YOU OWE ME A GHOST
Spending the night at a haunted hotel
After my mother died, my wife and I started a new tradition. Instead of spending the holidays in Monterrey with my family, we traveled to places as far away from Mexico as possible. We didn’t plan it that way, but like many traditions, this one was born out of need. The loss of my mother was too painful, and without her, Christmas dinner with my father and brother would have been just three men picking at a turkey leg, mumbling.
On our trip to Egypt, my wife and I met Guy, a photographer from New Zealand. We became friends, and ever since we’ve tried to meet somewhere in the world every year or two —we met in Rio once and saw him in Queenstown on another occasion. On this other trip (my wife couldn’t join us), I flew to Las Vegas to meet Guy because he was attending one of those conferences where people behave like it is their last day on Earth and down tequila shots at nine in the morning. But that was not the actual trip. After the conference, our plan was to rent a car and drive from Las Vegas to San Francisco in a week.
First, we stopped at Death Valley, where we took photos of the desert at 2 am. It was darker than expected, so we took two-minute exposures to capture the landscape in detail. I was wearing a hoodie, so I pulled the hood over my head to make it seem like I was wearing a cloak. Then I ran fifty yards, stepped in front of the camera, stood still for about forty seconds, and sprinted out of the shot. Because the exposure was longer than the period I stayed still, the photos featured a slight ghostly silhouette in the middle of the starry desert night. That was me. I was the ghost.
The next day, we arrived at the historic Jeffery Hotel in Coulterville, California, famously known for being haunted. This three-story hotel was built in 1851 and originally served stagecoach passengers. It has been preserved and restored, capturing the ambiance of that era.
The owner checked us in and informed us we were the only guests that night. He then gave us a tour, showcasing the famous Teddy Roosevelt room and the Magnolia Saloon. The furniture and the wallpaper were busy with decorative elements that didn’t match, and the beds creaked if you stared at them hard enough. “Pick any room you like, but rooms six and seven have recorded the most activity,” the owner told us. I chose six, and Guy picked seven.
He handed us paranormal detection equipment and showed us how to use it. He pressed buttons and twisted dials, and the machines squealed and crackled. He said high paranormal activity would cause the lights to go off. The instruments reminded me of the walkie-talkies my mom bought me at Radio Shack when I was eight.
“If you arrive here before ten, I’ll open the bar just for you. Just knock on the door back there. That’s my room.” the owner told us.
We walked around Coulterville, but the town seemed dead. Stores were closed, and you could hear the tree leaves twitching with the breeze. Eventually, we found the only open restaurant, but neither of us was hungry, so we returned to the hotel.
When we arrived, it was night, and the only lights working at the Jeffery were the emergency flood lamps at the end of the second-floor hallway. We had left our phones charging upstairs, so we used the moonlight beaming through the windows as a guide and headed to the bar. We knocked on the owner’s room and waited. Then, we knocked harder a few more times.
“He cannot be asleep in there,” Guy said.
“It’s only half past nine,” I said.
We grabbed our cameras, went outside, and set up our tripods across the street from the hotel. The moon perched itself behind the building —it was the brightest light source since most streetlights were out. I fidgeted with the aperture and the exposure and kept looking through the lens at each of the hotel’s windows in hopes of finding ghostlike activity. The town remained silent until we heard a car's engine —it was a cop car. We hadn’t seen it because it was parked behind a billboard about fifty yards away. But now, the lights came on, and the two cops slowly approached us. Guy waved hello, and we waited for one of the cops to roll down a window. But they didn’t. The cops stared at us and drove past slowly, disappearing behind a hill.
A few minutes later, the cop car reappeared down the same hill and parked in the middle of the street, about twenty yards away. They turned their lights off and sat in the dark, looking at us. Guy packed his equipment, and I took a few more photos because I wanted to get the image right, given that I was either overexposing the lit window on the second floor or underexposing the clouds surrounding the moon.
“I think they want us to leave,” Guy said.
“And I want to be the god of the underworld, but nobody has offered me the job,” I said.
The cop car moved slowly and parked in front of us. This time, the driver rolled down the window. “How is it going?” The cop asked.
“Good night! We’re just taking night photos. The weather is nice as. Isn’t the weather nice as?” Guy said.
“As what?” The cop asked.
“It’s a Kiwi expression. We say, for example, ‘the moon is full as.’“
“Where are you from?” The cop asked Guy.
“I’m from New Zealand, and he’s from Mexico.”
“I’m an American,” I said.
“Right. He married an American woman,” Guy said.
“Did you?” The cop asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you have your passports with you?” The cop asked.
“He does,” I said.
“And you?” The cop asked me.
“I don’t need to carry a passport in my country,” I said.
“What brings you here?” The cop asked.
Guy gave them a description of our whole itinerary. First, he told them we went to the Ghost Bar in Las Vegas. Then he told them about the coyote that walked past us outside Death Valley and the multicolored horizontal stripes that decorate the rock formations at Zabriskie Point. “Death Valley is the lowest point in the United States,” Guy said. “There’s salt on the ground of Badwater Basin.”
“Are you okay?” The cop asked me.
“I don’t understand the question. Do you mean right now or in life?” I asked.
“We haven’t been drinking,” Guy said. “We’re about to head back to the hotel.”
“What are you doing on the street?” The cop asked.
“Taking night photos,” I told the cop. “You see this tripod? It helps me steady the camera.”
“Where are you staying?” He asked.
I pointed at the Jeffery in front of us.
“We’re the only ones at the hotel,” Guy said.
“Who let you in?” The cop asked. “I thought the hotel was closed.”
“The owner let us in,” I told him. “But we can’t find him.”
“The place is haunted,” Guy said.
“So why are you staying there?” The cop asked.
“I want to see if ghosts exist,” I said.
“When are you leaving?” The cop asked.
“It depends on whether we survive the night,” I tell the cop.
“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Guy said.
“All right. You guys take care. Careful with the ghosts,” The cops drove away.
“They’re gone,” Guy said.
“They’re not —they parked again by that sign,” I pointed at the car.
“I’ve never had this experience before,” Guy said. “That was tense.”
“You were so friendly that they probably thought you were a mass murderer.”
“We’re all friendly in New Zealand. Cops are friendly in New Zealand, too. Murderers in New Zealand smile and wave goodbye before they kill you.”
“It doesn’t translate well here. You need to sound more like a single parent who can’t finish paying off his student loans.”
“You were a smart ass with the cops.”
“Well, yes, but I was doing it to help you. I was trying to balance out your homicidal Kiwi vibe.”
We heard a noise and turned around. Two men and two women were staggering down the hill toward us. They peeked inside each car parked down the road as if looking for valuables.
“What are you guys doing?” Male #1 asked.
“We are done taking photos. How are you guys doing? The weather is nice as. It’s a beautiful night!” Guy said.
I gave Guy a look.
“Can I see them?” Male #2 asked.
“Show us some pictures,” Female #1 said. “I love pictures.”
“Are you the ones staying at the Jeffery?” Female #2 asked.
“How do you know we are staying at the Jeffery?” I asked.
“I don’t remember. How do we know?” Female #2 asked.
“Because we know everything,” Female #1 said. They laughed.
“Can I see?” Male #2 grabbed Guy’s incredibly expensive camera. “How do I turn this on? Is it here?” He pressed some buttons at random.
“Let me show you,” Guy said. “Press this button here. Then, move this dial to go to the next one.”
“How about your photos?” Male #1 asked me.
“They’re fantastic,” I said.
“Let me see,” he said.
“I ran out of battery.”
“But we saw you taking pictures,” Female #1 said.
“Just now, I ran out of battery,” I said.
“I think you don’t want to show us your pictures,” Female #1 said.
“Where are you from?” Male #1 asked me.
“I live on the east coast. Near the Atlantic Ocean.” I said.
“But where are you from?” Male #1 asked.
“I was born in Mexico,” I said.
“Where in Mexico?” He asked.
“Monterrey,” I said.
“Where’s that?” He asked.
“Just south of the United States.”
“I can’t say I have ever been,” he said. “But I love tacos.”
“Monterrey is full of tacos. You’d be happy there,” I said.
“These photos are awesome,” Male #2 said. “Great job!”
“Thanks!” Guy said.
“Do you guys have anything to drink?” Female #2 asked.
“Water,” I said.
“I was thinking vodka,” Female #2 asked.
“We don’t,” I said.
“Apology accepted,” Female #2 said.
“I’m hungry,” Female #1 said.
“Let’s go then,” Male #1 said. “Good luck with the ghosts,” he told us.
“Yeah, you guys are brave,” Male #2 said. “Have a good night.”
“Great meeting you!” Guy said.
“You are all right.” Female #1 told Guy as she walked away. “But not you.” She pointed at me.
The four drunks walked to the billboard and stopped to talk to the cops. I couldn’t make out their conversation, but they laughed as they pointed at us. The clouds had covered the moon, so we finished packing our gear and returned to the hotel.
“Everybody seems to know we’re staying here,” I said.
“Yeah, that was weird as,” Guy said.
We went to the second floor, and Guy entered his room.
“Are you just going to go to sleep?” I asked.
“I’m knackered,” Guy said.
“Aren’t you worried?” I asked.
“About the ghosts?”
“No, the people. We’re sitting ducks here,” I said.
“If somebody wants to come in, they’ll come in,” Guy said.
“I’m going to keep watch tonight.”
“I’m too tired,” he said.
“But first, I’m going to explore the top floor,” I said.
“Say hello to the ghosts,” Guy said.
I was the perfect candidate to explore the hotel at night because, unlike most Mexicans, I don’t believe in ghosts, devils, angels, saints, etcetera. However, there are times when my amygdala fires up, and I’m convinced Satan is staring at me from the dark space behind an open door after watching a horror movie. I know there’s nothing there, but the fear is present. So, when my mind plays tricks on me, I don’t panic or block it, and I certainly don’t look at it through the lens of a self-aggrandizing religion. I let it happen, and eventually, the feeling goes away.
The hotel’s third floor was pitch dark, and I wondered whether to feel my way through or use the flashlight on my phone. I opted for total darkness and took small steps with my arms stretched out, and then I stopped because I heard something near me. First, I heard squeaks and creaks inside one of the rooms. Next, I felt someone standing behind me, staring at the back of my neck. Then, after my eyes adjusted, I saw shadows. It was like being inside Plato’s Cave minus the philosophical insight.
I turned on the flashlight and scanned the corridor, expecting to see a human-like shape. I imagined finding a nurse from the 1900s sticking a pair of forceps inside the open torso of a corpse. I imagined seeing a grimy man crouching, speaking gibberish. I imagined chains and hooks on the ceiling and a pale, naked woman hanging from the skin of her back and legs. Then, I heard whispers at the end of the hallway. All the doors to the rooms were closed, so I opened them one by one.
I thought it would be great if ghosts existed because it would confirm another plane of existence, one where the mind can exist without the brain. If so, memories and personality traits can be preserved in the ether and transported to other parts of the universe. It makes no sense, but imagining the chance of my mother being alive elsewhere was comforting.
I opened all the doors and found no one, so I returned to my room, where I noticed a rocking chair next to my bed for the first time —and no piece of furniture spells “haunted house” more than a rocking chair. I stared at the thing for twenty minutes, thinking it might eventually swing on its own, but nothing. Then I checked the streets from the window, but they were empty.
When the sun rose, I showered, collected my bags, and opened the door. On the floor, there was a silver tray with a banana. I knocked on Guy’s room.
“Did you also get a banana?” I asked Guy.
“I did. On a tray,” he said. “You, too?”
“Yes.”
“Just the banana?” He asked.
“And the tray,” I said.
“I’m keeping the banana,” he said.
“Are you crazy? What if the hotel owner stuck needles inside it?”
“Not everyone is like you,” Guy said.
“Anything else to report from last night?” I asked.
“Only the water,” Guy said.
“What about it?”
“I didn’t drink water last night, and now all the bottles are half empty,” Guy said.
“Maybe the ghosts were thirsty,” I said.
“Ghosts need hydration, too,” Guy said.
We packed our SUV and searched for the owner but couldn’t find him. We locked the hotel, left the keys in a box, and drove to Yosemite National Park.
“Tonight, I want to sleep in a Holiday Inn,” I told Guy.
“A haunted Holiday Inn,” he said.
“I think they’re all scary.”
As we drove off, I thought of the night my mother died and how I spent it searching YouTube for ghosts caught on camera. I saw videos of doors opening and closing independently, translucent human figures photobombing a family reunion, and invisible forces tugging the bed sheets while someone was asleep. I looked at ghost videos until five in the morning. I wanted to find a real ghost, but the apparitions were camera tricks. I remember listening to “If I Ever Leave This World Alive” by Flogging Molly on repeat. I heard that song on a loop for hours and imagined myself singing it in concert and jumping on stage.
The song started again, and I paused the ghost videos, got up from the computer, and jumped. I jumped and jumped and jumped, and if you had opened the door to my room, you would have seen a thirty-five-year-old man wearing headphones, mouthing a song in silence with his eyes closed, jumping in place. I wasn’t making a sound because I didn’t want to wake my father and brother up —although I doubt they were asleep. They were probably jumping at another concert. Jumping in place, mouthing a song, three men in their room, disconnected from each other, vanishing.