Snowed in with a Ghost
I moved into a haunted building in a ritzy resort town and sank into a terrifying depression. I never dreamed the thing that saved me would be the woman who died in my apartment.
Editors’ note: This article contains descriptions of the author’s suicidal ideations.
I was already depressed when we moved into the brothel.
“Original bathtub, circa 1840, Silver Bell Bordello.” Rory, my boyfriend, read the inscription on the gold plaque out loud. The landlord stood behind us in the bathroom. I tested the faucet; it was delicate, like it might break off in my hand.
We had arrived an hour earlier. It was November, and winter storms had chased us across the red desert of Utah into Colorado, but it hadn’t snowed yet in Telluride. We had come from California with little money, but a promise that there was plenty to be made working service industry jobs. Telluride is the kind of place where movie stars come to escape paparazzi and tip 200 percent. Tucked away in a box canyon deep in the San Juan Mountains, it’s a fairytale world where streets lined with Victorian houses led to aspens, sandstone cliffs, meadows of elk. I knew …
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial