. “On the house, sir,” the bartender said. I thanked him, downed the shot, and then a voice spoke from behind me: “Would you like to come to Jerome sometime?” I turned on my stool and saw a little girl handing me a flyer. I took it, looked at it, and saw that it said “Jerome – The Final Destination.” I skimmed it and realized that it was just a tourist brochure. When I looked up again to get a better look at the girl who had given it to me, she was gone. “Who was that?” I asked the bartender. "I don't know," he shrugged. "But no one local, otherwise I would know her."

When I looked at the flyer again later in the bed of the inn room, which I had received out of compassion, also free of charge, just like the shot, and looked at all the places in Jerome associated with spooky ghost stories, I was surprised that I had not thought of visiting this gold mine of paranormal phenomena until now.

II

I decided to change it as soon as possible. I also wished that the end of October was approaching and with it the last day of the month, Halloween, which this year fell on a Tuesday. However, when I got home, I found that I had my pickup truck scheduled for service that day. My engine had been overheating for a while, and I didn't want to risk the long drive to Jerome.

But an earlier date wasn’t possible either, so I was counting on Big O Tires to fix the problem that day. “We found that you’re leaking coolant,” the guy at the service station told me. “So how do we fix it?” “We need to run a test first to find out what’s wrong. We’ll call you.” “Will it be today?” “Sure. We’ll let you know still this morning.”

I went back to Aspire on Pinnacle Peak Road, where I had rented an apartment at the time. On the way, I looked up on my cell phone how long it would take to get to Jerome and found out that I needed at least an hour and a half. Well, if the car was ready by 5pm, I should still be in Jerome by evening. As soon as I closed the door to my apartment, my phone rang and it was the man from Big O Tires, as promised. “Well, you have a leaky pump,” he said. “Can it be fixed?” “Sure, we just have to replace it.” “And how long will it take?” I asked. “Well, unfortunately we don’t have it in stock, but it should be in two days…” “What?! I need the car today!” I started to get angry. “I’m sorry, sir. If you need it, feel free to pick it up now, but I don’t recommend driving it far. Your engine could be seriously damaged.”

The car was fixed by noon, but two days later. I mentally cursed my bad luck, because this could have been the story of my life. I set off for Jerome that Thursday anyway, thinking that we would have time to process the material in the editing room during Friday and the program would be ready for broadcast on Saturday.

Jerome is located in central Arizona and is most easily reached from Phoenix via I-17 and then State Highway 260, which runs from Show Low to Cottonwood, where it seamlessly connects to State Highway 89A. It is only a short drive via Clarkdale to Jerome. The destination is on a hill, so the final road to it leads through serpentines that must be driven slowly and very carefully, which means that this road is dangerous at night and therefore closed. However, there is a western exit from Jerome, also through serpentines and through the woods, which will eventually take you to Prescott. However, unlike the eastern exit, this road is open overnight.

Even so, I planned to sleep in Jerome, or rather spend the night there, preferably in a location where, according to rumors, it is demonstrably haunted.

I parked my car in a large open parking lot on Hull Avenue. The last spot was waiting for me. I got out and was looking around when my eyes were caught by a discreet but strangely familiar woman. She was sweeping up trash in front of the door of some gallery or whatever.

“How are you?” I asked her.

"I'm fine," she replied, lifting her face. She was pretty, petite, wrinkled, one might say a little despondent, or perhaps full of some strange sadness. She was certainly an older lady, and I kept wondering how I knew her.

"I'm looking for a Mile High Inn; do you know where it is?"

"Good that you ask. You can't find it by that name, so you'd be looking in vain. It's 309 Main Street, and it says Clinkscales. You go up, then turn left on 1st Avenue, then left again on Main, and you'll find it there."

"Thank you, dear lady..." I replied.

She paused for a moment, then smiled slightly. It was obvious she was pleased.

I pulled a large, wheeled suitcase from the pickup truck with Joe's uncle's equipment, headed in the direction she had told me, and soon came upon the Clinkscales Hotel. The red plaster had the year 1899 on it, matching the date on the flyer.

III

I walked in, waved hello, and sat down at the bar.

"What will it be?" the bartender asked.

“Arizona Rye Whiskey,” I replied.

“Can it be Sacred Stave?” She asked again and I said yes.

“What brings you here?” she asked as she brought it to me.

“I would like to book a room with you,” I said.

"You're in luck," she replied. "We still have plenty of rooms available today. But if you had come here on Halloween or even yesterday, you wouldn't have been looking for anything. What would you like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it depends on your taste. We have Lulu - Hawaiian passion, Sophia - Parisian bon vivant, Daphne - Athenian goddess..."

"Wait a minute, this is like..."

"Like what?"

"I mean... a brothel?"

"Oh my God, no!" The barmaid was horrified. "Prostitution is strictly prohibited!"

"Well, I'm scared. So, what do those names mean?"

"Well, these are our companions..."

"So, they're prostitutes after all..."

"O, gosh..." and the barmaid clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Such expressions... These are the ladies who live in those rooms and, in all honesty, provide the guests with entertainment, contemplation, mental and physical purification, and above all, witty and intelligent conversation that will satisfy any gentleman."

“Okay,” I said. “My name is Charlie Furlow, and I work here on a report for Channel 6 Plus. Have you ever heard of us?”

"Unfortunately not," she apologized, "but if you're from television, the girls would be happy to show you their skills. However, filming will cost something..."

"Well, I'm not here for your girls," I replied. "I'm here to do paranormal research."

"Of course!" The barmaid was delighted. "You've come to the right place! Strange things have been happening in our hotel for many years. Do you want to know its history? I don't want to bore you if you've already studied it."

“Well, just superficially, from what I know from this flyer,” I said, pulling it out.

The bartender looked at it and was pleased to see the Mile High Inn right at the top of the list. Then she began, “As you probably know, this building, called the Clinkscale Building, was built in 1899 on the site of a former burned-out outbuilding, and to make it really fireproof, the walls are an incredible 18 inches thick! Later, a wealthy lady named Jennie Bauters bought it and started a brothel there. Prostitution was then outlawed, but it was still going on here in Jerome, and it did until 1940. Brothels had to disappear from Main Street, so the building became a warehouse on the ground floor, and our eight rooms upstairs were used as apartments. Eventually, however, the house became a hotel again, which still stands today.

Back then, prostitution was also a very dangerous profession. The clientele consisted mainly of local miners and violence was common here. Many girls lost their lives here, including the brothel owner, Madam Jennie. You can see her ghost today either in the Lariat Room, the Lace Room, or in the kitchen. In the kitchen, she mainly throws plates and cutlery if they are not placed correctly where they should be. Sometimes she also moves our furniture or turns on the fans. She also has a habit of turning on the radio in the rooms when the maid comes to clean them.

In addition to Madam Jennie, you can also meet her phantom cat. It usually appears to guests by coming up to them, hunching over as if it wants to be picked up, but when they reach out their hands to her, it suddenly disappears. The cat also sometimes rubs against people's feet, especially down here in the bar and in the kitchen. It also likes to leave its paw prints on cleanly made beds. Guests can sometimes hear its meowing and sharpening its claws.

Then here you can see the ghost of a friendly-looking older man dressed in old work clothes and a felt hat. He sometimes looks out the window of the Pillow Talk Room down into the alley. He also moves pictures around on the walls for us or puts them in the cupboard in the Kiss and Tell Room. The door of this cupboard has a tendency to open and close by itself.

Next up is the ghost of a young man, but he's not so friendly anymore. While he doesn't harm the guests, he tries to scare them, for example by blowing cold air from the hallway into the guest rooms. He also appears in the Victorian Rose Room, or down here in the bar. You can always see his grumpy expression on his face.

In the Victorian Rose Room, you can also smell the scent of roses, even though there aren't any. The sink also starts and stops on its own. Doors open and close all over the inn, and the statue that stands there sometimes starts to turn on its own. And you can also hear amorous sighs here, but that's probably not surprising in a brothel.

But most of the strange things happen right here in the restaurant. For example, someone whistles from the bar as you sit, even though no one is there, or you hear singing even though no one is there, metal signs fall off the walls, glasses fall off the tables, and electrical appliances start and stop on their own.

So… where would you like to start?”

"Wow, that's a lot of work. You guys are pretty busy down here right now. I'll check in later tonight when it's closed. But could I take a look in one of those rooms first? Maybe the Victorian one..."

"But of course... Mary - the Catholic Mouse lives there, so I'll let you know and you can start your research."

"Wait a minute, will she be there too?"

"Of course... The poor thing lives there, and you want to throw her out?"

"I thought I could rent that room."

"You certainly can, but with her..."

"Well, okay. How much does it cost for the night?"

"Night..." the bartender was surprised. "So, you want to paint the town red... The first half hour costs 500 dollars, the next 250, and then every hour after that is 100."

“What?” My eyes widened.

"Well, don't be surprised," the barmaid objected, "after all, it's her only income..."

"But I don't want anything from her! I just want to scientifically examine the room..."

"And you don't want anything from Mary?"

"No!"

"Okay. A hundred per hour, but if you even touch her, you pay full price..."

"Okay, that's it," I finally said resignedly and took out a hundred as a deposit.

The barmaid answered the phone and announced a guest to the Victorian Rose Room. Soon a rather drab girl in a plain white dress and no sign of makeup arrived. She introduced herself as Mary and beckoned me up the stairs.

"Thank you for the explanation," I turned to the bartender again, "Mrs....Mrs...." and waited for her to tell me her name.

“Madam,” she corrected me. “Madam Jennie…”

I stared at her, speechless. She just cocked her head to the side, laughed mischievously, and then left the bar and went into the kitchen.

IV

Mary showed me to the Victorian Rose Room on the first floor. It was sparsely furnished, basically just a bed, a bedside table, a lamp, a table in one corner, two chairs, and a chest of drawers in the other. On the walls hung a picture of the Virgin Mary and Jesus on the cross. There was also a sink on the wall next to the door. The roses really scented here, although I couldn't see them anywhere. The whole gloomy atmosphere was further enhanced by the dim red light.

“Couldn’t we turn on some lights here?” I asked.

"It's lit, didn't you notice?" Mary asked in surprise.

"Yes, but I meant more."

"It's not possible anymore," she shrugged. "But I can still turn on the lamp," and she turned it on.

But the extra 10 watts or so didn't add much to the visibility. So, I pulled out a few Cabella's flashlights from my suitcase, placed them strategically around the room, and turned them on. She covered her face with her hands.

"This isn't a very romantic atmosphere," she said disappointedly.

"I came here to do scientific work," I declared.

“Scientific work…” she repeated, as if she had heard the term for the first time in her life. “I get really excited about men who do scientific work. And what is that?” she asked.

“There’s something paranormal going on in this room,” I said. “I’ve come to investigate.”

“I understand that,” she said quietly, then opened a drawer in her nightstand and took out a note. “Here…” she handed it to me, as if I had asked her to.

“What is this?” I asked.

"I have a swollen pussy..." she said shyly. I still looked at her in confusion.

"The doctor prescribed me an ointment," she added by way of explanation, but I still couldn't get anything out of it.

"Well, I went to the pharmacy, and they made me this ointment," she started looking at me as if I was stubborn and kept shoving the note under my nose.

"Well, they prepared the ointment for me there and I paid. And the magistrate gave me this receipt. Well, now you can examine it scientifically," she said, quite impatiently.

"I didn't say paramedical phenomena, I said paranormal phenomena," I corrected her. "Those are supernatural things!"

Then Mary blushed, shyly took off her dress, under which she had nothing but her divine body, and nodded her head towards her crotch.

"So help yourself, you seducer," she said.

“Why are you showing me that?” I asked.

"For you to examine. See how it's super overgrown over my nature? I don't cut it at all..." She giggled shyly.

"Mary!" I said angrily, wanting to touch her, but at the last moment I realized that I probably wouldn't be able to afford it. "Supernatural things are not things above your nature, but things that are not of this world."

"Are they like from Mars?"

"Not that either. Just things that shouldn't normally exist. Like the smell of roses. Can you smell the roses in this room? But there aren't any."

"That's my perfume," she giggled, raising her arm and letting me sniff it. It was her perfume. Mystery solved.

"Okay, but supposedly the water in that sink over there is running on its own, or ghosts are appearing here."

"Maybe they'll come later too," she giggled again. "I had beans at lunch..." she said, blushing.

"Mary, you know what?" I finally said. "Sit in that chair and be quiet. I'd like to get it all done in that hour, so I don't have to pay for another one."

"And what should I do?"

"Nothing, maybe play and have fun, if it makes you feel good."

Then she took a vibrator out of the nightstand and started playing with it and having fun. I just waved my hand, opened the suitcase and started arranging the devices. Some of them needed to be plugged into the wall, though.

“Mary, where’s your socket?” I asked. She pointed between her legs. “That’s useless,” I said, more to myself, and after a while of searching, I found one.

In a few minutes everything was ready and the equipment was in place. I also attached a camera to the corner of the room. Then I turned to Mary again to be sure: "Mary, now please stay sitting in that chair and be quiet. I will film the experiment."

Mary, apparently sufficiently excited, suddenly responded to the impulse, stood up, and walked, fascinated, to the cross on which Jesus was nailed.

“Look at Jesus!” she said in amazement. “He is nailed to the cross, bleeding, but his muscles are so tense. Such beautiful muscles! And his legs too! I can feel him holding me in his arms, his muscular legs touching my body. His hands are dripping with blood, but he is still penetrating me deeply. Oh! This is so exciting!”

"Mary, they falsely accused this man, forced the local boss to condemn him, and then had him brutally murdered. Only a pervert could find this exciting." I replied.

"Really? I feel sorry for him. And I always wondered why he would get such a massage on that cross. It's disgusting how people used to treat each other. Fortunately, there are no such cruelties in our libertarian democratic society today," she mused.

"You think so? You probably don't follow current politics..." I objected.

“You mean the hospital in Prescott?” she asked, confused, which confused me for a moment too.

Then it hit me: "No, that hospital is called a polyclinic, not politics."

“Ah… I see,” she added, pausing for a moment. Then she swayed, smiled, a blissful smile lit up her face, and said, “Anyway… you’re absolutely amazing. So educated and intolerant!”

“What?” I asked.

"Well, I mean smart..." she clarified.

"Oh, you mean intelligent," I corrected her.

“Yes, impertinent!” she dreamt again. “I love impertinent men! They excite me so much! Oh… oh… oh…!” Then she suddenly stopped and started to cry. “I can’t anymore…” she said softly.

“Mary,” I said to her with suppressed impatience. “Please go sit back in that chair, okay?”

When she did so submissively, I added, "Well... and don't talk, or sigh, or get excited, okay?"

She nodded her head obediently.

I turned off some of the flashlights and moved the others so that they were shining in the direction of the camera. I turned it on with the remote control and began: "Dear viewers of Channel 6 Plus. This is Charlie Furlow and The Arizona Ghost Rider. We are currently in Jerome, the paranormal capital of Arizona, in the Victorian Rose Room of the Mile High Inn, where I am conducting a paranormal investigation. The ghost of a grumpy young man is said to be appearing in this room, and the water is said to be turning on and off on its own from time to time.

Those who follow our program regularly already know that our scientific experiment will be carried out by your old familiar devices: the DSE, or the Detector of Supernatural Energy, the basis of our measurement, which will detect the presence of all anti-energy in a given environment. As we all know, the parallel world in which spirits and the dead live is actually an anti-world, in which the laws of physics are completely opposite to those in our human world. According to our understanding, we would say that all types of energy such as mechanical, electrical, wave, nuclear, thermal, chemical and others have a negative value in the anti-world. So, you might be wondering which of these energies the DSE actually measures. The correct answer is “all”. This is somewhat due to the imperfection of the measurement. So far, we are not able to accurately determine the type of this energy. We are only able to detect it. In order not to confuse us with its negative magnitude, we will discard the minus sign and consider it positive. I would also like to add that its unit is one spook.

Another tool we have is the LSE, or Locator of Supernatural Energy. It tells us the angle at which the energy was detected. In front of the device it is 0 degrees, to the right of it 90, behind the device 180 and to the left 270.

But here we have another device: AID or Activist Identifier determines the strength of the supernatural phenomenon, which measures its activity in units of trottel. Another helper is our SD, or Spiritist Debilitator, which measures the strength of the spirit's forgetfulness, if it is a ghost of a living being. It tells us how strongly the given object is aware of its existence, and therefore the lower the value is, the better the spirit has an idea of ​​its identity. It is measured in alzheimer's. For inanimate objects, such as a ship or an ashtray, this value is, however, unmeasurable and is displayed on the device as zero.

Finally, here we have the latest and most advanced device, a marvel of modern technology, the Spiritist Visualizer, or Spivis, which works with all the other devices and which will focus and take a picture of the supernatural object. It should be noted that we will not see this object as a classic photograph, but rather as a white blur on a black background. The white will show supernatural energy. The more spooks in a given direction, the more intense the white trail.

So, we've gone over everything and now let's get to work. I'm turning off the flashlights, so it's going to be a bit dark in the room, but don't worry, you can still see because the lights in the room are about 40-50 watts. So, let's get started!"

I turned off all the flashlights, put on only my headlamp, which I turned off for now, and started to launch the devices. DSE, LSE, AID, SD and finally Spivis started up. The boot sequence went well and the devices, whose indicators only shone towards the ground so as not to disturb the darkness, were bordered by a dull green light, which indicated both functionality and mutual communication.

A buzzing, rattling, slight whistling and clicking began to spread through the room, depending on which device was working. And I commented: "Our devices are now running at full speed. Nothing is happening for now but now watch out! The Detector's hand is slowly starting to move to the right. One, two, three spooks! Three spooks, my friends, means that supernatural energy has been detected. What does the locator tell us? It is at zero so far, which most likely means that the direction has not yet been determined. AID, SD and Spivis are also at zero.

But be careful, the Detector is now rising sharply upwards – ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred. My friends, a hundred spooks, that is a very close presence of a ghost. The locator arrow has shot sharply to the right and stopped at an angle of 120 degrees, the AID has shot up to 850 trottels and is gradually rising upwards until it settles at 1000 trottels. We are witnessing the close presence of a very agitated supernatural being. The Debilitator has shot up to 50 but is still falling down and settling at zero. What does that mean? That it is undoubtedly a living being who is becoming more and more aware of its supernatural existence. And what does Spivis tell us? It shows us a figure quite clearly. However, this figure is somehow deformed. It is definitely not standing, but sitting, as it seems. It is sitting, but in a strange way. " It has his legs spread wide and one arm... oh my God..."

I looked at Mary.

“Turn it off!” she shouted. I obeyed, and all the noise from the machines in the room stopped. The sudden silence was broken only by her soft moans.

“I know I’m dead,” she said. “I am now. That grumpy young man killed me. He was my customer. He came in a rage, tore off my clothes and started raping me. He strangled me violently. It was an incredible pain – both in my throat and down there, but at the same time I was overcome by an excitement that was about to explode, but it never did. He strangled me just before. I don’t know how long I’ve been wandering around this house, wanting to reach that high point, because it’s simply unbearable. But now I know that I will never find peace here and that high point will never come again. I know this thanks to you. Thank you, Charlie, and goodbye.”

After saying those words, she disappeared. I stood there for a moment, as if scalded. Then I turned my head towards the camera and said: “You’ve just heard the confession of a ghost, live on our Channel 6 Plus television.”

I began to impatiently replay the entire recording when I realized that I had deliberately placed Mary out of the camera's view, thinking she was just an annoying companion who was getting in my way. I, the idiot, had not filmed the ghost, the catch that all ghost enthusiasts in the world are after. All I had was the Spivis footage and data from a few other devices, which anyone could tell me were fakes.

When I reached the passage where I had turned off the equipment and let Mary speak, there was only a deafening silence. I turned it up to maximum volume. But there was nothing but a deafening noise. Then suddenly my own voice almost knocked out my eardrums: “You’ve just heard…” I sharply lowered the volume, listened to the rest of my sentence, and turned off the camera.

I quickly packed my things and went downstairs.

“Sir, you forgot your hundred-dollar bill here!” the bartender called out to me. There was no sign of Jennie.

"Do you serve here?"

"Yes, but we must have missed each other. I saw you coming, but I had some work to do. I called you to say I'd be right there, but you probably didn't hear me."

"And Jennie didn't serve here?"

“You mean Jennie Bauters?” And he laughed. “Well, she appears here sometimes as a ghost. Is that the one you gave the hundred to?” I nodded.

"Well, take that back. She was said to have been a real rip-off of the customers. They say she once had a fight with a scoundrel about the price. She wanted to goad him into it as much as she could, because she saw how much he needed it. Finally, he got what he wanted and went to some girl on the first floor, so angry that he took out all his anger on her and killed her. She was some poor Catholic girl that her evil stepfather had put here because he was blind and unemployed, so he forced the poor girl to earn money like that.

And then the rascal slammed the door of the Victorian Rose Room so hard that the draft opened the doors of the other rooms. At that time, Jeanne's cat was wandering in the hallway, and she began to run away from the rapist into the open rooms and run across the freshly made comforters on the beds. The man began to chase the cat, and finally he picked her up abruptly just as she was about to run between his legs and twisted her neck. Enraged, he then ran downstairs, where he also beat Jennie in a fit of rage. She fought back by throwing everything she could at him, but it was no use.

Both bodies were discovered by an elderly gentleman who had been standing in the window of one of the rooms at the time of both murders, smoking and looking out into the alley. There must have been a lot of noise outside, so he didn't hear any suspicious sounds from the house. Besides, the eighteen-inch walls we have here dampen sound quite well. But then the maid warned him that she had heard some disturbing noise. So, they went back down the hall and saw Mary - naked and abused. The gentleman then ran desperately from room to room, looking in the closet for something to wrap her in or some medical equipment... who knows. In his distraction, he knocked several paintings off the walls. In the meantime, the maid ran downstairs, where she saw Jennie beaten up, and screamed in horror. The elderly gentleman then ran after her, and there he had a stroke. The maid wrote it all down in the police report.

The killer, meanwhile, ran into the back of the kitchen, where he was looking for cover, as several people were heading into the restaurant from the street at the time. But he couldn't find a suitable spot, so he ran into the restaurant, passed the terrified maid, and ran upstairs again.

When the police arrived, they found that the Victorian Rose Room contained… yes, fresh roses. Mary must have gotten them from a previous customer. There was also water in the vase, which she had apparently put in. The killer was hiding in the closet. When it became clear that he would be discovered, he tried to run out again and escape but was shot by a policeman. That was about all.”

I thanked the bartender for the information, asked him about the next spot on the flyer, and left.

V

On my way to Connor hotel, I had to go back down Main Street, cross 1st Avenue, and reach the intersection of Main Street and Jerome Avenue, on the corner of which the hotel stood.

The reception desk was empty when I walked in, but someone waved at me from a dim corner of the room also known as the Spirit Room. I walked around the pool table and stood where there were a few comfortable chairs. The person was an older gentleman. He stood to shake my hand and introduced himself as Professor of History Emmanuel Bronson of Grand Canyon University. He gave me his card and asked me to sit down. Professor Bronson had a partner, Dr. Callaghan, who had private practice in Jerome.

"What brings you to Connor hotel?" Professor Bronson asked. "I see you have a big suitcase, so you must have come a long way. Are you just a tourist or some kind of ghost hunter? I'm guessing the former, or you wouldn't have missed Halloween."

“The latter,” I admitted. “My name is Charlie Furlow, and I work for Channel 6 Plus. We’re based in Glendale, so yeah, it’s a little out of the way, but not that far. And I’m here to hunt ghosts, but I’ve been having car trouble, so I’m just getting here.”

"Don't worry about it," Professor Bronson said calmly. "You won't find anything supernatural in this hotel, not now, and not on Halloween either."

“How do you know?” I asked. “I have it listed in this flyer as a place with paranormal phenomena,” and I showed the flyer to the Professor.

And Professor Bronson began to explain: "The Connor Hotel was built, as one might expect, by a certain Connor – David Connor – in 1897. It was originally a three-story hotel with twenty rooms. That is, only the part of it lying on the steeply sloping Jerome Avenue was three-story. From the main street, where the entrance to the hotel leads, the building was only two stories high.

From the beginning, Connor intended to build the hotel primarily for wealthy clientele. However, he also charged the then outrageous sum of one dollar per night. However, since the hotel was built before the law on the construction of buildings exclusively brick or stone came into force, this wooden structure acted as an attraction for the rich, rather foolishly.

The hotel nevertheless became a very popular place. However, after a year or so, in September 1898, it burned down for the first time. However, Connor was insured and received $14,500 in compensation, which allowed him to rebuild the hotel. This was repeated several times. It is said that at least its stone foundation and the fact that it was always the first to stand in a fire way saved the other houses in the city from certain destruction.

In August 1899, the hotel reopened and quickly became a top hotel in the entire West with superior amenities, full electrification, a bell for the servants from all rooms, and its own transportation for guests directly from the train station.

In the early 20th century, both the hotel and the town of Jerome prospered, largely due to copper mining. At its peak, it had a population of around 15,000, a small fraction of the 459 people it has today. However, by the early 1930s, mineral wealth had been exhausted, and the hotel had to close in 1931. At the time, it was owned by Connor's son, who rented out the lower floor for commercial purposes, but no one lived in the rooms upstairs.

In 1950, the last mines closed and Jerome became, as they say, a 'ghost town'. Note the different meaning of this phrase. It meant that it was abandoned and the buildings uninhabited, not that it was haunted, although this is precisely the aspect on which the local legends are based.

In the 1960s, however, people came to Jerome again, especially those who cherished the old days, and the town became a tourist center, especially attracting artists' studios. The hotel reopened, although the number of rooms was reduced to ten, and it became a hotel for the less well-off.

In the 1980s, the hotel had to be closed again because it did not meet safety standards. However, in 2000, the current owner renovated it, reopened it, restored the interiors to their original form, and of course equipped the hotel with all modern conveniences.

Now, what you're probably most interested in - paranormal phenomena: A woman is said to haunt Room No. 1. She whispers something at night and sometimes laughs. There's also a scratching sound. The very first guest who slept in that room was a local electrician. The sounds kept him awake, but when he felt a chill next to him and began to feel like the woman was lying on top of him, he immediately got up, ran outside, and spent the rest of the night in his pickup truck. After that, guests reported other strange things, such as the closet opening by itself, or strange scenes appearing in the photographs on the walls. Later, an artist who slept in this room explained that he had a dream about a 'woman in red' and based on the image from the dream, he then depicted her on the mural over there, which is located directly below Room No. 1." Bronson pointed towards the opposite wall.

“The 'Woman in Red' appears here at the Spirit Room, but only occasionally, when a guest is alone. She just stands there, staring at the guest, and then suddenly disappears.

In Room No. 2, both small objects and entire pieces of furniture are being moved around. From Room No. 4, a dog growls and an old man coughs. In Room No. 5, the hair on the guests' heads would occasionally stand up, they would hear strange sounds, and they would feel both hot and cold in certain places. In this room, both the lights and the television would often break down. Sometimes, the alarm on the alarm clock next to the bed would also go off by itself. Whatever was in that room clearly liked to play with electricity. Then, in the bathroom, which was shared by the entire floor, a woman heard a man calling repeatedly, even though she was alone on the floor at the time.

A group of ghost hunters also reportedly sensed a presence in the hotel corridors. They even took some photographs of what were supposed to be blurry silhouettes of figures. But to tell you the truth, I believe this story the least of all.”

Bronson finished his engaging talk and there was a moment of silence. The Professor must have been waiting for me to say something now, but before I could, the waiter came over to me. “I see you haven’t ordered yet,” he said. “What would you like?”

“Arizona Rye Whiskey,” I said. “Can it be Sacred Stave?” he asked. “Sure. And water with that, please,” I replied.

“So, what do you intend to do here?” Bronson continued the previous conversation. There was a certain contempt in the question.

I briefly described Joe's uncle's devices and their capabilities, but Professor Bronson's expression became increasingly distrustful.

"My dear Mr. Furlow," he said, as I slowly sipped my rye, "if you will explain to me the principle of those machines, that is, how and under what circumstances they show those obscure values you speak of, then we can talk at a serious level. Forgive my tone, but as a man of higher education, I prefer facts to conjecture."

I acknowledged that there was something to this attitude and confided to the Professor that I was also a university-educated person. I also doubted the devices, but I had seen them in practice, most recently today. I then briefly recounted the incident with Jennie and Mary.

Professor Bronson listened and seemed to be interested in the story after all.

"As a historian, I admit that there is such a thing as ghosts. There are many such stories circulating and they have been told by otherwise completely trustworthy people, including several of my relatives. Although I personally have no scientific basis for this, I have formed my own theory about the presence of ghosts. However, you have still fallen victim to a sophisticated hoax in the case of Jennie," he said.

“Why do you think?” I asked.

“What exactly was this supposed Jennie telling you about?” he asked.

"About the history of the hotel."

"And did she mention the present?"

“Of course,” I said.

"And that's the catch. Ghosts live in the infinitely long moment of their death. The doctor will explain it to you better here. They are constantly occupied with the present, which for them is the moment of their own death. Ghosts have no idea about the other world, not even about other souls who may be tied to the same place. And they don't 'keep up with the times,' as they say."

"Does that mean that if I ask them who the president is today, they won't know?"

The Professor smiled: "That's not a very good question, because most of the living won't know either. They'll probably just tell you that he's the guy they didn't want. Besides, I often doubt whether he knows," he added sarcastically. "I meant anything that happened after they died. And that's why the woman who claims what happened to the hotel after her death is simply not a ghost, but a living person. Besides, they do it regularly at the Mile High Inn. The bartender claims he must have go out for a minute, and instead of him, a woman appears there who pretends to be Jennie. It's a common trap for tourists, who can then boast that they spoke to a ghost and thereby advertise the hotel themselves."

I had to admit that it sounded logical.

“And besides, Jennie Bauters didn’t even die in that hotel. She was shot by her lover in 1905 in Kingsman, so the ghost you were told was hers must have belonged to someone else,” he added, making the bartender’s story less credible. “However, I’m pretty sure you actually saw a ghost of Mary,” he continued. “She doesn’t appear in any of the stories herself, just a that of love sigh, which could belong to anyone. Moreover, it fits in with the events that really happened in that hotel. In any case, it’s interesting news to me. I’ve never encountered a prostitute’s ghost haunting a place just because she didn’t reach a climax… Excuse me…” The Professor couldn’t help but stifle a laugh.

"So, doctor, say something about that too," he turned to his companion, trying to drive away the awkward moment, who had been listening attentively until now and was touching his mouth and nose with his palms clasped together.

"I'm not a psychologist, Professor..." Dr. Callaghan said.

"But don't be so damned correct," the Professor replied. "People with mental health problems come to you too, so you have an opinion on that."

VI

"Okay then," the doctor softened, "ghosts are entities from another world, assuming they exist. However, if they are truly the souls of people who once lived, then I see a certain connection here."

You know, a person is actually made up of a body and a soul. Many materialists don't want to hear about it, but a body without a soul is just dead matter, although for some time it is still biologically active. However, this activity only concerns the decomposition of the body, not the vital functions of a person. And the fact that the soul really exists was also empirically confirmed when someone calculated the difference in the weight of a living person and then the same person, but deceased. 20 grams confirms this conclusion. But despite the fact that the soul is so light and basically materially intangible, it can continue to live without a body, and who knows if it can ever die.

Medical science deals 95% exclusively with the physical shell. We are able to describe everything we see – physical processes, chemical processes, mechanical processes, coordination of individual organs, and according to the idea of how the ideal body should function, we are able to provide it with what we think it needs using medicines, therapies and vitamins. On the other hand, we are not able to observe the soul at all. And perhaps that is why a number of so-called media, fortune tellers, fortune tellers and other charlatans have sprung up who manipulate the human mind using their imprecise and therefore dubious methods. De facto, the most serious and least harmful theories are religious ones. Of course, excluding various extreme religious sects. However, Christianity, for example, in principle regardless of denomination, gives human souls a direction supported by the Bible, which, if not helpful, at least does no harm.

Medical science, out of helplessness, artificially transforms mental illness into a disease of the body, even though it knows full well that the body is not the source of these problems. However, it is always better for patients with mental problems to suppress their brains so that their secondary, i.e. physical symptoms, do not manifest. This is, of course, a very alibi, because by suppressing the body, the soul is also suppressed, which is unable to function fully and deal with the problems on its own. This often leads to total devastation of the body, while the mental problems do not improve in any way.

Mental problems caused by sudden traumas such as a car accident, physical assault, betrayal of a loved one or the death of a loved one typically subside over time. The soul is helped in this regard by the body, which is constantly developing, cells die and new ones are formed. The soul also absorbs more information about the world, new events come and life simply 'goes on'. Over time, the trauma becomes numb. The soul creates a distance or a physical block that helps it overcome the emotional experience. It is then necessary to ensure that this temporal and psychological barrier remains unbroken, that is, that something does not happen in life that overcomes that block and the long-forgotten trauma surfaces. This can be many times worse than the original experience itself, because a barrier that has been broken in this way cannot simply be healed, but a new barrier needs to be built on a different principle.

Mental illnesses that worsen over time are more serious. Here, time plays the opposite role, meaning it does not heal, but rather deepens the torment. Here, however, a person again has a great helper, and that is the body. Being able to convert a mental problem into a material problem is perhaps a superhuman feat, but precisely because we have a body, it is possible. For this reason, I also recommend to my patients with a similar prognosis that they exercise in the fresh air as often as possible, do activities that they enjoy, ideally sports, and if possible, avoid any modern conveniences such as computers, mobile phones, game consoles and especially television – not because of its physical activity itself, although it may damage the eyes, but mainly because of the program. All of this has a positive impact on the body and soul, although only secondary.

Well, I guess I've digressed too much. In short, I wanted to get to the point that a living person always has not only hope, but also a huge opportunity to cure the suffering of their soul with the help of the body, if we accept that there is no effective treatment for the soul yet. But imagine that you don't have that body, that your soul freezes in that agonizing moment and is unable to move forward or transfer the weight of its suffering to the body. I call this real hell. It's something like being stuck in a car on the tracks while a train is moving, or like being chained at the bottom of an abyss into which water starts flowing, or like jumping out of an airplane and not having an open parachute. It's horror. These horrors in real life always end sooner or later, although usually tragically. But imagine that you live in this horror forever. That the train is approaching for an infinite time, that the water in the well is rising for an infinite time and you can barely breathe, or that the earth is approaching for an infinite time, you still experience the horror of what will happen when you fall, but you still can't hit the ground. That is the fate of these ghosts... if we accept that they really exist, of course.”

There was silence as Professor Bronson and I nodded silently, absorbing the doctor's just-completed lecture. It was getting dark outside. It always gets dark much faster here in the South than it does in the North. It makes sense, given the rotation of the earth and its position relative to the sun. However, it was clear to me that I was running out of time for my research today. It must have been around 6:30pm. Since Arizona doesn't change between daylight saving time and standard time, it gets dark an hour earlier than in other states at the same latitude.

"Very interesting," I said politely. "However, I guess I'll have to leave you, as I have more research to do."

"Well, since you're here, Mr. Furlow," the Professor said again, "would you mind showing us the functions of your devices?"

"Very happy," I said, pleased, "but if I'm not mistaken, you said I wouldn't encounter anything supernatural here now. So those devices won't show you anything either."

"Well, I did say that," the Professor admitted, "but my theory is that the trauma of all those ghosts I told you about comes from the times of the fires. And as I said, the first fires were in September and August, and in November they don't happen due to the mild weather. And why should ghosts appear at any time other than during their traumas? However, I happen to be staying in room number 1, so why not try it there? Maybe it will bring us luck."

The doctor and I were both in favor, so we headed to the Professor's room.

VII

Room No. 1 was a little more comfortably furnished than Poor Mary's Victorian Rose Room. It had not only plenty of light but also a comfortable armchair with a footstool, a small secretary, a small refrigerator, and a safe. The walls were also decorated with no religious motifs, but rather with quite tasteful secular pictures.

I arranged the instruments into the appropriate constellation while my two companions watched me with interest. I alerted them when everything was done and released the instruments.

The detector showed nothing at first. Then it very hesitantly reached the value of one spook. After a few minutes it even reached the value of five, but the value did not increase further. In contrast, the locator, quite uncompromisingly, aimed at a value of around 160 degrees, which pointed roughly to the opposite corner of the room. My two companions were there at the time.

"Does that mean one of us should be a ghost?" the Professor asked, amused.

"I don't think so," I said seriously. "The Activist Identifier is almost zero, although slightly positive, and the Debilitator is at zero. This has nothing to do with your intelligence, but with the fact that if we have a supernatural thing here, it is at most an object, not a spirit."

I looked at the Spivis, which showed only a dim, almost imperceptible blur in the direction the locator was pointing.

We made several more attempts and changed the position of the locator. It kept pointing quite unerringly to the same corner of the room.

"And are you sure it's even in this room?" the Professor asked. "Isn't it somewhere behind the wall, or down in the Spirit Room, or up on the roof?"

"It's hard to say," I replied.

The doctor began to tap the walls. Then, as he approached the corner where the locator was pointing, he suddenly stopped.

“It’s unusually cold here,” he said. “And there’s no draft coming from anywhere. And they say if you’re cold, go stand in the corner, because it’s ninety degrees there.” Judging by his humor, he probably came from England, which his name suggested.

"I don't want to be a skeptic," the Professor said, "however, I'm starting to get the feeling that all your devices work on the basis of a thermometer, perhaps a very sophisticated one, but still just a thermometer, and that your Spivis is an ordinary thermal imager."

I didn't listen to his note. "Wait a minute," I said instead to the doctor, motioning him to step aside. I knelt down and carefully pulled back the carpet from the room. There were parquet floors underneath, somewhat blackened from decades of neglect. After a moment's examination, I discovered that one of them was loose. I started to remove it.

Suddenly, a coldness swept over me, and for a brief moment a small, almost imperceptible cloud of cold steam could be seen from under the parquet. An unusually strong cold swept over me, which, however, disappeared after a while. I removed a few more parquets and discovered a hiding place in the floor, in which a package was outlined, hiding something rectangular.

When I took out the heavy object and unwrapped it, I saw that it was a book. On the attached label was the handwritten inscription, “Chronicle of the Connor Hotel.” I showed my discovery to my companions, placed the book on the desk, turned on the lamp, and began to list through it. “September 1898” was one of the first entries.

“…at that time Mr. Williams and his wife also arrived at the hotel. Mr. Williams was a sales representative for a railway company and he and his wife were spending their late summer vacation here. While he did not interact much with the other guests, his wife was very sociable.

Her constant chatter soon won her the affection of the entire hotel staff and a large number of the guests. But there were some with whom she did not quite get on. One such person was Mr. Rowley, a steel magnate who spent the summer at the hotel. Last year, when we opened, he stayed from the opening until the end of September. This year he arrived in June and was planning to leave again at the end of September.

The Williamses planned to stay for four weeks, practically also until the end of September, which was very much to Mr. Rowley's displeasure. Moreover, their rooms were close together. The Williamses lived in Room No. 1 and Mr. Rowley in Room No. 4. Although Mr. Rowley's wife had already died, he was not alone. He had his dog with him.

Mrs. Williams was always well dressed, but it was clear that she loved white. “White is a positive color,” she always said, and except for a few days when she pulled other colors from her wardrobe, especially pale blue and pink, she wore only white clothes.

Mr. Rowley complained several times directly to the hotel manager that there was indecency going on in the Williams's room. Constant giggling, whispering, mischievous laughter and then, of course, amorous sighs. Mrs. Williams did not hold back on this, and the wood from which the hotel was built is not soundproof either.

On that fateful day, when the fire broke out, Mrs. Williams surprisingly did not show up all day. Mr. Williams said that she was not feeling well, but that she would come for dinner that evening. He went upstairs just before her, heard the sound of the shower coming from the bathroom, and called his wife to hurry up. She replied that she would be ready in a moment. Mr. Rowley was also in his room at the time.

The fire had taken the hotel by surprise when a strong wind blew flames through an open window on the first floor of Main Street. Mr. Williams did not hesitate and, together with a few brave men, ran upstairs. There was no fire in the corridor, but the smoke was so intense that it was difficult to breathe. Mr. Williams ran to Room No. 1, where he and his wife were staying, and grabbed the doorknob. He screamed inhumanly, because the doorknob was made of metal and very hot. The poor man burned his hand, which also became charred on the doorknob. One of the staff members, Mr. Haley, ran into Room No. 2, where he tried to find something to wrap the doorknob with so that he could open Room No. 1. In his confusion, he thought of grabbing a piece of the carpet, but then he saw the secretary standing on a loose piece of carpet. So, he pushed it aside and pulled the carpet out from under it. He quickly soaked it in the sink, luckily the water was running, and then ran back into the hallway.

Mr. Williams had by then been torn from the doorknob and was being carried back down to the Spirit Room, screaming wildly. Mr. Haley had put a wet rug on the doorknob and pressed. The door, however, did not open. He had not heard anything from inside the room until then, but then he thought he heard a faint scratching at the door. He discovered that there was a key in the lock from the outside. As if someone had deliberately wanted to lock Mrs. Williams in there. Equipped with the protective rug again, he turned the key and opened the door. Mrs. Williams lay just behind them. Her white dress was a bright red from fire, her eyes were wide open in terror, but she was no longer alive.

Since the smoke was so strong that Mr. Haley himself was coughing, he decided to quickly leave the corridor and go back to save his own life. As he passed Room No. 4, where Mr. Rowley lived, he thought he heard Rowley coughing and his dog barking. They were probably both trapped in their rooms as well. Mr. Haley, however, did not linger any longer and quickly started down the stairs to the Brewery. However, they suddenly collapsed under him, because the wood was already badly damaged by the fire. The last people who were still in the Spirit Room pulled him out of the rubble and carried him outside.

When the destruction was complete, we discovered that the victims were indeed Mrs. Williams, Mr. Rowley, and his dog. Everyone else managed to get out on time. Mr. Williams had badly burned his hand, but it did not have to be amputated. The question remains why Rooms No. 1 and 4 were left locked. We will probably never know for sure, but it is generally believed that Mr. Rowley locked Mrs. Williams on purpose because he wanted to enjoy dinner without her constant chatter, which disturbed him. When he heard his husband calling her into the bathroom, he came out of his room, opened her room, took the key out of the lock, closed the room, and locked it from the outside. And what about his own room? When we examined his door, we found that it was unlocked. But for some incomprehensible reason, the handle had jammed. Was it a punishment for what he had done to Mrs. Williams?

I was listing through the chronicle when I noticed that there was a loose note inserted into it. It was a letter of some kind. It said: "Mr. Connor, you have it more or less ready, but I have to point out a few small things. Unfortunately, the material you bought for us was not enough for all the little things you wanted to install in all the rooms. The boys and I were thinking about how to do it as economically as possible, but in the end, we had to make some concessions in Room No. 5. The main thing is the input. If you turn on several appliances in the kitchen at once, it will be reflected in Room No. 5, where the socket will fall out for safety reasons. There is also a main distribution line up on the roof above this room, but it is not grounded. This means that if you turn on the light under this room, an electric potential will be created between those two places. It is basically harmless, but sometimes people's hair can stand up here and there. I also do not recommend putting a bed in those places. The wires in the walls are not insulated everywhere in that room, so if some places feel hot to you, that is why. On the other hand, the cold-water pipes are sometimes so clumsily installed that they touch the walls, so when you touch them, they can be cold in several places. But that's a plumber's job. On behalf of my team, I recommend that you fix it. It is possible that it could cause another fire one day. I'm just telling you personally that I will never set foot in that hotel again. What I experienced that night in the Room No. 1 was enough for me for the rest of my life. With respect and regards, J.C. Clark, Central Electric LLC.

Professor Bronson and Doctor Callaghan just nodded. There was nothing to add. The mystery of Connor's hotel seemed solved.

Since it had become dark by now, I said goodbye to both gentlemen and headed towards the next building mentioned in the flyer of the girl I had met in Cave Creek.

VIII

The Jerome Grand Hotel is located on Cleopatra Hill, the highest point in the town, and offers a beautiful view of Jerome and its surroundings. The road to it was naturally uphill, and at a brisk pace I managed to climb it in 10 minutes, when I crossed from Main Street to Clark Street, and then began to climb up Hill Street to the hotel, which is marked with number 200. Dragging a suitcase with equipment, even on wheels, seemed a bit impractical, but I didn't want to go to the pickup truck, to which I would have to return in the opposite direction. Apart from the fact that I didn't want to risk not being able to find a parking space this evening, maybe not even the original one.

Ding! The reception bell rang and an elderly gentleman with sideburns arrived shortly after.

"Do you wish?"

“I’d like to book a room here,” I said straight away. After all, it was getting late and I was planning on sleeping somewhere decent, preferably somewhere that wasn’t haunted.

"Well, unfortunately we're already full, but wait a minute..." He looked at the monitor and after a moment of clicking the mouse said: "Now I see that one room has become available. It's balcony Room 34, of course."

"Okay, then give me balcony Room 34."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I replied, surprised. "Why the question?"

"Well, it's just that it's November 2nd."

“Right, that fits,” I said. “So now that we’ve synced the date, could I have balcony Room 34?”

"Well, sure, but at your own risk."

I noticed: "Don't tell me it's haunted..." I added ironically.

"I can't help you with that, but people always die in that room on the night of November 2nd to 3rd."

"Don't say, what's that for?" I asked with interest.

"Well, you probably aren't from here and you probably haven't been following the events of recent years, otherwise you would know the story of the tragedy that happened here exactly five years ago."

"Tell me..." I prompted him.

"There was a triple murder in that room, or rather two murders and one suicide. A woman found out that her husband was cheating on her with another woman. She found out the woman's name and burst in early in the morning, claiming to be her and wanting the key to Room 34. The man on duty gave the key to her without checking her ID. And she burst into the room while the two of them were sleeping and stabbed them both. Then she went to the bath, slit her wrists and bled herself to death. She must have been in great distress, because the coroner found that she had been crying before she died.

But he discovered something else. While the flirtatious woman died from stab wounds, the man did not. Although he was stabbed in many places, none of the wounds were fatal. He died of a sudden heart attack caused by shock. And that's the important thing.

Since then, on the anniversary of that terrible event, a man who was sleeping there has died in this room. It happened four years ago, when a certain couple moved in here. The woman found her husband dead in the morning. A heart attack. Three years ago, a certain priest from Page rented the room. He was also found dead in the morning and had another heart attack. Two years ago, a certain woman moved in there and nothing happened to her. But last year, a married couple was there again and the same scenario from four years ago was repeated. The man died and you can guess the cause of death. So do you want the room?”

“Of course!” I shouted excitedly and introduced myself. The receptionist just made a doubtful face and said, “Your ID and credit card, please…” I handed him both and he started filling out some form.

At that moment, a fat man burst into the reception, followed by a much younger woman of dubious appearance.

"Here we are, Holly!" the newcomer said to his partner and stood in line behind me, understanding that the receptionist had to serve me first.

However, the receptionist turned to him: "If you want to book a room, this gentleman here is taking the last one."

"We already have a reservation, and we'll wait until you serve the gentleman first..." replied the fat man.

The receptionist continued filling out the form, which he eventually had me sign, and handed me my room key. "That's exactly $300. You also have free Wi-Fi in your room. The password is on the nightstand. You probably won't need it anymore, but for the record, breakfast is served from 6am to 9am in the morning here on the ground floor. Enjoy your stay. The elevator is this way. Press the third floor. You'll find room number 34 by following the arrows..."

“Wait a minute!” the fat man shouted. “Are you giving this man Room 34?”

"Yes, he just bought it," the receptionist replied calmly.

"But we had the room reserved," the fat man objected.

"That's possible," the receptionist responded calmly again, "but the reservation is only valid until 7pm. Check the terms and conditions. It's exactly 7.12pm now..."

"Well, you're not serious, are you? We've been trudging all the way from Philadelphia, and now you're telling me you're not going to give me the room just because I'm a few minutes late?"

"Unfortunately, Room 34 is currently rented by this gentleman. You can make arrangements with him, though, if you want."

The fat guy turned to me: "How much?!"

"How what, how much?" I asked.

"How much do you want to give me the room?"

"Look, I came here to investigate the paranormal activities. Do you really think I'm going to pass up this opportunity just because some scraggly jerk from Philadelphia comes here to boss me around?"

"You know who I am!" the fat man shouted, making the glasses on the shelves jump. "I'm Bobby Corpse!"

“Charlie Furlow,” I introduced myself in return.

"And should I tear my collar?" the fat man continued, gruffly. "I'm THAT Bobby Corpse! Candidate for a U.S. Senator! You'd be voting for me in the federal election next week, if you lived in Pennsylvania."

"I doubt I'd be circling you, but I understand now that you're a big animal, and I mean that figuratively, though I feel like it could be literally true as well," I replied.

"Hey, man! Don't be offensive, okay? I came here on purpose because I'm sick of those eternally fearful conservatives who believe in ghosts. I'm a materialist! A progressive liberal! I believe in science and progress! And you know what? Yes, I came here to cheat on my wife, that old whiny slut who doesn't know how to do anything other than take care of the kids. I told the media so. And I came here with Holly, who's my secretary. A catch, huh?" And he threw his hand in her direction, without taking his eyes off me. "And I'm telling you, we're going to fuck the night away, whether the ghost that's haunting it likes it or not. And I'm also telling you, I'm leaving here in the morning refreshed, rested, and most importantly alive and well!"

"I understand your motives and your election campaign tactics, but I have a suggestion..."

"Eh?" The fat man made a disgusted face.

"Well, you can enjoy yourself there, 'fucking the night away' as you say, but that doesn't stop me from being there with you..."

"Do you want a threesome or what?"

"Not a threesome, just thirty-four, if you ask me."

"Funny…" he commented ironically.

"However, I meant to take some measurement there," I continued. "I work as a reporter for a TV station that deals with paranormal phenomena. The room is large enough, so we won't disturb each other. And don't worry, you don't have to reduce the decibels of your pleasure either."

"This guy must have gone crazy," the fat man said incredulously to the receptionist. The receptionist just raised his hands to signal that he didn't want to interfere in our agreement.

"Five hundred," the fat guy suddenly said to me.

“For what?” I asked.

"That you'll give me the room."

"Go away with this offer," I refused.

“One grand!” He continued his offer.

"Dude, you said you believed in science. And I'm about to put this room through a scientific experiment," I countered.

"Not when I'm fucking there," the fat guy wouldn't be fooled. "Two grand!"

"Do you think that's going to soften me up? You have no idea how much I'm getting for this from the owner of Channel 6 Plus!" I said sharply. He really had no idea. Based on the highest ratings we've ever had, it would have been about $58.40.

“Well, look…” the fat guy said, turning to Holly. “Holly, the briefcase!” He told her, and she handed him the genuine crocodile leather briefcase she was holding. The fat guy opened it, pulled out a wad of bills, and slammed them down on the reception desk. “Count it up!” he ordered me.

There were 50 hundred-dollar bills.

"Satisfied?" he said triumphantly.

“The room is yours,” I said. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to be bribed away from the work I loved, but that I had this strange feeling that the key to the mystery would lie somewhere other than Room 34 of the Jerome Grand Hotel.

The receptionist refunded my fee, rewrote the forms, handed the key to the fat guy, and he rolled triumphantly, panting, with Holly, towards the elevator.

“Do you know anything else about the incident?” I asked the receptionist after they left.

“Well, you can find the details in this book here,” he said, pointing to the souvenir shelf, “or in that reprint of the front page of the newspaper from the morning the accident happened.”

I bought both.

“If you’re interested in history, I recommend checking out the lounge,” he said, pointing me in the direction. “We don’t exactly call it a museum, but you’ll find some interesting facts about the hotel’s history.”

I thanked him and headed in that direction.

IX

The hotel was built in 1927. However, it originally served not as a hotel, but as the United Verde Hospital, which was both the last major building built in the city and the highest in the entire Green Valley. It was built not only to withstand fire, but also to withstand the ground shaking that occurred mainly due to blasting caused by copper mining. Even by today's standards, this is a significant construction feat, considering that the designers had to cope with creating foundations on a hill with a slope of 50 degrees.

By 1930, United Verde had become one of the most modern hospitals in Arizona. However, like most buildings in the city, it became redundant as the copper mines closed and the hospital closed in 1950.

The building was abandoned for another 44 years but continued to be used as a hospital in emergencies until 1971. In 1994, the Altherr family of the Phelps Dodge mining company purchased it and began rebuilding the structure into the current Grand Hotel, which opened to the public in 1996.

It will come as no surprise that a place where so many people suffered and died would be literally filled with the ghosts of those who died there and still haunt it today. From the moment the hospital first opened, patients and staff alike heard people talking, coughing, groaning, screaming, all in rooms where no one was actually lying. Some believed they were the souls of those who died during the Spanish Flu of 1917. However, there was no hospital here at the time.

One of the first reports was of a ghostly woman dressed in white who was seen on the hospital balcony shortly after it opened. The apparition apparently thought she was a nurse, as she wandered the hospital corridors. However, when the building was converted into a hotel, the ghost of the woman in white suddenly disappeared.

Another ghost was an old, bearded miner. He was first seen by one of the patients, silently floating down the corridor, turning on every light he came across. A nurse saw him again at the end of the corridor, but when she went to him, the man mysteriously disappeared. This man can still be seen occasionally today, especially on the second and third floors. The ghost of a small boy, about six years old, also wanders on the third floor.

Other strange phenomena include the sounds of footsteps on the stairs, doors that open and close on their own, objects that move on their own, and electrical appliances that turn on and off. These phenomena seem to occur mainly in the presence of staff, who seem to be mischievous. Sometimes employees even hear their names being called. However, ghosts are obedient in this regard. If someone scolds them, they stop causing mischief. At least for a few days.

The main lobby with the reception is also full of supernatural phenomena. The main doors open and close by themselves, as if someone is coming and going, chairs move behind the receptionists, objects fall from shelves or walls. The receptionists also sometimes take calls from rooms where no one is staying. Understandably, no one answers the phone. And near the original elevator, which is still functional today, we can occasionally see an elderly woman in white standing.

The most famous ghost of the hotel, however, is Claude Harvey, also known as Scotty, who worked as a maintenance man at the hotel in 1935. He was found in a pit under the elevator shaft. It was originally thought to be an accident, but an investigation revealed that the elevator did not kill him. Some claimed that he had deliberately jumped under it, committing suicide, but another version stated that he was murdered and his body was only placed in the elevator shaft afterwards. This was also indicated by the fact that the elevator worked without any problems and Harvey was an experienced maintenance man. His only injuries were a broken neck and a small abrasion behind his ear. However, the case was closed as an accident.

But after his death, strange things began to happen to the elevator. The lights in the elevator shaft began to turn on and the sounds of the elevator creaking could be heard, even when it was not in use, and even today, when it is long out of service. Some have also seen the figure of a mysterious man in the basement, on the stairs, and near the elevator. The ghostly man was said to have appeared angry and terrified people. However, he never caused any harm to anyone. Many people believe that Harvey's ghost is here waiting for his killer to be discovered.

Other ghosts seen at the hotel are associated with tragic events, such as a man in a wheelchair who once fell from a balcony, a shooting victim, and a nurse who hanged herself. There is also the occasional sighting of a small child running around the bar.

Guests and employees also sometimes feel like someone is pushing them in the hallways, photos are blurred here and there, and doors slam on their own.

Of course, the hotel also attracted a lot of television studios, and several ghost hunters allegedly filmed or audio-recorded paranormal phenomena.

I read all the information and headed back to the reception. I couldn't help but ask the strange-looking receptionist, "Are you the ghost of that bearded miner?"

He didn't smile, nor did he look taken aback. "I'm not," he replied dryly. "You're not the first to ask me that. However, the ghost could very well be my grandfather. When this building wasn't even here yet, there were underground mine shafts at the place. And as was often the case back then, there was a cave-in. My poor grandfather was there at the time and died. The rocks didn't crush him, but they did crush the only way out. They found him near the cave-in a few days later, when they dug inside. The poor man tried to remove the rocks with his bare hands. Next to him was an empty matchbox. They found individual burnt-out matches in all the corridors. He used them to light his way. It must have been terribly dark there. His only flashlight broke during the first landslide. Two others stayed there with him, but they perished under the rocks. They all worked overtime to bring home a few extra cents for a better life."

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I added apologetically. “Could I please have a look in the basement by the old elevator?”

The receptionist hesitated for a moment, then put a sign on the counter saying, “I’ll be back later,” pulled out a set of keys, and we headed toward the old elevator. As we passed it and began to descend the steep stairs to the basement, I asked the receptionist, “What’s this lever for?”

The lever was located on the side of the elevator. It was a vertically oriented bar with a handle at about head height.

“That’s an emergency lever,” the receptionist replied. “The elevators of that time had no safety device against falling in case the ropes on which the elevator was suspended suddenly came loose or broke. If you pull this lever towards you, a braking structure is activated, which slams into the elevator cage sharply, thereby cushioning its fall, but never stops the elevator completely. However, it helps those inside the cage to survive. At the same time, the lights in the shaft are automatically turned on so that any rescuers can see what they are doing immediately.”

In the cellar we saw what we would expect. The elevator car was down, the loose ropes hanging loosely from its roof. The car, however, was not standing directly on the ground, but on a stone ledge about twenty inches high. In other words, the body of a grown man would have fit into this opening, and he would have been able to hide there without being injured by the impact of the falling elevator car.

To be on the safe side, I returned to the reception for my suitcase and set up the devices, hoping to spot some paranormal activity. The receptionist watched me with a somewhat measured and astonishing expression but said nothing. However, the devices did not show a single tick.

We returned back to the reception.

“Do you know exactly when the accident happened?” I asked him.

"Yes, it was April 3rd, 1935." As you could see, he knew the date by heart.

“Don’t you have the guest book from that day?” I asked again.

"We should have it. One moment," the receptionist said, disappearing into his office.

He returned a moment later with a book dated 1935.

“Do you know exactly when Mr. Harvey was found?” I asked.

"It was early in the morning, as far as I know," he replied.

"That means he could have died the previous evening or during the night," I added to myself, flipping through the page where all the guests who had arrived on April 2nd were listed and reading name by name. One line with a few small notes caught my attention.

“What does this sign mean?” I asked again.

“A baby cot,” he said.

"And here's the +0.50?"

"That's a 50-cent surcharge. The sign next to it means late dinner. These guests must have arrived late at the hotel, when the kitchen was already closed. That surcharge was charged for re-opening the kitchen and preparing the food. Plus, the food itself, of course."

"And the note next to this entry? NNTC?"

"No need to clean. That means the guests probably didn't even sleep in that room."

"I think I've come up with a theory..."

The receptionist raised his eyebrows in surprise: "And what?" It was perhaps the first time in a long time that something had really surprised him.

"Here are Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. They booked Room 41, which is on the top floor, if I'm not mistaken. They wanted a cot for a child. So that means they were a family with a small child. Without putting their things away in the room first, they stayed downstairs in the restaurant and ordered something to eat. It means they must have had a really hard day and were very hungry, especially the child, who must have been very grumpy and therefore mischievous because of hunger.

They ate, paid, and then went upstairs with all their luggage to their room. Since the room was on the top floor, it is certain that they used the elevator. The mischievous child probably started jumping around in it and was inconsolable. With the periodic up and down movement, the rope holding the cage could have slipped after a while, causing it to fall.

Harvey, the mechanic, who was probably still in the hotel at the time, heard the jumping and ran up the stairs, shouting something to the effect that the antics should stop immediately. Then, when he heard the cracking of the structure, which was starting to loosen under pressure, he immediately ran down to the safety lever to break the fall in case of emergency.

The cage came loose and began to fall. Mr. Harvey pulled the emergency lever, which made the elevator go silent with a creak and the lights in the shaft came on. The elevator hit the ledge in the basement. Terrified, Mr. Harvey ran headlong down the stairs to the basement. However, as we could see for ourselves, these stairs were quite steep. At that speed, he could have lost his balance, fallen down the stairs and broken his neck.

None of the family members were hurt and they got out of the cage on their own. They then found Mr. Harvey dead in the basement. Fearing that they might be accused of killing him, they put him in a niche under the elevator and quickly disappeared from the hotel.

"That's quite plausible," the receptionist agreed slowly.

There were still many mysteries left unsolved in this hotel, but considering that it was already full, I decided to move on. I had to find somewhere to stay quickly, as it was getting late. So, I said goodbye to the receptionist and re-entered the already dark streets of Jerome.

X

My next destination was the Ghost City Inn, which was just a short distance below the Grand Hotel, but I had to go back pretty much the way I came. Down Hill Street, Clark Street, past the Mile High Inn on Main Street, and down to the corner where the hotel was at 541.

A short distance away, where Main Street met Hull Avenue, where I had parked my pickup truck, a light caught my eye. I noticed it was coming from a small, protruding balcony on the ground floor of one of the houses near the corner of the street.

I headed towards it and saw over the railing that a small woman in a neat lace dress was sitting on the balcony, reading a book. Her dog, which looked to be a German shepherd, was lying contentedly at her feet.

“How are you?” I asked her.

She looked up from her book, stood up from her chair, and walked to the edge of the balcony, where she leaned against the railing. She was standing higher than me, so I had to look up at her from the street."

"It's okay. What are you doing here so late?" She asked in a pleasant and very gentle voice.

"I'm looking for a place to stay," I replied.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“From Phoenix,” I said.

"Oh, Phoenix. That's a big city, I'd like to live there someday," she dreamily said. "I'm from Dallas."

"That's quite a distance," I pointed out.

“My name is Sammie,” she introduced herself. “Sammie Dean.”

“Charlie Furlow,” I said in return.

"Charlie and Sammie… they would make a good couple," she said seductively. "I would prefer Sammie Furlow to Sammie Dean."

"I see you're still single," I pointed out.

“Not at all,” she said and started laughing. “Me and being single, that worked out! So, you know, I have a lot of siblings, including a lot of stepchildren, because my mom was married several times. And I was always led to quickly learn a trade, find a boyfriend and get married. Mom and I worked as a cutter in a workwear factory and then I found a job as a saleswoman in a clothing store.

And then it happened. One day he showed up at the shop. Jeans, a cowboy shirt, a hat and such bewitching blue eyes that I immediately fell for him – Georgie Dean. I moved in with him the very next day. Georgie said that as soon as he made some money, we would move out together. It only lasted a few days when he came home in the afternoon and said: 'We're leaving'. I quickly packed my things and we left.

It was only later that I found out that he hadn't made any money because we were hanging around all sorts of places. Finally, he admitted to me that he had gotten into a lot of debt in Dallas and that he had to quickly disappear. He himself tried to win at cards in the pubs and rip off the locals, so it was me who had to look for friends who would contribute something here and there out of their Christian love.

It took a whole ten years. In the meantime, we got married, finally made a little money, and moved back to Dallas. Georgie bought a small tobacco and cigar store. But we didn't do too well. We lived in a house with my sister and her family. But there were so many of us there that it didn't do any good, so Georgie and I left again. This time far away, all the way to Colorado.

We settled there and I finally wanted to start a family. But Georgie became an alcoholic and it was unbearable with him. He didn't bring any money home anymore, so we only had what my friends gave us. The problem was that some of them misunderstood our purely friendly relationship and started to chase me. And that eventually became dangerous for me too. Finally, a local councilman gave me some money and jewelry, and I was allowed to leave. I didn't tell Georgie about it, so I ran away here to Jerome without him.

I knew that there were places here where a only the fancy group of people went. So, I settled here. I made a lot of other good friends here, but then it happened. One day Georgie found me here, already very down, his face no longer pretty but swollen from alcohol, and we had an argument. He almost killed me and if it weren't for the people who were passing by and saved me, he probably would have done it.

At that time the mayor's son, young Mr. Miller, was in love with me, and he protects me to this day. He also arranged for Georgie to leave town. I have a good life here and have earned enough to afford my own car, but the fear of Georgie coming back still makes me think of leaving. Will you take me to Phoenix with you? I hear only the better and wealthier people are moving there now."

I didn't expect things to take such a quick turn.

"Well, why not?" I replied. "But don't you think we should get to know each other a little better first?"

"Yes, but we can get to know each other on the way. I'm not demanding, Charlie. I'll be like a mouse and help you with everything."

I didn't know what to say, so I diverted the conversation: "What are you reading?"

“Great Expectations by Charles Dickens,” she said.

"I see you like classical literature," I said, a little surprised, because I wouldn't expect such taste from a woman of her stature.

“Classical?” She thought. “Well, if you mean… I just like the way Dickens writes. It’s very engaging. And I also like it when people use formal language. Do you want to come over to my place for a moment? We can talk some more.”

"Okay," I said, looking for a way to get into the house.

"The main door is over there," she pointed to the left along the wall. "But it's actually late now and the landlady is closing it. You can go through the back entrance," and pointed in the opposite direction.

I walked around the house and headed into the dark corners behind the house. I had to use the flashlight that I always keep on my belt just in case.

I went to the back door, but no one opened it. So, I knocked.

“Who is it?” A voice called from behind them. It was obviously her voice, which is why I was surprised at why she was asking.

"Well, I..." I couldn't finish my sentence and heard the key rattling in the lock.

There was a creaking sound of the door opening, but strangely enough it remained closed.

“Georgie!” I heard her scream. “Georgie! No!” She screamed.

Then I heard some noise of things falling, a dog barking, then the hollow fall of what appeared to be a body to the ground, and then just her sobs.

"Sammie!" I shouted, grabbing the handle. The door was surprisingly open, but there was only darkness behind it. I shone my flashlight into the interior. There was only some old junk piled up everywhere in the room. I carefully walked through the entire closet, being careful not to trip over anything, until I came to the balcony. It was dark. Dust settled on the table and chair next to it. There was no indication that anyone had been here a moment ago. When I got to the railing, I saw my suitcase standing outside. A sign that I was really on the balcony where Sammie had been standing a few minutes ago.

There is no doubt that I have just encountered another ghost.

XI

At about 8:30pm, I arrived at the Ghost City Inn, eerily backlit with green light, and went inside.

It was probably the coziest hotel I've visited today. When I was greeted, the receptionist said enthusiastically: "Welcome! How was your trip?"

The voice belonged to a smiling lady: "I am Ingrid Sarris, the owner of this hotel," she introduced herself.

“Charlie Furlow, ghost hunter…” I accepted the offered hand. “It’s been quite a busy day, but I’m glad to be here,” I answered the original question.

“What brings you to us?” she asked.

"Of course, the craft," I said, tapping the suitcase, "but now, most importantly, a place to stay..."

She showed that smile, as if she would like to be of service, but has nothing to offer: "Unfortunately, we have no rooms available this evening. In other words, the Cleopatra Hill room is available, but it is currently under renovation, and you can't sleep there."

"That's too bad," I replied. "Because this hotel was the last one I've been to. Everywhere else is already booked. Well, couldn't I just stay there? I could just sit down and lean against the wall..."

"I'm sorry. For security reasons, we are forbidden from letting anyone in there."

“Couldn’t it be arranged?” I asked. “Maybe you could hire me as a handyman or plumber for the night. I worked as a technician in television and I’m quite skilled with things like a screwdriver or a ladder…”

"Hmm..." she thought. "And can you fix the air conditioning?"

"Of course," I said worldly... "it's just a little bit of cold air..."

"Okay," she said finally. "The air conditioning isn't working. We have a central heating system with an outdoor unit. It works fine in all the other rooms, but the air doesn't even move in the Cleopatra Hill Room."

"I'll take a look at it, miss..." I said jovially. "And I'll do it for you for free!"

"You're my salesman," she laughed heartily. "Normally the room costs $130, but since it's you and you're going to have to be in these conditions, I'll give it to you for free..."

We made a deal.

"Yeah, I was going to ask," I recalled my recent adventure. "I met a woman not far from the hotel. She called herself Sammie Dean..."

"Ah! Sammie!" Ingrid exclaimed. "Who doesn't know Sammie... She's a local spook, I mean a ghost, of course. She mostly appears to men. She was murdered. It happened on July 10, 1931.

A neighbor had seen her alive that morning, but when some friends visited her around noon, she wouldn't open the door. Around 6pm, her brother Leo, who had come to visit her from Texas, went to her. The front door of the house was closed, but the back door was wide open. Her room had been ransacked. Sammie lay on the floor, beaten, bruised, and suffocated.

It looked like an assault, as her wallet was empty and her handgun was missing. Interestingly, her personal jewelry was left behind, leading investigators to believe someone else might have had another motive. But who?

Sammie's faithful dog, a German shepherd, was lying next to her, and refused to leave her, even when they were carrying her dead body away. Interestingly, he did not defend her during the attack, which could mean that he knew the person by scent and considered him a friend. One of the suspects was the son of the mayor, Thomas Miller, who wanted to marry Sammie and allegedly threatened Sammie with revenge if she did not do so. It is said that this son then mysteriously disappeared. The problem is that both mayor’s sons were about 20 years younger than Sammie and had allegedly only lived in the city since the 1940s. Sammie also allegedly had a boyfriend, who was a muscular miner and a brawler. Well, and it could also have been George Dean, her husband. However, it is not known whether he was in the city, because the mayor had banned him from going to the city.

Her sister Virginia took Sammie back to Dallas, where her family was from. Sammie is buried there too. But her murder was never solved, and poor Sammie's ghost still haunts the place."

“Interesting,” I replied. “Sammie told me some of it herself, but I didn’t learn more about her murder than that her husband, Georgie, might have murdered her…”

"But since you're asking about these things," Ingrid changed the subject, "we have a few ghosts in this hotel too, although we can't match Grand Hotel like that."

"Go ahead," I urged her.

"This hotel was built around 1890. It first served as a boarding house for mine workers, then as a private residence for a certain Mr. Garcia family, who lived here for more than 50 years, then as a funeral home or gallery. But since 1994, the building has been a hotel, as you see it now, although it has been renovated twice since then."

We have two ghosts here. One of them is the ghost of a man who moves around the Verde View Room, and the other belongs to a woman who you can most often see in the Cleopatra Hill Room, where you will be fixing our air condition tonight. Then you can sometimes hear some voices talking here and someone unknown slamming our door.

Even though it wasn't much compared to other hotels, I said thank you, took the key and went upstairs. I was already tired as a kitten after today anyway.

The room didn't look very cozy, but that's to be expected from a room undergoing a complete renovation. The furniture was gone, there were a lot of tools on the floor, the carpet was covered with plastic, there was a ladder leaning against the wall, and something smelled there. The light wasn't working either, so I had to use one of my powerful flashlights.

I thought I'd fix the air conditioner before I went to bed, because I couldn't really feel any cold air even though the air conditioner was blaring at full blast outside, and I probably wouldn't sleep well at night in the heat. So, I took a ladder and put it against the wall, which had a grille mounted almost to the ceiling, which I thought was a cover for the mouth of the ventilation shaft.

I was right. With a little effort and using a screwdriver that was lying on the table, I removed the grille and then, in horror, almost fell off the ladder. Someone's face appeared there.

“Hee-hee-hee,” she said. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite. I’m just hiding here… I like to hide, I really like to hide here,” she said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

"Cleopatra..." she laughed. "No, I'm not Cleopatra, although I'd like to be. My name is Ruth."

"Okay, Ruth, nice to meet you. I'm Charlie," I introduced myself in return. "And why are you hiding there?"

"Well, all of a sudden some guys came here, started taking away furniture, then they brought in all this stuff you see there, and most importantly they were making really, really unpleasant, loud, rattling noises. I don't like loud noises, and rattling noises at all."

"Those will be the craftsmen," I instructed her. "They're fixing it here."

"But I don't want them to fix it here," she complained. "I don't like it. I like my room, and they took it away from me. So, I crawled in here at least, because I know it here and I like it here. I'm glad they left it here, because I like to hide here sometimes when I'm sad."

"And now you're sad, Ruth?"

"Yes, I'm very sad," she said disappointedly. "Because my friend left."

"And where did he go?" I asked.

"Well, I don't know, although I would love to, because if I did, I would go looking for him. And so, I'm waiting here, to be here if he comes back. I would really, really like him to come back. I want him back."

“And why did he leave?” I asked further.

"I was mean to him, really, really mean," she said. "I know. He wanted to talk, he said just like that, and I said I don't really like talking, that I don't want to talk too much. Well, he said I hurt him a lot. He said he wanted to talk just like that out of joy that we were together. And I told him I didn't want us to be together because I didn't like being together, even though I actually do. But I said it, well, and he started crying and left... Now I'm really, really sorry and I want him to come back, because I would really like him to come back."

"And what was your friend's name?"

“Willie,” she replied.

"And do you like Willie?"

"Yes, I like him. I like him very, very much. And Willie likes me too. I like it when someone I like likes me. And I don't like it when someone I don't like likes me. But I also don't like it when someone I like doesn't like me. That makes me very, very sad."

"Well, how about you just go outside the room and call him by name?" I suggested.

"I've never been outside the room before. I don't know it there and I don't like places I don't know. I like places I know. But now I don't even know this room, when they've dug it up like this, and I don't like that. I don't want to go to it. I mean, I would like to, but I don't want to go through a room I don't know, because I don't like going somewhere I don't know."

“So how do we do it?” I asked.

“And you’re asking me?” She almost stormed out. “You want me to suggest something, but I don’t want to. I don’t like it when I have to suggest something. I like it when someone suggests something to me, and then I say whether I like it or not. That’s what I want. Willie always suggested something to me, and he liked it when I liked it, and he didn’t like it when I didn’t like it. Just like me. We got along great. But he’s not here now, and I don’t like it, and I really, really want him to be here and not be sad, because I don’t like it when I’m sad.”

"Okay, okay," I interrupted her soliloquy. "So first tell me: Do you like being in that ventilation shaft right now?"

"Well, I like it and I don’t like it. I like ti because I know it here. But I don't like it when the cold air blows on me from behind. It blows under my skirt on my ovaries and I'm afraid they'll catch a cold. I don't like it when my ovaries catch a cold. I like it when my ovaries don't catch a cold..."

And then she suddenly giggled: "But I'm glad I still have a hymen. Well, I'm not really glad because Willie hasn't suggested we make love yet. But I'm glad because now the hymen protects me from the cold air blowing up my throat. That would make my throat hurt, and I don't like that. I don't want my throat to hurt. I want my throat not to hurt, because it hurts so, so much when it hurts..."

“What now?” I ask. “Is it blowing up your skirt?”

"Well, it's blowing..." she admitted.

"Then perhaps you'd like to climb out."

"Yes," she admitted, "I'd like to, but where? I don't know it out there and I don't like places I don't know," she objected.

"Look..." I said. "I'll pull back the plastic sheet for you. There's a carpet under the plastic sheet, and you know that." And I showed her a piece of carpet.

"Yes!" She was delighted. "That's my carpet. I like it!"

So, I pushed the carpet back along the wall to the door. She climbed out carefully. I lit a light for her as she hovered timidly over the carpet. I knew that Ruth was a ghost, probably too weak to manipulate real objects, so when she reached the door, I asked her gallantly: "Do you want me to open the door for you, Ruth?"

"Yes, I would like to."

When I did so, she didn't dare step out, but she at least stuck her head out the door and called out, "Willie! Willie! Are you here? I'd like to see you again. I want you to be here and we could talk. I'd like to talk to you. Just like that, about anything. Just for the joy of being together, because I like being together."

“Ruth!” she called excitedly from somewhere in the hallway near the Verde View room. Her partner appeared a moment later. They hugged and then kissed for a long time.

When they were finished, Willie asked, "Do you want to make love?"

And Ruth replied dreamily: "Yes, I would like to... Very, very like to..."

I quickly reattached the grille to the ventilation shaft, packed my stuff, and left. I hadn't experienced ghost sex yet, although I'd like to... damn, Ruth drove me completely crazy... but I figured there were things between heaven and earth that I didn't have to assist with. So, I was glad to be glad.

Downstairs I told Ingrid that the air conditioning was fixed, even though the Cleopatra Hill room will perhaps be a little live now... well, dead, but still noisy, and that I had finally decided to go sleep somewhere else.

Ingrid said goodbye to me, and I went out again into the quiet night streets, the four or so that there were in the town.

XII

I had no choice but to leave Jerome and hope to find somewhere to stay for the night in Prescott Valley, or in Prescott, which was the closest town on Highway 89A, which was the only road from Jerome open overnight.

So, I loaded my suitcase back into my pickup truck, drove around downtown, and headed southwest past the Grand Hotel in Jerome.

I was driving through a few serpentines on Highway 89A when my headlights illuminated an obstacle in the road. It was a sign that said, “Road Closed 8 PM to 5 AM.” So, I won’t be able to get out of Jerome that way today either, and I’ll be stuck here for the night.

The barrier was right next to a rest area where any driver could easily turn around and drive back. The rest area was next to a beautiful view of the countryside, which would have been beautiful if it hadn't been dark. So, I turned around with my pickup truck when a light appeared on the other side of the road. I stopped the truck and got out.

I moved closer to the light and saw that it was the headlight of a motorcycle, or rather a sidecar, lying battered among the trees. I turned my head and saw a figure sitting nearby, near another tree. It was invisible in the darkness. It was a man. Although he made no sound, nor did he call out to me, he was clearly conscious.

"Sir..." I said cautiously. "Are you okay?"

He slowly turned his head towards me and finally saw me.

"Yes..." he said, "I don't think anything happened to me."

“Did you have an accident?” I asked further.

"I guess... I guess so," he replied, "I must have had an accident, but somehow I don't remember it."

“Who are you and where are you coming from?” I asked.

After a moment of thought, he slowly replied, "Actually, I don't know. And I don't even know where I came from..."

"Come on, I'll take you to Jerome..." I suggested. "You need to go to the hospital to see if you're hurt."

His eyes lit up at the name of the place: "Jerome... Yes, I remember now, I was driving from Jerome."

"Well, you see," I said. "You'll remember other things in a moment. Come now, I'll take you there..."

"No, not really..." he replied calmly. "I don't want to go there. I fled from that place. They're chasing me."

“Who is chasing you?” I asked.

"It's a long story..." He replied.

"It's okay. I have time..." ...which wasn't true, because the need to find a place to sleep with midnight fast approaching was becoming increasingly urgent, but I wanted to hear him out.

“You know,” he began, “I am the son of a wealthy industrial magnate. I grew up in luxury. The one thing I was never lucky with was love. I was always dressed elegantly and had good manners, but it was as if I was cursed. No one wanted me.

Then one day I'd walk into a store and say, 'How are you?' and the saleswoman's knees would almost shake. It was love at first sight. We went to dinner that very day and the next day she moved in with me. I showered her with gifts, bought her everything she wanted, introduced her to high society, and basically just put up with her blues.

But my father quickly became annoyed that he had to finance this love, so he told me that if I wanted to support my wife, I had to earn my own living. But since he wanted me to be the successor to his company one day, he immediately hired me as his advisor. My salary was good, but it wasn't enough for the needs of my new love. And when I asked my father for a raise, he refused. We had quite a fight about it. I was happy to have such a pretty girl, and I was going to do everything I could to keep her.

Well, what can I tell you? It turned out that my father kicked me out of the house. And she went with me. I promised her that we would go somewhere far away together, because I had big plans – to set up my own business. And so, we went...

The beginnings were very difficult. We struggled through life as best we could. Her love for me also waned somewhat, but we always knew that we belonged together and that we loved each other.

Eventually we returned to our hometown and lived with her family. I bought a small shop and that was enough for us to live a decent life. But there were more than enough people at home, so we left again, and this time even further than before. And we got married, which I did to insure her. She still loved me, but it seemed like she always had a lot of friends everywhere. When I found out that she was getting money from them for a makeover, I felt miserable as a man and the breadwinner. She also started to blame me more and more for being a do-gooder, and I became more and more depressed because I felt sorry for how badly she treated me, and how much better she treated her friends.

But I thought it was because we were still together. If she had lived with any of them for a longer time, she might have treated them even worse than she treated me. This cooling of her love was also connected with the fact that we made love less and less, and I began to have an unpleasant thought in my heart that she was making love to one of her friends instead. At that time, I started drinking. Out of grief. Well, that made everything even worse, and in the end, it ended up that one day she disappeared and didn't even tell me where she was going.

Naturally, I started going around to all her so-called friends. And when I found out who had given her the money to escape, I also beat him to where she had gone. I quickly went after her, and in the end, I found out that she had settled in the city I was leaving from…”

"Jerome..." I said, when he fumbled a bit again.

"Yes, Jerome. And then I learned the cruelest thing to my heart – that she had started to make a living as a prostitute. She, the star of my life! But I knew it was my fault. I was not able to support her, and that's why she, poor thing, had to choose this path, which is painful and reprehensible for a woman.

So, I went to her and wanted to apologize and tell her that I would arrange everything now, if only she would give me one more chance... But she started screaming for help. Some people from the street heard her and took me out of her house like some kind of rapist.

And then the mayor had me taken out of the city, where I was banned from entering ever since. Allegedly for burglary and trespassing! I know that the idea actually came from his son, who thought about my little girl and my wife! (sobs) himself. May he burn in hell just for those sinful thoughts!

I decided to go back one more time despite this ban, and to take my poor wife out of that debauched, cursed trap. I snuck in there once just before noon. The main door was closed, but I went around the house and entered through the back entrance. I wanted to cover her mouth right away and take her away on this motorbike. I had a place ready for her in the sidecar. But she started to fight back again. I heard some noises outside, just like the last time, so I decided to run away. I got on my motorbike and rode out of town like it was a race. But I heard someone chasing me. Then everything went black and I suddenly ended up in this ditch. Now I'm waiting for them to pass me so I can go back. But they still haven't come... Could they be waiting for me somewhere?"

“Mr. Dean… Your name is George Dean, right?” I asked.

"Yes..." he said, his face brightening. "How do you know?"

"Your wife was Sammie… Sammie Dean, is that right?"

"Yes, Sammie!" he cried out happily, a smile spreading across his swollen red face.

“I have to tell you something, Mr. Dean,” I said slowly.

"Yes?" He asked with anticipation in his voice.

“But it will hurt…” I continued.

His face suddenly became filled with horror: "What? Sammie is dead? They killed her? No way! Say no!"

"Yeah, Sammie's dead, but that's not the point..." I said hastily.

"What?! Sammie's dead! My most beautiful wife, poor thing, is dead! No! No! No!" He started screaming and then crying steadily.

I waited for him to finish his outburst of sadness and continued insistently: "But there is something that will hurt you even more."

"Nooooo..." he almost groaned. "What is it?"

"Your wife didn't love you. Not in Jerome, not in Colorado, not in Texas, not even when she first saw you. She was only attracted to you by your expensive clothes, which made her rightly conclude that you were from a wealthy family. She only liked your money and that was all she cared about. She wanted to be rich and have everything. There was nothing you could do to win her love. She was just using you. It wasn't your fault. You've spent your whole life worrying about someone who didn't deserve it. You should have listened to your father then. It would have hurt you, maybe for weeks, maybe months, maybe years, but certainly not for the rest of your life, like it does now. But don't blame yourself now. And don't wait. No more pursuers will come after you. You died in that accident. It happened on July 10, 1931, and you've been here for almost a century, suffering like you never experienced even in the worst moment of your unhappy life. But now it's all over." "Let it go, Mr. Dean... It'll only be fine now..."

He burst into tears. He burst into tears of such terrible suffering that only the most desperate being can express. For long minutes his grief seemed to have no end. Then he wiped the tears from his troubled face, which, due to his disordered drinking, was much older than himself, and said to me: “Thank you… you are a very kind person… Thank you…” And he disappeared.

I got in the pickup truck and drove back to Jerome. The parking space on Hull Avenue I had left earlier was still empty. No wonder. No one would be getting in or out of town tonight, and there was no point in driving around such a small place.

I parked and got out. I knew that there was one last address on the flyer I had, and it was on Hull Avenue. So, I started looking for the number when I saw that the lights were still on in the strange gallery outside of which I had seen the unknown, yet somehow mysteriously familiar woman that afternoon. The sign on the door said "Open", so I decided to reach for the doorknob and go inside, even at this late hour.

XIII

I entered a fairly spacious and brightly lit gallery full of paintings and pictures. The theme was obviously Jerome and the Verde Valley, but there were also a few portraits. At the far end of the gallery was a glass French window leading out onto the patio.

As expected, it was empty at this hour of the night. When I entered, the bell above the door rang and after a while the staff arrived. It was the strange woman I had seen in the afternoon. Looking at me, she smiled, somewhat surprised and said: "Hey, is that you, the nice gentleman who asked me for directions this afternoon?"

"Yes," I replied. "Aren't I getting too late? I see you're open, but it's almost eleven..."

"You're right," she said. "I was just about to close. I usually go to bed much earlier, but I'm in a strangely good mood today..."

She walked to the door, turned the key in the lock, and then turned the sign hanging on the door so that the words "Closed" pointed outward.

"I just wanted to make sure no one else came here," she added in explanation. "You're welcome, of course, and don't rush. You can stay as long as you want..."

“Thank you,” I said, and walked over to the paintings.

"I haven't introduced myself yet," she smiled apologetically as she walked away from the door. "Betty Klein, painter and owner of this... let's say boarding house."

“A boarding house?” I was surprised.

“Yes,” she said, “I don’t really advertise it anywhere, because I only have one spare guest room. But if someone from afar comes to visit me who is interested in art, I’ll provide them with bed and breakfast, so they don’t have to go through the trouble of finding a hotel. I see you’re lugging that big suitcase. Where are you going to sleep tonight?”

"Well, actually..." I said. "I don't have a place to stay yet. All the hotels were full, so I was going to go to Prescott, but Highway 89A is closed, so I'm back here..."

"Then put it aside, sit down and I'll prepare a room for you..." she said and left again.

I didn't have much to put away, so I pushed my suitcase over to the table near the reception, put down my jacket, took out all the brochures I had obtained today, placed them on the table, and sat down.

She came back about five minutes later and said that everything was done and that I could go to sleep whenever I wanted.

"I just wish I knew your name. I keep records, so I'd like to put you in the guest book," she added.

“Sorry, I’m being rude…” I apologized. “Charlie Furlow,” I said, pulling out my ID.

“No, you don’t have to…” she stopped me. “I trust you,” she said, writing my name in the guest book at the reception desk.

"What brings you here, Mr. Furlow? Can I sit down?" she asked.

“But of course…” I said, somewhat surprised by how open and welcoming this lady was. She sat down on my right.

"I work for a TV station in Glendale. It's called Channel 6 Plus; I guess that doesn't mean anything to you..." I said, and when she shook her head, I continued: "I originally worked as a technician on TV, but then I got my own show. I visit mysterious places and report on them."

"Well, of course..." she laughed. "If anyone visits Jerome, it's mainly because of the ghosts. But you're welcome here. It's not just a tourist story. This place is really full of ghosts..."

“I know it is,” I said. “Of course, I’ve known Jerome since I was a kid, so I’m surprised I haven’t thought of coming here to film. But someone gave me this flyer recently, so I finally came…” and I pointed to the piece of glossy paper that was lying on the table on top of all the other brochures I had previously placed there.

She started looking at it.

"I've never seen that flyer," she said afterwards. "But you know what's strange? That the last address is the address of this gallery..."

“Really?” I wondered. “So, I would end up visiting all the places mentioned on that flyer?”

"It's also strange because we've never had any supernatural phenomena in this gallery, so I can't imagine why anyone would put this particular place in the flyer..." she shook her head in confusion.

"That's really strange," I said. "But maybe the flyer was printed by someone who knew the previous owner, and maybe they knew about some ghost in the house. How long have you lived here?"

“Almost forty years,” she waved her hand. “I came here in the eighties. My parents were from Scottsdale. We lived near downtown. I’ve always had artistic inclinations, especially painting. My father wanted to buy me my own gallery in old Scottsdale. But I’ve always been a loner and didn’t like the hustle and bustle that goes on there every day.

At that time, Jerome was known as a mysterious city, and various artists began to move here, mostly with dark and mysterious subjects. I didn't really fit into this genre, because I like bright and positive art, but I liked the peace and silence here. Jerome is a famous tourist attraction, but getting here is not that easy, so only someone who really wants to see it comes here. So, I settled here.

My father died soon after. Although he had a good salary and position as a lawyer, all the inheritance and widow's pension were just enough for my mother to maintain the house. You know how expensive Scottsdale is, and our house was at a very good address. My mother stayed there and didn't want to go to Jerome to see me.

So, I was on my own. Painting didn't make me much money at first, but later on it did. So, I had to find another job during the day. I started working as a waitress at the English Kitchen. That's the name of the restaurant upstairs on the corner of Hull Avenue and Jerome Avenue. Today it's officially called Bobby D's BBQ.

I was quite good-looking at the time, so I had a lot of offers. But I didn't like any of the guests. I suspected that they were all looking for a one-night stand, and that wasn't what I wanted. I'm not religious in any way, but I made it a rule that my body, heart, and love would only belong to one man in my life.

Well, he finally came. He was alone, he didn't show off at all, he seemed like an introvert to me because it took him a long time to even dare to approach me with a personal question. But when he sat down at the bar and ordered, there was something special in his voice, an incredibly pleasant wave of heat went through my body, and I suddenly knew it was him.

He ordered an Arizona Rye Whiskey. I still remember asking him, as if in a dream, if it could be Sacred Stave. It was an incredibly stupid question, because the only brand of Arizona Rye Whiskey is Sacred Stave. I don't know what he said, but something along the lines of yes.

So, I brought him a shot of rye, with water, as is customary here, and asked him if he wanted something to eat. He said yes, so I gave him the menu. He chose a hamburger. He finished his meal, paid, and when I thanked him for visiting and wished him a nice rest of the day, he looked at me with his beautiful green eyes and said, 'Miss?'

'Yes?' I asked, feeling my face turn red. 'Betty…' I whispered.

"'Betty,' he repeated my name. 'You are the most wonderful woman I have ever met. I want you so much and I want to be with you forever.' Those words were etched in my memory, and I will never forget them. I knew how stupidly he was talking, we didn't even know each other, but I knew it was him.

We spent the night together and it was the best day of my life. He said his name was Billy Manaford, he was from Glendale, like you, and he worked in the printing office for a local newspaper. I don't think he told me which one. But he said the job wasn't paying him much, so he was going to quit and come and join me in Jerome.

He left in the morning, it was Friday. He promised to arrange everything over the weekend and come back next week. But I never saw him again after that...

It's been twenty years. I have no contact with him. There were no cell phones or the internet back then. He didn't give me his phone number or his address. Of course, I've been wondering what happened all this time. Is he still alive? Did he find someone else? Was it just a fleeting episode for him that he quickly forgot about? I never got an answer, and even though time has long since healed the greatest pain, it still haunts me in my soul..."

What she told me seemed almost unbelievable. I still couldn't understand how I knew her. I couldn't remember ever seeing her, because I wasn't in Jerome that often. Even the name Billy Manaford didn't mean anything to me, even though the man looked so strangely like me. And she was definitely at least twenty years older than me...

"Betty..." I said sympathetically and wanted to place my hand on hers. But suddenly she flinched.

"No, please..." she said, smiling apologetically. "I know what's going through your head. But you're not him. You look completely different; you talk completely different. Still, I have to admit that I have such a strange, nice feeling in my soul when I see you and I feel the same joy again as I felt then. But it's not love, don't be mad..."

"I'm not mad," I said, smiling too. "I have to admit that when I saw you this afternoon, you reminded me of someone. I felt like I knew you, but I don't know where. But the name Billy Manaford doesn't mean anything to me either."

“Don’t worry about it…” she said. “Let’s leave it at that. You should go to bed now,” she added. “You must be tired by now.”

We got up and she showed me to my cozily furnished room with a made-up, and as I later found out, very comfortable bed.

“Good night,” she said before closing the door. “And there’s one more thing I wanted to tell you: You mentioned that the road to Prescott was closed, which is why you came back. I thought that was strange, because there’s no road closure there, as far as I know. But there used to be. That was back when the road wasn’t as good as it is now, and it was dangerous to drive there at night. I heard about it because it was before I moved here… So good night.”

I said goodnight to her too, and before I went to sleep, my memories returned to the ghost of George Dean. Maybe the barrier on that road was ghostly, because it was there when Dean had his accident. I probably could have driven to Prescott for the night if I had known the barrier didn't actually exist. Then I wouldn't have ended up spending the night here in this unknown, unadvertised bed and breakfast. I thought, the ways of fate are really strange.

Shortly after I had completed all my evening hygiene in the guest bathroom and lay down on the bed, I fell asleep.

XIV

I woke up in the morning to a beautiful sunny day. I opened the curtain and briefly looked out into the garden. It was nicely manicured; Betty obviously took care of the appearance of every piece of her property. But then my eyes fell on a tombstone in the corner of the garden. A bit unusual…

But before I had time to process this new information, there was a knock on the door and a follow-up: "Charlie Furlow? Room service..."

The voice didn't belong to Betty Klein. It was much younger. I figured the boarding house would also have some cleaning staff.

"Yes, wait a minute..." I said. "It'll be in a moment."

"Don't rush, I'll wait," came the voice from behind the door again. "I'll make you breakfast in the meantime."

Still, I showered, brushed my teeth, and changed as quickly as I could, opened the door to my room, and walked down the narrow hallway back to the gallery. I followed my nose to its corner and then to the adjacent room, where the scent of fresh coffee, bread, bacon, and scrambled eggs wafted in.

Breakfast was ready on the table, and a little girl was standing at the kitchen counter. When she heard me, she turned and suddenly we both stood in silent amazement, our eyes wide and our mouths open. The knife she had been buttering her bread with fell from her hand. Without a word, she threw herself into my arms and I went to meet her. She clung to my neck convulsively, and I put one arm around her waist and the other pressed her back against me, as if I were afraid that if I let go of her, she would disappear forever.

"It's you!" she said in surprise, as the first rush of joy at the reunion subsided.

"But..." I didn't know what to say suddenly, because my head was in complete confusion.

Yes, it was the girl I had met at the bar in Cave Creek. I had only seen her briefly, but then I clearly remembered that it was her. At the same time, it occurred to me that the woman I had known so well yesterday was like an older version of her. I didn't understand it. How could she be young at first, then grow old, and then suddenly become young again overnight?

“It’s you, the girl from Cave Creek!” I said finally. “But how come you were so much older yesterday?”

"Older?" She asked in surprise and stopped. "What do you mean?"

"Well, when I came here in the evening, you put me up, we chatted and then you wished me good night... And I also saw you yesterday afternoon when you were sweeping in front of the threshold," I said.

“I wasn’t here yesterday,” she said. “I was in Tempe. I just graduated from Arizona State University and was packing up. I was living in a rented house there. But now I want to live in Jerome and take care of my mom’s gallery. I just got here this morning.”

“Oh, so it must have been your mother!” I said. “You look alike…”

"Well, it couldn't have been Mom, because she died five years ago. But we had an agreement with the neighbor that she would come here sometimes, especially when someone wanted to stay here. From time to time, someone would book the one room that Mom rented out here. I thought it was the neighbor who put your name on the guest list."

"So, is your neighbor looking like you?" I asked, still confused.

"Not really. She's Rosa and she's Hispanic, plus she has black hair and I have red hair..."

Now I remembered: “The lady introduced herself yesterday as Betty… Betty… Klein!” I remembered her full name.

"But it's me," she said, taken aback. "I'm Betty Klein. But my mother's name was Betty too. Listen, what did that woman tell you?"

"Well, she's from Scottsdale, she likes to paint, her father died, she moved here, she fell in love with a guy named Billy, whom she met at the English Kitchen, but then he disappeared and she never saw him again..." I told her story briefly.

Betty's eyes widened in disbelief: "And what did she say Billy ordered back then?"

“Arizona Rye Whiskey,” I said.

Betty sighed: "So it really was my mom. She never told this story to anyone, she only told it to me. She also said that Billy was the only man she ever made love to, so I'm most likely his daughter. You know, I printed that flyer. I don't really believe in ghosts, and I just take all this crazy stuff about them as folklore, but I've had a few people call me in Tempe when I was a student there and say that our gallery lights up sometimes at night and that they've seen someone here who looks a lot like my mom. Well, that's why I put that place on the list too."

"So now I'm starting to understand..." I said slowly. "So, did you ever meet your father, this Billy Manaford? And did he tell you why he left your mother then?"

"I haven't met him, although I know what he looked like."

"And how come you know what he looked like?"

"You would know that too if you had taken a good look at the front page of that newspaper you bought."

"What newspaper?" I asked, confused.

"Well, the one you left on the table last night. I'm assuming it's yours because the flyer was there too..."

I started to remember. She must have been talking about the front page of the newspaper about the murder at the Grand Hotel in Jerome.

“Wait a minute…” I said, “explain it to me in detail.”

“You know there was a murder at the Jerome Hotel five years ago,” she began. “A woman stabbed her lover who had slept with another man there. But you probably didn’t read that the woman was Betty Klein. She saw Billy again that afternoon at the English Restaurant. Or rather, she saw him leaving with a woman. She was sweeping the front porch.

"Well, she followed them to the hotel. She found out which room they were staying in, somehow found out the name of the other woman – Priscilla Hawk, and at night she snuck into their room pretending to be this Priscilla. She killed them both and then committed suicide."

"So that was the murderer..." I said in surprise.

"Yes," said Betty. "They refused to bury her in the local cemetery as a criminal, so I had her cremated and buried in the garden of this gallery."

"Oh..." I said. It started to make sense. Then I remembered: "I wanted to stay in that room yesterday, but I was bribed by a guy who said he was a senatorial candidate from somewhere in Pennsylvania. And according to legend, on the anniversary of the murder, a man who had slept in that room always died. Do you know what happened to him?"

"Yeah, I think his name is Bobby Corpse," Betty said. "He was leaving that hotel with some woman when I arrived this morning, and he looked pretty lively..."

"Interesting..." I didn't understand again. "And Betty, tell me one more thing: What were you doing in that bar in Cave Creek back then, and why did you give me that flyer?"

Betty suddenly blushed: "Well, I was there at the concert of the band you were performing after. The whole group of us were there celebrating the final exams. And then you came there... No one listened to you, my poor thing, because they didn't even notice you. But I did... I heard every word you said. When I first heard you, a strange warm wave went through my whole body. My friends were talking to me, but I don't know what they were saying anymore. I was like in a trance and I was listening only to you.

Then when you finished and ordered that Arizona Rye Whiskey at the bar, I immediately remembered the story my mom told me. And I had no doubt that you were the one. I only printed out one of those flyers. I prepared it carefully, and I told myself that when I found the man of my heart, maybe I wouldn’t have time for any long explanations. But if I give him this flyer and he visits all the places I wrote about and ends up here, I’ll know he came looking for me…”

I was touched. "You see... And if it weren't for the ghosts, I wouldn't come. And you wouldn't believe in them..." I said.

"Believed, not believed..." said Betty. "I don't believe in Halloween at all. Every year it's like a pilgrimage here when October 31st comes. All these stories are spread around, and people make up stories about seeing ghosts. I've lived here for twenty-five years... twenty, because I've been studying in Tempe for the last five years... but I've never seen a single ghost."

“Well, I saw a lot of them yesterday,” I said, and briefly told her about Mary, Sammie, Ruth, and George. If I add Betty’s mother, I actually saw five of them.

"I guess you have some special abilities..." she replied.

"That would be the case for most people who live here, and for many who come here to visit."

"Or maybe something else helped..." as if she remembered something. "Yesterday was November 2nd, right?"

"Yes, and what should it be?" I asked.

"Well, in some parts of the world, Halloween is not celebrated, but the commemoration of the dead is honored. And that is November 2nd. In the country where I come from, that day is called Dušičky – All Souls' Day."

“Doo-shitch-key…” I repeated.

"Yes, they are like little souls..." she added by way of explanation. "And according to this legend, our world and the world of spirits merge on that day and people can see the deceased... There is even a song about it, which sings: Be careful on All Souls' Day, don't lie down in the moss in the forest. The worlds merge on All Souls' Day, so stay home and light candles..."

And then I remembered something else: "You know, I wanted to go to Jerome for Halloween. But my car broke down and I had to wait. I considered it a curse that I wouldn't be able to do my possible life story from the ghost town. The car wasn't fixed until yesterday afternoon. Now I think that was another good twist of fate. Not only did I run into a lot of ghosts because they didn’t actually appear until two days later, but I also got to meet you. You didn't arrive until this morning..."

"You see?" she said instructively, but with a smile on her face. "Well, and now..."

"Well, I guess I'll have to go," I said, disappointed. "It's Friday. I have to deliver the material to the studio in Glendale so it can be broadcast tomorrow. But don't worry, I'll pack my things over the weekend and come back to you next week..."

“No, don’t go anywhere!” She screamed with terror in her voice and threw herself around my neck. “Don’t go anywhere… I don’t want to lose you…” she then added sadly.

"Okay, I won't go..." I told her, finding her face with my mouth, then her lips, and started kissing her for a long time.

XV

My name is Charlie Furlow. I'm 47 years old; I graduated from MIT with a degree in interferometry, then lived in Phoenix for a while, where I worked for Glendale's Channel 6 Plus, and five years ago I moved to Jerome. This small town near Verde Valley has become my current home and, I think, my final destination.

My wife Betty and I opened the Betty and Charlie Furlows’ Jerome Ghost Museum. We display paranormal artifacts and write stories about local legends. In our free time, we investigate the circumstances under which local ghosts died. It's almost detective work, because we often don't know whose spirit would appear to us and when they lived. The local hotel owners aren't too happy, because with each such explanation, the number of ghosts in the city decreases. Every unfortunate soul leaves this world after realizing that it is dead and under what circumstances it died. However, we consider it a beneficial activity, because, as Dr. Callaghan says, we can hardly imagine the torment that a soul must experience without a body, when its trauma cannot naturally subside, and it is trapped in both space and time, and moreover, without a material counterweight.

Joe's uncle's devices are also part of the exhibition. We experimentally verified that their entire principle is really just a thermometer and thermal imaging, although supplemented by other inventions that were extremely ingenious for the time, and whoever built them was ahead of their time. However, it still remains a mystery where those sudden temperature changes come from. But there are things that will probably remain a mystery to man forever.

Thanks to a healthy environment and a stress-free life, I no longer need high blood pressure pills. Our mutual happiness with Betty resulted in three healthy offspring: Alžbětka, Karlík, and Přemysl. Betty wanted to pay tribute to the country from which her family came to the United States during the gold rush. The first two names are diminutives of her and my name, while the third belongs to a famous king who ruled in the Middle Ages. They also called him Otakar, because Přemysl was difficult for many people abroad to pronounce. 'This king could have established peace in the whole world back then, if it weren't for those Austrian pigs who cunningly and with vulgar trick defeated and killed him on the Moravian Field' – these are my wife's words – and so much so that at least now she wants people to learn to pronounce his name properly, because one day he will reach great heights. They say, even the president of the United States. We'll see.

But when we're talking about politics, we have to mention Bobby Corpse. He did survive his night at the Grand Hotel in Jerome, making bold statements to the media in a hastily called press conference with loud pomp and show. But a few hours later, as he was driving east from Jerome to I-17 to return to Phoenix for a flight to Philadelphia, his car crashed on a serpentine and plunged off a cliff. Neither he nor his lover Holly survived.

But with only four days left until the election, his name was still on the ballot. What’s more, he was elected. The public still preferred the mainstream media’s hyped-up troublemaker and liberal progressive to someone who held to the conservative principles on which the United States was founded. This created a constitutional crisis, which was eventually resolved by the Supreme Court, which ruled that a dead senator was still a senator if he had been duly elected.

And so, Senator Corpse lived up to his name. They had him mummified in a sitting position so he could participate in the session. The only problem was that he never raised his hand, either for or against, when the vote was taken. This made him quite useless to his party. The party then tried to push through a bill that would allow the decision-making of senators “unable to perform their duties for medical reasons” to be replaced by decision-making by artificial intelligence, but this bill failed to pass the Senate because… Senator Corpse abstained.

We never used the stack of bills Corpse gave me as cash, but we displayed it as an artifact in our museum, under the title: "The Last Bribe of Pennsylvania Senator Bobby Corpse."

We never saw the ghost of my mother-in-law, Betty Klein, again. She probably realized that there was no point in waiting for Billy because she read the first page of the newspaper I had left on her desk in the gallery. She realized that she had murdered Billy, committed suicide herself, and was therefore dead. Not only did she not go back to the Grand Hotel in Jerome on the anniversary of her death to give another male victim, Senator Corpse, a heart attack, but she had apparently passed on to the next world forever, her soul freed.

I believe she is looking down on us now and is happy with the beautiful and harmonious relationship we have with her daughter. She can be sure that unlike Billy, I will never leave Betty.

Epilogue

This story was written based on the legends of the central Arizona town of Jerome as a reminder of this beautiful place in the former Wild West. Almost all the locations in this story and many of the characters are real, as are the facts about these characters that are publicly available. Things that are not available are fictional, however. This applies, for example, to the relationship between Sammie and George Dean. If I have made any mistakes, please let me know and I will set things straight. The names of the remaining characters, including the main character, are fictional and their possible resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

Tomas Pavelek, August 24th, 2024, Anthem, Arizona, USA.