The night was stormy. The California winter was on, and the incessant rain plashed in the deserted streets, or, lifted by irregular gusts was hurled against the house with incredible fury. Several trees were moaning and groaning in the torment of the tempest, and they appeared to be trying to escape from their loving environment and take the chance of finding a better one. A touch of colour flared in the sky. A voice barely audible whispered, “You can have anything in this World you want.” The staircase was dimly lighted by a single gas-jet at the top of the second flight. I managed to reach the landing without disaster and entered by an open door into the turret of the witches cap. The rain was still falling in torrents. Tomorrow night are planning to summon a spirit. It takes a good deal more courage to try it during a storm. But that is how science advances. And if we succeed—if there is genuinely something in this business of the portal—then my dreams will become a reality. The air of the great hall was deathly cold, as always. I turned the corner of the house. I saw the black cable, the rusty stain like blood running down the wall behind it. Tears sprang to my eyes. I had a vision—saw an apparition—which foretold of death of someone in my mansion, though not who, where, when or how this person would die. The visitations are a curse, an affliction; it was my longing to be rid of them. Something has attracted my attention; something dark, moving in the shadow of the hall. A door creaked behind me. There came a fateful night. I had retired early and fallen into such sleep as was still possible to me. #RandolphHarris 1 of 6

In the middle of the night something—some malign power bent upon the wrecking of my peace forever—caused me to open my eyes and sit up, wide awake and listening intently for I knew not what. Then I thought I heard a faint tapping on the wall—the mere ghost of the familiar signal. In a few moments it repeated: one, two, three—no louder than before, but addressing a sense alter and strained to receive it. I was about to reply when the Adversary of Peace again intervened in my affairs. Its baleful influence spread like a faint and poisonous fog across the room. This pervasive feeling of unease was its lasting legacy. I rose from my bed and went to unlock and opened the door. The handle shifted when I tried to turn it, but the door did not budge even a fraction in its frame. I blinked, incredulous. However, when I opened by eyes, the key was still there. The door was on balanced hinges. It opened inwards with a sigh as soon as the key released the lock. The hallway was larger than it was before just hours ago, the tower bigger. The windows were also much bigger. And they were set at a curious height. They were set about nine feet from the floor, and so impossible for anyone to look through. There was the drifting insinuation of music. Stride organ and a cracked voice played under the heavy needle of an antique gramophone. My heart began to beat faster in my chest. I could feel the hairs on my neck stiffen with fear. I was very frightened. I was truly afraid. The hardwood floors were dusty, as if the housemaids had been on vacation. Beethoven’s Fur Elise drifted up from below. There was very little light. It was almost fully dark. And then something moved in the mirror. #RandolphHarris 2 of 6

At the very edge of my vision, I just caught sight of a shape in the glass and stood and turned around to see what had been reflected. However, there was nothing there. I was at the center of the room. I turned back and lifted my eyes slowly to the mirror again. The heavy atmosphere of death lay over me, like flowers beside a coffin. They were behind me. There were three of them, three men in top hats and long black coats with silk mufflers draped around their necks. One of them wore a monocle. They were smiling at me and I could see that they were dead. The one at the center had a gold incisor that looked black in the absence of light. I closed my eyes to make the apparition go away. I opened my eyes again and saw that they were a step closer to me now. The ghost with the gold tooth was almost close enough to reach out and touch me. They seemed to be finding something funny, looking at me. Each wore an empty grin, mirth cavorting in their empty eyes, their dead expressions. I feld. I fell down the zig-zag stairs. And started running with a reckless panic, when I heard a scream from above so pained and tormented that it forced me into a questioning pause. There was silence. It was absolute. “Mrs. Winchester?” My leg was bleeding. I had gashed my knee falling down the stairs. I could feel the blood trickling down my shin into my sock, seeping into my shoe. “Mrs. Winchester?” I swallowed. It was a woman’s voice. I knew whose voice it was. “You must be brave now and try to help me, Mrs. Winchester.” Her voice was velvety. As if reading the thought, she cleared her throat. “Please wait for me.” I heard the staccato clack of high heels on wood as she stated to descend the stairs from above me. #RandolphHarris 3 of 6

The footsteps sounded terribly loud. As they got closer, I heard wood splinter and groan under their impact. And I began to think whatever was coming down the stairs was certainly bearing its considerable weight on two legs. However, the thing climbing down to me was not on heels, it dawned on me, with horror. It was coming down on hooves. It screamed again, in anger and frustration, as I feld a second time. And now I did not pause or hesitate. I ran for my life, followed by whatever it was I had awoken and unwittingly antagonized. I could hear its bulk behind me as it marauded through my mansion and burst through doors in pursuit. I smelled its foul breath when it bellowed, closing, in my wake. I ran and ran through doorways, but when it opened the door that opened to a wall looking for me, it screamed with bestial fury and windows exploded from their pains. It did not follow. In the basement, as I lay bleeding and prone, I thought I heard it finally slouching to the basement. “Dear Heavens,” I said, my head in my hands. I thought from the pain I was in that I had broken a rib against the stairs. My hands were pretty badly cut and my injured knee was swelling. I had been very lucky. And I started to sob into my hands. And it was a long time before I was able to stop, as the terror and self-pity competed in me for ascendancy. When I came to, it was daylight and I saw I had slept in a foetal crouch on the basement floor. I was in shock. My body was hurt but my mind felt violated. I tried not to think about what had happened. I tried not to speculate on the state I would be in now if I had awoken in darkness and not bright morning sunshine. #RandolphHarris 4 of 6

I shed many tears, and spent many a melancholy hour on the balcony with yearning eyes look westward. I was sitting in my favourite spot, an angle at the eastern end of the balcony, a quiet little nook sheltered by orange trees, when I heard a couple of servants talking in the garden below. They were sitting on a bench against the wall of the house. I had no idea of listening to their talk, until the sound of my name attracted me, and then I listed without any thought of wrong-doing. They were talking no secrets—just casually discussing me. They were a housemaid and a butler I only knew by sight. A well-to-do spinster, and an Englishman who had wintered abroad for half his lifetime. “I have been working for Mrs. Winchester for the last ten years,” said the lady; “but have never found out her real age.” “I put her down at a hundred—not a year less,” replied the Englishman. “Her reminiscences all go back to the Mayflower. She was evidently then in her zenith; and I have heard her say things that showed she was in Parisian society when the First Empire was at its best.” “She doesn’t talk much now.” “No; there’s not much life left in her since the lost of her baby and husband. She is wise in keeping herself secluded. I only wonder that wicked old quack, Dr. Wayland, didn’t finish her off years ago.” “I should think it must be the other way, and that he keeps her alive.” “My Dear Miss Steiger, do you think foreign quackery ever kept anybody alive?” “Well, there she is—and she never goes anywhere without him. He certainly has an unpleasant countenance.” “Unpleasant,” echoed the man, “I don’t believe the foul fiend himself can beat him in ugliness. I pity Mrs. Winchester.” #RandolphHarris 5 of 6

“But Mrs. Winchester is very good to her companions.” “No doubt. She is very free with her cash; the other servant called her good Mrs. Winchester. She is a beautiful old woman, but she looks so young, and know she’ll never be able to get through her money, and doesn’t relish the idea of other people enjoying it when she is in her coffin. People who live to be as old as she is become slavishly attached to life. I daresay she’s generous to those poor girls—but she can’t make them happy. They die in her service.” “Don’t say that Mr. Wolstenholme; I know that one poor girl died at Llanada Villa last spring.” “Yes, and another poor girl died here three years ago. I was here at the time. They girl had ever comfort. The old woman was very liberal to her—but she died. I tell you, Mrs. Steiger, it is not good for any young woman to live with two such horrors and Mrs. Winchester and The Winchester Mansion.” They talked of other things—but I hardly heard them over the noise of construction. I sat motionless, and a cold wind seemed to come down upon me from the mountains and to creep up to me, till I shivered as I sat there in the sunshine, in the shelter of the orange trees in the midst of all that beauty and brightness. Yes, they were uncanny, certainly, the pair of them—she so like an aristocratic witch in her withered old age; and he of no particular age, with a face that was more like a waxen mask than any human countenance I had ever seen. What did it matter? Old age is venerable, and worthy of all reverence; and I had been very kind to her. Dr. Wayland was a harmless, inoffensive physician, who seldom looked up from the book he was reading. He had his private sitting-room, where he made experiments in chemistry and natural science—perhaps in alchemy. What could it matter to me? He had already been polite to me, in his far-off way. I could not be more happily placed than I was—in this palatial mansion. #RandolphHarris 6 of 6

The Winchester Mystery House

The Winchester Mystery House is massive, the towers and gables gaunt in relief against the blue sky. Acres of yellow wood are sculpted and contorted into steep symmetric descents above wrought iron gates. Many people do not expect it to be so huge. It the way its atmosphere extends outward, like a shadow, thickly cast. It is high, the house, five storeys from the front door, at the stop of flights of mahogany steps, to the attic rooms that so contort the roof to accommodate their windows. And there are several witches caps. From the street people have to crane their necks to take in its height and panorama. There are many windows and various types of glass in them. One can see the panes glowing faintly orange in the setting brightness of the sun. The staircases are mysterious and grand. Their spread, their dimension, suggests something truly opulent. There are many doors on every floor.

And in the evening, darkness steals out of the corners of the building and encroaches at a steady creep across the interior of the mansion. There are many doors, and tourist can see apparitions behind every one of them, if they allow their imagination into their rein. On the third landing, guests often hear music. It is sudden and undeniable and it withers them in terror with its loud proximity. One can hear the chords shake the wood on the very organ frame as its keys hammer against discordant strings. Many can identify the very room the sound is coming from. However, sometimes when they walk along the landing and open the door to it, there is only plaster and shadows. And silence of course. The silence of The Winchester Mystery House does not hold. Like a living threat, the silence of The Winchester Mystery House impends. The place is haunted. Many tour guides do not like to descend the staircase at night. They do not want to be there at night at all.

In 2009, on this night in particular, after closing, a tour guide was startled to hear shouting coming from the Grand Ballroom. He went to see what was going on. When he walked into the room, he started trembling and was very pale. When security guards asked him what had happened, he could only stammer the words “The Man! The Man!” Confused, because the room was empty, the guards reviewed the surveillance footage. A pale figure can be seen opened the door where the safe is located and is very upset to see it open and empty and starts shouting about gold, silver and diamonds. He can be seen walking across the room and confronting the tour guide, as he walks right through him and disappears. The tour guide said he would never enter that part of mansion on his own after his frightening experience. https://winchestermysteryhouse.com/

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