Virginia City is what happens when a mining boomtown lies close enough to a large population center to keep it from decaying into a heap of rotted timbers and rusted machinery. The town arose on the wealth of Comstock silver which financed the Union cause during the Civil War and fed San Francisco’s opulence.
Tucked in a mountain valley only 30 minutes from Reno, Virginia City embraces red state politics and might as well lie in the middle of the State. But then, the same applies to every town that doesn’t identify as part of the metropolitan complex, no matter its proximity.
And, it is quirky. Don’t be surprised if you glance out your restaurant window to see your waitress sauntering down the boardwalk with no apparent intention of returning to work after you’ve fruitlessly waited half an hour for your lunch. The manager will apologize without in the least internalizing your indignation.
Make an appointment with one of those photo studios ubiquitous in old western towns that take sepia photos of folks dressed up in saloon girl red lace, outlaws in 10 gallon hats and matrons attired in neck-girdling victorian black – AND – you re-confirm the appointment the day before the photo shoot – most likely you’ll find the shop closed when you arrive at the appointed hour.
One blustery winter day, we ate lunch in a quixotic cafe allocated behind cases of homemade candies. With manifest disgust, our server nodded toward the waste container while pointing accusingly at the disposable dishes we’d thoughtlessly left on our table. They ought to post a sign that reads: BUS YOUR OWN DAMN TABLE.
These were all actual events, by the way. It’s how they fly up there.
The architecture is authentic, if rebuilt from the ashes of a fabled fire. Along the boardwalks of C Street, false-fronted buildings house saloons with swinging doors and dark-wainscoted walls next to old-time fudge factories and tacky souvenir shops with creaky wood floors. Pipers Opera House, where Sarah Bernhardt once sang, is now a living museum with a well-patroned bar on the ground floor.
Eleven cemeteries lie just a few blocks from the town center. The strict social hierarchy maintained among those journeying into the afterlife from the Comstock required diverse graveyards to accommodate different ethnicities and religions. The segregation apparently did them little good. All the graves are mouldering away in the sagebrush without distinction while the ghosts of their occupants reportedly moved into the old buildings in town.
Rare is an historic building without at least one ghost! Virginia City’s Mackay Mansion may set a record for number and variety of spirits inhabiting a single property.
Denver and Dawn, our tour guides and paranormal votaries tag team our group through the old house.
Excitedly, Denver whips out his cellphone to share the growling of old men and the mewling of children he claims were captured from various deserted corners of the building.
“I get chills every time I hear these voices”, he sighs as he excitedly hands the phone around so we can listen to the static.
“And the photos. Can you see the old man’s long white beard?”, he asks. “The child is looking over the railing. See, her nose, hair, dress, feet?”
We track his finger across the small screen, squinting hard to conjure the apparitions from a mist of pixels.
“Her name is Emma”, says Dawn.
“I’m a medium”, proclaims a stocky, bottle-blond from California. “Did a violent death ever occur in the house?”
“A women crashed from an upstairs balcony in the late 1800’s”, relates Dawn (or, was it Denver?). “And a guard stationed inside the room-sized safe we saw downstairs, dispatched two would-be robbers with a shot-gun.”
Oddly, it was never established that these unfortunates left their spirits behind. As far as we could tell, there are a couple of unidentified old men, the child, Emma – and a dog.
“I felt something brush against my leg in the hallway”, the medium whispers.
“It’s the ghost of a dog that frequents the house”, she is assured.
Just as well. Although sumptuously endowed with gold-leaf, the house is rather small for a mansion. A walk-through takes minutes without the stories and expectations of eerie encounters.
You may rent the house for paranormal research. In truth, a night alone in the claustrophobic building crammed with ponderous 150 year old relics, might exorcize the most obdurate skepticism.
