The Monte Vista is the centerpiece of downtown Flagstaff, AZ.  The hotel is also believed by locals to be quite haunted.  Built in 1926, the old structure stands as a testament to the ingenuity of the new world’s frontier pioneers, the people of the land, the common clay of the great American west…you know, morons.   The hotel is complete with a Phantom Bellboy who reportedly—and I’m not making this up—knocks at random doors and in a muffled voice says “room service”.   Talk about an unimaginative afterlife. 

All over the hotel, I reenacted the Phantom Bellboy’s antics in true SNL fashion and for effect added, “candy gram” and eventually “land shark” to the mix without incident (paranormal incident, that is—I was asked to leave).  John Wayne is believed to have seen this bellboy ghost while staying in the Bing Crosby suite (the John Wayne suite was apparently occupied by Rip Taylor).  Mr. Wayne’s encounter was a friendly one, and the bellhop appreciated the generous tip. 

“I’m not gonna tip ya, I’m not gonna tip ya…like hell I’m not.” 

Well, I’m sure the exchange went something like that.

Ghost sightings include a meat man, a bank robber, and a dancing couple—thankfully not at the same time. Most disturbing of all, the persistent sounds of a baby crying can often be heard from the basement.  Apparently, this haunting sound has sent many hotel employees scrambling upstairs for more formula. 

Jon Bon Jovi is said to haunt room 305, despite the fact he is reportedly alive and well and living in Middletown, NJ.  I realize that sounds made up…alive and well in New Jersey?  Once the Bon Jovi Suite was depicted on an Unsolved Mysteries episode and is allegedly the most actively haunted room in the hotel.  Strange poltergeist activity is reported in the suite and an old ghost rocks in a chair by the window—perhaps driven mad by the endless Bon Jovi tunes.  What a way to go…  Down the hall is the Air Supply room, which I found surprisingly stuffy.  From the suite, tenants report hearing the haunting sounds of “whoa, we’re half way there, whoa, livin’ on a prayer.”  The vast majority of these guests describe the haunting sounds as “deeply disturbing”, but most are just thankful it wasn’t In and Out of Love. Unfortunately, the image below does not have the actual picture of Bon Jovi on the door as this reporter copped the image moments before snapping the shot. Drat! Next time snap first, steal second, snap first, steal second. It’s as easy to get these things right, you know.

My original enthusiasm for covering this story involved the only truly compelling paranormal experience ever directly experienced by a Discord staffer.  My sister Deana, a Discord Business Consultant, awoke in the middle of the night after being flicked in the center of her forehead by an unknown entity.  This is a true story, hopelessly wedged in an otherwise typical Zano article.

Her husband adamantly denies any part in this unexplained occurrence.  When she awoke, she reported a red welt in the center of her forehead.  Here is the freaky part: other guests have reported being flicked in the night at the Monte Vista…by my sister’s husband!  Damn you, MJ!

During the night in question, the couple stayed in the Gary Cooper suite, which is cattycorner to the Bon Jovi Suite. You are welcome to stay there, if you feel lucky…well, do ya?  Oh, wait, that’s Clint Eastwood. 

My sister is a true skeptic and remains so to this day.  In fact, she questions her own testimony and is pressuring herself to submit to a lie detector test.

I am writing this creepy caper from the hotel itself…actually from the Rendezvous, a martini/coffee bar just off the hotel’s main lobby.  Do you want to hear something really scary?  A bone chilling occurrence just happened while writing this very piece.  While doing a web search for Bon Jovi on my laptop—a necessary research evil—I inadvertently stumbled upon a site that started playing a Bon Jovi song, loudly! …in the middle of the martini bar! 

I am still shivering.

“Whoa, we’re half way there, whoa, livin’ on a prayer.”  

Shudder.

On the way out, I cut through the lobby and questioned the woman at the front desk.  The young lady, known only as “stop asking me questions, creep,” said she didn’t know of any recent occurrences in the hotel. 

For those traveling to Flag, there’s also a wonderfully seedy bar in the back corner of the Monte Vista, as well as a Thai restaurant on the far corner.  And, if that’s not good enough, there’s a Thai restaurant across the street, a third is down the street a couple of blocks, as well as two more on the way home.  Arizonians are apparently Thai fanatics, perhaps driven to foreign foods by the incessant sounds of Bon Jovi’s disembodied crooning.  If Bon Jovi doesn’t haunt this town, he is very likely to do so someday.  This is simply a theory but, after all, isn’t he the one who implores us to Never Say Goodbye?

The para-abnormal research team consisted of Ranger Rick, who both led the investigation and set the pace (three pints an hour), Pierce Winslow, our tech-guru (who wrote the whole thing off as a business expense), Pokey McDooris, philosopher and sideshow attraction, Timmo O’Frynn, driver and camera man, Bob Krazmoski, treasurer and straight man, and, yours truly, Mick Zano, addiction counselor/beer enthusiast.

Our story begins in 1778 in the General Lafayette Inn when only two brews flowed in the tap room: Yankee Brewdle Dandy and Loyalist Lager (which was poisoned).  Back then the locals knew the Inn as the Three Tuns Tavern—famous for both its alliteration as well as its happy hour Jagerbombs.  During the Revolutionary War, General Lafayette, a Frenchman who fought for the Americans, found himself cornered at the Inn by British troops.  Realizing, to his horror, that jagerbomb hour had ended, Lafayette planned his escape.  He challenged the opposing generals to snooker and darts and then snuck out the backdoor while the British were ordering drinks.  This account, incidentally, is fellow Discordian Dave Atsals’ interpretation of events.  I personally believe that Lafayette stayed for the beer and then snuck out before it was his turn to buy.

After the sun goes down at the Lafayette Inn the staff has reported strange occurrences—aside from the owner’s infatuation with finger puppets.  The corridors are haunted by the ghost of an old woman, bitching about the shoddy service and the lack of clean towels. There are lots of unexplained noises (other than Krazmoski’s less than pleasant reaction to onions…and finger puppets.)

Our para-abnormal investigation started with an intense two hour vigil in the bar area, which, after some pub grub, moved into the small, and quite haunted, pool room.  It is said that ghosts of patrons past often prop up the left corner in an effort to level the damn table.  In the wee hours, the hotel staff has reported strange wraith-like specters endlessly scratching at the ball return in their futile search for quarters.

For the next six hours we thoroughly interviewed several waitresses as well as one of Ranger Rick’s ex-girlfriends who, by all accounts, had a nice set of pookageists.  We took a series of pictures (mostly of those luscious pookageists) and used state of the art recording devices for our EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) to discover if the waitresses dug us.  One waitress seemed amused by our antics, but this—as is often the case—wore thin about halfway through her shift.  (This is a metaphor for the vast majority of my relationships.)

One waitress ended her workday only to return some time later in a more social capacity.  She was shocked to find us right where she had left us—in a drunken stupor, flittering with the next shift.

By then our investigation had moved from the stout and porter to the cask-conditioned IPA, which by all accounts was hauntingly yummy. As we dug deeper into this spooky site, several mysterious happenings unfolded.  These occurrences can not easily be dismissed or explained.  Despite hours of patronage, Bob never did try the well-crafted, hand-pumped porter.  More compelling still, Timmo ordered the French fries, yet never touched them, and, perhaps most queer, Pokey…

At one point I snuck up into the banquet room, but I couldn’t find any doors leading the lodging area.  Apparently, the only lodging on the premises involved a guest house around back.  No one sleeps in the main structure anymore, with the notable exception of Timmo who passed out for a short time in the men’s room.  The staff we interviewed knew of the ghost stories, but none had any recent experiences.  At around 2AM, however, something truly blood-curdling occurred.  The bartender stopped serving us alcohol and asked us to leave.

We asked if we could hold a séance after last call, but our pleas were met with only consternation.  It wasn’t like we were asking them to serve us drinks after hours—well, we did ask that…but it’s a reasonable request, right?  After all, to be in tune with the spirits, one must imbibe them, right?  Our impromptu séance by the restrooms availed us nothing, but we did manage to wake Timmo.

In desperation, we tried convincing several waitresses that sometimes a phenomenon of this type manifests around a particular person and is not connected to the actual structure itself.  The only way to rule this out was to go home with them and conduct a thorough investigation.  But alas, we soon found ourselves in the parking lot, chickless, clueless, and ghostless.  Luckily we agreed upon a three day investigation. We decided to meet up the next day for lunch—you know, when what’s-her-name starts her shift.