Leadville

The Delaware Hotel: Echoes of Gold, Silver, and Shadows in Leadville’s Cloud City
Perched at 700 Harrison Avenue in the heart of Leadville, Colorado, the Delaware Hotel stands as the city’s last remaining grand hotel from the legendary silver boom era and a majestic centerpiece of the Leadville Historic District. Completed in October 1886 and proudly named for the Callaway brothers’ home state of Delaware, this ornate red brick landmark continues to command Harrison Avenue with timeless dignity, bearing witness to more than 140 years of fortune, tragedy, and restless spirits.
The story begins in the rugged high country in 1860, when prospector Abe Lee discovered gold in California Gulch, less than two miles from where the hotel now rises. The strike unleashed a frenzied rush, drawing hundreds of dreamers who established Oro City along what would become Harrison Avenue. There, gold lay glittering on the surface for the taking, until the easy riches vanished. By the early 1880s, Oro City stood abandoned, its streets reduced to a windswept silence.
It was against this desolate backdrop that the Delaware Hotel began to take shape. Construction commenced in 1883 under architect George King, who crafted the 3 story building in the dramatic Second Empire style, complete with distinctive mansard roofs and elaborate decorative flourishes. Financed by the ambitious Callaway brothers; William, George, and John, the project arose as a bold declaration of faith in Leadville’s future. (Costing around $70,000, depending on records of the era.) The brothers, merchants determined to build empires, opened their grand Delaware Block store on the ground floor in 1886. Upper floors offered refined guest rooms, while the entire structure boasted then modern luxuries: steam heating, hot and cold running water, lighting, and elegant public spaces. The Delaware quickly became a symbol of Leadville’s evolution from rough mining camp to the sophisticated “Cloud City.”
The town’s explosive transformation accelerated in 1877 with the discovery of rich silver deposits farther up the gulch. Thousands of hopeful souls poured in, swelling the population to 25,000 by 1878 and cementing Leadville’s mythic reputation. During its glittering peak in the late 1880s and 1890s, the Delaware welcomed newly rich miners, ambitious investors, and celebrated travelers. Its guest registers read like a frontier Who’s Who: the Guggenheims, the “Unsinkable” Molly Brown, composer John Philip Sousa, magician Harry Houdini, Doc Holliday, and…according to enduring local lore, even the outlaw Butch Cassidy. Whispers also link the hotel to Baby Doe Tabor, blending verified history with the romantic haze of frontier legend.
The hotel endured the devastating silver crash of 1893 and subsequent mining revivals, its resilience mirroring the town’s own. The ground floor long served as a thriving dry goods store, operated by the Crews Beggs Dry Goods Company after the Callaways leased it in 1890, until the late 1970s. The brothers sold the building in 1946 for $40,000. Subsequent owners transformed the space over decades: a mini mall in the early 20th century, full hotel renovations in 1986 and 1992, and further updates under Kit and Gail Williams in 2000, who envisioned an immersive historical experience. Today, under new ownership, the Delaware continues to evolve while preserving its authentic Victorian character, now featuring a vibrant newly remodeled bar, restaurant, and café.
Beneath its stately exterior lies another layer of mystery. Like many silver boom structures, the Delaware sits atop an old underground network of tunnels built in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. These passages once moved coal, supplies, silver, and gold between buildings, shielding commerce from harsh mountain weather and street chaos. Local lore speaks of Prohibition era smuggling and discreet comings and goings along Harrison Avenue. Though most tunnels are now sealed, collapsed, or inaccessible, basement remnants and sidewalk level traces remain, adding an undeniable aura of intrigue to the historic property.
Yet it is the Delaware’s reputation as one of Colorado’s most haunted hotels that captivates visitors most. The most famous spirit is Mary Coffey. In 1899, while staying in the Delaware Block, Mary and her husband Jerry endured a tormented marriage. On November 3, in a fit of jealous rage, Jerry shot her twice in the back. Paralyzed from the waist down, she lingered for three days before dying, her dying declaration detailing the attack. Today, her ghost is said to wander the halls, keeping silent watch. Guests and staff report footsteps, apparitions, lingering female presences, sudden cold spots, moving objects, and shadowy figures. Other spirits are believed to include the Callaway brothers themselves, along with miners and boomtown souls from Leadville’s rowdy past. Activity is said to intensify after dark, when the building seems to breathe with echoes of its turbulent history. The Delaware frequently features on ghost tours and in books on haunted mining towns, with certain rooms, including one associated with Doc Holliday, is reportedly more active than others.
More than a hotel, the Delaware is a living portal to Leadville’s dramatic soul, a place where the glitter of gold and silver, the weight of lost fortunes, and the whispers of the departed still linger in its ornate halls. For those who seek history, mystery, and the faint thrill of the unknown, its doors remain open, inviting you to step into a story that refuses to fade.
Ghosts??
YES!
Whispers from the Veil: The Haunted Halls of the Delaware Hotel
Step into the Delaware Hotel after nightfall when the mountain air grows heavier, thick with the weight of unfinished stories. For over a century, guests and staff have spoken in hushed tones of presences that refuse to depart…souls forever bound to the ornate corridors and shadowed rooms of Leadville’s last grand silver boom hotel. These are not mere legends. They are encounters that chill the blood and linger long after checkout.
In Room 205, the air carries a faint, sweet scent of violets even in the dead of winter. This was once the domain of Mary Gallagher, a 27 year old Boston woman who arrived in Leadville in 1888 with her husband and two young daughters, seeking a new life amid the boomtown’s promise. That promise shattered in a single moment of jealous fury. Falsely accused of adultery, Mary was shot by her own husband. She clung to life for two agonizing days before succumbing. Yet her spirit never left. Guests report a gentle, protective presence watching over them, sometimes glimpsed in a flowing blue gingham dress, a sorrowful guardian who still tends to the living within these walls.
On the third floor, Room 318 holds a vigil of eternal longing. Here lingers the tragic shade of Hattie Oglethorpe. In 1888, the elderly woman swallowed poison in a final act of despair while awaiting her husband’s return from a gold mining expedition in Nevada. He never came. To this day, Hattie waits. Staff and guests describe drawers sliding open on their own, before the heavy silence returns. Footsteps pace the room at odd hours, and an overwhelming sense of heartbroken anticipation hangs in the air, like a breath held for more than a century.
Laughter, faint and distant, echoes down the hallways near Room 329. It belongs to James, a young orphan boy of about eight who was sent to Leadville to live with an neglectful uncle. He died in 1917 from a childhood illness, but death could not confine his playful spirit. Late at night, visitors hear the unmistakable sound of a ball being kicked along the corridors, followed by the soft clatter of marbles rolling across wooden floors. Some awake to find toys rearranged, as if an invisible child has been playing while they slept.
Room 215 reverberates with something darker. Conrad Mooney fled Iowa in 1879 after killing a man there in 1876. He found rough work in the mines on Carbonate Hill, only to meet his end in a brutal mining accident in 1890, just weeks after moving into the Delaware. His restless ghost announces itself with loud, insistent knocking on walls and doors, as though demanding entry… or warning others away.
On the second floor, near the old restaurant, stands the former office of one of the Callaway brothers, builder and original owner of the hotel. The faint aroma of cigar smoke still drifts through the space where he once conducted business. Guests frequently encounter his distinguished figure on the east stairs, a silent guardian puffing thoughtfully, forever overseeing the empire he built.
In the new main floor restaurant, an uneasy sensation often settles over diners in the northeast corner. There, the spirit of Kenai Davis keeps watch. He passed away in Room 10 after a long illness, but his presence remains…eyes felt rather than seen, staring intently at those who dine. Many glance up mid meal, only to find nothing… yet the feeling of being observed lingers.
Room 202 belongs to a mischievous innocent. 9 year old Cornelia, an only child doted upon and given everything she desired, died of pneumonia in 1894. Her playful spirit roams the entire hotel, returning to her room only to sleep. Guests frequently report doors closing softly behind them, followed by the unmistakable sound of delighted, childish giggles as she watches their startled reactions.
Finally, in Room 320, the ghost of William Ellison prowls with quiet desperation. A miner and fisherman who worked the Lake Fork of the Arkansas River, Ellison suffered a fatal internal injury in 1900 after falling on unstable ground. He staggered back to his bed at the Delaware and died there from a hemorrhage at age 44. His unsettled spirit now wanders the building in search of keepsakes. Reports of personal items mysteriously vanishing, only to reappear elsewhere, suggest he is still gathering fragments of the life stolen from him.
These are but the most enduring presences among many. The Delaware does not merely house history, it breathes with it. The creak of floorboards, the whisper of fabric on stairs, the sudden drop in temperature… all serve as reminders that some guests, drawn by Leadville’s silver dreams long ago, have never truly checked out.
Dare to spend a night? 

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And now that you have a brief history, allow me a moment to tell you about my experience at this magnificent hotel!
In late May, we decided to escape to the mountains and soak in the hot springs. For the night, we chose Leadville, Colorado, a town that still feels like an old Western mining camp but with paved streets, lined by charming Victorian cottages once home to silver miners. I had long wanted to stay at the historic Delaware Hotel, drawn by its rich and haunted reputation.
We pulled up to the 3 story brick building on the corner of Harrison and Seventh Street. Entering through what was once a side door, now the main entrance, we stepped into a lobby thick with the scent of aged wood, antique furnishings, and history itself. As a lifelong history enthusiast, that distinctive, musty aroma sent a thrill through me. A man stepped away from tending the bar to check us in.
We had specifically reserved Room 316, Doc Holliday’s former apartment. After climbing the stairs to the third floor, we reached the corner door. A window nearby the door stood open, letting in the cool mountain air. Yet our key card refused to work. After several failed attempts, I returned to the front desk. A dark haired young woman listened, sighed, and said with quiet exasperation, “Again? This happens all the time in Room 316.
”She handed me a regular key. Back upstairs, of course I discovered the electronic lock was still engaged. When I returned once more, she grabbed a screwdriver and followed me up. As she pried open the old door of this 140 year old hotel, its original skeleton keyhole still visible and the ancient original floorboards creaking beneath us, she muttered,
“He doesn’t want anyone staying in here. It happens all the time.”
The moment we stepped inside, I was struck by the realization that these were the very floorboards Doc Holliday had walked in bare feet. The air felt heavier somehow.
As we settled in, a sudden, oppressive feeling washed over me, like someone in a foul mood was watching us with resentment. The sensation was so intense it felt as if a cold breath lingered on the back of my neck. Perhaps I had watched too many scary movies, but I spoke aloud, calmly explaining that we were only there for one night and would treat the room with respect. Almost immediately, the crushing presence lifted. A wave of calm replaced it, and I felt strangely at ease.
After dark, I took a walk around the block. Behind the hotel stood an old, boarded up church that looked unmistakably eerie in the moonlight. As I passed, I could feel dozens of unseen eyes following my every step, as though daring me to venture closer. I quickened my pace and returned to the hotel, telling myself the kids were waiting upstairs.
Room 316 may have belonged to Doc Holliday, but the Delaware holds many ghosts. In Room 205, a woman was murdered by her jealous husband. Room 318 is haunted by a woman who poisoned herself in 1888 while waiting for her husband to return from a mining trip in Nevada. Room 329 belongs to a young boy who still plays with marbles and kicks a ball down the hallways. Other guests have reported cigar smoke, slamming doors, and the apparition of a young woman in a blue gingham dress.
Around 11:30 p.m., after the children had fallen asleep, I grabbed my Canon camera and a small video recorder and began quietly exploring the halls. Almost immediately, my fully charged camera died. Shrugging it off, I reached for my phone, only for it to claim the memory was full. Frustrated, I continued with the video camera alone.
In the lobby, the dark haired woman from earlier asked if I had seen anything strange. Before I could answer, a blonde employee appeared and began sharing her own experiences while my camera rolled. She described an unplugged arcade game repeatedly announcing “1UP,” and a television in the bar that once flipped through channels at an impossible speed.
Then she asked if I wanted to see something truly eerie. Of course I did. She led me through an old door and down into the stone walled basement, a dim, cobwebbed space that felt like a dungeon. At the far end, she showed me the entrance to the underground tunnels that connect nearly every building in downtown Leadville, remnants of the town’s wild past.
Later, while descending the old balcony lounge stairs near the bar, an unnatural cold suddenly enveloped me. It was a chill that reached straight to the bone, yet produced no goosebumps, no shiver or chill…just the deep, hollow cold of death. The sensation lasted about 10 seconds, and I will never forget it.
Back in Room 316, as I was undressing, I felt a sharp nudge from behind. Off balance, I cracked my head hard against the corner of the wall, raising an impressive lump that kept me from wearing a hat for days.
That night, a loud thud jolted me awake, followed by the sound of a window slamming and glass shattering. I checked the hallway…nothing. The only other guests that night were an elderly couple. I eventually drifted back to sleep… and into a vivid dream…
In the dream, I left the room and stepped into the hotel as it once was in its glory days. Men in cowboy hats, derbies, and top hats moved through freshly painted halls that smelled of cigar smoke, fresh wood and new rugs. Two boys laughed and whispered under the stairwell which sat in the center of the end of the hall, their game of jacks and ball scattered across the floor. In the lobby, two elegantly dressed women of the eve turned toward me…one turned and pressed a gun to my head. BANG! A flash of white light. I woke screaming, drenched in sweat and paranoid!
After checkout and walking out, I glanced up at the 3rd floor corner window of Doc Holliday’s room. For just a moment, and with the right kind of eyes…I saw him standing there, waving goodbye.
 Later that week, I plugged in the video camera, eager to review the footage. It was completely blank. Technical error… or something else?.
MORE COMING SOON!