"The Ghost House of Denver." Theodore Coneys

The Ghost House of Denver | The Theodore Coneys Case That Fooled Police for Nine Months

One of the strangest murder cases in American history unfolded inside an ordinary Denver home.

After murdering his longtime friend, Theodore Coneys did something almost unimaginable—he secretly remained inside the victim's house for months, hiding in a cramped attic space so small that investigators later discovered he could squeeze through an opening only about eight inches wide.

Neighbors reported strange noises. Food mysteriously disappeared. Police searched the home multiple times but found nothing, leading many to believe the house was haunted. The terrifying truth was far more disturbing: the killer was still living inside the house.

In this episode of Human Wreckage, we explore the shocking true story behind Denver's infamous "Ghost House," examining Theodore Coneys' troubled past, the murder, the bizarre months he spent hiding above the ceiling, and the discovery that stunned detectives and the public alike.

This is one of the most unsettling true crime cases ever documented—a story that blurs the line between horror and reality.

If you enjoy well-researched true crime documentaries covering forgotten murders, historical crimes, serial killers, and unsolved mysteries, subscribe to Human Wreckage for new episodes every week.

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Transcript

A Chilling Attic Secret

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For nine months after killing him, the murderer lived in the victim's attic—so thin he could squeeze through an 8-inch opening. Police thought the house was haunted. The truth was worse.

Denver 1941 And A Quiet Home

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Fall 1941. Denver, Colorado. Seventy-three-year-old Philip Peters lived alone in his house at 3335 West Moncrieff Place. His wife was in the hospital recovering from a broken hip, and Philip spent his days visiting her, relying on kind neighbors who made sure he had meals and company. But something strange was happening in the house. Food disappeared from the kitchen. Doors opened and closed on their own. Faint footsteps echoed from somewhere above. At first, Philip thought he was imagining things—the mind playing tricks in the silence of an empty house. He had no idea someone was watching him.

Theodore Coneys Finds The Trapdoor

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From the cramped, dark attic above his head, a gaunt figure observed Philip's every move. Listened to his footsteps. Tracked his routine. Waited. The figure was Theodore Edward Coneys—a 58-year-old drifter who had once been Philip's friend. Born in 1882 with weak lungs and a fragile heart, Theodore had been told by doctors he wouldn't live to see his eighteenth birthday. He survived, but life never got easier. The Great Depression hit. Theodore drifted from town to town, homeless, jobless, desperate. In September 1941, Theodore returned to Denver and remembered an old acquaintance from decades earlier—Philip Peters, a man he'd known from the Denver Guitar Club. They'd been friends once. Theodore went to Philip's house hoping to ask for money, maybe a meal. Philip wasn't home. The door was unlocked. Theodore let himself in. "I went in and stole some food," Theodore later confessed. "I was in bad shape, my lungs were giving me a lot of trouble, and I was at the end of my rope. Fall was coming on, and I couldn't face another winter on the road." As he searched the house for food and money, Theodore discovered something: a small trapdoor in the ceiling of a closet. It led to a narrow attic cubbyhole. The opening was barely eight inches wide by fifteen inches long. The attic itself was twenty-seven inches high by fifty-seven inches wide—no larger than a coffin. Theodore was thin enough to squeeze through. He climbed up into the darkness and decided

Living Above Philip Like A Shadow

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to stay. For five weeks, Theodore Coneys lived in Philip Peters' attic without his knowledge. Every day, Philip would leave to visit his wife at the hospital. Theodore would wait until the house was silent, then creep down through the trapdoor to eat food from the refrigerator, use the bathroom, and stretch his cramped limbs. Then he'd climb back up into his tiny hiding place and wait for the next opportunity. "Whenever I heard him downstairs, I kept real still," Theodore later admitted. "Then I got bolder and used to shadow him from room to room. It was a sort of game. It gave me a thrill. It was the first time in my life I'd ever had anyone at my mercy." But on October 17, 1941, the game ended.

The Day The Game Turns Violent

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Theodore thought Philip had left for the day. He climbed down from the attic and made his way to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator. Behind him, Philip Peters appeared. He hadn't left. He'd been napping. The noise woke him. Philip stared at the gaunt, disheveled stranger raiding his icebox. He didn't recognize the man—Theodore had changed drastically in thirty years. Philip raised his cane and struck at the intruder. Theodore grabbed an old pistol he'd found in the house and clubbed Philip with it. The gun broke apart. Theodore kept hitting. He grabbed a heavy iron stove shaker and bludgeoned the seventy-three-year-old man to death. Then he climbed back up into the attic

A Locked Room And No Suspect

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and disappeared. An hour later, Philip's neighbor, Jennie Ross, arrived at the house. Philip always came to her place for dinner. When he didn't show up, she got worried. She found his body on the floor. The Denver Police arrived and searched the house. All the doors and windows were locked from the inside. There was no sign of forced entry. No sign of the killer. The house had become a locked-room mystery. Detectives noted the small trapdoor in the closet ceiling, but they dismissed it immediately. "No normal-sized person could fit through that," they concluded. The case went cold. Philip's wife was eventually released from the hospital and returned home—now a widow. A friend moved in to help her. But soon, both women reported strange occurrences. Food went missing. Strange sounds came from the walls. Things moved on their own. The housekeeper quit, convinced the house was haunted. Philip's wife, terrified, moved to Grand Junction to live with her son. The house stood empty.

The Ghost House Rumors Spread

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Except it wasn't empty. Theodore Coneys was still living in the attic. Neighbors began calling it "The Ghost House of Denver." They reported seeing lights flicker on and off inside the vacant home. They heard footsteps. They saw the position of the blinds change. People were too scared to walk past the house. Police camped out for two days and nights, watching for signs of paranormal activity. They saw nothing. But the reports continued.

Detectives Catch Him Climbing Up

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On July 30, 1942—nine months after the murder—two detectives, Roy Bloxom and William Jackson, decided to check the house one more time. They were walking through the second floor when they heard a sound. A lock clicking. They turned toward a closet just in time to see a pair of legs disappearing up through the small opening in the ceiling. They grabbed the legs and pulled. A man tumbled down—gaunt, pale, filthy, weighing only seventy-five pounds despite standing nearly six feet tall. His clothes were tattered rags. He looked like something from a nightmare. Theodore Edward Coneys was finally captured. At the police station, Theodore confessed everything. He admitted to killing Philip Peters and living in the attic for nine months afterward. "I did not eat for days, but I lived," he told police. "It was miserable hot in the summer and my feet froze in the dead of winter in that attic, but it was all part of the price I was willing to pay. I can't tell you why I stuck it out. I guess it was mostly because it was a world all my own." Police sent their smallest officer, Fred Zarnow, up into the attic to investigate Theodore's hiding place.

Inside The Coffin-Sized Hiding Spot

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The space was barely larger than a coffin, covered in cobwebs and dust. Theodore had fashioned a "bed" from an old ironing board and stacks of magazines. He'd saved all his waste in cans lined against the walls. The stench was so overwhelming that Officer Zarnow vomited. After recovering, Zarnow said, "A man would have to be a spider to stand it long up there." The newspapers heard the quote and ran with it. Theodore Edward Coneys became known as "The Denver Spiderman." In October 1942, Theodore was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. He was sent to the Colorado State Penitentiary in Cañon City, where he remained for the rest of his life. On May 16, 1967, Theodore Edward Coneys died at the prison hospital. He was eighty-four years old. He had outlived the doctors who said he wouldn't see eighteen. He had survived weak lungs, a weak heart, homelessness, the Great Depression, and nine months living in a space no larger than a coffin. But he never escaped what he did on October 17, 1941.

The Legacy Of A Nearby Horror

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The case of the Denver Spiderman remains one of the most chilling true crime stories in American history—not because of the violence, but because of what it reveals about how close horror can be. Philip Peters lived in his house for weeks, never knowing that someone was living above his head. Watching him. Following him from room to room. Playing a game. Theodore Coneys killed a man and then stayed in his victim's house for nine months while police searched for answers and neighbors whispered about ghosts. The worst nightmares aren't always the ones we imagine. Sometimes they're the ones living in the attic, just eight inches above your head, waiting.