It's always Halloween in Virginia City Nevada ...booo!

[Virginia City’s garden cemetery | Harmony in the Garden...kinda /sorta sexy working girl ghost? dunno fer sure ha]

Virginia City, Nevada. proclaimed to be one of the most haunted ghost towns in the USA.
Please come visit us this Halloween...we residents need a rest from all the Caspers messin' with us...they really enjoy the company of tourists who react to the proverbial booos! Ha old fart residents just tell em' to take a nap! So please come and entertain our silly ghosts:)

SEE: http://www.virginiacityghosttours.com/index.htm   

http://www.visitvirginiacitynv.com/attractions.html 

Teasers:  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9-02AXfm6w  





https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMrtbFTNqYY




So we're all sitting in near-total darkness in this huge upstairs room in an authentic 19th-century Wild West clubhouse. On the floor in the middle of our circle, way beyond anyone's reach, rests a flashlight, switched off.
"Show yourself," coaxes the ghost-hunter who brought us here. She is addressing whichever of this building's many alleged spirits might be listening. "Switch on that flashlight."
Nothing. Silence. Darkness.
"Pleeease," the ghost-hunter exhorts in a caramel-syrup voice. "I know it's really hard for you, but if you could switch on that flashlight, we'd all be really, really impressed."
A heartbeat. Then click. The flashlight blinks on. Grown men scream.
The trouble with believing in ghosts is not the chance that you might see one eating Cheese Nips on the sofa.
The trouble with believing in ghosts is finding anyone to tell about it who won't laugh or ask how much Jägermeister you chugged first.


You won't have that trouble in Virginia City, Nevada, a perfectly preserved boomtown -- population 15,000 in 1870, only 850 now -- which the SyFy channel calls one of America's most haunted. Lining its wood-paneled sidewalks are allegedly haunted houses and professional ghost-hunters who roam those historic halls wielding electromagnetic-field meters, motion detectors, electronic-voice-phenomenon recorders and wire dowsing rods. In Virginia City, it's always Halloween.

We who believe in ghosts are a misunderstood minority, dismissed by your urban intellectual crowd as Blair Witch Project-believing hicks. (I hate that film. Ghostbusters too, and Poltergeist and Paranormal Activity. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, on the other hand....) We who believe in ghosts argue over what ghosts actually are. Shreds of emotion stuck in place, like scraps of Scotch tape? Cosmic film loops locked on "repeat"? Sentient spirits walking, talking, throwing candlesticks around because they know they're dead? Or because they don't?
If we are right and ghosts are real, then history does not race forward in one single straight-ahead past-present-future zipline but sometimes coils over itself or frays into filaments so that it really can be 2013 and 1869 simultaneously for one shuddery split-second, and nothing human -- no heartbreak, no hug, no round of golf -- is ever really lost.
Twenty-five miles from Reno, Virginia City boomed after the 1859 discovery of the Comstock Lode, which still reigns as the world's largest silver deposit. Miners, robbers and bankers chased shimmering dollar-sign dreams via horse and wagon over desert, forest and plain to dig and dance here and, well, die.

After checking into the quaint Silver Queen Hotel & Wedding Chapel, which is allegedly haunted by a woman who committed suicide after slaying her baby and is also where the Captain and Tennille renewed their marriage vows in 1995 -- a fact which is ghostly only in the most abstract sense -- we toured the Mackay Mansion, a silver magnate's well-appointed 1860 home in whose airy hallways and ornate parlor local psychic Janet Jones, author of Haunted Carson City, told us she regularly meets the spirits of a mild-mannered nanny, a man in a top hat, a shy boy named Tommy and a playful four-year-old named Emma whom Johnny Depp claimed to see while filming Dead Man here in 1995.


"I love this little girl dearly," beamed Jones, pointing around quaintly furnished rooms to regions of allegedly intense spirit activity, which she encouraged us to photograph in hopes of capturing the light-balls called "orbs" which are a controversial topic amongst us who believe in ghosts because some say orbs are spirits. Some say they're dust. Here is a digital photograph taken that day which contains orbs. You decide:


Next we toured the St. Mary's Art Center, a boomtown-era hospital turned gallery whose director Rita Wheeler wielded dowsing rods to commune with two small (dead) brothers and a (dead) adolescent girl who allegedly moves a corporeal red-clad doll around these former sickrooms with their poignant desert-graveyard vistas.  

The roar and clatter of ethereal horse teams are allegedly heard here, too, "and we have a cowboy who walks up and down this hallway," Wheeler said. Howdy there, ectoplasmic pardner!

Lunch was at nearby Gold Hill, the restaurant in Nevada's oldest still-operating hotel, perched scenically if tragically atop the Yellowjacket Claim, a section of the Comstock Lode where dozens of miners died in a raging 1869 fire.
(This and our other meals -- vivid handcrafted enchiladas at friendly Café del Rio, daringly vanilla-chai-poached salmon at cutting-edge Core, buttery bearclaws at Virginia City Baked Goods -- proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that yes, gourmet food shines far from the big-city lights. This fare was easily on par with its San Francisco counterparts, but -- psst -- in portions twice as large.)

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