Wandering through the upper floors of the Washoe Club with my friend Jim Cleek, his daughters Kim Petty and Lily Mae Collins, their cousin Shannon Kean, and tour guide Zack Demo, we were having a grand time. It was my first time upstairs, so everything, noises, lights, creaking boards, was new to me.

The Washoe Club is perhaps the second most ‘famous’ haunted building in Nevada, behind the Goldfield Hotel south of Virginia City. It has been featured at least twice on television’s Ghost Adventures.

At any rate, the three women, accompanied by Jim and Zack, were channeling spirits while I moved up and down the hallways and into various rooms taking pictures. I missed at least one hall in my journey, as I soon learned.

Believing I’d traversed each one, I aimed my cell phone down this one corridor and pressed the camera button. The flash illuminated the area in front of me with lightning speed.

“Agak!” or “Son of a bitch,” I shouted, or something akin to it, as I jumped from fright.

Sitting in front of me at a distance of fewer than five feet was a damned mannequin dressed as an American Indian, braids and all. I had no idea it was seated on an old chair in the hall.

My jump scare made for a good laugh.

We walked south from the Red Dog Saloon to the Washoe Club. I had no idea why, but I soon learned.

Beckoned to follow, I obeyed, tailing behind Kimberly Pettie, who had stopped to chat with some women at the end of the bar. Secretly, her cousin Shannon Kean had assigned me the task of staying with her and keeping her out of trouble.

Out the door and to the right, we finally walked up the stairs to the second and third floors of the club, where there had once been offices, a hospital, and small apartments. Immersed in darkness, Kim, Shannon, and I followed our guide Zack, who also led Jim Cleek and his daughter Lilly Mae Collins upstairs.

There we learned a little bit about the history of the mid-nineteenth-century building and some of its many occupants throughout the years. One is a little girl named Grizell, who a freight wagon ran over, leaving her on death’s doorstep in 1862.

She died from her injuries a few hours after the incident. And now, her spirit allegedly remains trapped in the building, on the second floor near the staircase leading up to the third floor.

Lily made first contact with her from our touring party. Lily said that the child was frightened by something at the top of the stairs and that she secrets herself under the staircase.

Upstairs is where most of the activity happened for us. There were rooms where Shannon felt joy and wished to dance and others where Kim came to near collapse from an oppressive heaviness.

In one room, near the middle of the building and towards the back, was the most activity we would have for the night. The room was heavy, filled with grief, and where I had to force my way to the back of the apartment despite nothing physically blocking my path.

While Kim squatted, fighting back against a desire to lay on the floor forces unseen, Shannon grew lightheaded and sad, almost coming to tears. Meanwhile, I developed pain in my left chest and arm.

As I debated exiting the room before I suffered a heart attack, I perceived the word “Go” as Kim heard “Get out.” The three of us obeyed, taking about five minutes to recover.

After lingering in a hallway that intersected the third floor, listening to knocking and voices, we started down the stairs for the exit. However, I saw movement at the base of the stairs, and Lily said she could feel Griselle in the same place.

As Jim led Kim and Shannon to the street level and outside, I stayed with Lily as she attempted to communicate with the little girl. Near the top of the stairs from which we had come a minute before, a light blue mist appeared, seeming to form into a shadow.

While I didn’t pick up on the command, Lily heard “get out,” as the mist turned to shadow, and perceptibly frightened, she scrambled by me in the stairwell with me now close behind as I had already started down. We stood on the boardwalk for a few minutes shaking off whatever it was that had affected our touring.

Having had enough, Lily was walked home by her father. As for me, a shot of whisky helped steady my nerves but did nothing for the general body fatigue I felt.

Talking with random strangers while sitting in one of the many saloons that line C Street in Virginia City is a favorite pastime of mine. I say this because I cannot give the name of the person I had the following conversation with.

We started with ghosties and ghoulies, a favorite topic of the Virginia City crowd, visitors, and residents alike. And so it degenerated into conspiracy theories, another popular subject often bandied over beers and shots.

Progression being what it is, we landed on Adrenochrome therapy. Tales have recently arisen that some society elites either drink or infuse themselves with the blood of kidnapped children.

Driving home, I remembered the night a well-dressed gentleman named Mr. Alescu, with pale skin and a pleasant demeanor, came to the Radio Shack store where I worked, looking to buy a cell phone. In 1989 such gadgets were not very popular yet, especially when the item weighed about five pounds, was a large rectangular shape, and was known as “the Brick.”

The man wanted the entire package, and it did not matter how much it cost. So I gladly set him up with our best product, and we began filling out the paperwork.

It was not as easy back then to get a cell phone hooked up to a cell tower. It required a lot of paperwork and then contacting Radio Shack customer service to locate and get a cell phone provider.

One of the many things needed was an address and a driver’s license number. I asked and received his driver’s license.

Looking at it, I noted his birth year as being 1894. I quickly deduced he was 96 years old, a remarkable age for a man who seemed far more agile and youthful than his given age.

“You don’t look your age, “I complimented him.

“Thank you,” he smiled, white teeth gleaming. “I get that a lot.”

After two hours, he had a fully-functioning phone, and I had doubled my monthly commission, plus some, in a single transaction. Looking back, I wish I had not been so enthusiastic about making bank and paid more attention to the man I sold the Brick to.

We were seated around a small squared table, enjoying karaoke night at the Ponderosa Saloon. Generally, I do not attend as I get embarrassed by the terrible singers, but a little alcohol reduces my anxiety while more eliminates it.

Around this table, aside from me, sat Kimberlie Pettie, Kyle Blanchard, Alexia Sober, Shawna Whitmire then her daughter, Alexandrea. Sung was the song “In the Air, Tonight,” by Phil Collins, with its singular drum riff.

Never having been anywhere but my truck to perform, that is to say, beat on my steering wheel as if it were a drum kit, I was excited to show off my skill. I had no way of knowing that everybody else in the saloon had similarly practiced this in their vehicles as I had.

It was the solo that caused the problem for me. At our table, we were singing at the top of our lungs, and then we launched into the drum riff, and I, sitting next to Alexandrea, forgot about the beer and other drinks to my right.

Everything toppled over into Alexandrea’s lap. She jumped to her feet as I tried grabbing the bottles and cups to prevent more spillage.

She turned and raced to the back area where the restroom area, with her mother quickly on her heels. As I wiped up the mess and ordered a new round for the table, Shawna and Alexandrea returned, but the young woman left as Shawna sat back down.

While everyone was telling me not to worry about it, I was still embarrassed by my behavior, and because of that, I left shortly afterward. From now on, I will only play my version of that drum riff in my truck, where I know I will not spill beer or anything more than a soda.

Despite the snow, wind, and colder-than-normal temperature, a large crowd came to Virginia City to celebrate the weekend of cooked mountain oysters and green beer. Parking, at a premium, was impossible to find on C Street, so I parked on Carson Street off Six Mile Canyon Road and behind the baseball field.

After spending the day with friends and cruising the saloons, I noticed the sheriff’s department out and about. They were issuing warnings and citations to vehicles that were unlawfully parked.

Knowing I had parked in a far out-of-the-way place, I was still worried that I might have violated some unknown law and maybe, at that very moment, was being cited for parking where I was not supposed to. Since it was long after dark, I decided to call it a night, and after bidding everyone around me goodnight, I set off on the long hike to my car.

Walking the unlit back streets down the hill from the main drag of Virginia City is an endeavor in courage all unto itself. The loss of quietude stolen by raucous laughter from saloon patrons, the wilder noise of horses or deer, and sometimes a coyote or even a mountain cat, can be shattering.

As I crossed Six Mile and turned up the street where my truck sat, I saw someone standing near my vehicle. As I drew closer, I realized the person was twice as tall as the vehicle.

Whatever I was looking at had seen me as it quietly turned to its left, stepped across the narrow street, and disappeared into the historic dirt sidings that fill the acreage there. And while I did not feel threatened, I believe it was prudent to hurry, get in my truck and drive from the area as quickly as possible.

Governor Joe Lombardo announced his appointment of Vaughn Hartung to the Nevada Transportation Authority (NTA), designating him as the NTA’s new chair on Tue., Mar. 14. Hartung announced his resignation from the Washoe County Commission the same afternoon.

The announcement of Hartung’s resignation came suddenly and without warning, triggering speculation. Further, it took until Fri., Mar. 17, for the reason behind his departure to be made public.

In late January, Judge David Hardy granted subpoenas forcing Private Investigator David McNeely to identify who hired his firm to secretly install the tracking devices on Reno Mayor Hillary Scheive and Hartung’s private vehicles.

It was an unusual ruling as McNeely had not yet secured a legal defense. Since that ruling, McNeely has retained Brian Hardy of Marqis Aurbach.

Lawyer Hardy responded to Judge Hardy’s ruling, contending that Schieve filed the civil lawsuit for “the sole purpose of forcing our Clients to disclose the identity of their client.”

In February, Judge Hardy asked Discovery Commissioner Wesley Ayers to review the case and provide the court with his opinion on whether or not the private investigator should reveal his client. Ayers determined that the “Plaintiffs’ (Schieve) interest in the disclosure of that information, coupled with the public interest in disclosure of that information in this case, substantially outweigh any interest that Defendants (McNeely) have in withholding or delaying the disclosure of the identity of their client.”

Here are the connections.

Judge Hardy’s biography reveals personal and business relationships that raise questions about his presiding over this case with neutrality and impartiality.

According to his bio, Judge Hardy was a partner in the Law Firm of Hardy & (Charles) Woodman before his appointment to the bench. Judge Hardy and Woodman were not only law partners but friends since meeting in law school at Brigham Young University (BYU) and is ever referred to as a “long-time family friend.”

Woodman made political donations to Schieve’s mayoral campaign, while Judge Hardy made one to Lombardo’s campaign. Lombardo appointed Hartung to a state position in February.

Meanwhile, Hardy and his wife donated to Deborah Schumacher, a former partner at the law firm, McDonald-Carano LLP, representing Mayor Schieve, as Wesley Ayers contributed to Schumacher’s campaign for the Nevada Supreme Court.

In 2016, Woodman ran for Municipal Court Judge in 2016. Schieve endorsed Woodman for Municipal Court Judge raising ethical questions regarding an endorsement video they had produced for his campaign.

After his loss, Woodman thanked his supporters on his personal Facebook page. Schieve responded that she “loved him and his family to pieces.”

According to the Nevada Code of Judicial Conduct: “Judges should maintain the dignity of judicial office at all times and avoid both impropriety and the appearance of impropriety in their professional and personal lives. They should aspire, at all times, to conduct that ensures the greatest possible public confidence in their independence, impartiality, integrity, and competence.”

It appears Judge Hardy has failed at this task.

In November 2020, New Jersey Rep. Bill Pascrell Jr. filed a complaint with the State Bar of Nevada against Brian Hardy and six other Nevada lawyers he says violated professional standards in bringing election-related disputes on behalf of the Trump campaign and other Republican parties. Nothing became of the complaint.

During westward expansion, medical knowledge and treatments were far more limited than they are today. Let’s take a closer look at the medicines used by pioneers:

• Arnica: Used as a tincture to relieve sprains and bruises. Arnica is a plant native to the Old West and used for its anti-inflammatory properties.
• Asafetida: Used as a stimulant and digestive aid. It is exuded from the rhizome or tap root of several species of Ferula.
• Belladonna: Used as a stimulant and to decrease bodily secretions except urine. It comes from the poisonous nightshade family.
• Blaud’s Pills: For the treatment of iron deficiency anemia. Contains ferrous sulfate.
• Blue Mass: Used to treat toothache, constipation, childbirth pains, parasitic infestation, and tuberculosis. It contains mercury, glycerol, rose honey, and Althea.
• Calomel: A white powder used as a laxative and fungicide. It contains mercury chloride.
• Digitalis: Used as a heart stimulant and derived from the foxglove plant.
• Dover’s Powder: An opium-based medication used as a sedative or to induce vomiting when mixed with ipecac.
• Ergot: Used to stimulate uterine contractions and treat hemorrhages. Ergot is a fungus that can grow on rye and other grains, and it contains alkaloids that affect blood vessels and smooth muscle.
• Ipecac: Used to induce vomiting. Ipecac is derived from the roots of the South American plant Ipecacuanha and is used to trigger vomiting in cases of poisoning.
• Jalap: Used as a cathartic or laxative. Jalap is a plant with a tuberous root.
• Laudanum: Used for pain relief and inflammation. Laudanum is an alcoholic solution containing opium.
• Morphine: Used as a painkiller. Morphine, derived from opium, was used for pain relief and remains an essential medication today.
• Nux Vomica: Used as a stimulant or to cause vomiting. It contains strychnine and brucine.
• Paregoric: Used to treat diarrhea. Paregoric is an opium tincture.
• Quinine: Used to treat malaria. It comes from the bark of the cinchona tree.
• Seidlitz Powder: Used as an effervescent anti-acid and laxative. Seidlitz Powder was a combination of tartaric acid and sodium bicarbonate.
• Tartar Emetic: Used to induce vomiting. It is an antimony-based compound.

While some of these substances had medicinal uses during the pioneer era, their use may not align with modern medical practices due to safety concerns and advances in healthcare. Many of these substances, particularly those containing mercury or opioids, are now considered dangerous and are no longer used in mainstream medicine.

The two kidnappers wandered through the house as a third stood guard over the woman and her two daughters. The fourth had left to collect the ransom two hours earlier.

The pair roaming from room to room was beginning to get edgy. Not only had the trio not heard from the fourth member of their enterprise yet, but now they were hearing strange noises in an otherwise empty house.

“You sure no one else is here?” the taller man asked brusquely.

“Only us,” the woman said.

The man guarding the three cocked his head, “Did you hear that? Came from right above us.”

Again, the two others raced upstairs to search but found nothing. Perplexed, the taller man waved his pistol at the woman and her children, threatening, “If you’re lying to me…”

His words trailed off as a loud thump, followed by a heavy thud, reverberating from above, rattled the pictures on the wall.

“What the eff,” he practically screamed in panic.

“Should we tell them, Mommy?” one of the girls asked.

“Tell us what?” the man asked.

“No,” the mother said, “They wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

“Believe what?” he shouted.

“Our house is haunted,” the other girl answered.

The last five days have been hard on me when it comes to writing, an act that is like breathing. Not only have I been buried in snowstorms and road condition rewrites, but I haven’t had the time to do any meaningful posting for myself.

Because the last week has been odd, with an unusual weather pattern hammering away at Northern Nevada, I have been writing dribs and drabs of stuff that I finally was able to consolidate into three new stories. Though difficult, it worked out in the end.

One of the nice things is that I am no longer posting my stuff publicly. So some of the pressure of needing to meet a daily deadline is absent, and that too has its downfall as I find myself being lazy, saying, “I’ll do it later.”

Further exacerbating my writing and posting is the belief I must edit myself and my subjects. I have been trying like hell to avoid any more political articles, and I already pledged to stop writing horror and dystopian stories, but this is harder than I thought it would be.

Both topics are on the top of my mind, and when they make themselves known, I struggle not to post my thoughts. It became apparent over the weekend, before and since, that I’ve been overposting to FB, which can piss people off and lead to being canceled by the social media site.

So, what to do? Return to the simple joy of writing whatever the fuck I want!

Jagged up about how to write a news article about injustice without sounding like an advocate for the victim, I decided to stop by and consult another reporter. Hence, I went into the Fourth Ward School on the sound end of C Street to visit Taylor Hamby.

While the school’s front door was open, no one was in the building. I checked the basement to the attic and all floors in between and found nobody.

An eerily quiet filled the place until the sound of a bouncing basketball began echoing from someplace above me. While a basketball court is on the fourth floor, I had just been there and saw nobody and no basketballs.

Returning to my truck, I called Taylor to let her know the building was open and no one was there. She told me that her car was buried in snow still, that she couldn’t check on the place, and that she’d have to call someone to do it for her.

“Do you need help digging your car out?” I asked.

“Sure, if you’d like too,” she answered.

South to Gold Hill, I drove and pulled up alongside her car. I wasn’t so much buried in snow as her balding tires could not grip the snow and ice the vehicle sat on.

As I dug away the icy snow built up beneath her vehicle’s tires, she at on the hood, and we talked.

“Nice of you to do this,” Taylor said.

“Thanks,” I responded, “But I’m using it as a pretext to talk to you about an article I’m trying to write.”

“What’s it about?” she asked, and I explained.

Having cleared enough snow around the tires to find the ice below, I hacked away until there was nothing but the gravel surface of her parking spot. It was time to see if the beast would move.

It refused. So it was back at the shoveling and hacking until after four or maybe ten tries, the car moved forward and backward a foot or two.

“You should write it like you would your usual police blotter story,” she offered. “Let the story be the advocate.”

By then, I was in the car, rocking it gently back and forth by moving the shifter from reverse to drive. Satisfied that it would clear the mess it parked in, I gunned the engine.

The car, small, foreign, and old, had some juice. It sprung forward, careening unexpectedly into the Comstock Highway.

Not knowing this would happen, the Honda zipped across the road and in front of an old Dodge rumbling up from Silver City. Judging from the look on his face, the gentleman driving the truck was as scared as I was as we narrowly missed each other.

Quickly, I pulled into the turnout that also serves as the driveway to Comstock Inc. It took me a few seconds to gather my nerves, turn around and pull forward into her parking space.

She invited me in for a few minutes so I could warm up and have something to drink. She never once mentioned the fact that I nearly got her car broadsided.

Knowing she had to be to work, I drove by her house the next day only to find her car in the exact spot I had parked it. She did lift the wipers off the windshield in the event of another snowstorm.