Unwelcome Home
On a sunny afternoon in 1972, I inched up a narrow driveway on Fountain Avenue. I stepped out, walking across the lawn to get a better view of the house my friend Wally had moved into the week before.
It was a lovely Craftsman-style home, set back from the street and featuring large windows on either side of the entrance. Large, round columns anchored a wide porch running the width of the house. We had lunch plans, but Wally wanted to give me the twenty-five-cent tour before we took off.
He stood smiling in the doorway, beckoning me in. I crossed the threshold into a large, rectangular living room with two old-fashioned windows flanking a big brick fireplace on the far-left wall.
I was drawn into the energy and instantly loved this house. It was obvious to me that it had been lovingly cared for, and though it wasn’t a glamorous house, it really felt like “Old Hollywood.” Before taking another step I said, “Wally, if you ever decide to move out of here, please call me first. I would love to rent this house.”
Surprised by my comment, he smiled nervously, muttering, “Don’t think I’m movin’ any time soon, Karen,” and turned to finish giving me the tour.
To the right was a beautiful sunroom filled with natural light from the surrounding windows. I followed Wally’s lead along gleaming wood floors, passing through a formal dining room with six tall French windows lining the outer wall.
We entered a big, old-fashioned kitchen. Without a word, Wally crossed over to lean against the counter as I moved to stand in the center of the marble linoleum floor. Wally covered his mouth, smiling, watching as I slowly turned around to take it all in.
The more I looked around, the more I realized how sophisticated this old-fashioned kitchen really was. It was wonderful, but in a really odd sort of way. In spite of this being an old Craftsman home in the heart of Hollywood, the kitchen just “looked” old, and was the size of a catering kitchen in a hotel. It had everything my cook’s heart could ever want: double ovens, a professional six-burner Wolf range, an oversized sink, wraparound counters and cabinets, and a huge refrigerator and freezer.
I have always believed that “love lives” in the kitchen of a house, and this kitchen spoke directly to my heart. From the time I moved into my first apartment, I have entertained in my home and had always done all the cooking myself, no matter how many people were coming. I have always enjoyed hosting Thanksgiving, holiday, and birthday celebrations, as well as random dinner parties throughout the year, so this kitchen was a dream.
As I wandered from appliance to cabinet, looking at everything, Wally never moved from his perch. I stepped through a doorway at the far end of the kitchen to find another hidden jewel, a totally equipped service porch with a full-sized washer and dryer, shelving, more cabinets, and a large, very deep sink.
During all of my “Wow!”s and ongoing proclamations of “What a great house!” Wally just watched me, never uttering a word.
He had spent a lot of time in my kitchen over the years and knew how much I love to cook, so when we finally left this funny, odd, and amazing kitchen, he reminded me once again, “You know I just moved in, Karen, so please don’t start packing yet. I’m planning to be here awhile.”
I didn’t know what had come over me since I walked in the front door. I had no connection to this house, nor did I have any intention or interest in moving anywhere at that time, and I had never even considered living in this area. All of it was a bit surreal and completely out of character for me. My logic had apparently flown right out the window when it came to anything about this peculiar little house on Fountain.
From the moment I walked through the front door, I felt like I had been hypnotized by the energy in this house. I knew it didn’t make any sense, but I felt that I was supposed to be in this house. I could “see” myself living there, not in some sort of wishful thinking way, but in a certain and knowing way.
Though I had no idea how my living in this house would ever come about, I knew in my heart that I would, even though Wally had just moved in. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Oh, I didn’t mean now, but when and if you do move again, please call me. I would rent this house in a heartbeat.”
We were done with the tour, and out the front door we went, chattering all through lunch. Wally was a lovely, soft-spoken guy, and we had been friends from the time I started giving readings. We saw each other socially throughout the years, but when a sweep of life-changing events started blowing through his life, we started seeing each other more frequently.
The gale-force winds of change lasted almost a year for Wally, and during that difficult period we started having what I called “therapy lunches” around Los Angeles. He was finally ready to begin putting his life back together, and moving into the house on Fountain Avenue was the first step.
He had been married to a well-known actress for several years. Though she was many years older than Wally, it never appeared to be an issue, and their marriage seemed loving and close. Everything was fine between them. Until one day it wasn’t, and suddenly, without warning, their outwardly happy marriage was simply over.
Wally was like a brother to me, and though his marriage appeared to be fine to the outside world, I had looked at it through very different eyes. I had always felt that she “cared” about him, but in their life together, she treated him like a pet, or her “boy toy.” It was also clear to me from the beginning that he never knew that, because he had truly loved her.
The rapid disintegration of their life together hadn’t surprised me, but it turned Wally’s life upside down. From one day to the next, it was over. There was no conversation, no healing possible. Out of nowhere, she slammed the door shut on their marriage. Overnight he was pushed out of her life, and out of the life they had shared. He had been lost, and this move was a beginning.
Wally was in a playful mood over lunch, teasing me about my funny reaction to his house and my special love affair with the kitchen. He reminded me that he never got around to showing me the layout of the bedrooms or the old-fashioned pedestal sink in the bathroom.
I laughed and said that I thought the kitchen was the whole house. I talked about how drawn I was to the house, and how unusual the energy in it felt. I told him that as far as I was concerned, after visiting the kitchen I didn’t need to see the rest of the house.
For several weeks, even though we continued to meet occasionally for one of our “therapy lunches,” I hadn’t been back to the house. On one of our planned lunch days, Wally called to say he “had something to do and couldn’t make it today,” casually adding, “By the way, Karen, were you serious about wanting to rent the house?”
My heart started racing, sure that he was kidding. “You mean your house? Absolutely! Why, are you moving?”
He was trying to sound casual, like what he was about to tell me was an everyday occurrence. “Well, yeah, I’m moving into one of the apartments next door. Actually, I’m moving this afternoon. That’s why I can’t make lunch today.” He paused to take a deep breath. “So, were you serious? Do you want to rent the house?”
All of a sudden, a mixture of shock and that weird hypnotic feeling I had experienced in the house overcame me. My logical mind, refusing to believe him, still needed to be convinced, or at least have him laugh and tell me he was setting me up, just to see my reaction.
The tone in his voice was serious, so I was completely confused and more than a little freaked out. He was so matter-of-fact about moving again that I still wasn’t sure if he was telling me the truth.
My internal freakout continued. “What do you mean today?! Are you kidding? You just moved in six weeks ago! I mean, I love the house, so yes, I was serious, but you’re not really moving today, are you?”
He didn’t laugh. “Yup, I am. Pretty funny, huh? I can hardly believe it myself, but I am, and Karen, it’s not like I’m going anywhere. I’ll be right next door. So do you want the house?” I finally believed him.
I completely ignored my gut feelings and the incessant screaming in my mind, along with every other obvious sign to run in the other direction. Foolishly leaving my freaked-out suspicions about his sudden move unchecked, I never even bothered to ask him, “Why?”
I went running, skipping, and leaping headlong into the move. “Wow! Okay, if you’re really moving? I’d love to rent the house, but have you talked to the landlord yet? And, please, if he says okay, don’t forget to tell him that my mother will be living with me.”
His voice was calmer now, saying he wanted to ask me if I was serious first, but would speak with the landlord and call me later that afternoon. His “later” wound up being less than ten minutes.
It appeared to be so easy, as though it was “meant to be.” He said the landlord was delighted that I wanted the house, and told Wally to just give me the keys. He would stop by to meet my mother and me after we moved in.
I couldn’t have known that, from the moment the word “Yes” fell from my lips in response to Wally’s question, my life would be forever changed. That one simple word set in motion a series of events with life-altering consequences and profound lessons. For my mother and for me, nothing would ever be the same again.
As I switched into “autopilot” mode, my days became consumed with packing, utility companies, and movers, and—the most important part for me—making sure that my clients could find me. I still marvel at the fact that my mother and I were 100 percent organized, packed, and being moved in only two weeks!
I think moving day for everyone can be pretty crazy, no matter how organized and prepared you are. This moving day brought the usual crazy energy, along with a few really strange surprises by the end of the day.
I wanted my mother to be happy in our new home. Though I was sure she would love the kitchen, the rest of the house was a total mystery for both of us. By getting there before the movers and utility technicians arrived, we could take the rest of the house tour together, the one that I had missed the first time around.
As the move unfolded, I realized that I was completely unable to stop my illogical connection to this house. I could hardly believe that Wally was standing here in front of me, very nervously handing me the keys to my new home. The home I was moving my mother into, the home that I had rented over the phone without really seeing.
It was surprising, but we were definitely here; the keys were definitely real; and we definitely were about to move into a house that, as far as I knew, stopped at the kitchen. I had no idea what the bathroom looked like, or if the bedrooms were even big enough for our furniture; and as crazy as it sounds, none of that seemed to matter as my hand closed around the keys.
Wally’s behavior that day was just weird, like he was going to jump out of his skin. I invited him in, but he turned and was sprinting up the stairs to his apartment by the time the words “No thanks” came out of his mouth.
At any other time, I would have asked him what was wrong, why he had been behaving so strangely. The truth is, he never told me anything, nor did I ever ask. I don’t think I was supposed to know, because if I had known the source of Wally’s irrational behavior, I promise you I would have made a very different choice.
It was a perfect day to move: the sun was shining and the air was crisp. We were both in a very happy mood, looking forward to this move. God bless the spirit of my wonderful mother; she didn’t give it a second thought that I had only seen the front rooms of the house. She thought it was great, whatever it was, and looked at it as us embarking on a shared adventure.
My mother stood behind me as I slipped the key in the lock, crossing the threshold of our lovely home, without the slightest idea of the terrifying world we were stepping into.
I stepped aside as my mother checked out the front rooms, and as I had hoped, she loved them. Moving across to the doorway into the first bedroom, the real adventure was about to begin.
We were grateful to find that there was plenty of room for my bedroom furniture, and a very large closet. My mother decided this would be my room, and she would take the bedroom at the back of the house.
We continued into a square-shaped hallway between the two bedrooms. All of the doors in the hallway were open, except one. I peeked around one to discover a floor-to-ceiling linen closet, tucked away next to a connecting door leading back into the kitchen. The remaining open door led into a pristine, white-and-black-tiled bathroom.
While exploring the bathroom, my mother joked about what secrets we might find hidden behind the closed door to her “boudoir.” We turned left out of the bathroom, standing in front of the closed door. Taking a deep breath, I gripped the doorknob, slowly pushing open the “boudoir” door.
I took one step and knew that my mother was never sleeping a night in this room. I couldn’t move. Though the window shades were up to welcome this bright sunny day, not a sliver of light or warmth came through the windows of this room.
Unknowingly, I had stepped into the icy gray haze that filled every corner of the space; with a deep sense of dread, I realized that nothing could penetrate the “dead cold” enveloping this room.
Poking her head around, my mother attempted to get past me, only to jerk back instinctively from the shocking cold. Visibly shaken, she practically jumped back into the hallway, as I tried to catch my breath.
Someone had died in that room, and their energy was still there, hanging in the air. Forcing myself, I slowly backed out, firmly closing the door to this “room of death” for one last time. I stood silent trying to gather my thoughts, staring at the door in front of me. I needed to be calm for my mother.
As I didn’t know who had died, or the history of the house, I couldn’t help them leave, or help my mother understand what had just happened in that room. In an instant I knew why I’d felt hypnotized from the moment I stepped in the house.
I turned around, smiling, cheerfully leading my mother into the kitchen. “Well, you’re definitely never sleeping in that room! Let’s go look at the kitchen.”
I think she was too freaked out to ever ask me what happened, so there became an unspoken agreement between us never to speak of it again. We never opened the door again, and from that day forward, it was as though that room simply didn’t exist.
Everything else about the move went on as scheduled, and as the furniture was being delivered, we decided to turn the sunroom into a very lovely bedroom for my mother. I secretly hoped that the bedroom would be the only anomaly we would have to deal with, because we both loved the house. Though I was very conscious about the terrifying energy in the bedroom, the “creep factor” was quickly becoming a non-issue, seeming to fade a little with every box we unpacked.
Within the first week, a handyman took care of my mother’s short list of things she needed done in the house for her peace of mind, including the installation of a deadbolt on the door between the kitchen and the service porch. We cheered as we checked the last thing off her list. We were finally done with the move and could really enjoy our new home.
For the first month or so, everything appeared to be pretty normal. I was busy giving readings, and we had a housewarming party, along with a couple of small dinner parties with friends. It was a quiet and peaceful period for us, and it felt like life had finally returned to normal.
One afternoon I went into the kitchen, only to find the door between the kitchen and the service porch standing wide open. That was the door we’d had a deadbolt lock installed on for security, so I thought that maybe my mother had forgotten to lock it; I would ask her about it when she got up from a nap. A few minutes later she wandered into the kitchen to join me. Although she was still sleepy, I asked her about the door being left open, and she said, “How could I have left the door open, sweetheart? You have the only key to the lock, remember?”
I dropped what I was doing, running to get my keys out of my purse. There it was. The one and only key to the deadbolt, hanging on my key ring, and it had been in my possession since the day the lock was installed. Now I was completely baffled. I went back to the kitchen with my keys, looking closely at the door to see that it had definitely been unlocked. I closed the door, locking it and unlocking it two or three times. I turned the doorknob, pulling on the door, but it held fast. I know it seems like a small thing, but this was just crazy, and I knew for sure that the deadbolt didn’t spontaneously unlock itself, so how in the world could this happen? Since we could find no logical explanation for the deadbolt being unlocked, we made it a habit to check the door every time we went near the kitchen.
One of the many jobs I held while building my practice was at Canter’s Deli in Los Angeles. Because I gave readings during the day, I worked the eight in the evening to four in the morning shift, five or six days a week. Canter’s wasn’t very far from the house, so every night when I got home from work I would grab the newspaper and read it, sitting cross-legged on my antique four-poster bed, before I went to sleep.
One morning, as I quietly sat reading the paper, I started hearing footsteps. They were soft at first, so I tried to ignore them, but they became increasingly louder and more persistent, sounding as though there was someone walking around my bed. I was startled. I looked around the room, for what I don’t know, because I couldn’t see anyone, but there was definitely someone walking very closely around my bed. They were so close that I thought if I reached my arm out, I would touch them, but I was frozen in place and didn’t move. For about ten minutes they continued walking back and forth, loud enough for me to hear the floorboards creaking under the measured footsteps. My mind was racing: who was this, and what did they want? All of a sudden the walking stopped just as suddenly as it had begun. I turned off the lights and lay in bed the entire night with my eyes wide open. My heart felt as if it was about to beat out of my chest as I tried to make sense of what had just happened.
My mother slept through the first time someone was walking around my bed, but the next time was on one of my days off, so it was earlier in the evening and she happened to be awake. I was reading in bed as the footsteps started; there was no question that someone wanted me to know they were there: the steps were loud, very close, and deliberate, causing the wood to creak incessantly as they strode around my bed. I sat up, softly calling out for my mother to please come into my bedroom.
The footsteps continued as my mother made her way across the living room. I didn’t move a muscle, staring at the doorway in anticipation. I wanted her to hear them. The moment she stepped into my room with “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” the footsteps abruptly stopped. I looked around, attempting to explain the two incidents, but unless she could actually hear the footsteps herself, it sounded ridiculous, and was impossible for her to understand.
The footsteps had stopped, but I knew that the energy in the house had definitely changed. I simply wasn’t ready to look at it, or deal with it, just yet. I started planning another dinner party, and wanted to set the food up buffet style in the dining room. There were six French windows lining the wall, and I wanted to have them open for the evening. When I went to open them several days before the party, I was surprised to find that every one of them had been nailed shut, from top to bottom, at three- or four-inch increments.
I ran into the owner the next afternoon and asked him if he could have the nails removed so I could open the windows in the dining room. He told me that they had been nailed shut for as many years as he could remember, and unfortunately he couldn’t do it because the windows and the frames were so old, there was no way of removing all those nails without destroying the wood. I went back and looked at the window frames, and he was right. The nails had been hammered deep into the wood, with most of the nail heads below the surface of the frame—so that was the end of that, or so it seemed.
About four days after my conversation with the owner, my mother and I had run some errands to get ready for the party. We were gone about three hours and walked into the house laden down with groceries. As I stepped into the dining room, I noticed that every one of the windows was open, and open at exactly the same angle.
I dropped the bags inside the kitchen door, spinning around to look at the windows, but before I could walk around to them, I noticed the nails on the table. They weren’t just strewn on the table; these rusted and bent three- or four-inch-long nails had been laid out in some odd pattern, as though they had purposely been placed in some kind of order, lined up next to each other like little soldiers. They were not only on the table, but the orderly line also flowed onto the chair, and finally onto the floor.
I stood there for a minute studying the bizarre layout. Finally pulling myself away, I went over to check the extent of the damage that had been done to the window frames. I touched the wood where the nails had been, and couldn’t believe that there was no splintering; there were no gouge marks around the nail holes; and, though I knew it wasn’t possible, there was no damage to the wood at all! The wood looked like the nails had been pulled straight out, leaving only the small holes they had been driven into! Mystified, I gathered up the bent and rusted nails, rubbing my fingers over the smooth wood one more time. I wanted to believe that the owner had come into the house and magically done this.
I was so happy to have them open that when I saw the owner again, I thanked him for taking the nails out of the window frames for me. He looked like he was going to faint, but didn’t. Instead he stepped back, started fidgeting, and wouldn’t look at me again. I waited for him to say something about the windows, but when he finally spoke, his voice was tight and he made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it. “I told you that I couldn’t take those nails out, so I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I definitely had nothing to do with it. Have a good day, Karen.” And with that, he turned and walked away.
From that day forward, the strange and unexplainable events in the house became increasingly more terrifying, started happening with much greater frequency, and were quite clearly directed at me.
Mother’s Day was coming, and because my mother had been a florist for many years, I always went out of my way to have beautiful flower arrangements delivered to her on that special day. My friend David owned several flower shops, so he was my go-to guy for my mother. I asked him to do something spectacular for this particular holiday, and he definitely did. The arrangement was so big that when it was placed on the table in front of my mother’s bed, it blocked the entire view into the living room. Many years earlier, my mother had given me a beautiful, turquoise glass ashtray from Sweden. It was quite large and very heavy, weighing about eight pounds. It had been a decorative piece on the table in my mother’s room, so when the flowers were delivered, the ashtray was sort of tucked under the long flower stems, next to the base of the container holding them.
Late in the afternoon the day after the flowers were delivered, my mother was dozing in the sunroom and I was lying on the sofa, reading a book. It was very quiet in the house, and I must have been reading for about half an hour when, out of nowhere and just barely missing my head, my beautiful turquoise ashtray came whizzing past my head, and with a loud “boom” slammed into the fireplace, shattering into a million pieces. It was as though someone had picked it up and thrown it full force toward my head, like a baseball! I was terrified!
My mother jumped up, yelling, “What was that? Are you okay?”
I wasn’t okay, but I couldn’t even begin to tell my mother that someone, or something, had thrown my ashtray at me, and now it was in a million pieces all over the floor. Thankfully the flowers had blocked her view, so I went in to comfort her, trying desperately to keep my shaking to a minimum. I didn’t want her coming into the living room to see what had happened, so I told her that I was a klutz and had dropped something. Making light of the noise, I kept her company until she had calmed down and I could get the dustpan and broom, and clean up the mess.
The series of incidents that had occurred up to this point I could almost ignore, because they were small in comparison and they hadn’t been violent. This flying ashtray episode, though, was something entirely different. If their aim had been better, they would have killed me. I had to figure out what to do about this, whatever this was.
Three days after Mother’s Day, I was taking my mother to a doctor’s appointment, and on my way out of the house I remembered that I needed to take the flowers into the kitchen, to get rid of the few flowers that had died or were wilting and clean up the arrangement. We were running short on time, so I picked up the arrangement, took it into the kitchen, and set it on the counter to deal with when we got back. We were gone about two hours, and when we got home, I noticed the empty table and headed for the kitchen, with my mother following me.
When I got to the kitchen door, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I could hardly breathe as I blocked the doorway, looking into the kitchen. I spun around, calmly asking my mother not to look in the kitchen, and to please go relax in the sunroom. I stepped into the kitchen to find every single one of the beautiful flowers that had been in the Mother’s Day arrangement strewn all over the kitchen floor! Dead! The flowers were dry, gray, and brittle, with every bit of color drained out of them. They looked like they had been dead for a month! The now-empty container was the only thing left, and it sat alone on the counter, exactly where I had left it. A knot of fear began settling in my stomach as I collected the dead flowers from the floor. The menace in the house was escalating, and now I was worried that it was going to turn on my mother.
Though it appeared to have calmed down in the house, at least for a couple of weeks after the flower-killer episode, I was so on edge that sleep had become nearly impossible. I was sitting cross-legged on my bed one evening, reading the paper, when suddenly a familiar sound broke the quiet of the night. Someone was walking around my bed. The footsteps were louder than ever, and this time I was going to make sure that my mother heard them. I called out to her, once again asking her to please come to the door of my bedroom because I wanted her to hear something. I asked her not to come in, just to come to the door. In a minute, she was at my door, sleepily placing one hand on either side of the doorway, asking me, “What is it, sweetheart?”
I looked at my mother intensely, bringing my index finger up to my lips, signaling her to be quiet, softly saying, “Listen.” I watched as she listened, her eyes widening with fear, as she finally realized that the sounds she was hearing were actual footsteps.
She didn’t move from the doorway, now trying to make sense out of it. “Who’s doing that?”
I was really freaking out inside, because this time the footsteps didn’t stop when we spoke. I was trying very hard to remain calm, so I smiled at her, hoping she would remain calm, too. “I don’t know, Mom. We haven’t been formally introduced.”
My mother abruptly turned out of the doorway, yelling, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m calling the police!”
I scrambled off the bed, trying desperately to stop her, but to no avail. The police were there in five minutes. My mother was very upset as she told them that someone had been walking around my bed. When they asked where I had been when it happened, I told them that I was sitting on the bed, reading. That just made them smile. One of the policemen put his hand on my shoulder, looked in my eyes, and asked, “Miss, have you been smoking any of those funny cigarettes? Or have you been drinking tonight?”
I was furious but polite. “No, officer, I don’t do drugs and I don’t drink, and I don’t expect that you’d understand this situation, so I don’t think you can help us, but thank you for coming anyway.” They finally left, and were never called again.
I was completely petrified, and though we had only been living in the house for a little over three months at this point, I knew I was going to have to make arrangements for us to move. Unfortunately, the owner was out of the country and wouldn’t be back for two weeks, so we had no other choice but to wait.
Also unfortunately, we were having a birthday party for a friend that had already been scheduled for a few days after our visit from the police. Since it was too late to cancel, we went ahead with it. The party was great until later in the evening. It started when one of our friends came into the kitchen with a terror-stricken look on her face. She leaned into me, and in a desperate whisper, said, “Something is wrong with your bathroom.”
Walking through the kitchen, I crossed the hallway into the bathroom, where everything looked fine. I went into the living room to find out from her more detail about what had happened. She was standing with four other friends, all with the same terror-stricken looks on their faces. I knew this wasn’t going to be good. Each one told me the same story: that when they went to use the bathroom, as they were sitting on the commode, it would spontaneously and repeatedly flush, along with all of the water turning on at full force from every faucet, including the bathtub. Each one of them had come running out of the bathroom, shaking and scared.
I told them I would take care of it. I stepped into the center of the bathroom, quietly standing there for a couple of minutes. My friends gathered outside the door, filling up the hallway and spilling into the kitchen to watch.
I looked around at the quiet bathroom, and in a loud, clear voice, I said, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT, BUT STOP SCARING MY FRIENDS! YOU NEED TO LEAVE THIS HOUSE, NOW!”
The words were barely out of my mouth when the fury was unleashed! Simultaneously, the toilet flushed; every faucet turned on full force, including the tub; and the valance and curtain on the window and the shower curtain came crashing to the floor—as though someone had grabbed them and ripped them down with force!
Everyone was still screaming as they grabbed their coats off my bed. I ran into the living room, profusely apologizing, trying to explain that there was definitely something wrong with the house, quietly adding that we would be moving shortly. I don’t think any of them heard me, because there was practically a stampede out the front door.
I closed the door knowing that I couldn’t wait for the owner to return from his trip. We would be out of this house as soon as humanly possible, no matter what. I lived in terror every day; my mother had been a nervous wreck since the police incident; and the last straw was them terrorizing my friends. We started looking for a new place the next day, and were moving ten days later.
The owner never asked me why we were moving, but he agreed to come over on the day of the move to collect the keys. The movers were loading the last pieces on the truck when he showed up. I told him to come into the house, but he refused. Instead he stood nervously in the driveway, sweating profusely. I walked up to him, standing uncomfortably close, asking him, “Who died in the back bedroom of that house?”
He stepped back, refusing to look at me, nervously saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I stepped forward and grabbed his lapel, pulling him close so he couldn’t avoid looking in my eyes. “Stop lying, and tell me who died in that back room!”
Now he just looked scared. Sputtering and trying to pull out of my grasp, he twisted around, but I wouldn’t let go. He stopped moving around when he realized that he wasn’t going anywhere until he told me. He took a deep breath as he tried to look away, and as his shoulders slumped forward, he finally gave in, emotionless. “My aunts took every penny they had and built this house. Both of them died in it, in that back room.”
Now it all made sense, but I wanted to know who they were and why they were still so attached to this house. “What did they do that they built that huge kitchen?” I let go of his lapel.
All of his fear faded as he finally let go of the lies connected to the house. “They were vaudeville dancers, and after that they did USO shows for the troops until they got sick. They entertained half of Hollywood, and as many of the armed forces as they could, in that house. It was their dream house.”
I was so angry that he didn’t tell me when we moved in. I looked at him and said, “Just so you know, they will keep terrorizing every person you rent their house to, until you rent it to people like them. They almost killed me! So don’t even think of renting it to anyone, unless it is a pair of sisters who are dancers, because they won’t let anyone else live in their house in peace.”
As I handed him the keys, I was grateful to find out the source of my four months of terror in this house, and to finally understand that the reason we had been chased out was because the vaudeville-dancing sisters had never really left.
Over the years I have driven by the house on Fountain a thousand times. I found out that the house had been sold to two sisters who were dancers on television.