Little crosses on the side of the church, near a broken window.
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.
Lost words over the auditorium entrance.
The stone chapel sits beside the main house and received a particularly heavy dose of gothic architectural touches.
The chapel (left) and surgical suite (straight on) move in an out of view as fog rolls up from the St. Louis River valley.
Bells are highly symbolic, being used from everything from calling worshipers in the morning to exorcising demons at night.
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.
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.
Looking up at the most conspicuous graffiti in the city on ADM #4.
On my second or third trip, the cross had broken in the wind.
Outside the Chateau, where the fuel oil tank blocks the chapel.
Looking above the altar.
Ringling’s church was built in 1914 and sits on a hill over the town.
The historical entrance.
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.
From the roof of the Clemens House, looking toward downtown St. Louis.
The basement held a makeshift chapel.
The stage of the theatre still holds hymnals and other vestiges of its time as a church.