CAÑON CITY
Cañon City rests within south central Colorado and is situated on state highway 50, northwest of Pueblo. To the north of town is the Rampart range of mountains, and to the south, the Wet Mountains. Many visitors regard Cañon City as the gateway to the Royal Gorge State Park, which has the world’s highest suspension bridge at more than 1,000 feet.
In town, you’ll discover an exhibit of local archeological examples of dinosaur bones—the Dinosaur Depot. The museum also offers directions to a self-guided dinosaur hike that is not far from town. What is unusual about such a town is that there are nine state penitentiaries within its location. Within one of these properties is the Colorado Territorial Prison Museum. It’s an excellent opportunity to view jail cells, historical criminal documents, and see an actual gas chamber! Just east of town is located The Benedictine Holy Cross Abbey and vineyard. Prior to its closing the abbey offered a good taste sampling of its award-winning vintages.
Martha Munroe’s Story
My meeting with Martha was a joy I’ll not soon forget. Her eagerness to make me feel welcome in her house and her genuine nature was something I’ll always remember.
Our interview was held in her living room, surrounded by numerous framed family photos she had arranged with care. During the interview, whenever she would speak of a particular family member, she would get up off her chair and return with one of their photos, saying “Here, this is him, oh, he was such a handsome man,” etc.
Martha’s story is a winding story of secrets, travels, and heartfelt sincerity, and it is so very telling in its moralistic description. I admittedly was emotionally moved.
— Antonio
“Originally I was born in Colorado, then moved to Seattle, Washington, in the late 1960s. In 1984, I returned to Colorado, and remain to this day in Cañon City. My story is about an aunt of mine who lived most all her life in Cañon City. She was my favorite aunt, Aunt Billie. Both she and I kept in close contact with each other throughout her life. There was a similarity in our lives, which we were both somewhat proud of, in that we never did marry, remaining spinsters.
Aunt Billie was born in 1904 and was the oldest of three children, a boy and two girls. My mother was the youngest. For as long as I could remember my Aunt Billie always wore her hair in a tight bun in the back of her hair. And she never did change this hairstyle. From the start, my mother told me that my aunt was a very strong-willed girl and had her own way of doing things. From time to time when the question would arise as to why she had never married, Aunt Billie would respond, “Men are too complicated. I like my life to be simple. I don’t need a man hanging around me like a lost calf.”
In her later years, Aunt Billie began to suffer from rheumatoid arthritis in her spine and joints. This condition worsened as the years came and went. Because of this chronic disease she never once visited me in Seattle. When I’d ask her to visit she would answer, “Oh, it’s too wet and cold. Opossum, you know my back can’t take the wet rain.” ‘Opossum’ was an endearing name she would call me. Having been a premature new- born, Aunt Billie said that when she had first laid her eyes on me, I resembled a tiny little mouse, or baby opossum. So, from an early age, as soon as I was able to understand people and my surroundings, I always associated my aunt’s face with the special endearing name she’d call me. Our bond as aunt and niece grew stronger as the years past. I would attempt to visit my aunt at least once a year, or once every other year. I always remembered special days in her life, like birthdays and holidays until the day Aunt Billie abruptly died. It was a fall day. Her death was due to the rupture of an abdominal aortic aneurysm. Up until the end of her life in 1984, we both remained very close.
Aunt Billie wearing a red hair-bow.
Within the week of her death, a few close friends from her church had cleaned her house and boxed up all her personal items, then placed them in her garage. After selling my house in just two weeks, I decided to make the move to my aunt’s house in Cañon City. I made the long move in the fall of 1984 from Washington State, and as I’d stated before, have made Canyon City my home ever since.
Aunt Billie’s personality was that of a very quiet person. To those who did not know her well, at times she would appear to be a bit of a secretive individual. Overall, she was friendly and filled with compassion for those who knew her at church. She never gave me any reason to doubt that she would hide any secrets from me—ever. But as the months went by, I would soon find out a secret that she kept well hidden all her life.
There was a period in her life, about two years, when she left Colorado to work for a water faucet manufacturing company, in Kansas City, Missouri. This was what she told my family. She never did say much about her move, except, “I’ll never want to visit that town again.” There was not more she would add to this except to say that the weather was too humid, the people were not friendly, and she could not wait to pick up her check at the end of her employment and return to Colorado. This was the extent of the story she had told my mother regarding her two years spent in Missouri. Because my aunt, on rare occasions, was known to display a bit of anger, my family never did press this issue with her. But my mother could sense there was something “not right” about her explanation, so instead of asking the question of what really transpired during those two years, we just never mentioned it again.
After I moved into my aunt’s house, there was nothing unusual that immediately took place that I could claim as being haunted. Everything was going along well, and I spent the fall at the house in peace. I kept the majority of my aunt’s furnishings, but purchased a new mattress for the bed. The garage still contained the taped and sealed cardboard boxes of her personal items that her fellow church friends had stored for me. I didn’t even think of going through any of the boxes until the weather turned warmer in the late spring. During my first month at the house, my aunt’s friends would occasionally drop by to say hello and to reminisce about my aunt, and the times they had all spent together.
As I said, I had not experienced any strange occurrences but, in late November, I began to notice that something very curious was repeatedly taking place with unusual regularity.
This began one morning when I was seated at my chair in the kitchen. I remember the date and time. It was November 15 at 10:36 a.m. I was finishing up my breakfast and I had just poured myself coffee. No sooner had I sat down that I began to hear the sound of a small kitten, or baby, crying. I love cats, although I hadn’t owned one for more than three years after my last cat had died. I listened for a minute, when I noticed that it began to get louder. I grew concerned for the kitten, and got off my chair and walked a few steps to the door that led outside the kitchen. I opened it and looked around, but didn’t see a kitten, or cat.
I understand that this in itself is not unusual, but while I was standing at the door, I heard the crying sound once more, this time it appeared to be coming from inside the house, from the direction of the living room. I walked over to the living room and now clearly heard the muffled sounds of a baby’s cries. Strangely, the sound was not a very loud sound, but was more muted and repressed. I must have stood in my living room for a good five minutes, listening and waiting for something—anything—else to happen.
The cries were definitely not those of a kitten’s, this was the sound that a very young infant would make. Most importantly, the cries were coming from somewhere in the house. I looked out the front window several times, and never saw a baby in the yard or on the sidewalk. No, these cries were coming from within my house. As the minutes past, the crying also disappeared, and I was left with more questions than answers.
Throughout the day the crying would start then stop. For the coming days, this is how things