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.

Welcome to this week’s “Ghost Story Sunday.” Today we’re sharing this striking and dramatic story from Krista Diamond. Whether you believe in ghosts, are highly skeptical or not so sure, we’re pretty positive you’ll be moved by this stirring personal tale. Before you dive in, a heads up that this article gets a little heavy at points, and contains descriptions of suicidal ideations.

Illustrations by Fan Pu | Story edited by Farah Mohammed

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 I was supposed to be in awe of it, but I felt nothing. I could make out the slopes of the ski resort from the window of the apartment, brown and naked, the skeletal chairlifts frozen. It felt wrong to see it like that.

“Building’s haunted,” the landlord said, with more boredom in his voice than the statement merited. “Ramona. That’s the ghost’s name. She was here when this was a brothel.”

Rory and I looked at each other, both exhausted from the drive. There was a potbelly stove in the living room, a bedroom with no door, and a skylight, not yet glazed with ice.

“Can we move in now?” Rory asked. He flicked a light switch; nothing happened.

“Electricity won’t be turned on for another few days,” the landlord said. “But sure.”