My Haunted House

I believe in ghosts.

In 2005, I was my university newspaper's entertainment editor. I spent almost every day at the old, historic house which served as the headquarters.

It was a two-story cozy bungalow, built in the 1920s. The bottom half housed the newsroom, my office, and other offices. Upstairs held more offices. We held our staff meetings in the small, scary basement.

It was a typical college landmark, with Bob Marley posters interlaced with Gandhi quotes on the walls and Ernest Hemingway novels sprawled across dirty green futons.

On weekdays, the house was bustling with eager, young journalists, writing stories on laptops or running around, laughing about the latest university scandal. On Sunday nights, the place was packed with every staff employee cranking out the latest edition for a Tuesday release.

As an editor, I practically lived in the house. I was there every single day, proofreading my reporters' stories or even just studying for a test. It was my home away from home.

But the house held a dark secret, which I didn't learn until it was too late.

I was dating the sports editor of the newspaper. His name was Joseph. One afternoon, we raced down into the dark, frightening basement, to get frisky. We made our way into a tiny room we'd never been in before, giggling and kissing and getting undressed.

It was pitch black, except for a tiny streak of light coming from the hallway. I noticed there were numbers written all over the walls of the room. I pushed Joseph away and pointed them out.

"What is all this crap?" I remember asking, puzzled. He lit up his cell phone and we squinted at the numbers, which appeared to be written in marker. The numbers looked worn and faded, like they had been there for a really long time.

"I don't know," he said, studying them. "They kind of look like footballs stats. Who cares."

And we resumed our intimacy.

The next day, I asked my friend Nancy to go down to the basement with me, so I could show her the numbers written all over the walls.

When we got to the room, the walls were stark white. There were no numbers. We went to every single room in the basement. No numbers. She thought I was nuts. I swore to her there were numbers on the walls.

Later that afternoon, I turned on all the lights again, and brought Joseph down. We studied every room and couldn't find the numbers. He seemed disturbed, but calmed me down by saying that perhaps the building manager had painted down there. He couldn't think of any other explanation.

A few months later, I was alone in the house on a Saturday afternoon. I was editing stories in my office. I kept hearing someone walk outside my door, but every time I inspected it, there was nobody there. Then, I heard a door slam. Annoyed, I walked all over the house and upstairs, only to find that every single door was locked. I was alone in the house.

Not too long after that incident, I found myself alone in the house on a Friday night. I had gone out for dinner with Jonny and then realized I had a shitload of stories to edit, so I went to the house to get some of them out of the way.

About an hour after I was alone in the house, I heard a radio turn on. It was on the sports station. I walked around the house until I came to the room where the sound was coming from. It was my boyfriend's office, which was locked shut. But he wasn't in there. He was in northern California, visiting his mother.

"Hello?" I asked into the door, perplexed. There was no answer. Just the radio.

A male broadcaster was announcing a play-by-play of a football game. It was very loud.

Frustrated and confused, I called my boyfriend's cell. I told him that there was a radio blasting in his office and did he, perhaps, lend his office key to anyone in particular?

Joseph was pissed.

No, he did NOT lend his key to anyone, and he demanded that I figure out who the hell was in his office. After all, he didn't even have a radio in there, he said. Just his computer. I, of all people, should know that. He was freaked out. I didn't blame him.

Instead of investigating the incident any further, I immediately collected my notebook and raced out of the house. I could still hear the radio blasting from his window as I ran to my car in the pitch black parking lot.

The next day, I described the incident to the campus newspaper's office manager, who oversees the house. She didn't seem surprised.

"Oh, I've been working here for five years and we always have weird stuff like that going on," she said, breezily. "Have you seen anything move? That seems to be the most common complaint."

I was floored by her flippancy.

Other than a creepy vibe, I didn't encounter any other incidents after that night.

But one week before I graduated in 2006, I was speaking with one of my English professors about my experience with the campus newspaper.

"I don't know how you can stand being in that house all the time," she told me, with a shudder.

When I asked her why she felt that way, she told me that the campus newspaper house had once been the location for the campus radio station in the 1970s.

In the late 1970s, the disc jockey who covered campus sports, suddenly died of a heart attack after being on-air. His office was located in the last room on the first floor.

Joseph's office.

I haven't been in the house since.

Which doomed starlet are YOU?

You've read about them on my blog. You know their tragic endings. But have you ever stopped to think about which sex-crazed, liquor-soaked forgotten starlet you would have been? Which doomed starlet fits your personality?

Well, now is your chance to find out!

Take my quiz!

Wanna know more about your starlet? Check out my blog post for each one!

For Peggy Joyce Hopkins, click here.

For Gene Tierney, click here.

For Peg Entwistle, click here.

For Thelma Todd, click here.

Which starlet are you?

Meet Virginia (Haunted Hollywood Part III)

"Even their graveyard is glamorous."

The young couple held hands and stared, mesmerized, at the lush green paradise surrounding them.

Tall, skinny palm trees burst from a elegantly manicured lawn. Gothic concrete tombstones dusted the landscape.

They had managed to roam into a desolate area of the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. In the distance, they could see specks of other tourists paying respects to silver screen icons on a cloudy Labor Day.

As they drew nearer to one section, they could hear a woman crying.

"This place is so beautiful, I forget that actual people have relatives buried here," the 25-year-old girl whispered to her boyfriend.

But as they drew nearer, and the sobbing grew louder, the couple realized something was wrong.

Sitting near a tombstone was a black-haired woman wearing a shredded dress. Her face was buried into her lap.

When the couple stopped walking, the woman looked up.

And then she disappeared.

Hollywood's first and most widely seen and heard ghost is Virginia Rappe.

For almost 100 years, there have been dozens of reports from people hearing and seeing a woman sobbing near Virginia's grave, and then she vanishes into thin air.

When she was barely 20, Virginia moved to Hollywood from Chicago in 1916, desperate to escape a past clogged with abortions, a child out of wedlock, and most likely, sexual abuse.

Stunningly beautiful, she quickly gained work as a model and then as a film actress.

Life was fabulous for the gorgeous brunette. She was the first Hollywood style icon, being officially named "The Best Dressed Girl in Pictures." The public adored Virginia.

But by 1921, her past behavior had caught up with her.

She was humiliated by an incident when a studio executive publicly condemned her for passing an STD to several crew members. Her much-older boyfriend was a complete douchebag. And there were rumors that she was pregnant, seeking to have yet another abortion.

To escape Hollywood's scorn, Virginia accepted an invitation to Fatty Arbuckle's Labor Day weekend bash in San Francisco. To celebrate his new $3 million studio contract, the good-natured overweight comedian had reserved three rooms for a fabulous weekend, promised to be filled with (illegal) unlimited supply of liquor, hot and steamy orgies, and plenty of wild dancing.

On Labor Day, the party had gotten out of control with dozens of people filing in and out of the hotel rooms, giddily drunk and practically naked.

And around 3 p.m. that afternoon, Fatty walked into the bathroom and found Virginia nearly passed out on the floor. Thinking she was merely intoxicated, he picked her up and placed her on the bed.

The next 24 hours, all hell broke loose.

After being placed on the bed, Virginia started tearing at her clothing and screaming in agony. Fatty tried to control her, but she lashed out at him. When people came in the room, Fatty told them Virginia must have had way too much to drink and could they help him put her to bed?

Virginia started screaming that Fatty had violently raped her and she was going to die.

A doctor came and examined Virginia. He found not only no evidence of rape, but no evidence that she had even had sex recently. He did notice she was sweating profusely and in intense pain. He gave her a shot of morphine and left.

The next morning, the 26-year-old was taken to the hospital, where she died of an infection due to a ruptured bladder.

Fatty was charged with rape and murder and after a highly publicized trial, he was declared innocent.

Despite his name being cleared, his reputation was tarnished so badly that his career as America's favorite funny guy was destroyed. He was a ruined man.

And the rumors have been swirling about Virginia's death ever since.

The most popular theory is that Virginia had suffered a botched abortion before she attended the party. After all, it was known that she had been pregnant.

Another major theory is that bacteria from an STD had caused peritonitis, which had ruptured her bladder.

And of course, there are still Hollywood historians, who swear to this day, that Fatty had indeed violently raped Virginia, his morbidly obese body rupturing her bladder in the process.

Unfortunately, since Virginia's organs were destroyed after her death, there is virtually no way of knowing.

So for now, we just have to tip-toe around her grave. And endure the broken-hearted sobs of a woman who came to Hollywood to be a star, and left it as an enigma.

Paving the way for all the beautiful women who became ghosts in her footsteps.

Happy Halloween!

The Fallen Starlet (Haunted Hollywood Part II)

"I'm heading out to the drug store to meet some friends."

Uncle Walter looked up and smiled kindly.

"Have fun, sweetie," he said.

Peg Entwistle smiled back.

She exited the charming white bungalow she shared with her uncle and headed up the sidewalk. Golden sunlight pierced through the bright blue sky. The smell of gardenias wafted in the air.

It was truly a beautiful day.

She twisted and turned through neighborhoods and eventually wound up in the dusty brown hills. She was so lost in thought she didn't even realize how far she had walked in such a short period of time.

Up ahead, Peg could see the outline of the Hollywoodland sign. The looming dirty white letters seemed almost disappointingly abrasive against the vast Los Angeles skyline.

Without hesitating she started to walk up the steep brown hill. She slid down. Hitching her long dress up, she clawed her way up the chalky dirt mound. Out of breath and sweating, she eventually reached the top. She was right behind the massive 50-foot sign.

Peg wistfully stared out at the breathtaking view, through each giant letter. God, Los Angeles was stunning.

All of the sudden, she heard a noise behind her. She snapped around. Nobody was there.

"Hello?" she called out.

Silence.

She took off her coat and folded it neatly, placing it on the ground with her purse. She couldn't quite shake the feeling that somebody was watching her.

She climbed up a workman's ladder on the back of the "H" and stood on top of the letter, peering down at the cityscape below.

And then she performed a perfect swan dive straight down.

The 24-year-old died instantly.

Peg was born in London in 1908, but grew up in New York City. Her mom had died when she was very young, and then when she was a teenager, her father got run over by a car.

After high school, she pursued theater and her natural talent and girl-next-door personality earned her success on Broadway.

During one of her stage productions, sitting in the audience was a girl named Bette Davis, who turned to her mother and whispered, "...I want to be exactly like Peg Entwistle."

In 1932, Peg moved to Los Angeles to see if she could try her hand at movie-acting. Fortunately, her Uncle Walter lived out there, so she was able to live with a watchful guardian, rent-free.

Within the year, she dabbled in stage work and was eventually signed to RKO Studio and cast in a major film production, Thirteen Women. The sweet-tempered blonde couldn't have been more thrilled. She was going to be a star!

But when the film was released, the movie received scathing reviews from critics. RKO dropped Peg's contract like a hot potato.

The 24-year-old was heartbroken and grew severely depressed.

And then one afternoon, she climbed the Hollywood sign and killed herself.

A hiker found her body a couple days later, with her suicide note tucked inside her purse.

 In an ironic twist of fate, just mere days after her death, a letter from the Beverly Hills Playhouse arrived at her uncle's doorstep. The theater wanted her to star in their latest production, playing the role of a woman who commits suicide.

Although she has been dead for exactly 80 years, Peg isn't exactly...gone.

Dozens of people over the past eight decades have reported seeing a forlorn blonde woman in a white dress roaming the grounds near the Hollywood sign.

So in the end, her dream of becoming famous did come true.

Peg is forever known as the Hollywood Sign Girl, the ghost who haunts a landmark representative of hope and success, and all the glorious tragedy that comes with it.

Peroxide Blonde (Haunted Hollywood Part I)

"Open the fucking door!"

A chilly breeze enveloped Thelma Todd's scantily clad body.

The glittering lights of Hollywood danced around the building, but the gorgeous starlet was too drunk and too cold to care. After a night of partying at the hottest nightclub in town (and had she gone to a few other places? She couldn't remember. The whole night was a blur), she was now at her boyfriend's apartment. She didn't even know how she got there.

She banged on the door again.

"Let me the fuck in, Roland!"

No answer.

"Please!"

She burst into tears and finally turned around and stumbled down a never-ending staircase. She tripped on the last step and fell down, scraping her bare knee. The world seemed to be spinning. God, she felt like puking. All over Roland's doorstep. Maybe his crazy wife would step in it.

The thought made Thelma smile.

As she walked over to the garage, the star-lit sky faded into pitch black.

The next morning her dead body was discovered inside her running Lincoln convertible, sitting in the garage. Her favorite slinky cocktail dress was clinging to her body. An expensive fur coat wrapped her body protectively.

Despite the bruises on her throat, the two cracked ribs, and the broken nose, the police determined the 28-year-old's death was an accident. She must have gone to her car, turned it on inside the garage, and then passed out drunk, dying from carbon monoxide poisoning, they stated in their report, ignoring the fact that she had clearly been beaten up beforehand.

But people in Thelma's life knew better. And when the details of the peroxide blonde's scandalous adventures were revealed, the public became obsessed.

This was not a girl who died of carelessness.

This was a girl who died of murder.

And there were many people who wanted her dead.

A decade before, when Thelma was a 19-year-old beauty queen on the East Coast, a talent scout encouraged her to try her luck in Hollywood. Upon the move, she quickly discovered fame and fortune in the movie industry. She played the sexy blonde in a string of hit comedies.

But behind the camera, the vivacious actress was a hot mess.

Thelma was dangerously attracted to older, rich men who physically abused her, just like her own father had years before. And she was obsessed with sex, constantly spreading her legs for every guy who offered a simple compliment. She couldn't help it. She craved feeling gorgeous. She needed to feel desired. Without sex, she felt worthless and that was a feeling which terrified her.

She was also addicted to diet pills, stemming from her studio contract, which stated that if she ever gained more than five pounds, her career would be immediately terminated.

Her partying lifestyle introduced her to a rough crowd. Her first husband was a gangster who beat the shit out of her. When Thelma finally left him, she secretly worried that one day he would take revenge. It was a fear always nagging in the back of her mind.

In 1931, Thelma fell in love with her married director, Roland West. His wife, Jewel, didn't bother her. She was annoying and her looks were fading and she clearly couldn't please him in bed. Obviously, no competition.

Plus, she wasn't planning on being entirely faithful either. Thelma couldn't help being attracted to other men and was too weak to fight off her sexual temptations.

In fact, it was her unfaithfulness which was the reason Roland never opened his door for her that crisp December night. He was inside, bitterly ignoring her drunken pleas, too proud to take her back.

And then there was Lucky. Thelma didn't even know how she got herself wrapped up into that mess. Lucky Luciano was the scariest mobster in the Los Angeles area.

When Thelma and Roland opened up their restaurant, Thelma Todd's Sidewalk Cafe, a year before, it had become an overnight success, attracting the Hollywood in-crowd and tourists. Thelma couldn't have been more proud. Here she was, proving to the world that she was more than just a pretty face and nice piece of ass. She was a businesswoman. A real powerhouse!

But one day Lucky just appeared in her life. They'd slept together a few times, after downing bottles of Dom Perignon. He'd rough her up a bit, but nothing she couldn't handle. Then, one afternoon Lucky told her he wanted to take over her nightclub for the mafia. Outraged, she told him to fuck off. The look in his eyes told her she might have taken things too far.

And amidst this mess, this circus of a life she'd created for herself out in paradise, Thelma wound up dead.

The fake friends she'd collected at her side wept for the cameras and told reporters it was a "shock."

Almost exactly two years later, Thelma's ex-husband murdered an actor at the very same nightclub where she had last been seen.

Her lover, Roland, became a recluse and never made another film. He later confessed to murdering her on his deathbed in 1952, but since he was mentally unstable from a stroke, the police dismissed it.

Her money-hungry mother, Roland's bitter wife, and a string of lovers also appeared as possible suspects. But nothing could be proved. And the police, eager to wrap up the media frenzy, stopped analyzing the situation by labeling it an accident.

To this day, nobody knows what really happened to Thelma that night in 1935.

Nobody knows who did it.

But that person got away with it. And they took the details to their grave.

Leaving Hollywood with the mystery.

The Case of the Mysterious Neighbor

This is completely random, but there is something creepy going on and I had to share it with you.

My parents live in a picture-perfect suburban neighborhood. Think Leave it to Beaver or some shit like that. Two story houses. Manicured lawns. Kids playing outside. Etc.

Well, my parents' neighbor on the left side is this old man who rarely comes out of his house. Whenever he does, it is usually to scowl at people while he waters his lawn.When my parents moved in ten years ago, neighbors told them that this man has a wife who hasn't been seen in years. Like, she used to hang out outside all the time and then one day, she just stopped. It's like she went inside the house one day and never came out.

So, ten years go by and my parents have never seen this woman. It's like she doesn't exist.

A few months ago, my mom and I were walking in the neighborhood and this vintage blue Mercedes driving down the street screeched to a halt in front of us. The old lady driver with bright red lipstick rolled down her window and said, "Hello neighbors!"

We were confused and then stunned when she introduced herself as The Woman Next Door. The missing woman! She called herself Melissa.

"I was just on my way home when I saw you girls and wanted to say hi," said Melissa, with a big grin, showing red lipstick on her teeth.

She cheerfully went on to tell us that she's been watching our every move for the past ten years. She knew my mom's work schedule. She knew that I'd graduated college and moved out. She knew our names. She said she just sits at home and stares out her window at the neighbors every day.

She asked if she could have coffee with my mom some time. My mom suggested going to the coffee shop down the street.

"There's a coffee shop down the street?" Melissa asked, mystified. "When did it open?"

"Um, eight years ago," my mom replied.

She asked my mom for her phone number, but when my mom asked for Melissa's phone number, Melissa just smiled and drove away.

After that encounter, Melissa started showing up everywhere. We saw her walking outside. We saw her watering roses in her backyard. We saw her driving by.

When my mom told other neighbors that we'd not only seen Melissa, but talked to her, they were stunned. They didn't even know Melissa was out and about again after all these years.

A month ago, my parents and I attended a Swedish festival at a town one hour away. While we were sampling lingonberry sauce at a booth, we heard a "hello neighbors!" We turned around and there was Melissa, draped in a Swedish dress, bonnet, and apron. She looked like a giant mechanical doll from the "It's a Small World" ride at Disneyland.

When we walked over to her, Melissa said that she is Swedish, just like my mom. She talked my parents' ears off for almost 30 minutes. During this time, I found it odd that nobody else at the Swedish festival was in costume. And nobody was looking at Melissa strangely.

A couple days ago, Melissa called my mom and told her that she enjoyed making jewelry just like my mom does. She asked her to go to a jewelry fair. So, they went to the fair and had lunch afterwards.

My mom went back to the jewelry fair the next day because she had to pick up an order. When she asked the organizer of the fair if Melissa's order was ready, the man didn't know what my mom was talking about. He said he didn't remember my mom being there with anyone.

So, as a child of the R.L. Stine generation, I can only surmise this logical conclusion:

Melissa is a ghost.

Paranormal Activity

I just got back from Illinois. I had no idea a three day trip could be so action-packed with horror.

I just had to share with you what happened:

As soon as my parents and I arrived to town after an eight hour drive, we discovered the hotel had given away our suite. And they had no other rooms left! Pissed, we went all over town looking for a hotel room. Every other major hotel in the city was booked for that night as well. Eventually, we managed to find two rooms at a shady little motel by the highway.



I was very distraught by the situation. My room looked like something straight out of a horror film. There were giant dark stains all over the carpet, the comforter, and the walls. The lamp kept flickering on and off, like a strobe light. I was too scared to sleep in the bed because I was worried it may have bed bugs or bodily fluids inside of it. I got no sleep.

The next day, I was exhausted. The funeral was lovely and had included a couple Swedish songs and funny stories about my great-aunt. Her son, my mom's cousin, is the COO (one step under CEO) of one of the biggest pizza chains in the world. To surprise him, 20 top executives from the headquarters flew the corporate jet and took chauffeured Escalades to the funeral. It was impressive.



The reception was held at an adorable Swedish restaurant where we all feasted on Swedish pancakes with lingonberry sauce, Swedish meatballs, pickled herring, and apple cake.

That afternoon, I went shopping with my cousin and aunts, but I was too exhausted to be any fun, and unfortunately, it showed. So we called it a day and went our separate ways before the evening.

To my delight, my parent were waiting with good news. The hotel which had lost our reservations the night before felt so bad about it, they were giving us two honeymoon suites FOR FREE that night!



Overjoyed with the news, I immediately gathered my belongings from the scary motel and I rushed to my new suite. I spent an hour soaking in the suite's heart-shaped jacuzzi with a glass of white wine and my mystery novel. It was like being in heaven.

Of course, things took a turn for the worse.

Snuggled on the couch in my big fluffy white robe, I was watching Criminal Minds and all of the sudden, the channel switched to CNN. I hadn't even touched the remote! Confused, I switched it back. But then, the channel switched, by itself, to the History Channel. Before I could reach for the remote, the volume on the television turned all the way up by itself!

I was so freaked out, I shut the television off and ran into the bedroom. I rationalized that the living room television was broken.

So, I started watching a Hilary Duff movie in the bedroom. But again, out of nowhere, the television turned off on its own and the lights in the bedroom turned off! I was officially scared. I ran out of bed, turned all the lights back on and called Rian, stuttering what was happening. He insisted I was overreacting and perhaps the electricity wasn't working. In the middle of his trying to comfort me, the clock radio turned on by itself and blasted an Usher song. I went to the clock radio and discovered that it was turned off but it was still playing music somehow! Shrieking, I unplugged the clock radio and the music stopped.



Rian was tired and I reluctantly got off the phone with him. A few minutes later, the hotel phone rang. I picked it up. There was nobody on the other end. All I could hear was static. My heart pounding, I unplugged the phone and submerged myself beneath the covers of the king bed.

I was so incredibly frightened. I wished with all my heart that I had been sharing a suite with my parents that night. It was that bad.

The next morning, I woke up after a restless sleep and went into the shower. I was going over the previous night's incidents in my head, when I looked through the glass door and saw a figure in front of me. I let out a blood curling scream and the figure screamed as well.

After a minute of hysterically screaming in the shower, I realized the figure was my mom. My parents had been trying to call me that morning but were worried because I wasn't answering my cell and the hotel phone was off the hook. So my mom got a key from the front desk and came in to check up on me.

It only took me five minutes to get dressed, quickly gather my belongings, and get the hell out of the suite that morning. What a nightmare!

And after an eight hour long journey, I am finally back home.

I need a drink.