Randolph Harris II International Institute

Ready to End the Unwanted Pursuit?

The haunting beauty of Llanada Villa was undeniably captivating. I had to go downstairs to procure another light. Echoes transcended time and space. Whispers were soft, indiscernible murmurs, barely distinguishable from the gentle rustle of the curtain. My heartbeat quickened as I strained to comprehend the words, but they remained elusively haunting. As I made my way back to my chamber, I found my windows open. The chilling draft caused the candles to flicker, casting shadows on the walls. Crossing the threshold, I shivered, and goosebumps formed on my arms as an unsettling feeling enveloped me. I was caught off guard by the shutters were flapping in the frigid breeze. As I went to bolt them again, a horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. Vanishing into the darkness. As this ghastly situation progressed, the covers had been snatched from the bed, and my books had been scattered about. The sound that the wind made was something hellish, full of screams and wailing that raised the hackles on my neck. The Indians who used to live around here called it a “black wind”; they believed that it carried the voices of evil spirits, and that is you listened to it long enough, it could drive you mad and loose untold terrors on all humankind. A cold gust of wind swept through my chamber, extinguishing the candles. As darkness covered the room, I felt disoriented and vulnerable in the pitch-black abyss. The mansion seemed to come alive with a haunting presence. The moon had reached its zenith, casting an eerie light through the stained-glass windows of the Daisy Bedroom. #RandolphHarris 1 of 5

In the midst of the haunting beauty, there are black zones of shadows, and now and then some evil soul breaks through. However, it is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and solitude.  I slept fitfully that night, even in my sleep listening for footsteps on the veranda. It was already afternoon before I finally rose from my bed and ventured from my sunny room. I could feel strange energy permeating the air, like an intangible veil separating the living World from the dead. Llanada Villa had a life of its own. Its history seeped through the walls, whispering forgotten secrets to anyone who would listen. I sat in silence for a while, lost in a nightmare, my own private hell. These echoing words painted a tapestry of human suffering, of moments that had broken these spirits, shaped them and made them who they were. I had become a soul lost, adrift in a sea of sorrow, desperately seeking an anchor in my constantly expanding home. As the day wore on and became night, a chill ran down my spine, a nagging feeling that something was not quite right. The darkness in the mansion was a thick, oppressive weight on my chest. I could feel it, the sensation of being watched. My heart raced. Struggling to move, I realized I was trapped in my own body—the suffocating grip of sleep paralysis. My eyes, the only part of me that I could move, darted around, trying to make out of the shadows shifting in the corner of my room. Fear propelled me. Reality, with its vivid hues and resonant sounds, tried to assert its dominance, but the boundaries were blurring. Everywhere I looked, a surreal hazed seemed to cover my room, threatening to meld the familiar with the phantasmagorial. The intimacy was beyond untangling. #RandolphHarris 2 of 5

A gust of wind rattled the windows, amplifying a growing horror, of outré and morbid cast. Something was waving my fate in this dark tapestry, and I needed comfort. As I regain my strength, I ventured outside of my chamber. Each shadow seemed to harbour potential threats; every eerie whisper echoed with foreboding. Even my sleep was haunted. Every night, the same shadowed figure emerged, drawing near. Its presence is cold, its intentions unclear. Yet, there is an unspeakable dread that tugged at my soul. It was a warning? Maybe a premonition? I felt like it was calling me, urging me into its dark embrace. That path I was on was treacherous. However, sometimes salvation lies in the shadows. As the day went by, daylight, which once offered refuge from the terror of my nightmares, because just another playground for the menacing specters that haunted Llanada Villa. Morning’s golden glow no longer held the promise of safety, and the warmth of the sun could not dispel the bone-chilling cold that now seemed to follow me wherever I went. As the carpenter’s hammers fell, the miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course into an impressive nine stories. Afear gnawed at my inmost soul. Between my room and the staircase are two dark and empty chambers, which would have once caused me alarm, but which I now welcome. I opened a pair of the big windows, a grimy and, I fear a noisy task. I flitted out in the moon light on the balcony, and gazed down into the garden where the dwarf pines, pale birches, and a vast hiding place lay, where many forms often invisible life lurked in the dense undergrowth of the boxwood hedges. #RandolphHarris 3 of 5

The howl of what was supposed to be a dog brought me to an immediate standstill and for a while I listened, trying to determine from which direction the sound came. There was an unmistakable pricking sensation on the back of my neck, an exceedingly cold, almost icy chill slithered down my spine and gave me reason to remember the conditions laid down by legend and superstition. The howl rang out again. A long, drawn-out cry of canine anguish. I saw something dart behind a gnarled oak, a shadowy silhouette that moved with an unnatural fluidity. It was there and then it was not, leaving behind only the whisper of dread and the echoing silence of the night. There was a creaking of settling timbers, the ticking of an old grandfather clock. Then, without warning, the lights began to flicker, the bulbs were throwing a staccato pattern on the walls, turning the familiar into the grotesque. Then a growl erupted from the floor below. Pity fled like a leaf before a raging wind, and a stark terror filled my brain with blind, unreasoning panic. I ran, fell, got up and rain again, and from behind came the sound of a heavy body crashing on the floor, the rasp of a laboured breathing the bestial growl of some enraged being. Reason had gone, coherent thought had been replaced by an animal instinct for survival; I knew whatever ran behind me was closing the gap. In the blackness, I heard it—a whisper. A voice so faint and fragmented it was like the memory of a sound, speaking words that were not words, a language that transcended mere speech. It was a whisper that crawled into my ear and lay there, festering. Frozen with terror, I could only listen as the whisper grew louder, more insistent. It was calling to me, beckoning me, its very existence a violation of everything safe and sane. #RandolphHarris 4 of 5

My consciousness was blotted out by a merciful darkness. An hour passed, perhaps more, before I awakened. I lay quite still and tried to remember why I should be lying on the floor in the parlor. Then memory sent its first cold tentacles shuddering across my brain and I dared to sit up and face reality. Night was enforcing its guard, but I was still able to see the dead man who lay but a few feet away. I shrank back with a little muffled cry and tried to dispel this vision of a purple face and bulging eyes, by the simple act of closing my own. However, this was not a wise action for the image of that awful countenance was etched upon my brain, and the memory was even more macabre than the reality. I opened my eyes again, and there it was: a man in late middle life, with grey, close-cropped hair, a long moustache and yellow teeth, that were bared in a death grin. The purple face suggested he laid dead of a heart attack. The ghost of the Winchester Rifle grew more intrusive, more menacing, and with a boldness that sent cold shivers down my spine. They were no longer content to haunt the shadows; they demanded to be seen, to be felt, to be feared. I dragged myself through the halls of Llanada Villa and by sheer good fortune emerged out on to one of the main paths. I engrossed myself in research, buried in the arcane knowledge of the forbidden text, only to feel a chill breeze in the library where no windows were open. I looked up to find my notes shuffled, some even flung across the room. Blood spots, staring back at me like red eyes. My breath became labourious, my pulse quickened, but there was nothing there. Nothing I could see. A cyclone of cold carried with it whispers, indistinct yet filled with malice. Clutching my heart in fear, I could do nothing but listen. #RandolphHarris 5 of 5

The Winchester Mystery House

You do not have to believe in cursed objects to be fascinated by them. Because another, less paranormal definition of a cursed object is an item that gathers stories to itself—and more specifically, tragedies. Objects are intimately connected to people. We make them, live with them, use them, love them, and are sometimes even buried with them, and people continuously find themselves in the midst of tragedy. Cursed objects are those items that have simply been the mute witnesses to more tragedies than other items. They then become devices for remembering those stories and provide opportunities for retelling them. For those who are curious, visiting a museum is the easiest way to see a cursed object firsthand.

The people who have owned The Winchester Mystery House or inherited money from The Winchester Fortune have been ripped apart by dogs, shot, beheaded, pushed over cliffs, starved to death, and drowned aboard sinking ships. Many people believe The Winchester Mystery House to be the most popular object in California, making it more of a lucky charm for conservators of The Winchester Mystery House, than a cursed object. While it cannot be denied that everyone who has ever owned The Winchester Mystery House has died—The Winchester Mystery House can sometimes seem less the direct cause of trouble than a side effect. After all, you have to be extremely rich to own it. That level of wealth comes with its own problems, whether these problems are born of politics, vengeful spirits, or profligacy. But one thing is certain, the Devil is far more powerful than any person.

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/

Please visit the online giftshop, and purchase a gift for friends and relatives as well as a special memento of The Winchester Mystery House. A variety of souvenirs and gifts are available to purchase.  https://shopwinchestermysteryhouse.com/

September 21, 2023 10:47 am

What Miracles is He Not Capable!

Man is an indolent creature, but light the fire of fear under him, and of what miracles is he not capable! However, not only the forces that determine one’s own life directly but also those that seem to determine life in general are felt as unchangeable fate. It is fate that there are wars and … Continue reading →

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September 19, 2023 9:00 pm

The Hopeful and the Despairing Heart

The scream tore through the house. I rose to find the sky uncommonly clear and full of visible stars. A good omen for Llanada Villa. On the desk in the library, I was astonished to see an ancient book, more of a handwritten codex, with brilliant illustrations on its wooden cover. Carefully lifting the pages, which were bound by three different ties of human skin made into thong, the very first page revealed several magic spells, written in faded but clearly visible and very crowded Latin script. It was as old a book of magic as I have ever beheld, and of course its claim—the claim of its title page—was to the very earliest of all black arts ever known since the Fall of Man. I was more than familiar with the legends surrounding vampires and the tale of the Watcher Angels who lay with woman, and taught magic to the Daughters of Men, as so the Book of Genesis states. However, the most important sentences were as follows: “It was a belief very strongly and generally held by the ancients—of whose wisdom in these matters I have had such experience as induces me to place confidence in their assertions—that by enacting certain processes, which to us moderns have something of a barbaric complexion, a very remarkable enlightenment of the spiritual faculties in man may be attained: that, for example, by absorbing the personalities of a certain number of one’s fellow-creatures, an individual may gain a complete ascendancy over those orders of spiritual beings which control the elemental forces of our universe. It is recorded of Adam that he was able to fly in the air, to become invisible, or to assume any form he pleased, by the agency of the soul of a boy whom he had ‘murdered.’” #RandolphHarris 1 of 6

“Similar happy results may be produced by the absorption of the hearts of not less than three human beings blow the age of twenty-one years. The best means of effecting the required absorption is to remove the heart from the living subject, to reduce it to ashes, and to mingle them with a pint of some red wine, preferably port. The remains of the first two subjects, at least, it will be well to conceal: a disused wine-cellar will be found convenient for such a purpose. Some annoyance may be experienced from the psychic portion of the subjects, which popular language dignifies with the of ghosts. However, the man of philosophic temperament—to whom alone the experiment is appropriate—will be little prone to attach importance to the feeble efforts of these beings to wreck their vengeance on him. I contemplate with the liveliest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated existence which the experiment, if successful, will confer; not only placing one beyond the reach of human justice (so-called), but eliminating to a great extent the prospect of death itself.” Frightened by the pages that had just been translated, I no longer wanted to fear the torment of those words. I could not believe such words had been written. Deep in the bowels of my mansion are dungeons. I supposed I could burry the codex there and no one would ever discover it, nor attempt the experiments mentioned in the ancient text. However, after reaching the dreadful dungeon, a creature abhorrent to the eyes, was found, his head thrown back, his face stamped with an expression of rage, fright, and mortal pain. #RandolphHarris 2 of 6

To my surprise, it was my butler, Josef Schwalber. In his left side was a terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. There was no blood on his hands, and a long knife that lay on the table was perfectly clean. A savage wild-dog might have inflicted the injuries. The window of the dungeon was open, and it was the opinion of the Detective Kasberger, that Mr. Schwalber had met his death by the agency of some wild creature. However, after study of the codex, I am led to a very different conclusion. The next morning while I was drinking my coffee and eating my panini (always very flaky and powdery like in Italy), I had the servants sweep the spiders out of the Bath House at the far end of the formal garden (it is said to have been built by the Byzantines). The transformation is quite bewildering. A team of seamstresses had to work day and night for 48 hours, in in the fairy tales, to create my new impracticable dress. Nevertheless, I had quite enough dresses already even if it were the Pope and his cardinals who were going to entertain me. I have learned from experience that new dresses are more often than not thoroughly disappointing. I keep remind myself of that, but I needed to forget about what transpired last evening. But I can say no more than I had said already. Everything that I can remember, I have told with perfect candour. Nothing has been distorted or concealed, and if anything remains vague, it is only because of the dark cloud which has come over my mind—that cloud and the nebulous nature of the horrors which brought it upon me. #RandolphHarris 3 of 6

Vision or nightmare it may have been—vision or nightmare I fervently hope it was—yet it is all that my mind retains of what took place in those shocking hours after I went into the dungeon. It saddens me that Mr. Schwalber had gotten into my vast collections of strange, rare books on forbidden subjects, which many are written in languages that I master; but there are some with those in languages I cannot understand. I remembered how I shuddered at his facial expression on the night before the awful happening, when he talked so incessantly of his theory, why certain corpses never decay, but rest firm and fat in their tombs for a thousand years. Certainly it had something to do with the ancient book in undecipherable characters Mr. Schwalber left on my desk in the library. The picture seared into my soul is of one scene only, and the hour must have been long after midnight; for a waning crescent moon was high in the vaporous Heavens. I have been thinking on and off all day about the differences between the ways we are supposed to behave and the ways we actually do behave. And both are different from the ways in which God calls upon us to behave, and which we can never achieve whatever we do and however hard we apply ourselves. I am so friendless and alone in this alien land. It occurs to me that I must have great inner strength to bear up as I do and to fulfill my duties with so little complaint. The portrait, at the beginning of the beautifully engraved codex, I have begun to feat that I shall see that face looking over my shoulder as I sit gazing into the looking glass. I live on a spiritual plane and desire only the sweet and stimulating companionship of my husband. #RandolphHarris 4 of 6

Small pleasures seemed greater for having been snatched in the shadow of wretchedness. I have been subjected to a fate I fear more than the slowest tortures. My life has become filled with gore and grue, ghosts and ghouls and ghastly events, and I must confess I am impartial to such entertainments. The servants show me stains on the wall and tell me it is the blood of a murdered innocent killed by the Winchester Rifle fifty years before: no amount of washing will ever remove that stain, they tell me in sepulchral tones, and indeed it deepens and darkens on a certain day of the year, the anniversary of the violent passing. One is expected to nod gravely, of course, and one does, if one wishes. Back in the eleventh century, you will be apprised, a battalion of foreign invaders were vanquished by the skeletons of long-dead patriots who arose from their tombs to defend their homeland and then returned to the Earth when the enemy had been driven from their borders. (And since the servants are able to show you the very graves of these lively bones, how can one disbelieve them?) The servants have pointed to the Observational Tower and told me of a spectral tyrant who, a scant dozen years before, is suspected of having died from poisoning. My silver used to be store in the part of the tower where she is seen, and a footman was employed to sleep here and guard it. One night, when the footman had turned in to sleep, he was approached by a very pale-looking lady in white who asked him for some water. Think it was one of the mansion’s guests, he turned to get her some when he remembered he was locked in and no visitor could have possibly entered. When he turned back, the apparition had disappeared. It is thought that her longing for water suggest that she was poisoned. #RandolphHarris 5 of 6

Beside the Grand Ball Room, the voices of two men are often heard talking although no one can make out what they are talking about. If one makes an effort to trace them, they stop talking suggesting that whoever the ghosts are, they are aware of what is going on around them. Servants have also reported having their hair pulled, arms scratched, and even being bitten by unseen assailants while in the dark of its mahogany walls and corridors. I am cursed by Lucifer, they say, suffering the tortures. From the day, I wish the ghost would not strike terror to my soul and stop filling my heart with but paltry pity. Still, I have journeyed in foreign countries, and I long for peace at Llanada Villa. Amorphous shadows seem to lurk in the darker recesses of the mansion and to flit as in some blasphemous ceremonial procession past the portals of the catacombs; shadows which could not have been cast by a trick of light. These things are too utterly beyond thought—I dare not tell a soul—no one could know it and live—Great God! I never dreamed of THIS! Around me there are ghost and the darkness and the shadows; below me, some peril beyond the radius of the human imagination. Curse these hellish things—legions—My God! Beat it! Beat it! Beat it! After that was silence. I know not how many interminable aeons I sat stupefied; whispering, muttering, calling, screaming into the Heavens. Over and over again through those aeons I whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, “William! William! Answer me—are you there?” And then there came to me the crowing horror of all—the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing. I watched amorphous, necrophagous shadows dance beneath my silver German chandelier. And this is what it said: “YOU FOOL, WILLIAM IS DEAD!” #RandolphHarris 6 of 6

The Winchester Mystery House

You have fallen into a time loop and cannot get out. Most paranormal accounts of hauntings fall into the realm of the residual. A cacophony of footsteps, knocking on the walls, music playing by unseen hands, and even smells repeat themselves when the time—and audience—is right. There is no actual ghost interacting during a residual haunting—you have simply stepped into a memory and gotten a bit on your soul. Some objects seem to react to certain dates, such as anniversaries or a time of death, and we think that whatever is making it reach out and say, “YOU FOOL, WILLIAM IS DEAD!” is trapped within its own vortex. Demons can literally attach themselves to certain types of objects. And if a person happens to bring one of these cursed objects into their house, the demon can then start to attack the people who are living in the house as a result of them being attached to that object.

Curses petition the deities for rulings in a Heavenly court. Although it is not surprising, it is unfortunately common that tourists will try to steal artifacts from archaeological sites. What may be surprising is that the tourists have tried to steal relics or artifacts from the Winchester Mystery House, but often voluntarily return them or turn themselves in to the authorities. Some have sent notes apologizing for the theft, claiming that the artifacts are cursed. However, sometimes the thieves just regret their actions and feel guilty, but the Winchester Mystery House has received hundreds of packages through its one hundred years of tours of stolen antiques, as the accompanying letters would say, those objects were responsible for harm to the relic thieves and their families. Some people have even donated things it hopes that the spirits of The Winchester Mystery House would save their lives. Could such curses be real? It seems more believable, perhaps, for objects once owned by Sarah L. Winchester, to be cursed. It adds to the mystery and mystique of the Winchester Mystery House. However, many people have claimed that everyday objects harbour negative energies, including decorative items, paintings, dolls, jewelry, and even a set of Mercedes Benz automobiles!

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/

Please visit the online giftshop, and purchase a gift for friends and relatives as well as a special memento of The Winchester Mystery House. A variety of souvenirs and gifts are available to purchase.  https://shopwinchestermysteryhouse.com/

September 19, 2023 8:39 am

Why this Symptom? Why Now?

After World War I, psychosomatic practitioners tended to be critical of more mainstream medicine, finding fault with that they perceived as an overly reductionist attitude among fellow physicians, one that failed to treat patients as whole beings, body and soul. Psychosomatic doctors rejected narrowly natural-scientific ideas about illness and disability and sought, along side science, … Continue reading →

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September 17, 2023 9:15 am

It is Time to Investigate the Curse

During the Victorian era, too few physicians knew how to treat seelische illnesses, which literally meant illness “of the soul,” but depending on its context, could also mean spiritual, psychological, emotional, or mental. As a result, patients wandered without a cure from doctor to doctor and medications did nothing from them. Those deemed “fit,” that is, who had an Aryan racial identity, experienced freedom from hereditary disease, and an ability to work vigorously and produce. However, those regarded as biologically dangerous usually suffered from disability, and a range of illnesses or conditions that were inherited (or believed to be). My butler Frau Joest had been afflicted with stomach trouble and digestive complaints. As a rule, he kept to himself in his own pantry. One night, I asked him to grab a bottle of wine from the wine cellar, and he replied, “Mrs. Winchester, you may get your own wine, if you like, this evening. Either I do it in the daytime or not at all. I don’t know what it maybe: very like it’s the rats, or the wind got into the cellars; but I’m not so young as I was, and I can’t go through it as I have done.” “Well, Mr. Joest,” I replied, “you know it is a surprising place to find rats. “I’m not denying that, Mrs. Winchester; and, to be sure, many a time I’ve heard the tale from men in the shipyards about the rat that could speak. I never laid no confidence in that before; but tonight, if I’d demeaned myself to lay my ear to the door of the further bin, I could pretty have heard what they was saying.” “Oh, there Mr. Joest, I have no patience with your fancies! Rats talking in the wine-cellar indeed!” “Well, Mrs. Winchester, I’ve no wish to argue with you: all I say is, if you choose to go to the far bin, and lay your ear to the door, you may prove my words this minute.” #RandolphHarris 1 of 8

“What nonsense do you talk, Mr. Joest—not fit for children to listen to! Why, you’ll be frightening Mrs. Winchester there out of her wits,” replied Daisy. “Mrs. Winchester knows well enough when I’m playing a joke with her, Daisy,” he said. In fact, I knew much too well to suppose that Mr. Joest had in the first instance intended a joke. I was interested, not altogether pleasantly, in the situation; but all my questions were unsuccessful in inducing the butler to give any more detailed account of his experiences in the wine-cellar. We have now arrived at February 24, 1891. It was a day of curious experiences for Frau Joest: a windy, noisy day, which filled the house and the gardens with a restless impression. As Frau stood the gate of the grounds, and looked out into the park, he felt as if an endless procession of unseen people were sweeping past him on the wind, borne on resistlessly and aimlessly, vainly striving to stop themselves, to catch at something that might arrest their flight and bring them once again into contact with the living World of which they had formed a part. After luncheon that day I said, “Frau, my boy, do you think you could manage to come to me tonight as late as eight o’clock in my study? I shall be busy until that time, and I wish to show you something connected with your future life which it is most important that you should know. You are not to mention this to Daisy nor to anyone else in the house; and you had better go to your room at the usual time.” Here was a new excitement added to life: Frau eagerly grasped at the opportunity. He looked in at the library door on his way upstairs that evening, and saw written sheets of paper laying on the desk. #RandolphHarris 2 of 8

The wind had fallen, and there was a still night and a full moon. At about seven o’clock Frau was standing at the open window of his bedroom, looking out over the country. Still as the night was, the mysterious population of the distant moonlit woods was not yet lulled to rest. From time to times strange cries as of lost and despairing wanderers sounded from across the mere. They might be the notes of owls or water-birds, yet they did not quite resemble either sound. Were not they coming nearer? Now they sounded from the nearer side among the shrubberies. Then they ceased; but just as Frau was thinking of shutting the window and resuming his reading of Voyages to the Moon and Sun by Cyrano de Bergerac, he caught sight of two figure standing on the terrace that ran along the garden ide of the Mansion—the figures of two men, as it seemed; they stood side by side, looking up at the windows. Something in them inspired him with acute fear. One man stood still, half smiling, with his hands clasped over his heart, the other man, a thin shape, with black hair and ragged clothing, raised his arms in the air with an appearance of menace and of unappeasable hunger and longing. The moon shone upon hi almost transparent hands, and Frau saw that the nails were fearfully long and that the light shone through them. As he stood with his arms this raised, he disclosed a terrifying spectacle. On the left side of his chest there opened a black and gaping rent; and there fell upon Frau’s brain, rather than upon his ear, the impression of one of those hungry and desolate cries that he had heard resounding over the woods of The Winchester Mansion all that evening. In another moment this dreadful pair had moved swiftly and noiselessly over the terrace, and he saw them no more #RandolphHarris 3 of 8

Inexpressibly frightened as he was, he determined to take his candle and go down to my study, for the hour appointed for our meeting was near at hand. The library opened out of the front hall on one side, and Fraud, urged on by his terrors, did not take long in getting there. To effect an entrance was not so easy. The door was not locked, he felt sure, for the key was on the outside of it as usual. His repeated knocks produced no answer. Frau felt that the library was further than he realized—and his travel to it had taken him back in some vague realm or dimension outside our material Universe; some vague abyss out of which only the most accursed rites of human blasphemy could ever have called him for a moment. There was a brief silence, and in that pause the scattered senses of poor Frau Joest began to knit back into a sort of continuity; so that he put his hands to his head with a moan. Memory seemed to pick itself up where it had left off, and the horror of that sight on the terrace had prostrated him burst in upon him again. “Oh oh, my Gawds, that haff face—that haff face on top of it…that face with the red eyes an’ crinkly albino hair, an’ no…It was a octopus, centipede, spider kind o’ thing, but they was haff-shaped man’s face on top of it, an’ it looked like a wizard.” Crystallized into fresh terror, he paused, exhausted. It was—well, it was most likely a kind of force that does not belong in our World; a kind of force that acts and grows and shapes itself by other laws than those of our sort of Nature. We have no business calling in such things from outside, and only very wicked people and very wicked cults ever try to. There was something in my mansion—enough to make a devil and a precocious monster appear, and to make Frau’s passing out a pretty terrible sight. #RandolphHarris 4 of 8

Nature, meaning sometimes the forces and processes that produce everything according to the laws of nature (which include what we call physical laws), sometimes simply those laws, and sometimes all that nature produces—nature, after the Fall, did not wholly lose her original power to produce and control natural, perfect, ordered phenomena, any more than Satan lost all his original brightness on man all his power to reason or to intuit natural laws and God’s will. The other servants carried Frau to bed. After sitting by the fire for a few more hours, I found that I was colder than ever any my arms were quite stiff. However, I had to drag myself to my room and take off my clothes somehow, blow out the candles, and insinuate my tiny self into that enormous, frightening bed. I wished I had slept in a more cheerful room, with better furniture, though tonight I have succeeded in bringing to bed a bottle of mineral water and even a glass from which to drink it. It is only the Italian mineral water, of course. I only wish I were not so sensitive, so that the rooms in my home and other things did not matter so much. The water from my well was actually much more pure. On nights like this, and most particularly on nights when the moon is slim or cloud-enshrouded, it is a heavy blot upon the horizon, a shadow only, without feature save for its many-turreted outline; and should the moon be temporarily released from her cloudy confinement, her fugitive rays lend scant comfort, for they but serve to throw the mansion into sudden, startling chiaroscuro, its windows fleetingly assuming the appearance of sightless though all-seeing orbs, its portcullis becoming for an instant a gaping mouth, its entire form striking the physical and the mental eyes as would the sight of a giant skull. #RandolphHarris 5 of 8

I believe it is entirely possible for a man to possess not a single one of the virtues, to be a demon in human flesh. Frau’s actions seem to have become quite ghoulish. I often wondered had he not been responsible for robbing graves and then feeding upon the disgusting nourishment he found therein? Ghouls are by no means imaginary. A human being can sink into a truly monstrous man. To understand, one must transport their mind back a few years and to a rural region of New Haven. One must become acquainted with a family of country folk—hard-working, law-abiding, God-fearing, or moderate means—the head of which was a simple, good man named man named Alfred Dieck. When he died, it was his expressed wish that he would be buried with his gold and that his wife and sons were not to be told about it. Several weeks after his funeral, the family was desperate for money and Pastor Kuntz told his wife about the gold. The sons began making plans to exhume the dead man. However, the widow spoke firmly: “You father rests peacefully,” she said. “He must not be disturbed. If we disturbed him, no amount of gold would sooth our hearts.” The sons protested with vehemence, but the widow stood her ground. “No son of mine will profane his father’s grave—unless he first kills his mother!” Grumbling, those sons withdrew their plans. However, that night, Claus awoke to find his mother gone from the house. He was frightened, for this was not like her. Intuition sent him to the graveyard, where he found her, keeping a lonely vigil over the grave of her husband, protecting him from the greed of grave robbers. Claus implored her to come out of the cold, to return home; she at first refused; only when Claus offered to keep vigil all night himself did, she relent and return home, leaving her youngest son to guard the have from profanation. #RandolphHarris 6 of 8

Claus waited a full hour. Then he produced from under his shirt a small shovel. He was a strong boy, and the greed of a youngest son who has been deprived of inheritance lent added strength to his arms. He dug relentlessly, stopping seldom for rest, until finally the coffin was uncovered. He raised the creaking lid. An overpowering fetor filled his nostrils and nearly made him faint. Gathering courage, he searched the coffin. The moon proved to be his undoing. For suddenly its rays, hitherto hidden, struck the face of his father, and at the sight of that face, the boy recoiled and went reeling around the wall of the grave, the breath forced from his body. Now, you must know that the mere sight of the father—even in advanced state of decomposition—he had steeled himself to withstand; but what he had not foreseen—what he had not foreseen was that the face of his father, in the rigor of death, would look directly and hideously upon him. And most terrible and most unforeseen of all, the dead lips were drawn back from the teeth in a constant and soul-shattering smile! The remembrance of that night, though it is now many years past, fills me with dread. Fraud Joest was is that ghoulish son, Claus. When his sense returned, he ran out of the grave and ran as swiftly as his limbs would carry him. He reached the graveyard gate, and was smitten by the fact that he had not accomplished the purpose of his mission—the gold in the coffin. His terror notwithstanding, he halted, and forced himself to retrace those hasty steps. His fear notwithstanding, he descended once more into that noisome grave. He threw his father’s body out of the coffin and robbed him of his gold. But the true horror came when he reached him. He was stricken with stomach troubles and when he looked in the mirror, he screamed so loud as to wake the entire house. His face was a replica of his dead father’s: the lips drawn back in perpetual, mocking grin. He tried to close his mouth. He could not. The muscles were immoveable, as if held in the gelid rigor of death. He could hear his family’s stirring at his scream, and since he did not wish to look upon the, he ran from the house and came here, to Llanada Villa. #RandolphHarris 7 of 8

As he wandered the rural roads, his mind sought the cause of the affliction that had been visited upon him. Though but a country lad, he had read much and he had a blunt, rational mind that was not susceptible to the easy explanations of the supernatural. I would not believe that God had placed a malediction upon him to punish him for his act. He would not believe that some black force from beyond the grave had reached out to stamp his face. At length, he began to believe it was the massive shock that had forced his face to its present state, and that his great gilt had helped to shape it even as his father’s dead face was shaped. Shock and guilt: strong powers not from God above or the Fiend below, but from within his own breast, his own brain, his own soul. You need only know that, despite his blighted face, he stole the gold and thus gained an amount of money that would not seem large to me, but which was more than he had ever seen before that time. It was this gold that made him one of the richest men in New Haven. Naturally, he sought out physicians and begged them to restore his face to its previous state. None succeeded, though he offered them vast sums. His face remained fixed in that damnable unceasing smile, and his heart knew the most profound despair imaginable. He could not even pronounce his own name! God and Satan are very much alive. Though readily most people cannot fully explain all the mysteries of life. Spinning hears. Levitating bodies. Otherworldly strength. These are all curious things I have dealt with, here, at Llanada Villa. Gratuitous violence. Eerie voices spouting off vicious claims and threats. These are just some of the things that come with The Curse of the Winchester Fortune. Dozens of my servants are so horribly frightened or so confused that they begin to lose their grip on reality. We are not struggling with flesh and blood, but against the spiritual forces of evil. #RandolphHarris 8 of 8

The Winchester Mystery House

Devils and demons bring up frightening images and terrified thoughts. Mrs. Sarah L. Winchester was forced to look upon these objects of horror and live in fear. As we read tales of this haunted wine-cellar, there may be a real treasure hidden away in The Winchester Mansion. At one time, Mrs. Winchester enjoyed the finest vintage wines and liqueurs. However, one evening when she went to the wine cellar to locate a special bottle, she came across a black handprint on the wall. It was most likely a dirt smudge left by a workman, yet she took it as an omen and ordered the cellar boarded up. To this day the wine cellar had not been rediscovered, which means that there might still be spirits in The Winchester Mystery House—intoxicating and otherwise. We live in a World of duality. Darkness and light. Good and evil. Heaven and Hell. Most likely evil existed before human beings were around to interpret darkness and bad behaviour as such. Demons were created in a Hell-like dimension. Demons are minions, and the most intriguing part of their nature is that we need not believe in their existence to feel the effect they have on our lives. It is believed that demons were summoned, one after another, after which they were forced to give their true names, and reveal what they governed, and offer instructions on how to banish them. Nearly all of these demons were sent to work on the construction of The Winchester Mansion. Many of them more powerfully ranked demons were also empowered with hordes of servitors to do their bidding, as they themselves were subject to their liege’s commands.

Some ranked and named demons had only a few lesser spirits to act on their behest while others had servants in the hundreds of thousands. Always a few of the most important servitors were named but seldom if ever was any real or extensive information about them given.  Nearly every culture has some belief in cursed objects, things that cause unnatural harm to the person whom owns or uses them. Often, these objects have roots in a tragic past, and according to those who believe in curses, something from a tragedy sticks with the objects, becoming part of them and spelling disaster for anyone who might come across them. Almost anything can be a cursed object: a fortune put under a spell by a murdered witch, a car owned by a movie star who died in a wreck, a mansion protected by the power of misfortune. Even normally rational people may occasionally fall into a certain superstition to avoid brining a curse down on themselves. Despite this abundance of allegedly unfortunate object, few come close to one of the most legendary of all: The Winchester Mystery House. The recorded history of this jinxed mansion stretches nearly two centuries, and over that time period, dozens of people have claimed ownership of the stunningly beautiful mansion. Of the owners of The Winchester Mystery House, a few have experienced such great catastrophes that many claim it to be cursed. Fortunes have been lost, noble men executed, and entire communities thrown into chaos and war. The history of The Winchester Mystery House is certainly one of intrigue, but is it true that it, as well as other objects Mrs. Winchester owned, are sources of tragedy?

Some individuals have little choice than to recognize their own abilities to interact with the spirit World. If their gift is strong, it may be difficult to get the ghosts to pipe down. Their abilities to pick up on paranormal vibrations help them to work with ghosts and send messages to those that have departed. It is likely that a ghost has wiggled its way between the molecules of The Winchester Mansion, fortune, family, and objects Mrs. Winchester once owned, and is embedded within the fibers of these objects because it cannot bare to be without them. The first law of thermodynamics states that energy cannot be created nor destroyed—it can only be transferred—so one theory about what we call a “haunted object” is simply that energy is being deposited onto an item instead of floating around the ether and popping up at inopportune times. The energy leaves a residue that enables the object to present itself to people sensitive enough to pick up on its energy in the way of movement, talking, feelings of doom—you get the picture. An item may also be used for the spirit to manipulate, sch as a chair being thrown across a room, but does that mean the possession is possessed, or merely in the right place at the wrong time? Other objects such as roads, buildings, houses, and waterways may also be haunted through the transference of a great emotional experience. Some owners of haunted objects want to get rid of the goods fast. An auction, either online or local, can move an item out of the basement and into your hands in no time. Local auctions many not have the label “haunted” attached to a particular item, so take the time to visit the objects beforehand to try to get a feel for what is being offered. If you are interested in bringing home a haunted object, ask the auctioneer to keep an eye out for you. You could be first on their list for something special, and if curse is real, you may be able to being home a new piece for your collection at a great price.

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/

Please visit the online giftshop, and purchase a gift for friends and relatives as well as a special memento of The Winchester Mystery House. A variety of souvenirs and gifts are available to purchase.  https://shopwinchestermysteryhouse.com/

September 17, 2023 1:40 am

Say Your Prayers so No One Can Hurt You

Oliver Fisher Winchester was an entrepreneur who made a fortune in the shirt manufacturing business during the 1830s and 1840s. He took over a bankrupt arms manufacturing company in New Haven, Connecticut in 1857, which eventually became the Winchester Repeating Arms Company. All this time a growing feeling of discomfort had been creeping over him—nervous reaction, perhaps, after the delight of discovery. After he passed in 1880, his son William Wirt Winchester became the second President of the Winchester Repeating Arms Company. However, this accomplishment was shortly enjoyed. William Winchester died in 1881, leaving his fortune and most of the company to me, his wife, Sarah L. Winchester. It was, as far as I can ascertain, March 7, 1881 that I drew open the door of Winchester Hall, in the heart of New Haven, Connecticut. Only to find my husband had died in his sleep. Terribly distraught, I laid beside him.  That evening, light shone on the building, making the window-panes glow like so many fires. The clock in the church-tower, buried in tress of the edge of the park, only its golden weathercock catching the light, was striking six, and the sound came gently beating down the wind. It was altogether a pleasant impression, though tinged with the sort of melancholy appropriate to an evening like this. Several years later, I relocated to Santa Clara, California and started on the construction of Llanda villa. It presents a somewhat forbidding aspect to the World, for the rumours of the curse, do not suggest gaiety or warmth or any of those qualities put into its construction. Rather, these stories make this vast edifice of stone exude an austerity, cold and repellant, a hint of ancient mysteries, medieval darkness and hauntings. #RandolphHarris 1 of 7

There were plenty things about the mansion and the gardens which Daisy, my niece, who was of an adventurous and inquiring turn, was anxious to have explained to her. “Why did you build the nine story Observational Tower? Who was the old man lurking on the staircase to the ceiling, sitting at a table, with a skull under his hand?” These and many similar points were cleared up by the resources of my powerful intellect. There were others, however, of which the explanations furnished were less satisfactory. One November evening Diasy was sitting by the fire in the housekeeper’s room reflecting on her surroundings. “Did uncle William go to Heaven?” she suddenly asked, with the peculiar confidence which youth possess in the ability of their elders to settle these questions, the decision of which is believed to be reserved for other tribunals. “Good?—bless the child,” said the maid, Denise Kurlander. “Master was as kind a soul as ever I saw.” Didn’t I never tell you of the he took in out of the street, as you may say, this nine years back? and the little girl, three years after I first started working for your family? “No. Do tell me about them,” Mrs. Kurlander—now this minute!” “Well,” said Mrs. Kurlander, “the little girl I don’t seem to recollect so much about. I know master bought her back with him from his walk one day, give orders to Mrs. Heidelberg, as was housekeeper then, as she should be took every care with. And the pre child hadn’t no one belonging to her—she telled me her own self—and here she lived with us a matter of three weeks it might be; and then, one morning she out of her bed afore any of us had opened, a eye, and neither track nor yet trace of her have I set eyes on since. #RandolphHarris 2 of 7

“Master was wonderful put about, and had all the ponds dragged; but it’s my belief she had away by them witches, for there was singing round the house for as much as an hour the night she went, and Turkheim, he declare as he heard them a-calling in the woods all that afternoon. Dear, dear ! a hodd child she was, so silent in her ways and all, but I was wonderful taken with her, so domesticated she was—surprising. “And what about the little boy?” said Diasy. “Ah, that pore boy!” sighed Mrs. Kurlander. “He were a foreigner—Eduard he called hisself—and he came a tweaking his ‘urdy-gurdy round and about the drive one winter day, and master ‘ad him in that minute, and ast all about where he came from, and how old he was, and how he made his way, and where was his relatives, and all as kind as heart could wish. But it went the same with him. They’re a hunruly lot, them foreign nations, I do suppose, and he was off one fine morning just the same as the girl. Why he went an what he done was our question for as much as a year after; for he never took his ‘urdy-gurdy, and there it lay on the self.” The remainder of the evening was spent by Daisy in miscellaneous cross-examination of Mrs. Kurlander and in efforts to extract a tune from the hurdy-gurdy. That night she had a curious dream. At the end of the passage of the house, in which her bedroom was situated, there was an old disused bathroom. It was kept locked, but the upper half of the door was glazed, and, since the muslin curtains which used to hand there had long been gone, you could look in and see the lead-lined bath affixed to the wall on the right hand, with its head towards the window. #RandolphHarris 3 of 7

On the night of which I am speaking, Diasy found herself, as he thought, looking through the glazed door. The moon was shining through the window, and she was gazing at a figure which lay in the bath. She described a horrid figured, inexpressibly thin and pathetic, of a dusty leaden colour, enveloped in a shroud-like garment, thin lips crooked into a faint and dreadful smile, the hands pressed tightly over the region of his heart. As she looked upon it, a distant, almost inaudible moan seemed to issues from its lips, and the arms began to stir. The terror of the sight forced Daisy backwards, and she awoke to the fact that she was indeed standing on the cold boarded floor of the passage in the full light of the moon. With a courage which I do not think can be common among a young lady her age, she went to the door of the bathroom to ascertain if the figure of her dream were really there. It was not, and she went back to bed. Mrs. Kurlander was much impressed next morning by her story, and went so far as to replace the muslin curtain over the glazed door of the bathroom. That evening, when I came up here to my room after dinner, I just sat in front of the long glass and stared and stared. I must have done it for half an hour or perhaps an hour. I only roe to my feet when it had become quite dark outside. I decided it was time to move to another bedroom. The Crystal Bedroom was much too big and there were only two wooden chairs, painted in greeny-blue with gold lines, or once painted like that. I hate to having to lie on my bed when I should prefer to it and everyone knows how bad it is or the back. Besides, this bed, though it’s enormous, seems to be as hard as when the Earth’s dried up in summer. Not that the Earth’s like that here. Far from it. #RandolphHarris 4 of 7

The rain has never stopped since I left New Haven. Never once. This bed is really huge. It would take at least eight people my size. I do not like to think about it. I have just remembered: it is the third of the month so that I have been gone exactly a year. What a lot of places I have been to in that time—or been through! Already I have quite forgotten some of them. I never properly saw them in any case. Llanada Villa is a huge palace—castle—fortress that simply frightens me some times. The housemaid provided me with no fewer than thirteen candles. I found them in one of the drawers. I suppose there is nothing else to do but read—except perhaps to say one’s prayers. Unfortunately, I finished all the book I brought with me long ago, and it is so difficult to buy any news ones. Daisy would do well to take care of herself, and shut her bedroom windows at night. Two incidents occurred recently that made an impression upon her mind. The first was after an unusually uneasy and oppressed night that she had passed—though she could not recall any particular dream that she had had. The following evening Mrs. Kurlander was occupying herself in mending her nightgown. “Gracious Me, Ms. Daisy!” she broke forth rather irritably, “how did you manage to tear your nightdress all to flinders this way? Look here, Ms. Daisy, what trouble you do give to poor servants that have to darn and mend after you!” There was indeed a most destructive and apparently wanton series of slits or scorings in the garment, which would undoubtedly require a skillful needle to make good. They were confined to the left side of the chest—long, parallel slits, about six inches in length, some of them not quite piercing the texture of the linen. Daisy could only express her entire ignorance of their origin: she was sure they were not there the night before. #RandolphHarris 5 of 7

“But, she said, Mrs. Kurlander, they are just the same as the scratches on the outside of my bedroom door; and I am sure I never has anything to do with making them.” Mrs. Kurlander gazed at her open-mouthed, then snatched up a candle, departed hastily from the room, and was heard making her way upstairs. In a few minutes she came down. “Well,” she said, “Ms. Daisy, it’s a funny thing to me how them marks and scratched can ‘a’ come there—too high up for any car or dog to ‘ave made ‘em, much less a rat: for all the World like a vampire’s finger-nails, as my uncle archeology used to tell us of when we was young girls together. I wouldn’t say nothing to Mrs. Winchester, not if I was you, Ms. Daisy, my dear; and just turn the key to the door when you go to bed.” “I always do, Mrs. Kurlander, as soon as I have said my prayers.” “Ah, that’s a good child: always say your prayers, and then no one can’t hurt you.” Herewith Mrs. Kurlander addressed herself to mending the injured nightgown, with intervals of meditation, until bed-time. This was on Friday night in March, 1898. In a shrill chorus there seemed to lurk a note of tense and evil expectancy. Without warning came these deep, cracked, raucous vocal sounds which would never leave the memory. Not from any human throat were they born, for the organs of man can yield no such acoustic perversions. Rather would one have said they came from the mansion itself. It is almost erroneous to call them sounds at all, since so much of their ghastly, infra-bass timbre spoke to dim seats of consciousness and terror far subtler than the ear; yet one must do so, since their form was indisputably though vaguely that of half-articulate words. #RandolphHarris 6 of 7

They were loud—loud as the rumblings and thunder from the bowels of the mansion from which the echoed—yet did they come from no visible being. And because imagination might suggest a conjectural source in the World of non-visible beings, I winched as if in expectation of a blow. More hideous sounds came croaking out from the bowels of the mansion. The speaking impulse seemed to falter, as if some frightful psychic struggle were going on. There appeared three grotesquely silhouetted human figures in the Observational Tower, all moving their arms furiously in strange gestures as their incantation drew near its culmination. From the black pits of Hell, Acherontic fear or feeling, from the unplumbed gulfs of the mansion’s consciousness or obscure, long-latent heredity, were those half-articulate thunder-croakings drawn? Presently they began to gather renewed force and coherence as they grew in stark, utter, ultimate frenzy. Indisputably English syllables poured thickly and thunderously from the basement. I jumped violently at the deafening, cataclysmic peal whose source, be inner Earth. A single lightning-bolt shot from the sky. Outside, trees, grass, and underbrush were whipped into a fury and the frightened servants in the mansion, were weakened by the lethal foetor that seemed about to asphyxiate them, as they were hurled off their feet. Wolves howled from the distance hills, green grass and foliage wilted to curious, sickly yellow-gray, and over field forest were scattered the bodies of the dead. Slowly the beams of a sunlight shone more brilliant and untainted. My estate was grave and quiet, and seemed shaken by memories and reflection even more terrible than those which had reduced the groups of Indians to a state of quivering. #RandolphHarris 7 of 7

The Winchester Mystery House

After the death of Mrs. Winchester, the items in her home were auction off in San Francisco, California. However, the queer atmosphere which clings to all in The Winchester Mansion were responsible for the wide-spread story that in opening the mansion of Sarah L. Winchester, and selling all of her possessions, people exposed themselves to the fury of some malignant influence. Recirculating rumours about fears of a curse under sent collectors in a panic. All over the country, people were sending their treasures to museums, anxious to get rid of them because of the superstition that Mrs. Winchester was killed by vengeful spirits. E.E. Evans-Pritchard argued that “cruses are capable of proving effective even after the lapse of thousands of years.” Rumours of The Curse of the Winchester Fortune were always cited. It was said that on the day Pastor Kunst laid bared the entrance to The Winchester Mansion, his pet dog had been devoured by a cobra. Julius Streicher, closely involved with the auction of items from The Winchester Mansion, recalled that “News of this spread quickly and all the natives now said, ‘Alas, that was Oliver Winchester’s cobra, revenging itself on the dog for having betrayed the place of the Winchester Repeating Arms.’” It was said that a solid gold tablet had been discovered in the mansion with the inscription “Death shall come on swift wings to whoever toucheth the home of The Winchester’s.” Mr. Streicher allegedly destroyed the tablet to prevent the superstitious fellaheen from abandoning the auction and so, one believer in the curse states, it was “wiped from the written record of the mansion’s history.”

 Heinz Bongartz, however, remembers on his visit to the mansion that “Death the who enter” was an “inscription over the door.” It was said that when Gustav Jungbauer opened Mrs. Winchester’s main safe, they found a fortune in diamonds, gold, silver, and other precious stones, and he was bitten by a mosquito, and died shortly afterwards. Soon enough people, anyone who was loosely connected to the sale of the estate and auction of Mrs. Winchester’s goods died, their deaths were folded into the dreamlike elaboration of the curse rumour. The conservators of the estate then decided it would be best to keep the mansion from being further disturbed, and opened it as a tourist attraction to help with the repairs and maintenance of the estate. In May of 1923, Mr. Streicher’s half-brother Peter Geschiere warned that “seeds of destruction are hidden inside,” before he died after a long illness. Close attention was paid to any association with the sale of the estate and items from it. In November of 1929, Tore Olsson, who helped organize the auction, died suddenly in his sleep and is believed to have been troubled by the legendary curse which is said to be associated with those who looted The Winchester Mansion. Victor Petrov, who was also involved, was found dead at his London club in ambiguous circumstances.

Three months later, Mr. Petrov’s father incoherent suicide note included the line: “I really can’t stand any more horrors.” Luke Eggers, a caretaker of The Winchester Mansion, claimed that Pastor Kunst was eventually murdered by shadowy authorities for knowing too much about the truth behind The Winchester Family. This includes the claim that Pastor Kunst’s first operation—supposedly for cancer—in 1923 was a deception and the first attempt in a conspiracy to kill him. Other enthusiasts have continued to track The Curse of the Winchester Fortune into the present day. By 1980, Arthur Jores, German physician, counted one hundred and thirteen victims. Johann Kruse has suggested that the death of Ernst Haeckel, Director of Antiquities, in a car accident in 1976, followed his denunciation of curse stories. When treasures from Mrs. Winchester’s estate were displayed in a New York Museum in 1925, rumours circulated that the crew that transported the items from Santa Clara, California were also subject to misfortune. In 2001, Bedfordshire on Sunday carried a headline “Is Boy, 2, latest Winchester Victim?”, regarding a story about his home in Sacramento, California; “a luxury villa said to be jinxed by the Cruse of the Winchester Fortune.” Such stories have been partly fostered by allegedly authoritive sources. There is a weird fusion of history, myth, and occultism surrounding The Winchester fortune and bloodline. Might the dead return or punish the living for shortcomings of their ritual propitiations? Superstitions proliferate where such borders are breached. I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic, for witches stand, One Nation, Under God, Indivisible, for Liberty and Justice for all.

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/

Please visit the online giftshop, and purchase a gift for friends and relatives as well as a special memento of The Winchester Mystery House. A variety of souvenirs and gifts are available to purchase.  https://shopwinchestermysteryhouse.com/

September 13, 2023 9:37 pm

Comin’ Straight Out of Brooklyn, Crush Your Spine, Corrupt Your Mind!

The era of large-scale witch hunting in Europe ended long ago. The last legal execution that we know of, of a witch in German-speaking Europe took place in Glarus, Switzerland, in 1782. However, that did not end the fear of witches. Perhaps not all witches are bad, but there are renewed concerns in America that … Continue reading →

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September 13, 2023 9:03 am

The Whip of Wall Street Bosses

At one time, witchcraft was “ubiquitous,” and played a part in every activity of one’s life. If blight seized the groundnut crop, it was witchcraft; if the bush was vainly scoured for game, it was witchcraft; if women laboriously bale water out of a pool and were rewarded by but a few small fish, it … Continue reading →

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September 11, 2023 4:39 am

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Death, darkness and horrible things lurked in the night. Some spirits here are created for vengeance, and in their fury lay on sore stroke. I hated the sight of blood. It was, as far as I can ascertain, in September of the year 1890 that the evening twilight fell when a gnawing fear and tremendous sense of terror strangely domed Llanada Villa and the, deep, shadowy fruit orchards. The quite dread and portent produced strange noises that troubled the large mansion and fell on my ear. Curious noises they were sometimes. I could have sworn I heard a thin metallic voice laughing high in the Observational Tower. I darted an inquiring glance at my carpenter. He was white to the lips. “It is he—that is—it is no one; the door is locked,” was all he said, and we looked at each other for a full minute. The mansion began to fill with shadows, while the curious noises—the muffled footfalls and distant talking voices that had been perceptible seemed, no doubt to becoming more frequent and insistent. A rain of tears appeared on my cheeks. The carpenter began for the first time to show signs of hurry and impatience. He heaved a sigh of relief when his tools and notebooks were finally packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly beckoned a carriage. He turned to his companion. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.” The other man nodded and climbed into the carriage as the horses quickly galloped away. The moon had vanished behind a cloud. I was able to go over to the library, and for the rest of the evening tortured my brain with strange and terrible books drawn voluminously from the stack shelves and from secure places of storage. #RandolphHarris 1 of 7

There were things in these books which simply could not be believed by those who had not seen the evidence. The more I reflected on these hellish diaries, the more I was inclined to believe in the Earth-threatening entity which, unknow to me, was the source of the curse. Rumors about “The Winchester Fortune,” were clearly sustained enough to reach the pages of The Oakland Tribune and be referred to as if they were common knowledge. The stories that surrounded The Winchester Fortune and my mansion were so persistent that inquirers were directed to an information sheet that was put together in 1889 to describe my family, legacy, and unique architecture of my home and fill in some of the “vast web of mythology [that] has formed around it.” After the information on provenance, the sheet told a loose variety of myths that around the purchase and construction of Llanada Villa, gesturing vaguely at the accidents, misfortunes and deaths said to have been suffered by carpenters, servants, and members of the Winchester family. It also spoke about the suit of armor—priceless relics, vast halls, tapestries evidenced throughout; strong, heavy, richly carved furniture everywhere. The time-defying walls, comfortable chairs, tea tables, and unusual architectural features were also of great curiosity. And of course, the curse that was principally attached to the fortune and mansion, or rather from whom the curse began its impressive path of contagion through. When disaster struck killing our infant daughter, and fifteen years later my husband, they were claimed to be subjects to the law of the recursive curse and were assumed to be victims. #RandolphHarris 2 of 7

The popular account of Williams’s death is that, not believing in the malignant powers of the celebrated curse of The Winchester Fortune, he determined to make a slashing attack on the belied in the columns of the Connecticut Gazette of New Haven, and went to the Winchester Factory Castle, and sent his photographer there, to collect materials for that purpose; that he was then, although in perfect health, struck down mysteriously by some malady of which he died. The Gazette published his piece and also reported ghost stories about Llanada Villa with a studiously neutral air. Yet William’s death, widely mourned by his colleagues, was probably the impetus for an outline of the alleged curse that appeared in the Connecticut Magazine, which spoke of a “terrible story” that “will never be written in full; but some of its chapters may be told in a few words.” The essay was curiously signed pseudonymously and again the historical actors were replaced by initials. This report likely prompted an anonymous person to syndicate an article on the story, which flashed the rumour of The Curse of the Winchester Fortune around the World. The Correspondence files in the New Haven press, for instance, carried a cutting sent by someone from The Oakland Tribune, which screamed “Ghost of those Killed by the Winchester Rifle Haunt the Sizable Fortune.” A journalist who died investigating the hauntings, along with William and Annie were merely the frames of The Winchester Curse, but their deaths seemed to confirm that even testing the strength of the chain of rumour associated with the Winchester Fortune came with risks. #RandolphHarris 3 of 7

Those who have often been so gay and vivacious, the delight of soirees, would become distant, and aloof, of serious mien, unsmiling after visiting my estate and succumbing to magical thinking, spooked by “the feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn around us with infinite skill and delicacy.” The atmospheric writing strained to evoke a liminal territory on the edge of American civilization where superstition merges into everyday experience. The allegedly rational solution to the deaths of my infant daughter and husband feeds into the formula for family curses, as Holmes solves the case through a proper understanding of heredity and threat of degeneracy within aristocratic bloodlines. “The deaths of Mr. William Winchester and infant daughter Annie Winchester was caused by demonic “elementals” guarding the land, because Mr. Winchester had expanded the family business and begun an investigation of the stories of “The Gun that Won the West’s” malevolence….I warned Mr. Winchester against concerning himself with the curse. He persisted, and his death proceeded the death of his infant daughter. He became engrossed in the subject, and wrote with feverish haste and in bewildering abundance. Of skepticism there was none. I told him he was tempting fate by pursuing his inquiries, but he was fascinated and would not desist. Then his daughter was overtaken by illness six weeks after her birth by the mysterious childhood disease marasmus. And Mr. Winchester premature death was fifteen years later from tuberculosis, which added to Mrs. Winchester’s distress. However, this is the way in which the demonic “elementals” guiding the Winchester bloodline might act.” A statement by Weston St. Joyce of the Hellfire Club. #RandolphHarris 4 of 7

One of Daisy’s reminiscences is striking for embroiling all the central figures of The Winchester story in occult: “I had attended at least two seances which my aunt had held at Llanada Villa…I had watched aunt Sarah put into a trance on an occasion when Bertha Haas had been present. It had been an eerie, not to say unpleasant, experience which had shaken me considerably…Suddenly she had started talking in an unknown tongue which, to everyone’s astonishment, Bertha Haas had pronounced as being Coptic…I remembered particularly one séance when Bertha has been placed in a trance.” Friday morning, the day was pleasant, but even in the brightest sunlight, a cold shudder ran through me and visitors like, and every ear seemed strained in a kind of instinctive, unconscious listening. I knew that I had come upon the horror and its monstrous work, and trembled with the responsibility I felt to be mind. Night would soon fall, and it was then that the spirits really became restless. No material weapon would be of help. Having read William’s diaries, I knew painfully well what kind of manifestations to expect, but I did not add to the fright of the servants by giving any hints or clues. As the shadows gathered, the servants commenced to disperse homeward, anxious to bar themselves indoors despite the present evidence that all human locks and bolts were useless before a force that could bend trees and crush houses when it chose. Whatever was in Llanada Villa was biding its time. A downpour waxed in heaviness, and distant peals of thunder sounded from far horizons. Sheet lighting shimmered, and then a forky bolt flashed near at hand, as if descending into my accursed mansion itself. They sky grew very dark, and watcher hoped that the storm would prove a short, sharp one followed by clear weather. #RandolphHarris 5 of 7

It was still gruesomely dark when, not much over an hour later, a confused babel of voices sounded down the hall. Another moment brought to view a frightened group of more than a dozen men, running, shouting, and even whimpering hysterically. But in another minute, we were in a sitting-room of the house, a large, high chamber with a mahogany floor, full of moving shadows cast by a wood-fire that flickered in on the great hearth. Before lay a large folio, bound, perhaps, late in the seventeenth century, with the arms of Canon Alberic de Mauleon stamped in gold on the sides. There may have been a hundred and fifty leaves of paper in the book, and on almost every one of them was fastened a lead from an illuminated manuscript. Such a collection I had hardly dreamed of in my wildest moments. Here were ten leaves from a copy of Genesis, illustrated with pictures, which could not be later than A.D 700. Further on was a complete set of pictures from a Psalter, of English execution, of the very finest kind that the thirteenth century could produce; and, perhaps best of all, there were twenty leaves of uncial writing in Latin, which, as a few words seen here and there told me at once, must belong to some very early unknown patristic treatise. Could it possibly be a fragment of the copy of Papias “On the Words of Our Lord,” which was known to have existed as late as the twelfth century at Nimes? In any case, my mind was soon brought back to the chaos. The swishing, lapping sound of the bending trees and bushes caught my attention. And there was an awful stomping and splashing in the mud. However, I did not see anything at all, only just the bending of the trees and the underbrush. #RandolphHarris 6 of 7

The I heard an awful creaking and straining. The servants were yelling and shrieking when something heavy struck the house—not lightning, nor anything, but something heavy and again, and again. It kept launching itself again and again, though I could not see anything. Lines of fright deepened on every face, we could hear a terrible crashing and a hall full of screaming. In the hall before us were grouped four carpenters, surrounding a crouching figure. A fifth carpenter lay dead on the floor, his neck distorted, and his eyeballs staring from his head. The four surrounding carpenters were looking at him. In their faces the sentiment of horror was intensified; they seemed, in fact, only restrained from flight by their implicit trust in me. All this terror was plainly excited by any words I could say. I absolutely refused to be alone for the rest of the evening, and for many nights I had not dared to put out my lights before going to sleep. All this time a growing feeling of discomfort had been creeping over me. Before my eyes appeared a  mass of coarse, matted black hair, and this body of fearful thinness, almost a skeleton, but with the muscles standing out like wires out of my mind. The hands were of a dusky pallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs, and hideously taloned. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, had intensely black pupils, and were fixed upon the ceiling with a look of beast-like hate. This appalling effigy inspired terror. With such intense physical fear and the most profound mental loathing, I grasped blindly at my silver crucifix, that I was conscious of a movement toward me on the part of the demon, and then it screamed with the voice of an animal in hideous pain. Hans and Robert, two sturdy little serving-men, who rushed in, saw nothing, but felt themselves thrust aside by something that passed out between then, and found me in a swoon. They sat up with me that night. The phases of Nature can be utterly forbidden, and wholly outside the sane experience of mankind. #RandolphHarris 7 of 7

The Winchester Mystery House

When The Winchester Mansion was opened after the passing of Mrs. Winchester in 1922, a carpenter made a small breach in the upper left-hand corner of the front doors, and put a candle through the hole: “At first I could see nothing, the hot air escaping from the chamber causing the candle flame to flicker, but presently, as my eyes grew accustomed to the light, details of the room within emerged slowly from the mist, strange animals, statues, and gold—everywhere the glint of gold. For the moment—an eternity it must have seemed to the others standing by—I was struck dumb with amazement, and when the movers, unable to stand the suspense any longer, inquired anxiously, ‘Can you see anything?’ It was all I could do to get out the words. ‘Yes, wonderful things.’” It took seven weeks to clear the mansion of its objects, each item laboriously documented, photographed and carried out to moving vans. This took place under the intense gaze of tourist crowds and the restless journalists from the World’s press. Beyond the door, the foyer was almost entirely filled with a shrine covered in gold leaf, and shrines within shrines that protected sacred objects. They found an open store, stuffed with golden statuary and guarded by an impressive Anubis figure.

Daisy recalled the “dazed, bewildered look” of the esteemed visitors invited inside. However, she also stated, “I cannot but think that some risks are run by breaking into the last rest of my beloved aunt Sarah whose mansion is specially and solemnly guarded, and robbing her of her possessions.” A statue of gold was removed from The Winchester Mansion. Tourists had allegedly become supplicants to the statue, holding séances. There was a photograph in which “a shadowy human face has come between the camera and the object which was being photographed.” In other anecdotes, paintings gasped at the movers and the mansion exuded “an unaccountable sense of apprehension.” The first movers not only got lost, but came down with various illnesses (ophthalmia and delirium). A news story of the suicide that claimed one of the movers was frequently heard to mutter “the curse of the Winchester Fortune,” as though this had prayed on his mind. An auctioneer was also incorporated into the unfolding curse (in fact he had been ill with cancer, a fate of several movers). These people knew that they were meddling with terrible powers, yet saw that there was no other way to annul the deeper and more malign meddling which others had done before them.

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/

Please visit the online giftshop, and purchase a gift for friends and relatives as well as a special memento of The Winchester Mystery House. A variety of souvenirs and gifts are available to purchase.  https://shopwinchestermysteryhouse.com/

September 10, 2023 10:23 pm

Had I Not Pledged My Soul?

Oh, these were terrible thoughts. Did I not love Llanada Villa? Had I not pledged my soul? I was consumed with self-hatred and dread that the curse was controlling my life. These thoughts were too horrendous. They divided me from all that desired. I had to banish them from my mind. However, there was a … Continue reading →

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September 7, 2023 3:41 am

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