How to Tell Your Ghost Story

This photograph was published on the cover of I Married Wyatt Earp. Editor Glen Boyer insisted it was a picture of Josephine Earp, but could not provide any proof. The 1914 copyright is the earliest known version of the photograph. Circulated by the ABC Novelty Company in Brooklyn, New York. It is labeled "Kaloma.”

Back in 2010, I made a promise to a ghost.

That’s right.

I laid in my bed at the Hotel Chelsea in New York City and promised a ghost I’d write about her if she’d let me sleep.

She immediately stopped bothering me.

More on Devon—that’s her name—in a minute.

But first I want to delve a little deeper into the idea of ghosts.

Learning the human stories of ghosts has been a priority for me.

Maybe it’s because I was raised in the cradle of Southern Gothic literature. From the spooky Spanish moss of Georgia’s coast, to the vampire lore of Louisiana, to the headless phantom of The Light in Crossett, Arkansas, my childhood was steeped in ghostly tales.

I’ve always had a strange pull toward them. But not for supernatural reasons. Learning the human stories of ghosts has been a priority for me.

Who were they when they were alive? What were their lives like? Answering these questions gives us an important link to our history.

Here’s a cold, hard fact: One day, you’ll be a ghost, too.

I don’t mean you’ll be roaming the hallways of some dilapidated hotel scaring guests.

No, but you will be gone from this Earthly existence and you’ll carry on purely inside the minds of the people who love (or hate) you.

All that will be left of you will be a memory.

So, you can dedicate some time to writing your own stories. Or you can leave your legacy up to other people’s imaginations.

The person who tells the stories usually has the most vital impact on history.

Back in the Wild West days of Arizona, there was a band of brothers. You might have heard of them—the Earps. They traveled with their buddy Doc Holiday.

Yep, I’m talking about Tombstone here. Living in Phoenix, it’s hard to escape. I’ve visited Tombstone several times and I even have a pair of red boots I bought there.

But why do we all know the story of the Earps?

Because Wyatt Earp’s last wife, Josephine, wrote her memoir with a clear slant in favor of the Earp brothers. She was evasive about the details in Tombstone, but her story captured the attention of Hollywood producers, anyway.

Her slant stuck.  

There are family members of the Clanton’s—those Cowboys on the other side of the OK Corral shootout—who hold their reunions in Tombstone.

Many of these relatives aren’t so keen on the “official” story of that legendary event.

And why should they be?

Much of Josephine Earp’s memoir has been proven inaccurate. Her story showcases the Earps as Wild West heroes and the (Clanton) Cowboys as outlaws. And it’s that bias that’s been touted in Hollywood all these years.

We’ve all bought into the myth.

And it’s one that’s turned 19th Century ghosts into three-dimensional people we identify with today.

Memoir writers should aim to tell truthful stories, no doubt.

Maybe Josephine Earp got away with lying in her book back in the early 20th century. Still, the reality remains—the person who tells the stories usually has the most vital impact on history.

That’s a privilege that has not been afforded to the women of another “ghost” town in Arizona—Jerome.

Once called Cleopatra Hill, the population of Jerome swelled to over 10,000 in its heyday. A shocking number if you’ve ever seen the tiny, crumbling town. The current population sits at about 455 people.  

The women who resided in Jerome were as notorious, if not more so, than the men of Tombstone.

From the late 1800s through the early 20th century, women in Jerome wore the latest Paris fashions and managed their own businesses. Be it a booming brothel or a daily newspaper. While others were nurses in one of Jerome’s three local hospitals. And I’ve even heard rumors of a pair of women who did gunrunning behind their dress shop.

Regardless of what gossip gets told, the historical women of Jerome had stories to tell.

You can read my first encounter with Jerome’s ghosts here.

But that’s not the only spiritual experience I’ve had in this unusual city.

When I was 6 months pregnant in January 2017, I booked a room at the Surgeon’s House B&B. Determined I’d write the stories behind the historical women of Jerome, I scavenged the place for details.

I was able to cobble together some information from my ghost tour, the building plaques, and the small mining museum. But as I waddled around the snowy, crooked streets, it was clear none of the locals wanted to talk about Jerome’s history or the women who once inhabited it.

Among these women was Bessie Julia Johnson, otherwise known as the Cuban Queen. She was a prostitute who first worked in the Storyville area of New Orleans before marrying the famous jazz musician Jelly Roll Mortin. The two moved out West together.

I had a hell of a time finding her real name. Even in a nonfiction book written about her, her actual name isn’t revealed until several chapters into the story. When she is mentioned, she is often referred to in derogatory ways.

But we’re talking about a woman whose mother was born into slavery, who worked turn of the century cathouses of New Orleans, and who built her own brothel on the heels of Arizona’s Old West.

Bessie’s story never received the Hollywood treatment.

Maybe because she was a woman of a specific era. Or perhaps because of her career or skin color regional authors have found it easier to fill in her story gaps with stereotypical characteristics. Or it could be that she’s been a victim of bad writing.

Whatever the reason, it’s irresponsible to characterize the women of a bygone era by today’s standards, turning them into little more than caricatures.

It’s even more unfortunate that we aren’t able to read Bessie’s story in her own words.

The important historical figures of Jerome were women who maneuvered not only a rough terrain but an aggressive outlaw culture. They deserve to be seen as tenacious survivors, even if their actions wouldn’t be considered apropos today.

Take Ann Hopkins for example. Ann is known for one thing—disfiguring her husband’s mistress.

It’s true. She did fling carbonic acid in the face of another woman.

But nobody talks about how she led a lonely existence in Jerome away from her family. Her husband was the Chief Engineer of the mining company. Not only was Hopkins in an unhappy marriage, but she was also ostracized from polite society.

It’s rarely mentioned that despite her solitude, she ran a local newspaper. A paper that called out the harsh treatment of the Mexican miners living in camps below the hillside. Nor do they mention her innovative approach to journalism when she created a second newspaper with conflicting opinions to garner more interest in the first paper.

The woman was ahead of her time. But you’ll only hear of her indiscretions.

And as a modern seeker in search of these women’s stories, I’m sad to report my research has turned up mostly shadows.

Women like Belgian Jenny Bauters who made a killing as a Madam in Jerome.

Her brothel was one of the biggest in town and she thrived even after three fires destroyed her buildings. Despite how prosperous—and generous—she was, stories about her depict only her physical appearance and her murder at the hands of a lover.

If these women made unimaginable choices, it was because they lived in an unimaginable place. Jerome was once dubbed the Wickedest City in the West. My guess is the women were far less wicked than the society they had to endure.

I fear I’ll never truly discover their real stories.

In January 2017 as I rambled the streets of Jerome, I scribbled down some ideas in my phone’s iNotes. But after having my daughter, I found it difficult to continue my research on “the girls” as I collectively call them.

We continued to visit Jerome as a family, but due to the lack of accessible historical records, I stopped trying to research the women’s stories…

…until 2 months ago.

It was a mad hot August day and I wanted to escape Phoenix.

So, I packed my daughter into our car. An impromptu trip to Jerome landed us at Haunted Hamburger for lunch. As we made our way back down the hillside, we stopped in for some ice cream.

Just as we walked outside and began biting into our cones, bees swarmed around us.

“Those bees weren’t here until you showed up,” said a man sitting on a bench. He seemed unaffected by the buzz.

But the bees wouldn’t leave us alone. 

Grabbing my daughter’s hand, I ushered her along the sidewalk, thinking we’d move fast and outrun them. 

I have long regarded bees as a symbol of feminine power. But at this moment, all I could think of was what would happen if my daughter got stung. I had no idea if she was allergic. And those three historic Jerome hospitals—they’re all memories now.

I picked up my daughter and we dashed across Main Street. Down the cracked path of the sidewalk, past the buildings that stand with missing walls, and through the tiny picnic park, the bees followed.

Even as we reached my car, the buzz was all around us.

I threw Zuzu into her car seat and the diaper bag into the passenger’s side. Safe inside the driver’s seat, I took a couple of deep breaths and convinced myself all was fine. Certainly, I could change a diaper before we left town, right?

Not a chance. As I unzipped Zuzu’s diaper bag, I discovered one more bee waiting for me inside.

I zipped the bag up and peeled out of the parking lot.

But I got curious. Weren’t bees my sign that I was in good company? Why were they rioting against me in Jerome? Maybe I needed to reconsider writing about the women in that city again.

Opening up my iNotes from January 2017, there it was. Three lines down with no additional information.

“The bees,” I had written.

In January.

In the snow.  

I have no idea why I made that note.

Clearly “the girls” were trying to get my attention.

“Write about us,” I could almost hear them saying.

Telling the story of the women in Jerome is a work in progress, but I’m certainly trying to create a more accurate reflection of them in my words. One that doesn’t discount the women just because they lived in a harsh man’s world. Or overly romanticizes their rough lives.

I feel they deserve to be remembered and their stories should be told as accurately as possible.

If anyone has more historical information on the women of Jerome, get in touch. I’d love to add my writing chops to someone else’s knowledge bank.

It’s this pull for remembrance that’s not unlike Devon Wilson’s story.

Back in 2010, my ex-husband and I traveled to New York City. We booked two nights at the famous Chelsea Hotel. And the minute I got inside our 8th-floor room I felt an unexplainable urge. I feared I would jump out the window!

It made no logical sense.

This wasn’t something I wanted to do. It was an eerie calling from something beyond me. I felt unsafe around our room’s easy-to-unlatch windows with the long drop to the busy street below.

That night as I started to drift off to sleep, I awoke suddenly.

BAM!

I heard a sound emanating from our bathroom.

And then again. I was jolted awake from my dreamy haze.

On the third occurrence, the sound was so loud it woke up my sleeping ex-husband.

“I think something has fallen off the sink,” I told him.

But a quick check proved everything was still in its rightful place.

“It’s just the pipes,” he said and rolled over, snoring within minutes.

I stayed awake until the light came through the window.

The next day, I was still fighting off that jumpy sleepless feeling from my previous night’s insomnia.

By nightfall, while safely tucked beneath my comforter, the jolts started up again.

It felt like a female presence was trying to get my attention.

Finally, at my wit’s end, I said, “if you let me get some rest, I promise I’ll write about you.”

And she honored my request.

All the strange noises ceased immediately, and I was able to drift off to dreamland.

Clearly, narrative skills are my only bargaining chip with ghosts. But doesn’t everyone want to be at the center of a great story?

The next morning, I popped into the front desk to inquire about the room.

“Oh, you’re in Thomas Wolfe’s old room,” the owner said, “he wrote You Can’t Go Home Again there.”  

Interesting. But no cigar.

While the ghost of Wolfe might have been hanging around, too, it was a distinctly feminine presence I was connecting with.

A year later, the Chelsea stopped accepting hotel guests. Saddened, I read up on the place’s haunted past.

And that’s when I learned about her.

I was shocked to see it written down, but as soon as I read the details I knew all my intuitions had been correct.

A distraught Devon Wilson jumped (or was pushed) to her death from an 8th-story window at the Chelsea Hotel.

Wilson was one of Jimi Hendrix’s girlfriends and his sometimes assistant.

He wrote an unflattering song about her and she was thought to have been a prostitute and drug addict. But I still worry about her sweet, lonely soul hanging around the Chelsea. Her presence impacted me immensely.

Who was the real Devon Wilson? I wish I knew.

I did manage to find an odd interview with her from the late 1960s. Her picture shows a stunning woman with sensitive and knowing eyes, her hand resting upon her heart. Yet most accounts of Devon Wilson describe her as just some groupie. From her picture, it’s clear there was so much more to her.

She reminds me of another Chelsea guest. The one often painted as the ‘70s punk problem groupie.

Nancy Spungen has been described as the woman who caused the demise of Sid Vicious. But in I Don’t Want to Live This Life, a memoir by Deborah Spungen, Nancy’s mother creates a more compassionate picture of her daughter. One where a traumatic birth caused the baby Nancy to have unbelievably long crying jags. She also describes Nancy as a young girl who had deep empathy for both animals and her classmates who didn’t fit in.

This empathy is lacking in the details of Devon Wilson’s life. Wilson was described as distraught after Hendrix’s death. She even tried to crawl into his casket during his funeral. And we’re left asking why.

All of these women whether from the brothels of Jerome or New York’s Chelsea Hotel were more than prostitutes and groupies. They were young women whose stories existed in the shadows of their male counterparts.

Let this be a lesson.

These ghosts were real people.

I wish I was able to do them justice and tell their full stories. I’d love for their voices to be heard. But I’m hindered by a lack of access to their histories.

This is why you absolutely must write your memoir. And you must do it now.

Without crystallizing your memories, you, too, will become a ghost.

Your story matters.

Bessie Julia Johnson.

Ann Hopkins.

Jenny Bauters.

Nancy Spungen. 

Devon Wilson.

Their stories matter, too.

Don’t wait. Take the time to start writing your memoir today.

Someone who isn’t born yet may one day need to read it.

** Since this article first appeared, there’s been a small article written by Rocks Off online that details more about the life of Devon Wilson. You can read it and see pictures of her here.