Given its particular wealth of land, culture, people, and unique history, I felt that the state of Arizona was long overdue for a collection of ghost stories. The stories of gunfighters, lovers, ranchers, miners, convicts, business owners, farmers, and Native American points of view all are included in this book. Families, and friends we knew, spoke to, walked with, played with, who now lie under Arizona adobe soil are in this book. The spirits of men, women, and children who wait tirelessly within and among desert landscapes, houses, bars, hotels, and shaded avenues—they too are in this book. These past experiences and relationships brought back to life have come forth to re-enter our world of the living.
You’ll find them all within these pages—the murmuring voices; darting shadows; misty faces twisted in silent screams; empty, staring eyes of the wronged; angry booted footsteps of the condemned; and the vaporous svelte bodies of women with dark, empty-eyed sockets. They are all here too.
Ghosts offer the living not only curious, and sometimes terrifying, fodder for stories and folklore, but also insight into another world in which time and space cease to exist. The following samples of stories from Arizona will provide readers with engaging reading and a bit of a history lesson as well.
Now relax, find a comfortable chair, fix yourself a strong pot of campfire coffee and prepare yourself for a long and bumpy ride into the realm of Arizona’s ghosts. Remember, it’s best not to keep your hosts waiting long, although they do have all the time in this and the next world, they do anger much too easily. Reservations are not required because after all, your arrival has been pre-confirmed—far in advance!
Enjoy!
ARIZONA GHOST STORIES
ARIVACA
Father Eusebio Kino first mapped Arivaca, lying approximately 11 miles north of Arizona’s border with Mexico in 1695. It is in an area that contains some of the oldest mines in the United States. Arivaca, which is unincorporated, is about 56 miles southwest of Tucson in southern Pima County. The locale may have been a Tohono O’odham (Pima) Indian village before 1751,when natives revolted against the Spanish, who were attracted by precious metals and excellent grazing land. Native Americans, arduously worked the mines developed by the Spaniards, under the direction of the Tumacacori Mission padres. In 1833, the Mexican government approved a petition by brothers Tomas and Ignacio Ortiz to raise cattle and horses on 8,677 acres of land that formed the Aribac Ranch. “La Aribac” is a Native American word meaning “small springs.” Although boundaries for the ranch were never certain, the Sonora Exploring and Mining Company in 1856 nonetheless bought its rights. This company operated mines near Arivaca and Tubac. Also located on the ranch were reduction works for the Heintzelman Mine. The post office was established in 1878.
Charles Poston, the father of Arizona, acquired the property in 1870 and later asked the U.S. government to confirm his right to 26,508 acres. The U.S. surveyor general recommended confirmation of 8,680 acres, but the U.S. Congress took no action. Poston’s rights were obtained by the Arivaca Land and Cattle Company, which asked the U.S. Court of Private Land Claims to approve the land claim. The court refused, saying it was impossible to identify...the land that was intended to be granted. This decision was upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court on March 24,1902, and the land became part of the public domain.
Arivaca now is primarily a retirement and residential area.
I interviewed Frances at her home in Arivaca, a small little town tucked within a quaint desert valley. Within this quiet town lies Frances’s two-bedroom home. From the street, the house reveals no indication of the horrific events that had transpired within its walls just a few years before.
Frances preferred that I not describe the outside of her house; by doing so she believed some of her neighbors might recognize who she was and begin to gossip. Given her serious concern, I have also chosen not to use her real name.
—Antonio
FRANCES TORRES’ STORY
My story about “El Coyote” took place just a couple of years ago. I have made sure not to tell many people about what happened in the house because, being a small village, the gossip gets around really quickly.
I used to rent and live in the house next to the one I now live in. I used to know the old woman who was the owner of the property. When I moved into the house next door, she and I began to talk, and we became very friendly with each other. Some mornings she and I would have coffee in my kitchen. She sure was a talker; she’d even give me a headache sometimes. She would talk to me about her son, who lived in Tucson, and I even got to meet him a few times before she died.
I recall that the first time I visited her, she showed me around the inside of her home. I noticed that one of her bedrooms had a door with nails hammered into the door’s frame. I cautiously asked her about this, because it was very strange to have a door nailed shut the way it was. Hanging on one of the nails was a small metal crucifix. Her explanation was that she had nailed the door shut because of “El Coyote.” I asked her, “Who was El Coyote?” She said he was a bad spirit that needed to be kept locked up. I thought to myself, “living by herself for so long has made this old woman go nuts.” I asked her why the spirit had the name of El Coyote. She said she had given it that name because although she had never really seen the spirit’s face, its body looked like a hairy, wild dog. By this time, I thought to myself that this poor woman needed to get out of the house more often and mingle with people—to be more social.
I didn’t think much more about the “friend” she kept locked up in the bedroom. I never heard any loud noises coming from her home, and after all, she was really sweet. One day, while she was at the post office, I walked to the rear of her house and looked inside the bedroom window where she kept El Coyote locked up. I didn’t know what I would expect to see. I peered between a narrow sliver of space between the two sheets that covered the window from the inside.
I saw a room without any furniture. It didn’t even have any rugs. “Poor old woman,” I thought, “She must have invented this ghost as her own personal friend.” I began to feel sorry for her because I myself have never married, and I know that sometimes it does get lonely. But there wasn’t anything unusual about the room, so I never mentioned it to her again.
Well, less than a year later, the woman spent Thanksgiving in Tucson with her son and his family. I know she was very happy because, after returning home, all she did was talk to me about how nice her visit had been.
Two days later, I paid her a visit to show her a large holiday greeting card that had arrived at my house. I knocked on her front door, and when she did not answer, I walked to the rear door, that was left unlocked, and walked inside. I immediately smelled gas. I took a few slow cautious steps into the house and kept calling her name. There was no answer. I got scared and quickly walked through the house. When I entered her bedroom, I found her lifeless body in bed. A flexible copper hose leading from the wall to her gas heater had developed a small hole that filled the small house with propane gas.
After her funeral, her son told me that he was going to sell his mother’s house. I asked him if he would sell it to me, and he agreed. I also asked him if he knew anything about the closed door that was nailed shut or about El Coyote. He said that his mother only mentioned El Coyote a few times but that he thought it was only a crazy idea his mother had made up.
After I bought the house, two friends who lived in the town of Nogales came to Arivaca to help me with repairs. I was overjoyed to finally own a house of my own. I began to remove old wallpaper and paint every wall. Of course, the first thing I did was to remove the nails on the bedroom door where El Coyote “lived.” During the repair work, I never noticed any strange noise or saw any ghost. Finally after a few weeks, the house was ready for me to move in.
After moving all my belongings into the house, I soon began to notice that the rear bedroom “El Coyote’s room,” was strangely