The murder site today. Photo: M. Imlay.

Today it’s a Ross parking lot, but on the evening of Feb. 1, 1922, the tract at 404. S. Alvarado was a Mediterranean bungalow court — and the setting for Movieland’s first real-life murder mystery.

Taylor, LAPL Digital Archives

Sometime before midnight, two shots rang out, killing famed actor-turned-Paramount-director William Desmond Taylor from behind. Neighbors shrugged off the noise as a car backfiring. The next morning, however, Taylor’s personal valet Henry Peavey arrived to find his boss stiff, wide-eyed and staring at the living-room ceiling.

Peavy’s frantic screams soon had everyone in the bungalow court and beyond on tenterhooks: “Who killed William Desmond Taylor?”

The Lineup

As in every good Hollywood whodunit there was an enticing cast of suspects with deep, closely held secrets:

• Mabel Normand: The last to see Taylor the evening of his death, Keystone’s cocaine-addicted Queen of Comedy was having zany adventures between the sheets with the director, who was in the meantime trying to help her kick her not-so-funny drug habit.

• Edward Sands: Taylor’s valet before Peavy, Sands had recently helped himself to the director’s car, jewelry and checkbook before disappearing forever.

• Mary Miles Minter: A 19-year-old “virginal” starlet with a psychotic crush on Taylor, 30 years her senior.

• Charlotte Shelby: Minter’s overbearing stage mother, rumored to have a competitive lust for Taylor — or at least a killer hatred of her daughter’s delusions of marriage to the man.

• Henry Peavy: Although not a golfer, Peavy reportedly loved the togs — not to mention crocheting doilies. Never a serious suspect, the fact he was black, gay, flamboyant and facing morals charges set tongues wagging anyway.

• An Unknown Drug Thug: Some theorized a shady underworld hit man shot Taylor to end his tattling to authorities about Normand’s suppliers.

The Bungalow Back Then

Investigators at Taylor's home. LAPL Digital Archives.

Unfortunately, the killer was never revealed because the first calls reporting the crime went not to the police, but to Charles Eyton, general manager of Paramount Pictures.

By the time L.A.’s men in blue arrived, the scene resembled something out of the Keystone Cops, with neighbors traipsing about, contaminating the scene, and Paramount bigwigs ransacking and sanitizing it of incriminating evidence. Accounts differ as to who was actually involved in the madcap chaos, but suffice it to say Normand, Eyton, and a studio “cleaning crew” contrived to nab Taylor’s bootleg liquor, numerous love letters from Normand, Minter and others, and correspondence from Taylor’s daughter betraying the “bachelor” director’s hidden past, abandoned wife and all. Eventually Adolph Zukor himself reportedly joined in hampering detectives.

Still, despite their best efforts, Hollywood’s vultures missed some juicy morsels. Homicide investigators uncovered an assortment of ladies’ undergarments, including a pink lingerie item apparently belonging to Minter, along with some titillating letters and papers Taylor had tucked away. Predictably, the press swarmed in and joined the feeding frenzy.

The Scandalous Legacy

The disgraced Normand. Wikimedia Image.

The fallout from Taylor’s death rocked young Hollywood to its core, essentially killing both Normand’s and Minter’s careers. His secret exposed to the world, Peavy succumbed to syphilitic dementia years later in a Bay Area asylum. Sands’ lifeless body eventually turned up in the Sacramento River in the early 1930s.

In an odd footnote, former silent actress Margaret Gibson — who’d never featured in any of the investigations — allegedly copped a deathbed confession to the shooting in 1964. Although she had some connection with Taylor in the early 1900s, many murder-mystery fans still find her storyline less than compelling.

Coming on the heals of the Fatty Arbuckle incident and several silent-star drug scandals, the Taylor murder helped force fledgling Hollywood to “clean up its act” for a horrified public. Studios added morals clauses to contracts and enacted self-imposed industry censorship standards — along with stepped up charm offensives through their publicity mills.

Of course, Tinseltown went on to see a cattle call of enigmatic killings over the decades. But William Desmond Taylor was the first and most sensational — a dubious distinction that ensured his Hollywood immortality more than any of his films.

Sources:

• The Hollywood Book of Scandals
• Hollywood Babylon
• This Is Hollywood
• William Desmond Taylor, Wikipedia
• Who Killed William Desmond Taylor?

L.A.'s Famous Bradbury Building. Photo: Michael Imlay

“Take Bradbury Building. It will make you famous…” That was the message George Wyman supposedly received from his dead brother, courtesy a Ouija board.

Interior. LAPL Digital Archives.

A mere draftsman, Wyman had been approached by millionaire Lewis Bradbury, who desired a structural marvel bearing his name in the downtown Los Angeles area. Wyman fretted over the assignment, but the Ouija’s prediction came true: Executed in iron, marble and glass, and featuring a futuristic, airy center-court design, the Bradbury made Wyman an instant sensation. Moreover, thanks to film and other media, the Bradbury remains one of the City of Angels’ most famous architectural gems.

Unfortunately, it also proved to be Wyman’s only significant design. Try as he might on later projects, he never again equaled the talent, genius and promise he first showed in his Ouija-inspired brainchild.

Even worse, Lewis Bradbury never got to see his namesake edifice completed. In an ironic twist of fate, he died just months before the building’s 1893 grand opening — proving the Ouija board really does have a demonic sense of humor.

Source: Wikimedia Commons

This past weekend, crowds lined up at the Huntington Botanical Gardens in San Marino, wanting to catch a glimpse of a flower known both for its humongous size (6 to 10 feet tall!) and its stench. The plant producing this startling, malodorous bloom is known by botanists as Amorphophallus titanum and by laypeople as the titan arum – or, more descriptively, as the corpse flower, because its scent resembles rotting flesh.

Corpse flower was discovered in Sumatra in 1878 at the height of the Victorian plant hunting craze, by an Italian botanist named Odoardo Beccari. His sensational descriptions of the huge flower were met with disbelief by many scientists until 1889, when the seeds he’d collected in the wild produced a plant that bloomed, at the Royal Botanic Gardens in Kew, England. Since then, a corpse flower in bloom anywhere in the world has usually made headlines, as cultivated plants can bloom as infrequently as once a decade.

Let me backtrack and explain that I live in Atlanta, so I have no local connection to this auspicious horticultural event at the Huntington – though it does show you how fast, far, and wide the word spreads among plant lovers when an Amorphophallus specimen shows signs of imminent bloom. (I first heard of this plant back in 1998, when the Atlanta Botanical Garden put a blooming corpse flower on display for excited crowds.)

Online Instant Replay

And the display is a short one, lasting only a day or two. As the flower unfurled last weekend, I was able to follow its progress, thanks to the Huntington staff members that helpfully posted pictures and updates on its Stinky Blog. If you also missed the chance to see one of the world’s largest flowers in person, you can go back and review the entire process in this 1999 YouTube video.

Here’s what the blog reported last Friday, June 4, as the flower began to open:

Botanical staff noticed that the petal-like outer spathe was beginning to pull away from the tall spadix at around 2 p.m. Friday afternoon. But flies had already begun to appear, clearly sensing something in the air. The bloom takes approximately 7 hours to open fully. The odor is at its strongest during the first 12 hours or so, when the plant is receptive to pollination.

Did you get that last sentence? The one linking the plant’s malodorous tendencies to pollination? Because that’s the really fascinating part…

Life size! Source: Wikimedia Commons

It turns out that as Amorphophallus was evolving in the rain forests of equatorial Sumatra, it came to rely on a certain family of insects to pollinate it, so it could set seed and ensure survival of its own species – and those insects are carrion beetles, which feed on the decaying flesh of dead animals. So what we have here is a brilliant example of biological adaptation, by which corpse flower came to emit the fetid smell most likely to attract the beetles that would do the work of carrying pollen to other plants.

But you know what really stinks, at least if you’re a beetle? The whole thing is a hoax, because corpse flower has nothing to offer its pollinators in return for their services – unlike sweeter smelling plants that provide pollinators with a meal of nectar in exchange for help with producing offspring.

– Hilda Brucker

• Editor’s Note: Special thanks to Hilda Brucker, a writing colleague and gardening expert based in Atlanta. Hilda was so intrigued by the Huntington Library’s blooming “corpse flower” that she offered Dateline>City of Angels the above guest post. You can visit Hilda’s regular gardening blog at GadAbout Media.

Los Angeles' oldest Mexican cafe. Photo: M. Imlay.

Readers with a thirst for spirits — both the distilled and paranormal kind — should consider some monthly barhopping with GHOULA, the Ghost Hunters of Urban Los Angeles.

Last night the group’s “Spirits With Spirits” gathering descended on Olvera Street’s famous La Golondrina Mexican Cafe for dinner, drinks and an impromptu tour of the not-so-public upstairs floor, all in the hopes of glimpsing a mysterious White Lady said to haunt the place.

Alas, Friday the 13th proved unlucky for ghost seekers, for she failed to materialize. However, La Golondrina’s staff did have plenty of spine-tingling tales about many strange happenings in L.A.’S oldest fire-brick building, which was constructed between 1855-57 by Italian winemaker Giuseppi Covaccichi.

And that’s really the point of GHOULA’s regular meetings the 13th of each month: They aren’t so much actual ghost hunts as fun opportunities to socialize, swap tales and share information with other like-minded enthusiasts. Plus, if you’re not careful, you might learn some odd tidbits about our region’s history and architecture along the way.

Haunted Stairway? Photo: M. Imlay.

Exploring Creepy Attics

For example, while your humble blogger has long been a regular diner at La Golondrina, he’s never been able to venture up the allegedly haunted stairway (right) to the cafe’s private offices. These rooms were once bedchambers for the Covaccichis, and later the Pelanconi Family, which purchased the building in 1871. Especially interesting were exterior architectural embellishments adorning the now-interior hallways, indicating where two separate buildings were long ago joined to form the total Pelanconi House structure.

Every once in a while, however, a GHOULA event will stir up more than drinks, spirited conversation and sightseeing. Last month the group, accompanied by a local TV news crew, got an exclusive night tour of three lavish old downtown Movie Palaces. While setting up his equipment at the Tower Theater, the news cameraman spied a man in 1920s attire at the top of the lobby stairway. He assumed it was a costumed participant there to add flavor to the evening. Then, much to his surprise, the apparition vanished before he was able to film it.

Halloween may be over, but GHOULA’s “Spirits With Spirits” adventures continue year round. For information, visit their website.

StockXchng image.

The pumpkins are carved, the skeletons are hanging from the rafters, dusk has descended, and the witching hour is upon us.

Yes, it’s the Eve of All Hallows, and at long last the resurrection of this blog after its recent crash. Most of the infrastructure has been repaired, so, fittingly, I plan to recommence regular posts tomorrow on the traditional Day of the Dead.

While this blog has been idle for a month now, lots of stuff has been happening behind the scenes. Earlier this week I had the opportunity to participate in a Haunted Speakeasy hosted by CreepyLA and Smart Gals.org. One of several local writers invited to speak, I had a blast presenting the “true story” of the Feliz Curse to the gathering.

Even more thrilling, however, was the chance to meet fellow presenters Drew Daywalt (Fewdio), Joe Oesterle, Will Campbell (Sic), Javier Ortega and Joe Ruiz (GhostTheory.com — with whom I especially look forward to future joint projects). Although not presenting a tale per se, Richard Carradine (Ghoula) was also in attendance to share his considerable expertise on local ghostlore as well.

If you’re still waiting for Trick or Treaters to invade your threshold (only five have visited my house thus far), here are two activities perfect for tonight:

First, test your knowledge of Haunted L.A. with David Markland’s CreepyLA quiz from the Speakeasy.

Then, enjoy a masterful, high-calibre ghost story representative of the Speakeasy by jumping on over to Will Campbell’s Playground of the Devils feature.

Happy Halloween!

Forest Lawn, Glendale. Photos: Michael Imlay

This week it was announced that pop-singer Michael Jackson will be laid to rest at Forest Lawn, Glendale, on what would have been his 51st birthday, Aug. 29.

Dateline>City of Angels can’t think of a more appropriate choice of cemetery, given how for nearly a century Forest Lawn has served as a virtual Neverland for the dead.

How else could you describe it? Divided into themed burial sections sporting such whimsical names as Slumberland, Vale of Memory, Babyland and Whispering Pines, the cemetery features a number of tourist attractions, including imposing recreations of da Vinci’s Last Supper and Michelangelo’s David. Plus, like any other self-respecting SoCal amusement park, Forest Lawn enhances its ambiance with outdoor speakers that pipe background tunes ranging from soothing concertos to American folk classics into its mausoleum courts and gardens.

You might say that, for the dearly departed, this gateway to the Great Beyond is the “second happiest place on earth” — a tagline that would certainly make the graveyard’s founder proud.

A Piece of Heaven on Earth

Gate detail.

The imaginative necropolis was the 1917 brainchild of Hubert L. Eaton, a Baptist layman and mining engineer from Missouri whose goal, according to the Los Angeles A-Z almanac, was “to make death seem peaceful, beautiful and uplifting…”

“…Taking over a small and failing cemetery, Eaton revolutionized the industry through artful landscaping, the commissioning of elaborate artworks, re-creations of famous churches, and the elimination of tombstones and cemetery plots.”

Well, not completely. The original cemetery’s upright stones and monuments can still be found just southeast of the main gates.

In any event, Eaton advocated flat, ground-level markers for their ability to create sweeping, scenic hillsides with unobstructed vistas. (Of course, irreverent cynics noted that his golf-style groundskeeping also significantly cut the maintenance costs associated with mowing around headstones.)

The Funeral Biz Meets Show Biz

Ever the apostle of efficiency and convenience, Eaton also pioneered the one-stop-shopping concept for burials by bundling funeral planning and mortuary services with his graveyard. And while his many innovations have since become standard American death rites, they weren’t always free of controversy.

Photo: Amazon.com

In 1948 author Evelyn Waugh ripped into Forest Lawn’s commercial culture with his satirical novel The Loved One, a classic indictment of the “Hollywoodization” of the funeral industry. (The book inspired a 1965 film by the same name.)

Waugh’s mockery wasn’t entirely off-base. Whether it was the memorial park’s make-believe atmosphere or its audacious novelty, from the very outset Forest Lawn beckoned celebrities like moths to a flame.

Today, as the Los Angeles Daily News points out, the King of Pop can rest serenely amid an impressive A-List of L.A.’s most stellar and wacky elite, including Walt Disney (who, contrary to urban legend is not cryogenically preserved in a Magic Kingdom vault) and Pentecostalist Aimee Semple McPherson (allegedly buried with a live phone line so she could dial up followers upon her resurrection).

In fact, Forest Lawn arguably boasts more celebs per acre than any other sector of Angeleno real estate.

But if you decide to look up Jacko or any of his illustrious friends, keep it on the QT. The Forest Lawn staff not only frowns on stargazing, but gets especially testy if they catch you wandering about with cameras or any of the various maps and guidebooks to famous graves currently in circulation.

Amazon.com image

Recently your humble blogger picked up a copy of the wondrously offbeat Weird California (left), a “travel guide to California’s local legends and best kept secrets.” Written by folklorist triumvirate Greg Bishop, Joe Oesterle and Mike Marinacci, the 2006 book devotes several pages to so-called “Gravity Hills” throughout the Golden State, including one in nearby Altadena.

So what exactly are these mystery spots? According to Weird California:

“Debate rages among believers and skeptics about the phenomenon of ‘gravity hills’ — where cars placed in neutral seemingly roll up the slope… Locals and visitors pepper the locations with stories of tragedy that just ratchet the weirdness up a few notches.”

In this case the tale involves an old Indian from a bygone era killed while rushing his carriage headlong down the hill to the bridge. Now his spirit remains, intent upon “pulling back” modern drivers from a similar fate.

Truth or Nonsense?

Altadena Gravity Spot. Photo: M. Imlay

Ever the skeptic and having a little time to kill, your humble blogger decided to check into this stretch of anti-grav highway (left) in the vicinity of East Loma Alta Drive and Rubio Canyon. Thankfully, Weird California supplied precise instructions:

“Exit Lake Avenue north from Route 134. Right at East Altadena Drive, left on Porter, then uphill to East Loma Alta Drive and go left again. After a couple of dips…a flood-control spillway appears on the left. Stop in front of the first house at the right.”

Which I did, placing my Jeep TJ in neutral. The vehicle didn’t roll back up the hill, but it did remain at a standstill on the downward slope, apparently challenging gravity. After several tries in different places the Jeep finally inched ever so slowly backward against the incline. I was able to repeat this phenomenon a total of four times.

Creepy.

Parking the Jeep, I took a few tennis balls and placed them on several points along the roadbed (being careful to wait for lulls in traffic, of course). Like the Jeep, six out of 10 times the balls stayed in place. Twice they slowly rolled several inches “uphill” and twice they quickly rolled sideways into the curve’s steep bank toward the opposite shoulder and dam spillway.

Breaking the Laws of Physics?

Personally, your humble blogger thinks it’s all an optical illusion. While driving the road it feels like you’re on a consistent downward sweep. However, examining the roadway from the opposite shoulder tells a different story. While the overall course does flow downhill, small portions veer, level and slope in varying, almost imperceptible degrees along the way.

Hit one of these spots exactly, and your vehicle reacts perfectly naturally — halting or even rolling backwards “up hill” — even though your eyes and inner ear are insisting you should be traveling forward and downward instead.

Feel free to test this hypothesis for yourself. But be careful. The “Gravity Hill” is bounded by two blind curves, and other cars often careen out of nowhere fast.

“Magical” as this mystery spot may be, it’s powers won’t likely protect you from the tragical phenomenon of a sudden impact — legends about an old Indian’s ghostly roadside assistance notwithstanding.

For all Citibank’s Silver Lake customers know, their branch safeguards a mythic lost treasure.

But it’s not in the bank’s vault — at least not the one where the loot is kept.

That’s because the treasure in question isn’t gold or currency, but rather Old Blue, faithful steed of cowboy movie legend Tom Mix. And according to one very knowledgeable longtime staffer, there’s every reason to believe that the horse’s grave lies beneath the bank’s parking lot at Silver Lake and Glendale.

“The place used to be a market, and from what I understand, they built it on top of the graveyard,” says the source who worked at the bank in the early 1980s when it was a Glendale Federal branch. Speaking on condition of anonymity, the once highly placed employee admits to personally assisting GlenFed’s CEO at the time in his research into the legend.

“He had a lot of interest in [Old Blue] because he wanted to dig him up, put him together, and [display] him inside the bank. He got obsessed with it,” reveals the source.

Like many Silver Lake oldtimers, the bank insider is certain Old Blue still rests undisturbed somewhere in the vicinity of the outdoor ATMs. After all, despite his best efforts, the GlenFed official never succeeded in unearthing the animal, nor is there evidence of any prior construction projects having done so either. Plus, the historical record leaves little doubt that Old Blue was buried there.

Early Western Hero

During the Silent Film Era, Mix (left) popularized the Western movie genre, originating the matinee cowboy concept with his fancy saddle, fashionable duds and thirst for daring action. His film career ran from 1910 to 1935, encompassing more than 350 flicks that blazed the way for later stars like William S. Hart, Gene Autry and John Wayne.

But a cowboy’s just no danged good without a horse, and for more than 80 of Mix’s earliest films, Old Blue played lead steed, achieving animal stardom at a time when Rin Tin Tin was still just the runt of some litter.

Throughout those years, L.A.’s emerging film industry was centered in the Echo Park/Silver Lake area, then known as Edendale. Mix first debuted with the famous Selig Polyscope Co., but by 1917 the studio was floundering. Hitting the dusty trail for Fox, he soon found himself making $17,500 a week, allowing him to build a large Western-themed lot called Mixville. Incorporating the present-day intersection of Glendale and Silver Lake Blvds., Mixville boasted several acres of corrals, an Old West town and Indian village, and plenty of tumbleweed landscapes.

In fact, area residents still occasionally find horseshoes and other buried artifacts related to the lot today. Of course, with a little more digging, they also might find Mix’s trusty sidekick…

Mix reluctantly retired Old Blue in 1914, turning to a new mount named Tony. Unfortunately, Old Blue suffered a broken leg in his corral, forcing Mix to put him down in 1919. By all accounts, the cowboy actor was grief-stricken. He buried Old Blue in a prominent section of the lot marked by a large wooden pillar and post beam.

Mix eventually made the incredibly intelligent Tony his famous Wonder Horse. But each Memorial Day, the cowboy star continued to hang a wreath at Old Blue’s gravesite.

Animal Spirits?

For decades, Silver Lake residents have circulated rumors that other burials took place there as well. While unconfirmed, these stories may account for the disembodied sounds and footsteps reported off and on by bank employees.

“The building has a lot of really weird noises, and it’s said to be haunted,” confirms our insider. “I was there so long I got used to it.”

Oddly, none of the phenomenon seems associated with Old Blue, but rather an unknown woman that the bank’s staff came to dub The Crying Lady. Her heavy sobs are said to emanate from the walls of an empty storeroom after dark, although recently she’s apparently twice accosted a visiting Citibank corporate officer during daylight hours — once just before a staff meeting and once while he was sitting alone in the lunch room.

“I’m sitting there enjoying my salad and I start hearing weeping. I’m sure you’re back there,” the visitor reportedly told a senior employee after the second incident. He was convinced the staff was toying with him.

But workers assured him it was no prank: “That Crying Lady loved him,” the source says with a smile.

. . .

Blogger’s Note: Dateline>City of Angels does not normally run unattributed quotes for pieces like the above. In fact, this article’s first draft carried the source’s full name and permission for publication. Unfortunately, that draft got filed away for a period, during which time Silver Lake Citibank branch management changed. Due to this, the source has since requested anonymity. Because I consider this source absolutely reliable, I have honored that request. — MI

As long as we’re still celebrating the Christmas season, remember the famous Bridge Scene in It’s a Wonderful Life? Had the film been set in Southern California, Jimmy Stewart certainly would’ve considered hurling himself from the spans of Pasadena’s Colorado Street Bridge instead of some snowy old trestle.

Built in 1913, the overpass towers 150 feet above the Arroyo Seco, a historically dry ravine that trickles toward the L.A. River. Thanks to its Beaux Arts charm, the 1,467 foot roadway has become the “Gateway to Pasadena.” But scores of people jumping from the structure over the decades (nearly 50 during the Great Depression alone!) have given it a more morbid nickname: Suicide Bridge.

Archway of Doom?

Predictably, lots of ghost stories dog the bridge. The oldest involves phantom workers allegedly buried alive during its construction. There are also reports of a woman leaper in a wispy gown disappearing over the railings, and disembodied cries from the canyon floor that several ghost hunters claim to have captured as EVPs.

As I snapped these dusk photos, however, the only chills enveloping me were the wintry breezes nipping through the footings. Despite the cold, I opted to linger after sunset for a few night shots. But when darkness descended on the grim arches, the whole atmosphere suddenly turned foreboding.

So much so, that for the first time in photographing a SoCal haunt, I actually got the creeps — an ominous feeling that the dead were just waiting to materialize. Heeding my own inner voice to get the bejeezus out of there, I quickly packed up my equipment and left the Arroyo’s ill-fated spirits in peace to do whatever it is they like to do after nightfall.

One of L.A.’s favorite ghost stories is the Feliz Curse, a hex allegedly placed on Griffith Park by a young girl a century and a half ago. Each Halloween, the story inevitably pops up in some newspaper or blog.

I’ve written extensively on many aspects of the curse (for example, here and here), but a little-known chapter in the drama actually unfolded 117 years ago this week.

First, Some Background

For those who don’t know the legend as originally told by Horace Bell, the Reader’s Digest version goes like this…

Just before her death in 1861, Rancho Los Feliz owner Maria Verdugo divided her approximately 6,000-acre estate among several heirs, with the lion’s share of about 4,000 acres going to her son, Jose Antonio Feliz. A bachelor, Don Antonio remained on the family homestead with his sister Soledad and a young, beloved niece named Petranilla.

In 1863, Feliz contracted smallpox and Petranilla was sent away for safety. Meanwhile, family “friend” Antonio Coronel paid a visit to her dying uncle. An attorney, Coronel hastily drafted a will granting himself control of the ranch and coerced Feliz to sign it.

Upon Feliz’s death, Petranilla returned to find herself disinherited. Angered, she cast a vicious curse of ruin, misfortune and death on the land and all future owners. Then, for dramatic flair, she dropped dead.

A Legacy of Doom?

Of course, many historians scoff at the notion that subsequent owners were stalked either by Death or bad luck, but let’s examine the record…

• As executor, Coronel conveyed the ranch to C.V. Howard, a fellow attorney who promptly negotiated a lucrative sale of the land’s water rights. While celebrating his windfall at the town saloons, Howard got rowdy and was shot dead.

• Dairyman Leon Baldwin acquired the ranch next, but didn’t fare much better. He was murdered by banditos during a Mexican business trip.

• Next came Thomas Bell, a San Francisco financier. He held the tract briefly, then sold it to Col. Griffith J. Griffith. Bell lived to his 80s, but suffered a freak, deadly fall from his mansion’s banister. (Rumor had it his mistress gave him a push.)

And Griffith? Well, that brings us to today’s twisted tale…

When he purchased the nearly 4,000-acre heart of Rancho Los Feliz in 1882, Griffith at first planned on developing it into a suburb. As a marketing ploy, he allowed an ostrich farm to operate on the property to lure visitors from downtown L.A. When the attraction failed, he foreclosed on its owner, Frank Burkett, who swore to get even.

A 19th-Century Drive-By

Burkett’s opportunity came Oct. 28, 1891, when Griffith drove his wife Tina and her sister by carriage to Old Calvary Cemetery at what is now the site of Cathedral High School on North Broadway. While the women paid their respects to family, Griffith waited outside the graveyard walls.

Suddenly, Burkett pulled alongside in a wagon and leveled a double-barreled shotgun at Griffith’s head, letting loose the first barrel. Wounded, the colonel escaped a second volley by ducking into the cemetery.

Apparently thinking he’d bagged his quarry, Burkett then killed himself with a revolver shot to his own head.

But dumb luck had literally saved Griffith. When they investigated the incident, authorities found both buck and birdshot in Burkett’s wagon. The assailant had mistakenly loaded his shotgun with the non-lethal birdshot, which merely peppered Griffith’s face. The Colonel suffered no permanent damage, but the buckshot certainly would’ve killed him.

Oh, the Irony…

While Griffith may have survived his brush with the Grim Reaper, it appears Dona Petranilla got the last laugh. Like other owners before him, Griffith failed to maintain a profit from Rancho Los Feliz. Faced with mounting taxes, he donated the rancho to the city in 1896.

Then, in 1903, during a fit of “alcoholic insanity,” Griffith ironically shot his own wife in the face, maiming her for life. After serving two years in San Quentin for assault, he returned to L.A. a social pariah. Few mourned his passing from liver disease in 1916.

To be sure, several contemporaries of Griffith nabbed parcels of Rancho Feliz without misfortune. One example is James Lick, whose tract is now the east side of Hollywood. But Lick and his counterparts acquired the holdings of other Feliz heirs, so presumably Dona Petranilla’s malediction didn’t apply.

Oddly, with the exception of Antonio Coronel, you could argue that every owner of Jose Antonio Feliz’s tract was visited by some ill omen.

My fascination with Angeleno ghostlore is no secret. For the past several years, I’ve spent every spare moment I can “collecting” spooky legends, researching their roots, interviewing witnesses, and joining professional ghost hunters in their explorations of our region’s most historic haunts.

Recently, fellow blogger Rebecca Lacko asked me to recommend some “family friendly” locales with a reputation for ghosts.

The following are five popular sites I’ve personally checked out where kids and parents alike can relive history while watching for the supernatural. (Click on the headers for official info…)

1. OLVERA STREET, Los Angeles: The spirits of early L.A. live on, thanks to nightly Day of the Dead processions, Oct. 25 – Nov. 2, in which kids and adults don death faces to honor their ancestors (inset). Ask the right insiders, though, and you’ll learn that the really gruesome wraiths take in the sights after the tourists go home. Alleged hotspots include the Plaza Fire Station, Avila Adobe and Pelanconi House, now La Golondrina Restaurant, where prankish ghosts have irritated staff and repair crews. (Of course, during business hours, La Golondrina’s most popular spirits are its frothy Margaritas.)

2. LEONIS ADOBE, Calabasas: While the current management prefers to downplay any talk of hauntings, this adobe’s ghostlore is well documented. In fact, a few years ago, I tagged along with a team led by ghost hunter Robert Wlodarsky that encountered some very odd phenomena in an upstairs bedroom. The place once belonged to Miguel Leonis, an ill-tempered ranchero killed in a suspicious 1889 wagon accident. The most active phantasm, however, seems to be his long-suffering wife, Espiritu, whose sobs and sudden appearances still occasionally unnerve visitors.

3. RMS QUEEN MARY, Long Beach: Personally, I’m somewhat dubious about most of the claims surrounding “America’s Most Haunted Ship.” After all, from a marketing perspective, what better way to keep a languishing attraction afloat than an ever-growing tally of ghostly manifestations? (More than 600 to date!) Still, the 1934 White Star Liner remains a favorite of paranormal experts, so who knows? You may see something. Of course, those willing to shell out big bucks are practically guaranteed chills and thrills, courtesy the ship’s Haunted Encounters Passport Tour.

4. DRUM BARRACKS, Wilmington: A Civil War fort right here in Southern California? Strange, but true. Originally established at the urging of Phineas Banning (left), the Union garrison once guarded L.A.’s fledgling harbor against would-be Confederate marauders. Apparently, however, some of the troops remain at their posts even today. Disembodied footsteps and voices, along with the odor of cigars and ladies’ perfume, supposedly permeate the old officers’ quarters. Meanwhile, outside, the sounds of phantom horses and military drills have been heard by neighbors. (Incidentally, the spirit of Banning himself is said to haunt his own former estate, which is also within walking distance.)

5. STAGECOACH INN, Newbury Park: Built in 1876, the Grand Union Hotel was a stagecoach stop halfway along the route from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles. In the 1970s, the structure burned to the ground in a mysterious fire. According to legend, during its reconstruction, lights inexplicably flickered from a corner room. Psychic investigation “revealed” that the spirit in question is Pierre, a Basque shepherd murdered in a card game. While no historical evidence has been found to confirm this, the hotel is worth visiting for its impressive collection of Victorian furnishings, as well as its peaceful grounds and nature trail.

Hollywood is known for countless oddball pairings: Laurel and Hardy. Spanky and Alfalfa. Sonny and Cher.

But in my mind one of the oddest has to be Rudy Valentino and DeLongpre Park. There is no historical connection between the two. Yet here in the pocket park commemorating the famous floral artist Paul DeLongpre, you’ll find not one but two statues of the silent screen icon who died 82 years ago today.

Stranger still, the fleshly rendition of Valentino at the center of the park was originally sculpted by Roger Noble Burnham for a planned tomb for the actor. When that tomb failed to materialize, the memorial was instead placed here on Valentino’s birthday in 1930 — against protests of residents who found it a bizarre addition to a park honoring DeLongpre. (A second bust, below, was added in 1979.)

Ghost of the Town…

Not surprisingly, over the years there have been persistent rumors of paranormal activity around the graven monument, along with several mysterious incidents of vandalism. In fact, Valentino, who is buried in a borrowed crypt at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, remains one of the Southland’s most ubiquitous ghosts. Ever restless, his spirit has allegedly been sighted hundreds of times at numerous “lifetime haunts,” including:

• His former Falcon Lair mansion in Beverly Hills.
• Downtown L.A.’s Alexandria Hotel.
• Hollywood’s Musso and Frank Grill.
• The Paramount Studios wardrobe department.
• An apartment court at Hollywood’s Valentino Place.
• Mission San Fernando, where he once shot a film.
• An Oxnard beach house and an inn at Santa Maria.
• Riding an Arabian horse in Glendora and driving a roadster through Hollywood’s Whitley Heights.
• And of course, hanging about his final Hollywood Forever resting place.

As if that’s not enough, the spirit of Valentino’s faithful dog Kabar is also said to invisibly nip and lick at visitors to his L.A. pet cemetery grave.

As usual, many of these hauntings are highly suspect. For instance, historical research shows that, local legends notwithstanding, the actor had no actual link to Valentino Place.

Neither did the Latin Lover ever work on the present-day Paramount lot. He made his films at the Lasky Studios near Sunset and Vine before they relocated and became Paramount in 1926.

Still, even in death, Rudy continues to bask in the immortal limelight. To learn more about his career, legacy and supposed afterlife exploits, visit the following links/entries:

• Wikipedia on Rudolph Valentino
  
• Rudy’s IMBD Filmography
• You Tube Tributes and Film Footage
• Troy Taylor’s Haunted Hollywood

As the Big Orange Landmarks blog recently reminded us, L.A.’s 1928 Parkinson-designed City Hall is an architectural icon worth exploring inside and out. But if you ever do find yourself touring its hallowed halls, be on the lookout for a restless spirit said to be making his own ghostly rounds of the place.

For years paranormal websites like The Shadowlands have insisted that a well-tailored “aristocrat” from the 1700-1800s haunts the third-floor vestibule area, accosting people on city business and generally making a nuisance of himself. The unattributed reports also claim that security cameras have captured additional spooky activities on the upper floors late at night after everything’s locked up.

The problem? I’ve been checking here and there into this juicy piece of ghostlore for some time now. Civic officials, their staffs, city archivists, building engineers, public information officers, docents, security guards — no one at City Hall that I’ve contacted (either on or off the record) has ever heard of the phantasm, let alone seen it.

Near as I can tell, the Internet stories are merely embellished versions of a short blurb found in Dennis William Hauck’s Haunted Places, The National Directory, the first edition of which appeared in 1994. His entry reads…

“The ghost of a man wearing fancy clothing from the eighteenth century has disrupted council meetings here and harassed city managers in the restrooms.” [p. 53]

That’s it. No authoritative source is offered for the tale, nor is there any explanation as to why an 18th Century specter would want to be caught dead in our 20th Century halls of government.

Then again, City Hall’s magnificent rotunda, ornate corridors, priceless mosaics and period fixtures would attract anyone with fine taste. Plus, we should consider that the 28-story Beau Arts tower occupies the site of an 1851 town block and meeting center built by Don Juan Temple, a leading citizen of early Los Angeles.

Could this be our mystery guest? If so, aspiring ghost hunters might have more luck tracking him down at his old Rancho Los Cerritos summer hacienda near Signal Hill. After passing from the scene in 1866, Temple was buried in a small family plot on the 27,000-acre rancho. There he apparently rested in peace for about a century — until freeway construction forced relocation of his grave. Soon after, museum staff began disclosing frightening return appearances by the agitated Temple and his daughters, along with eerie footsteps, flickering lights and other malicious mischief throughout the old adobe.

In fact, in her book Curbside L.A., local historian Cecilia Rasmussen recounts an especially malevolent incident about that time in which a large library table was heaved up against then-museum curator Keith Foster during a séance. As if Temple’s angry spirit wasn’t enough, other visitors to the grounds also claimed to hear the sounds of phantom sheep roaming about.

Nonetheless, similar to City Hall, ghostly encounters with Temple at Rancho Cerritos are hardly a sure thing. In his 2007 Ghost Hunter’s Guide to Los Angeles, author Jeff Dwyer concedes that, whatever paranormal activity may have been alleged in the past, “Today, docents who work at the rancho museum dismiss the notion of a haunting.”

And now for this week’s choice for the most interesting, offbeat and/or entertaining web video sharing key themes with this blog…

Yesterday Dateline>City of Angels explored the forgotten history of Griffith Park’s Crystal Springs adobe, along with its possible link to the legendary Feliz Curse. I also took the opportunity to announce I’m writing a book on the curse. Today, on a lark, I decided to search for any related web videos on the topic.

Source: YouTube!
Search Criteria: “Griffith Park + Curse”

The Result: A trailer for a cheesy (so say the reviewers) 2007 horror flick based on the “true story” of the Feliz Curse. If you’re squeamish or easily offended by cinematic blood, gore and bad acting, you may want to skip this clip…

The Backstory

Created by Julian Higgins, son of rocker Bertie, and recently released in the U.S., The Wrath takes some curious creative license with the already fanciful tale, adding a lost treasure and a vengeful beast who dines on trespassers. The film’s plot and other details can be viewed here. Especially brave souls can order/download the full movie from Amazon. Finally, there’s also this Inmag interview, in which Bertie Higgins discloses:

“Julian and I did a short film in L.A.’s Griffith Park in early 2005 and we became very interested in the history of the park. After a great deal of research, we discovered the back story about the haunting of the old Feliz estate (which is now Griffith Park) and the screenplay began to take shape. We felt that the story was very compelling and that it had to be told.”

No offense to the two, but considering how the film seems to mostly parrot the popular urban legend, you have to wonder what passes for “a great deal of research” in Hollywood these days. The Tale of the Feliz Curse is indeed compelling, but the real story behind the myth is even more so. Too bad the research team didn’t dig a little deeper.

As they say, looks are often deceiving. Take for example the Crystal Springs Ranger Headquarters at Griffith Park, pictured above.

At first glance it appears to be just another of L.A.’s ubiquitous 1930s Spanish Colonial bungalows. Beneath the whitewash and plaster, however, hides a landmark with a much more storied past — and perhaps even a long-lost secret or two…

The Official Story

Southern California’s historical community has long referred to the structure as the Paco Feliz Adobe, presumably built by its namesake Francisco “Paco” Feliz circa 1853. Now used as a film office and meeting center, park historians note that the Crystal Springs adobe is “the only surviving structure from the Rancho Los Feliz Era,” although it was substantially altered in the 1920s-’30s. In fact, sources at the park’s archives indicate that it’s difficult to discern exactly how much of the old adobe was preserved within the newer walls, which adhere closely to the home’s original three-room floorplan, complete with fireplace.

Ironically, this little adobe has seen some major intrigue over the decades. People often confuse it with the Feliz hacienda, which supposedly dated to the 1830s, if not earlier. However, park historians say this house served not as the main family dwelling, but as one of several outbuildings for ranch hands. The actual Feliz manor comprised two stories and stood near the present zoo parking lot. It was demolished by park authorities in 1921 to make room for the Wilson Golf Course — a brazen desecration that sparked an uproar among that era’s preservationists…

Burying History

According to accounts from the period, park officials were caught red-handed trying to dismantle the larger hacienda on the QT. When the mayor, council and local branch of the Native Sons of the Golden West attempted to intervene, park commissioners arrogantly fired back that the house wasn’t worth saving. Only the “second story of the outer walls are built of adobe,” they declared in their letter to the council, adding that the first story consisted of masonry and stone, while “the roof was wooden, covered with tin, and as far as we have been able to learn there is no historical significance of any kind or character attached to the house.” [1]

Their deceptions were challenged by leading citizens who knew better, including Van Griffith, son of Col. Griffith J. Griffith, the park’s donor, and William Mulholland (pictured left), who had lived on the ranch during his early years as a zanjero in the city’s water company. [2]

In fact, the larger hacienda’s origins were apparent to anyone with even a passing familiarity with Rancho Los Feliz. Even Maj. Horace Bell had briefly touched on its background in his famous tale of the Feliz Curse, coincidentally explaining all the architectural embellishments that park commissioners advanced as “proof” of the house’s “non-historical” character:

“Leon Baldwin was the purchaser. He improved the ranch regardless of expense, stocked it with imported breeds of cattle, established a model dairy, fenced and cross-fenced the hitherto open land, [and] remodeled the old Feliz house until it was the perfection of elegant comfort.” [3]

Despite public outcry, park officials succeeded in demolishing the manor house, but thankfully failed in their efforts to deal the same fate to the Crystal Springs adobe, which was next on their demolition list of “insignificant” structures.

A House Haunted?

Of course, any adobe even remotely associated with the Feliz family is eventually going to somehow end up linked to The Curse. And indeed, unsubstantiated rumors have circulated from time to time that a ghostly senorita clad in a white dress and mantilla peers mournfully from the Crystal Springs adobe’s windows on dark and stormy nights. It’s assumed this is the spirit of Dona Petranilla Feliz, the 17-year-old orphan thought to have hexed the rancho in 1863. The ghostlore is no doubt based on the (false) notion that this was her childhood home.

But the Crystal Springs adobe may boast a more sinister connection to the curse story — a puzzling link yet again shrouded by years of mistaken identity.

While it’s commonly held that “Paco” Feliz built the Crystal Springs house, there’s evidence to suggest otherwise. First, no actual records of its construction were kept, leaving much of its “true history” open to speculation. More noteworthy, according to Marie Northrop’s genealogies of the Feliz family, Paco Feliz died at age 86 in 1847 — a full six years before the adobe was supposedly built. [4] Even allowing that the adobe’s construction date may be off by a few years, it seems far-fetched that a man of such advanced age would undertake the building of a three-room home in his waning days. Moreover, by the late 1840s, ownership of Rancho Los Feliz had passed to Maria Verdugo, the wife of Paco Feliz’ deceased cousin Juan Anastacio Feliz, along with her son, Jose Antonio. They — not Paco — would have likely overseen any new building projects on the rancho.

But if Paco didn’t build the adobe, how did it get the name?

Another Theory

When Don (Jose) Antonio Feliz died of smallpox in 1863, his suspicious “Last Will and Testament,” which placed the property into the hands of Antonio F. Coronel, was “witnessed” by several ranch workers. Their subsequent court testimony indicates they resided on the land a short distance from the main house. As it turns out, they also shared a rather surprising surname: Paco.

Could this small adobe actually bear the name of the nefarious servants who not only lived there but helped swindle the Feliz Family out of its land? I believe it’s a strong possibility. In fact, it’s just one of the many tantalizing questions I’ve been investigating for my upcoming book, The Feliz Curse: An Early Los Angeles Tale of Ghosts, Greed and Griffith Park.

My Official Announcement

Yes, that’s right: I’m also using this lengthy post to officially announce that (finally) all the major research is complete, and the drafting has begun. As the book progresses, I’ll be posting additional news, tidbits and teasers here. Stay tuned.

Source Notes

[1] “Storm Rages Over Adobes,” Los Angeles Times, Dec. 9, 1921, p. II3.
[2] Mike Eberts, Griffith Park: A Centennial History (Los Angeles: The Historical Society of Southern California, 2001), pp. 142-143.
[3] Maj. Horace Bell, On the Old West Coast (New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1930), pp. 90-91.
[4] Marie Northrop, Spanish-Mexican Families of Early California, Vol. 3 (Burbank: Southern California Genealogical Society, 2004), p. 99.

This week’s choice for the most interesting, offbeat and/or entertaining web video sharing key words or themes with this blog…

Source: YouTube!

Search Criteria: “Los Angeles + Haunted”

The Result: A poignant film noir reenactment of Peg Entwistle’s legendary suicide by writer, director and producer Hope Anderson, creator of the documentary Under the Hollywood Sign. Unfortunately, the video embed is disabled for this clip, so I can’t show it here. To view it, you’ll have to click over to this link.

The Backstory…

For many, the Hollywood sign spells fame, but for Peg Entwistle, it became the ultimate suicide note. Erected in 1923 as a real estate gimmick, the sign originally read “Hollywoodland” and was fitted with thousands of glitzy lights to lure dreamers to the new town…

The seduction worked on Entwistle, a young Broadway actress hit hard by the Depression. Setting her hopes on filmdom, she moved to L.A. and joined her uncle in a small Beachwood Canyon apartment below the sign, whose billboard temptations must have loomed brighter than ever.

But months of auditions went nowhere. Finally, after much struggle, Entwistle landed a bit part in RKO’s Thirteen Women. She called it her big break. Critics called it a bomb. The studio’s calls stopped altogether.

Devastated, Entwistle trekked up the canyon the night of Sept. 18, 1932, scaled the 50-foot “H” and jumped. Legend has it that, ironically, a few days after the star-crossed actress’ body was found, a letter arrived offering her the lead in a picture about a suicidal woman.

Over time, the Hollywoodland sign fell into decay. Eventually, the city lopped off the last four letters and rehabilitated the landmark. Public access has been restricted for years, yet neighbors and city workers say they’ve sometimes spotted a ghostly blonde in 1930s attire wandering its footings, still apparently drawn by the sign’s cruel promise of immortality.

Wish your house were haunted? Need to attract tourists to your creepy old hotel, museum or otherwise spiritless landmark?

Even if your place didn’t come with spooks of its own, you can remedy the situation with Ghosts in a Bottle. That’s right: For a nominal fee, ghost-hunter Jon Deese will capture someone else’s phantasm, bottle it and ship it right to your door. Complete with certificate of authenticity and warning booklet, no less.

Deese won’t disclose his “secret” method for coaxing the spirits out of the ether and into the containers, let alone how he “mysteriously” keeps them from popping their corks. Nor does his website say anything about refrigeration requirements or expiration dates.

Still, you’ve got to hand it to Deese. He’s stumbled on a devilishly clever small-business angle to paranormal investigation, which up to now has mainly been the enterprising domain of celebrity psychics and TV ghost busters.

Ready for another brief tour of L.A.’s haunting past?

Off the beaten track, in the City of Industry, you’ll find a small but significant cemetery, known simply as El Campo Santo. Part of the six-acre Workman Temple Homestead Historical Park, the graveyard dates to 1855, and is the L.A. area’s first private burial ground. Originally, it was meant to hold the Workman, Rowland and Temple families along with their ranch workers, but through a twist of fate also became the final resting place of Pio Pico, California’s last Mexican governor, and his wife Maria Ygnacia.

As if visiting the graves of these notable Californios isn’t thrilling enough for die-hard history buffs, the site also boasts the last remaining example of decorative cast-iron fencing common to this region’s 19th Century bone yards — and perhaps a few other buried mysteries as well.

In 1841 William (aka Julian) Workman and John Rowland led the first American wagon train to California via the Old Spanish Trail. About four years later, the pair acquired title to 49,000 acres of former Mission San Gabriel lands known as Rancho La Puente, building side-by-side residences on the property. But Don Julian’s adobe included a secret defense against would-be marauders: a subterranean escapement to an Indian burial ground approximately 300 yards away.

In 1855, Workman’s brother David suffered a fatal accident and became the first family member buried near the tunnel’s exit. Soon after, a Gothic chapel and decorative fencing were added to the site. Over time, the tunnel was converted to use as a storage cellar, but tales of an underground treasure continued to circulate. Buried loot or not, however, ranch servants reportedly feared the passage, swearing it was a haven for “witchery,” ghosts and other evil manifestations. Eventually it was sealed altogether.

With the collapse of the cattle business in the 1860s, the Workmans turned to wheat and grapes and, for a time, remained wealthy enough to have famed architect E.F. Kysor remodel their ranch house in 1872. But a series of bad investments eventually doomed the ranch, and Workman committed suicide. By the 1900s a new owner had razed the cemetery chapel and abandoned the plots to desecration. In 1917, Walter P. Temple, Workman’s grandson, repurchased the property and set about rescuing the cemetery, building a new family mausoleum.

Finally, with Old Calvary Cemetery in Los Angeles being closed, Temple petitioned that the remains of Pio Pico and his wife be relocated to the new digs as a tribute to the couple, who had been close friends and neighbors of his ancestors.

Today’s Homestead Museum offers visitors a chance to reflect on early L.A.’s funerary customs, which changed dramatically with the arrival of American culture in the mid-1800s. In his Cosas de California memoirs, former don Antonio F. Coronel describes the death rituals common in the Spanish-Mexican Era. First the family would hold a wake in the home of the deceased, dressing the body in a shroud resembling a simple Franciscan habit. Then, on the funeral day…

“The corpse was laid on a table covered with black cloth. Four men, changing off from time to time, were pallbearers. The priest went before with the altar boys, stopping at intervals to sing responses for the soul of the deceased. When they got to the church, high or low mass [was celebrated]. At the end of this, the procession continued in the same fashion to the cemetery, with the empty coffin following. At the cemetery the body was put in the coffin, the priest said the final benediction, and the coffin was lowered into the grave.”

By the time William Workman was laid to rest on his property in 1876, those humbler days were long gone. L.A.’s funeral industry was in full swing, with undertakers offering embalming, cosmetic reconstruction, elaborate wood, lead and glass caskets, paid mourners, fancy horse-drawn hearses and pricey brick-lined graves. In fact, Workman’s burial cost more than $500 — roughly the equivalent of several hundred acres of land at the time!

Call me a cynic, but I’d guess it was exactly that sort of unscrupulous spending that lost him the family fortune in the first place…

Visitor Info:
Homestead Museum Website

Other Sources:
Los Angeles A-Z
Tales of Mexican California
Historic Adobes of L.A. Count

Poking around the web late last night, I stumbled on a brief but fascinating video by Tony Biasotti commemorating the infamous St. Francis Dam Disaster.

For those unfamiliar with the history, back in 1926, William Mulholland completed the dam to help ensure a steady water flow for a fledgling but rapidly growing Los Angeles. Townspeople celebrated it as an engineering triumph. Ranchers downstream in San Francisquito Canyon, however, weren’t so impressed. They nicknamed it the Giant Tombstone.

They didn’t know how prophetic they were… Just before midnight on March 12, 1928, the damn burst, spilling 12 billion gallons of water into the canyon. It remains one of the worst tragedies in California history, with estimates putting the death toll somewhere between 400 to 500 souls.

As for Biasotti’s video, yes, it would’ve been nice if I had Googled it up for my faithful readers while it was still fresh two months ago, but as the saying goes, better late than never. Especially in this case. Biasotti manages to pack a lot of info into his little flick, including a compelling interview with an elderly survivor who chillingly recalls the muddy debris field: “It was a terrible sight…to see people…to see parts of people…”

Incidentally, there are several ghost tales associated with the dam break. To this day, some locals say they still hear disembodied cries for help — along with sightings of ghostly figures desperately trying to make midnight climbs up the canyon walls to safety. Of course, the ghosts are said to be most active each March 12 at the midnight hour.

The victims that night included six members of the Ruiz family, who were buried in a small private cemetery on their ranch, which has remained at the center of the ghostlore. As reported on several paranormal websites, over the years trespassers would swear they encountered strange phenomena, including the ghostly sobs of a toddler. At one time, the hand print of a young girl was said to have mysteriously appeared on a freshly painted wall.

Recently, however, I conducted an off-the-record interview with a local historian who called at least some of those tales into question. Apparently an associate, who grew up near the cemetery, has admitted that years ago she used to sneak out at night with one or two other kids and hide in the cemetery to scare away curiosity-seekers.

See? It just goes to prove that some ghost stories really do have a Scooby-Doo ending.

This week I’ll be spending a lot of time in front of the mirror. Yes, I admit to a little vanity now and then, but I won’t be working on my appearance per se. Rather, I’ll be nervously polishing my delivery skills for a talk I’m presenting to a local historical group, March 17.

The topic is “Angeleno Ghostlore,” and the audience is Las Angelitas del Pueblo, the large, dedicated organization of docents that coordinates the educational programs and walking tours of the El Pueblo de Los Angeles Monument, which includes the original town Plaza, world-famous Olvera Street and several early Los Angeles buildings with a few ghost stories of their own.

I’m both excited and a little jittery. It’s been a while since my last public speaking engagement, and considering the nature of Las Angelitas, I wouldn’t want to disappoint. (The group describes its membership as having “a deep knowledge and love of the history of Los Angeles” and a commitment to sharing this passion with others.)

My talk centers around my contention that in addition to their spooky entertainment value, our region’s phantom tales also boast historical-cultural value that’s all too often ignored. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, as a form of “urban legend” Angeleno Ghostlore offers a window into the city’s past and a fascinating prism for viewing our unique culture and frequently bizarre “sense of place.”

Drawing from personal investigations and interviews, I hope to reveal L.A.’s “shadowy side” while sifting through the fact and fiction surrounding a number of legendary and obscure haunts, including City Hall, the Bradbury Building, Houdini Mansion, Hollywood Sign, and of course, Griffith Park.

Although I confess to some minor stage fright, I’m really honored by the opportunity to share this passion of mine with Las Angelitas — and I look forward to learning from them as well. Despite the topic, it promises to be a lively event.