The Curse of Griffith Park

I have a love affair with Griffith Park. When I first came to Hollywood and witnessed the mix of dilapidation and overpriced tourist facades, the alcoholics in tenements and schemers that preyed on newcomers, I needed a refuge. Just two blocks north, I let Griffith Park swallow me whole. The branches of the live oaks seemed to embrace me as I disappeared into it. I love the lush greenery in Fern Dell, the rocky peaks where coyotes emerge at sunset and the dark tunnel that leads to the Observatory. Horses are everywhere. The Haunted Hayride at Halloween is unmatched by any East Coast farmhouse, no matter how authentic or remote. You can't compete with Hollywood set designers and union actors.

Colonel Griffith J. Griffith

The creek seemed to cleanse the city grit off of my skin. The mountaintop carried me high above the yellow-brown blanket of smog. I was also surrounded by a different breed of hikers. While Runyon Canyon is the place for the liposucked to seal TV deals while burning off their skinny lattes, Griffith Park was filled with a quieter sort. People were there to immerse themselves in quiet, in nature or to be with family. It was so untouched, it felt wholesome. Just as it should, as Griffith Park does hold the old kiddie carousel that inspired Walt Disney to create Disneyland.

But what many don't know about is the curse of Griffith Park. This storied piece of land is priceless, and perhaps because of it, this park holds a checkered past. Wikipedia does confirm that:

- In 1896, Mr. Griffith (of Griffith Park) was supposedly spooked by the ghost of Antonio Feliz, the land's previous owner at the park.

- In 1903, Mr. Griffith shot his wife, severely wounding her and was put in jail.

- In 1933, a fire trapped and killed 29 men and injured 150 more.

Since then, there have been fires, crimes, dying cattle, ruined crops and mysteries surrounding Griffith Park. But here's the real question: Why was Mr. Griffiths haunted by the ghost of Antonio Feliz, the original owner?

 

Apparently, a curse was placed on the land by his blind niece, Dona Petronilla. She was angry that a back-door deal had stolen the land away from his heirs that lived on the land, such as herself.  Is the curse scarier because she is blind? Um, yea. How did the land get weaseled away to a third party?  According to Weird California: Don Antonio Feliz was wasting away with smallpox, and on his deathbed, Don Antonio Coronel visited him with a lawyer, Don Innocante. Supposedly these two gentlemen drew up the will and the story claims that a stick was attached to the back of Don Antonio Feliz to help the poor dying man nod his head in agreement to the new will. The new will was witnessed by several ranch workers with the surname Paco who resided a short distance from the main house.

the swindler

Countless websites have covered the above events, and countless more Angelenos have written in to claim supernatural activity. Someone even took it upon themselves to make a horror movie about the curse, but thought it would be cooler with, like, monsters or something. It looks pretty bad.

But this curse has the opposite effect on me and many others who frequent Griffith Park. Angelenos are desperate for history and culture, so instead of scaring us away, we're like moths to a flame. Much as we hate to admit it, tragedy is romantic. Ghost stories are titillating. I wish more places in Los Angeles were as storied as Griffith Park. 

Creepy in the Simi Valley - Bottle Village

The Simi Valley has always felt a bit creepy to me. It's home to the Santa Susana Pass, where Charles Manson and his "family" lived, on Spahn Ranch. It's also an epicenter for sudden brushfires that always roar out of control. Also home to Simi Valley is Bottle Village. 

Constructed by "Grandma Prisbrey" (who scowls at you from the official website), it's a little city made of glass that she salvaged from junkyards.

The light glinting off the glass was beautiful, yet haunting. Pictures exposed immaculate craftwork, but total dilapidation. Particularly Cleopatra's Bedroom. One can tell it was a beautiful shrine with a raised bed and billowing curtains, but disintegrated into a dusty pile of scraps. 

After wandering fearfully through all the tiny sheds, it's a bit strange to return to life in Los Angeles. One moment you are looking at decrepit doll heads on stakes, and the next moment, you see a man tinkering with his Chevy in his garage, Eagles on the stereo.

America's Most Haunted?

Only thirty places in the United States are designated as haunted by the Department of Commerce, and the Whaley House is one of them. It's famously dubbed "America's Most Haunted." How could I not go? Mostly I wanted to visit because a ghost once scared the bejesus out of Regis Philbin back in 1964, and I thought any spirit with the inclination to do that has got to be pretty awesome.

I saw a documentary about the place, and before the ill-fated Whaley family built this home, it was a public gallows. One particularly morbid hanging was that of "Yankee Jim" Robinson, pictured right. He was clubbed over the head while trying to steal a boat, then promptly dragged to court semi-conscious. He was ordered to be hung from the scaffold.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Mr. Robinson was tall for that era, and his legs were long enough to have his feet lightly touching the floor. He was even rumored to have grasped part of the scaffolding to help support himself. It was a harrowing scene, and it took about an hour for him to die. His dragging footsteps are rumored to be heard all around the home. The doorway in the photo to the left is the location where Yankee Jim was hung before the Whaley House was built.

When the family built a home atop these gallows, the sordid history never faded. Amidst the reported supernatural activity, the Whaleys carried on in that home. They had a young son who died at 18 months from Scarlet Fever. Their daughter Violet Whaley suffered from depression and shot herself in the heart in the outhouse. A great-granddaughter of the family, Marion Reynolds, died from ingesting an oddly large amount of ant poisoning. What's strange is that she was eleven, and old enough to know better. There's also a rumor that a neighbor named Annabelle or Carrie Washburn ran into their clothes line by accident, crushing her esophagus and dying.

It was a great tour if only for the historical aspects. I did not experience anything supernatural, but it was a beautiful home and worth the six bucks hands down. I spoke with a few employees, who confirmed that they have walked into rooms only to smell cigar smoke, (Thomas Whaley was a cigar smoker) and lavender perfume, presumably from Mrs. Anna Whaley. Footsteps are heard as well, but a few people have seen the ghosts, like Regis Philbin. Mr. Philbin is quoted to have said, "You know a lot of people pooh-pooh it because they can't see it. But there was something going on in that house."

Serves him right for using the term "pooh pooh."

Kids' rooms with dolls are always creepy.

The Haunted House of San Pedro

I wish to report that a friend and I did a drive-by of the infamous haunted house in San Pedro - the Jackie Hernandez house. Urban legend has it that an ashen-faced corpse of a man with a red flannel shirt tormented the resident. Documentary footage showed an orange-reddish substance oozing from the walls, and tests returned claiming it was blood plasma high in copper.

Like any supposedly haunted house, I am never scared of the ghosts, but the fed-up residents who have to deal with weirdos like me. Some say the house was on 355 11th St., but that ended up being a well-preserved Victorian, and didn't match the documentary footage. Like many Californians who think anything built before the 80's is "old," I think residents tagged it as the Hernandez home because Victorians have the generic haunted sheen from horror flicks.

Others said the house is on the 500 block, so we cruised the second alleged address, 591 11th St. After the infamous Manson murders, Sharon Tate's abode was torn down and given an all-new address. That seemed to be the case in San Pedro as well. The house numbered 591 was missing and the facade standing where it should be looked brand new. Did I mention the shirtless chubby guy grilling in the backyard? Yea, that killed it for us.

My friend and I took a picture of both facades. Discuss.

Hotel del Hype

Where I grew up, everyone was surrounded by battlefields, colonial homes and historic landmarks. My old friend found a Civil War coin in her creek. Another used to camp out beside the Revolutionary War trench in her backyard. We were surrounded by the romance of history and the possibility of hauntings. I lived just outside of D.C. in Virginia, and every school made the pilgrimage to the reportedly haunted Ford Theatre. Alcohol also feeds the curiosity, and when away at college down South, we crept around abandoned plantations and old corn fields, just to see if we could feel something.

Here in Los Angeles, there isn't much left standing that could spark the spirit of adventure. Mexican battlefronts are now paved strip malls, gone are the crumbling, moss-covered graveyards and nearly all Victorian homes have been razed, eliminating even the appearance of a haunted house. But we do have the Hotel Del Coronado just off the coast of San Diego.

Legend has it, the ghost of Kate Morgan haunts the hotel, and her visage has been seen by staff and guest alike. Kate was a young woman who checked in over Thanksgiving weekend in 1892 under the alias Lottie Bernard. She stayed a few days, and the staff became increasingly concerned about how upset she seemed. After taking a street car into San Diego to buy a gun and ammunition, she killed herself on the steps of the hotel leading to the ocean. Other guests at the time reported that Kate seemed to be watching and waiting constantly, as if expecting someone to meet her at the hotel. No one ever came.

It's not that I'm insensitive to the plight of Abraham Lincoln, slaves and suicidal Victorian brides. My love of history mixed with the fact that I like being scared force me to seek these things out. I can't help myself.

My husband and I flew down the freeway to Coronado Island, just off the coast of San Diego. As we approached the infamous hotel, I was reminded of the repeated images I had seen in many a dragged-out History Channel documentary. You know the kind, with the creepy music and the promise to unfold the mystery right after the 18th commercial break. I wanted it to feel cavernous and lonely inside, like the hotel in The Shining.

It was beautiful. The dark, wood-paneled interiors had vaulted ceilings. The elevator was an iron cage. The darkness was contrasted by the white beaches outside. But I felt nothing. I ignored the signs and trespassed down the hallways, especially by room #3327, where most of the activity is said to take place. Nothing. I stalked the gift shop, where things were reported to have flown off the shelves. I lounged in different lobby enclaves, sinking into overstuffed antique furniture. Still nothing.

But all is not lost. Any East Coast transplant dying to escape the yawn-worthy architecture of Los Angeles should take in the place. Hollywood hails Frank Gehry's Walt Disney Concert Hall as a masterpiece, but after seeing the Hotel Del Coronado, they'll be astonished to discover they've been brainwashed. Upon returning from the "Hotel Del" as locals call it, Angelenos will realize that Mr. Gehry's creation is but a giant replica of crumpled tin foil.

Besides, what would I get out of seeing a reportedly depressed ghost? Terror and sadness? Why do I seek out such things? I can get terror and sadness locally. Trolling the streets of Watts, I can blast country music, heckle idiot gangsters and they can make a ghost of me.