Haunting the Jerome Hotel

2/ Ghost (n): Bruised souls that don't quit when life ends

"Haunted?" George turned back, eyebrows raised. "Were there disgruntled patients leaping to their deaths from the top floor?"

No, she said, rattling off all the reasons why the Jerome Hotel was haunted, or nearly so. Dozens of miserable deaths in a hospital built for miners. Awful accidents: missing limbs, smashed airways, bruised souls that didn't quit even when life ended.

George waved her off. "Plenty of people died in Jerome, even the town itself was an economic casualty." Then, under his breath but still loud enough for her to hear: "Ghosts. Utter bullshit."

The clerk glared at him, clearly wanting to say more. But the switchboard buzzed and she turned away.

As the elevator crawled upward, George pondered her words. He'd read that in the right setting, highly suggestible people insisted they saw ghosts. Staring at his reflection, slightly distorted by the polished metal walls that doubled as a mirror, George placed a hand on his warped cheek. He decided he would enjoy meeting a ghost in this hotel-hospital, preferably one who would tell him stories about its former occupants.

Stepping out of that gilded cage, George shivered hard, sneezed twice. The landing was cold, more so than the rest of the building, with a chill breeze sweeping the back of his neck. He chafed his bare arms, palms gliding over goosebumps that rose like tiny mountains.

A corner of his mind seemed to turn, awaken, supplying a single word: ghosts.

George snorted. Reaching for a hankie in his back pocket, he wiped his eyes and blew his nose. Grabbed his bag and started walking.

The long hall was a study in history. Dark wood paneling, imitation gaslight lamps, tapestry-covered divans. It looked like a hotel corridor, circa 1927. Yet the space was wide enough for gurneys and wheelchairs. George fancied he could still hear the squeak of rubber wheels and measured footsteps. That was as far as he'd let his fantasies flow.

The oversized brass key slipped easily into the lock, the door swinging open with a murmur of wood against carpet.

Inside was a pleasant surprise, although for a moment he was disappointed. He'd expected to see a hospital ward, rows of iron beds covered in starched white sheets. His ears were tuned to hear men groaning from their injuries; he'd prepared his nose for the stench of bleach and unwashed bodies. Instead he faced a large square room, painted soft gray with a dark blue band up by the ceiling. Carpet pale silver, edges neatly folded against wide concrete baseboards. He threw himself down on the large bed. No squeaks, firm mattress, all good. A table and two chairs sat inside a small alcove. The bathroom was designed with a woman in mind. Deep rose, lace and chintz window hangings, frilly shower curtain.

He pulled a face and unlocked the French doors that led to the balcony. The building was only three stories, but it hugged the edge of a cliff and a hundreds-foot drop into the craggy remains of the old copper mine. Vertigo tightened his shoulders and George instinctively stepped back. Felt behind him for a deck chair and sat.

The San Francisco Peaks beckoned across the chasm. He'd focus on those instead. George picked up a thin paperback he'd bought in the lobby. It detailed Jerome's history, including tales of the city's elite and nefarious. He put up his feet and read about ghosts in a ghost town until the sun went down.

A/N: I think this is what George figured his room would look like. No matter what, he'd enjoy the view from his balcony at sunset. It would like something like this, with credit going to Seth Matson. https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=32235540