My arrival to the Santa Clara Valley was truly a sensational event. The villagers were so thrilled by the dramatic entrance of a millionairess that I had to take detours to elude the crowds and journalists, jumping over garden railings and slipping through stables to get in my mansion. They were dying to see the rich imported furnishings being hauled by freight cars to Llanada Villa. A fantastic, increasingly fervent spectacle was developing. An eighteen-room farm house mushroomed into a 130-room mansion in the first year. This generated newspaper headlines and wild hopes among crowds of the expectant people transported by spiritual rapture and buoyed by the glamour of lights from the miniature nine story Tower of Babel, and Gospel-like tales about the dead taking up their graves and walking. There was even talk of black magic and of happenings utterly beyond credibility. Crowds formed spontaneously, sometimes in the thousands, on any rumor that I might appear. People desperate to see me stopped traffic, forced carriages to be rerouted, and sometimes became unruly. Around noon one day in early September, three hundred people clustered around Llanada Villa waiting for me. Murmurs went through the crowd—“we won’t leave until we see Mrs. Winchester.” The following day, these scenes and sentiments repeated themselves. Newspapers began hinting that I might leave Santa Clara Valley if crowds did not disperse so I could continue with construction of my mansion. It was so handsome, who could blame them. Cathedral ceilings, a charming garden, a lake of great beauty, with many storks. Llanada Villa was accounted one of the prettiest things in the West. It was a partial escape from the unseen bondage. #RandolphHarris 1 of 5

Those who had seen my estate declared that the attic windows were always closed, and that strange sounds sometimes floated from within as evening drew on. I was known to have been a prodigious magical student in my day, and legend averred that I could raise or quell storms according to my whim. Most unusual, though, were the well-attested cases of my influence over other person. People considered me, beyond question, a genuine hypnotist. They made wild claims that by gazing peculiarly at a servant, I would often give the latter a distinct feeling of exchanged personality—as if the subject were placed momentarily in my body and able to stare half across the room at one’s real body, whose eyes blazed and protruded with an alien expression. It was no secret that my mansion had many unique features. Rumors began to spread about my terrible meetings in lonely places, of Cyclopean rooms in the heart of Llanada Villa beneath which vast staircases lead down to abysses of knighted secrets, of complex angles that lead through invisible walls to other regions of space and time, and of hideous exchanges of personality that permitted explorations in remote and forbidden places, on other Worlds, and in different space-time continua. The servants pontificated about elusively coloured and bafflingly rooms, furniture, textured wallpaper, magical windows, and objects like nothing ever heard of on Earth within the walls of my mansion, whose insane curses and surfaces answered no conceivable purpose and followed no conceivable geometry. The servants watched my goings and comings. Through vigilant gossips, they declared there was someone in the attic of the house behind the doubly curtain windows. #RandolphHarris 2 of 5

Then sun was declining in the Heavens. Supper-time was approaching. During my sunset sash through the Victorian gardens, I caught a stream of utterly insane drivel about an unholy pit in the basement of my home where the black realm begins and that a watcher guarded the gate. The extent to which it preyed on my nerves was plain, for these servants had woven a whole set of hallucinations around them. Their minds were in pitiable states; for they went on mumbling wild extravagances about me, about black magic, about Llanada Villa, and about some revelation which would convince even me. They repeated names which I recognized from my forbidden volumes, and at times made me shudder with a certain thread of mythological consistency—of consistency—of convincing coherence—which ran through his maundering. Again and again he would pause, as if to gather courage for some final and terrible disclosure. Moments later, the wind came with a shrieking and swirling. I could feel the numbing chill of it; it cut through me like the blade of a knife, that wind, straight to the bone. Feeling uneasy, I made my way to the entrance of my home. Once inside, the stillness had a strained feel, made almost eerie by the constant wailing outside. I could feel myself getting more jittery as the moments passed. While I sliced the ham, I watched two of the housemaids staring at the door. It was curious that they both were wearing the same type of expensive engagement ring.  I thought: they must have had words with each other over something; that was all there was to it. Except that was not all there was to it. I have seen a lot of servants come and go. However, I had never seen any like these two. That tension between them was not anything fresh-born, was not just the brief and meaningless aftermath of a squabble. #RandolphHarris 3 of 5

No, there was real hatred on both sides—the kind that builds and builds, seething over long bitter weeks or months or even years. That kind that is liable to explode someday. Well, it was not really any of my business. Not unless the blowup happened in here, it was not, and that was not likely. Or so I kept telling myself. However, I was a little worried just the same. On a night like this, with the damned black wind blowing and playing hell with people’s nerves, anything could happen. Anything at all. I finished slicing the ham. Just as I sat down to eat, there was a loud banging noise from across the room that made me jump half a foot; it sounded like a pistol shot. But it had only been the cook slamming the pumpkin pie down on the table. I took a breath, let it out silently. He was found the next morning by The Good Will Boys Club. Police and an army of enthusiastic volunteers scoured the woods, but no trace of a ferocious wild beast was found. However, they did find the dead man, and he proved to be my cook. He had a reputation locally of being a person of solitary habits. An autopsy revealed he had died of a heart attack. The entire episode assumed the proportions of a thirteen-day wonder, and then was forgotten. The housemaid also no longer wore their engagement rings. Could they have been in love with the same man? Is it possible they killed him? After seating myself on one of the convenient window-seats, I sat some while looking at the rain-drenched gardens, then with a yawn, I turned and gave a quick glance along the long corridor that ran through a series of open doorways. Suddenly my attention was captured by a figure approaching over the long carpet. It was that of a girl in a black dress; she was a beautiful study in black and white. Black hair, white fac and hands, black dress. #RandolphHarris 4 of 5

Not that there was anything sinister about her, for as she drew nearer I could see the look of indescribable sadness in the large, black eyes, and the almost timid way she looked round each room. Her appearance was outstanding, so vivid, like a black and white photograph that had come to life. She entered the morning room and I now I could hear the light tread of her feet, the whisper of her dress, and even those small sounds seemed unreal. She walked around the room, looking earnestly at the pictures, then as though arrested by a sudden sound, she stopped. Suddenly the lovely eyes came round and stared straight at me. They held an expression of alarmed surprise, that gradually changed to one of dawning wonderment. The atmosphere was chilling and she had a weird presence that seemed to permeate the room. She robbed me of speech. She nodded and her hair trembled like black silk in sunlight. She dabbed her eyes with a black lace handkerchief, while I tried to find my way out of a mental labyrinth. As I reached out to her, I watched her figure retreat until it disappeared into lots of beautiful clouds. It was a great pity that her behaviour was so erratic, because I would have dearly liked to have known her better. In fact, when I remembered the black hair and white face, I was aware of a deep disappointment, a sense of loss, and I had to subdue a useless urge to run after her. I remained seated in the window bay and when I looked out on to the gardens, I saw the rain had ceased, but thick cloud banks were billowing across the sky. I smiled gently and murmured, “Lovely clouds—I miss you, Annie Winchester.” I was halfway across the room, when a light touch on my shoulder made me turn, and there was the white face and black hair, with a sad smile parting her lips. Then she vanished. #RandolphHarris 5 of 5

The Winchester Mystery House

Is it more frightening to see something you cannot explain, or to hear it and feel it around you, unseen, its appearance left totally to your wildly racing imagination? What if you feel “it” inside of you? To be “demon haunted” is an experienced you will never forget. Earth is a haunted planet. Throughout history, human beings have had daily contact with otherworldly residents and visitors whose actions range from benign to aggressive, and from mischievous to deadly. Humans have described, explained, catalogued, summoned, and exorcised these interlopers for centuries. The “paranormal” is far more complex and cannot be explained simply. From quantum physics, we have the concept of “many Worlds,” multi-dimensional realities stacked next to each other, all of which might feature their own inhabitants. The paranormal experiences at The Winchester Mystery House demonstrate that doorways or portals exist both on land and in human consciousness, which open up to these interdimensional realities in ways that awe us or terrify us, or both. “Demon Haunting” case are on the rise. Some people have even gotten more than they bargained for from the terrible trauma of artifacts from the 9/11 attacks.

There is no doubt that negative entities exist, and many are hungry and hostile, and can be bound to objects. Demons include a wide range of spirits, from tricky to evil, meddlers who created a host of problems for people, including all the bad luck and ills of this World. They include low-level irritating beings and dangerous powerhouses who wield the ability to destroy. These beings and spirits are still round us—they never went away, because they exist alongside of us in interdimensional space. They continue to pose problems, or help people, in some cases, shape-shifting in forms and tactics as humans have changed throughout the centuries. The Winchester Mystery House’s haunted objects of all kinds has built up during the 100 years of tours with the paranormal and demonic. Thousands of haunted objects are squeezed into the museum. Sometimes they just appear, have been here for over a century, some arrived by mail anonymously. Household items, art object, clothing, jewelry, ritual and religious objects, games, furniture, masks, dolls, you name it—anything can pick up a spirit hitchhiker who acts out when ushered into a new home. Mirrors are frequently haunted. Mirrors can create doorways for entities. Come for a fascinating tour of the beautiful yet eerily bizarre.

For further information about tours, including group tours, weddings, school events, birthday party packages, facility rentals, and special events please visit the website: https://winchestermysteryhouse.com/

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