Seeking Martha McKay

Virginia City, Nevada, isn’t the sort of town you pass through without it leaving a mark on you. It doesn’t matter if you’re here for an hour, a weekend, or the rest of your natural life.

The wooden boardwalks creak under your boots, and before long, you start feeling like you’ve been here before—maybe in this lifetime, maybe in another.

Either way, Virginia City seems to have a way of remembering you, even if you try to forget it.

On a Tuesday not so long ago, I found myself sitting on the front porch of the Savage Mansion. Now, this wasn’t by accident.

Martha McKay—God rest her soul—once poured her heart into restoring that house, and I swear you can still feel her steady hand in the way the doors close properly, even though the whole town tilts a little. She left the Comstock in 2004.

Martha died on March 25, 2020, murdered at Snowden House, Horse Shoe Lake, Hughes, Arkansas.Her killer also murdered her mother and cousin, 23 years previously.

The Savage is one of those houses that refuses to let history die, and in Virginia City, history doesn’t just hang around—it pulls up a chair, pours itself coffee, and starts telling stories whether you asked for them or not.

I was sipping my own cup of coffee that morning when a gentleman in a bowler hat and dusty boots leaned against the porch rail and asked me if I’d seen his mule. Now, this was curious, because I hadn’t seen a mule in Virginia City since Stinky died.

But he looked dead serious. His edges were blurred, as if halfway between now and the great hereafter.

“Your mule?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face.

“Yessir,” he said, looking off toward the hills. “Stubborn as sin and twice as loud. Ran off somewhere. Figured he’d be back by now.”

I nodded like I understood. And in a way, I did.

Because in Virginia City, ghosts aren’t scary—they’re neighbors. They pop up like old miners at the mercantile, telling you the same story you heard last week, but you let ‘em talk because there’s comfort in it.

That ghost with the mule problem faded off before I could offer him some coffee, and I sat there thinking about how the town keeps people. Not just the ones with unfinished business, but the ones who fall in love with its crooked charm and never quite leave.

Folks like Martha, who came here from Memphis and saw in Virginia City something worth dusting off, fixing up, and saving for the next round of wanderers.

Now, common sense will tell you Virginia City isn’t an easy place to live. Winters bite hard, summers fry you crispy, and every set of stairs in town is uphill both ways.

But common sense has never been Virginia City’s strong suit. Instead, the town runs on stubbornness, hope, and the kind of humor you need when your ceiling leaks right over your bed, and you’re out of buckets.

The truth is, Virginia City is home to people who believe in second chances—for old buildings, forgotten history, and even themselves. The Savage Mansion proves that. So are the shopkeepers who open their doors every morning, even if the only customers are a couple of bikers and a confused tourist looking for the bathroom.

By the time I finished my coffee, the ghost hadn’t come back, and the mule sure didn’t show. But I wasn’t disappointed.

Virginia City gives you what you need, not what you expect. Sometimes that’s a conversation with a stranger. Sometimes it’s a story that stays with you.

And sometimes it’s just the reminder that even in a town built on silver and stubbornness, the real treasure is simply being part of the tale. So if you ever find yourself walking those wooden boardwalks, do yourself a favor: stop, sit, sip something warm, and listen.

You’ll hear the past creaking right alongside the present, and if you’re lucky, you might even meet a mule.