The stone chapel sits beside the main house and received a particularly heavy dose of gothic architectural touches.
On my second or third trip, the cross had broken in the wind.
When I first visited the chapel, it had a projection TV, two organs, Bibles, and more. Now these are mostly ruined, except for the tapestries, which have somehow survived.
San Luis may not be a ghost town, but it’s aspiring by all indications. Luckily, it’s close enough to Cuba, NM to hang onto life, unlike the other ghost towns down the road.
Looking above the altar.
Bells are highly symbolic, being used from everything from calling worshipers in the morning to exorcising demons at night.
Little crosses on the side of the church, near a broken window.
The historical entrance.
The basement held a makeshift chapel.
Looking up at the most conspicuous graffiti in the city on ADM #4.
The chapel (left) and surgical suite (straight on) move in an out of view as fog rolls up from the St. Louis River valley.
The Cross of Loraine served as the international symbol of tuberculosis; it was traditional to find these on sanatorium smokestacks like this, which was part of the old steam plant, behind the Refractory.
Outside the Chateau, where the fuel oil tank blocks the chapel.
Ringling’s church was built in 1914 and sits on a hill over the town.
Lost words over the auditorium entrance.
Sadly, this picture is dated from the fact there’s a single piece of glass unbroken. Since this was taken, the entrance to the church has been vandalized even more.
The stage of the theatre still holds hymnals and other vestiges of its time as a church.
From the roof of the Clemens House, looking toward downtown St. Louis.