The (Mis)adventures of Jyl: Salton Sea

Jyl is tired of the cold that’s gripped the nation, so what could be wrong with going to the seaside?

Welcome back, misadventurers. No ghosts this time, no curses, no bleeding walls. But don’t get comfortable. This week’s destination is still soaked in death, mystery, and silence. The kind that hangs in the air long after the headlines fade. We’re headed to the Salton Sea in Southern California.

The Salton Sea wasn’t supposed to exist, let alone become one of the eeriest dead zones in the American West. It was created by accident in 1905, when a poorly planned irrigation system burst and flooded a dry basin in the desert. For two years, the Colorado River poured into the Salton Sink, creating a massive inland lake where nothing had been. At first, it was hailed as a miracle, an unexpected oasis. But the miracle didn’t last.

Developers moved fast. By the 1950s, the Salton Sea was a booming resort destination. Think: speedboats, swimwear, Elvis on the radio. Towns like Bombay Beach and Salton City promised paradise with a lake view. Celebrities came. So did investors. It was a full-on Riviera-in-the-desert fantasy.

Then the fish started dying.

You see, the Salton Sea has no natural outlet. Water flows in, but it doesn’t flow out. And because it’s surrounded by farmland, agricultural runoff—pesticides, fertilizers, all of it—kept draining into the lake. Over time, the water grew more and more toxic, evaporating under the desert sun and leaving behind concentrated salt, chemicals, and decay. The fish began to suffocate by the millions. Their carcasses washed up on the once-pristine shores, forming brittle layers of bones.

Then the birds started dying too.

The smell? Imagine rotten eggs, old Band-Aids, and burnt hair stewing in a pressure cooker for a decade. The lake became a hazard. Tourism vanished. The resort towns were abandoned, first slowly, then completely. Today, many of the buildings still stand, sun-bleached and broken. Rusted trailers. Boarded-up diners. Docks leading to nowhere.

And yet… people still live there. A small, stubborn population remains in places like Bombay Beach, which has since become a bizarre, post-apocalyptic art colony. Think sculptures made from TVs, abandoned cars half-buried in sand, and cryptic poetry painted across fences. The surreal landscape has drawn filmmakers, photographers, and the occasional doomsday prepper.

Is it haunted? Not in the traditional sense. It’s haunted by what everyone promised would last and quietly walked away from when it didn’t. No ghosts, only the quiet ache of a dream that rotted under its own ambition.

Jyl Glenn is a writer, editor, formatter, anthologist, poet, and a medical-legal writer and consultant. Her lifelong love affair with horror began at a very early age when she was left unattended on the weekend Poltergeist debuted on HBO. And then she figured out she could read any horror book she liked as long as she hung out at the public library, even if the librarian deemed it not to be age appropriate. Jyl was born and raised in New York and now lives in Tulsa with her dog. She loves creepy art, dark poetry, and pink dinosaurs. When she isn’t dabbling in the macabre—she’s most likely asleep.

PLEASE NOTE: The views and opinions of the staff of Memento Mori Ink do not necessarily represent those of Memento Mori Ink or Crystal Lake Publishing. Thank you for understanding.