August, 2011

The House on Lizard Hill was falling apart. Years of neglect by previous owners left it in such sorry shape that a neighbor suggested the culdesac would be better if someone took a match to it.

The renovations needed far surpassed our middle class incomes, leaving much of the work to my husband.

"This place is going to kill me," he grumbled as rain seeped through one of the many openings in the roof.

Sighing, I offered an empathetic response, but secretly worried. Maybe we'd taken on more than we could handle when we bought the rambling 1939 ranch house.

To help pay our new mistress's upkeep, we rented out the larger of the two detached guest units to a nice young man. He'd recently relocated from the Midwest, and planned to bring his wife out as soon as he'd saved enough to upgrade his living conditions.

Martin (last name withheld for privacy) never toured our house. He worked long hours at LAX.

I was happy we'd found a nice tenant, and even happier he kept busy, because I didn't want him noticing any of the strange things that started happening at the house. We're not talking about anything that would send any levelheaded person running for the door, but...it was getting harder for me to wave off guests claiming they'd seen the shadowy figure of a man in the hallway, or others overwhelmed by the scent of chocolate chip cookies.

My adult nephew refused to enter our living room. On the hottest days in the San Inferno Valley, it alone was icy cold.

My teenagers reported hearing sounds of someone doing dishes. Upon inspection, no one was present and nothing was disturbed.

It would have been nice if someone actually did the dishes. Perhaps the ghost sympathized with us as the parents of teenagers. I guess it's the thought that counts.

I offered rational explanations to frightened family members. Each fell flat as the number of accounts mounted.

"If ghosts are real, why would anyone be afraid of one?" I argued. "There's no means of physical locomotion. No body, no way to hurt you."

My logic was unimpeachable, yet it failed to comfort.

It didn't help that we had little information about the house's previous inhabitants. We knew about the original owners and that they'd had two children, a boy and a girl. We'd confirmed the fantastic story about John Lennon and May Pang at a party in the '70's, with a great photo of them taken in the master bedroom (and a humorous anecdote by May Pang herself).

If ghosts were real, who was hanging around and bothering our guests? It certainly wasn't Lennon.

By February of 2012, our tenant Martin saved enough to move into a house of his own. His wife sold their Midwest house, and it was a buyer's market after the bubble burst.

His wife flew in late at night. The next morning, I greeted her.

Clutching my arm, she insisted, "I need to speak with you!"

"Okay." I answered slowly, wondering what was so important, when we'd just met.

Her words poured out in a rush, "This woman, she wouldn't stop talking last night! I couldn't get any sleep!"

I didn't answer at first. What do you say to someone when they tell you one of your house ghosts complained all night?

Horrified, I found my words and asked, "Did she give her name?"

"No, I didn't get a name, but she's mad her plants got torn out."

"Hey! I wasn't even born yet!" I protested, wondering where this was headed.

"She also says there's three basements, and you're not supposed to go into one of them. It's forbidden."

A chill went up my spine. She had my full attention now. How could she know that? Most people don't know the house even has one basement, let alone three basements. Basements are not common in earthquake-prone Southern California.

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Didn't say. But she told me she walked in on her husband with another woman. He broke her heart. She didn't mean to take it out on the house. It's not the house's fault. She was so angry. She needed to hurt someone and the only thing she could hurt was this place. She's really sorry."

"Wow," was my lame response, as I realized I may know who kept Martin's wife up all night.

"She just wants this house to be happy again," Martin's wife smiled at me.

After they left, I implored my husband to put his talents to use. A jack of all trades, he'd found the photo of Lennon in our master bedroom. I figured he'd be equal to the task of finding the grandchildren of the original homeowners. They'd be older than us, but still alive.

Putting his skills to use, he found them within a week. By May of 2012, two adult children of the son were visiting the House on Lizard Hill. The last time they'd seen it was as young children.

We learned their grandfather died unexpectedly of a heart attack in his early 50's. His wife followed within three years. Their father was in his thirties when he took over the company, rescuing it from decline and taking it into a period of prosperity that lasted until his death.

A company can have but one leader, so he relinquished his claim on the House on Lizard Hill to his sister, in exchange for her releasing claims on the company.

The house became the property of his sister and her husband. Prior to getting married, his sister spent most of her time at an exclusive all-girl's school, and then at college. She traveled abroad.

My later search of the L.A. Times archives unearthed numerous citations of her appearance at society parties and galas. Documentation of her comings and goings in the LA Times gives every indication of a popular, outgoing young woman.

Mysteriously, the society listings in the LA Times stop around the time of her marriage.

The grandchildren recalled a vivacious woman, like "Auntie Mame."

After we'd spent the better part of an afternoon with the grandchildren, I plucked up the courage and asked, "This may sound strange, but who got cheated on?"

They gave each other a strange look before one answered, "Her husband took up with another woman. That's why she divorced him."

Smiling, I said, "You're not going to believe how I found out..."

P.S. Knowledge is power, and the game of the ghost is mental. If you'd like to know more about the House on Lizard Hill, check out "American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron".

This is an authorised, true-life short submitted to Paranormal Community via author Elizabeth Harris.