I have a friend. Let’s call her Kirsten.
Kirsten is a bit of a conspiracy theorist. She has a dad with a machete, so it’s best to have her on your team. A year or so ago, we were gchatting and she sent me a link to a story about a home in the Los Feliz area of Los Angeles that had been the scene of two murders in the late 1950s. From what peeps surmise, the owner of the home – Dr. Harold Perelson – found himself in financial straits, despite running a cardiology practice in Inglewood. That or he was depressed. One night in December 1959, he went bat-shit crazy and bludgeoned his wife to death with a ball-peen hammer, beat his daughter like, really badly (she got away), told the two younger children to go back to bed when they got up to find out what was happening (“It’s just a nightmare”) and poisoned himself with acid before the police got there. Case closed. (The three children are still alive but their whereabouts are unknown.)
But that’s not the nutso part. Apparently the house was sold the next year in a probate auction (whatever that means), and the two people who purchased the home (Emily and Julian Enriquez) never actually lived in it. They have since died, and their son Rudy – who is based in the valley – is now the owner. AND THE HOUSE REMAINS IN THE CONDITION IT WAS IN WHEN THE MURDERS TOOK PLACE.
I took my cousin and mom to see it last weekend, because – let’s be honest, who doesn’t want to be a part of such a miracle trip? (A disgusting number of pics after the jump.)
While they sat on the driveway, I took off screens (hey, other people had clearly totally done it), circled the estate and took pictures through the grimy windows before the neighbor across the way got mad. (Who buys the house across the street anyway?)
As I mentioned, it was December when the murders took place. Through one of the windows, one could see wrapping paper strewn across one of the dated couches, which sat across from the era-appropriate television set. Some of the furniture in the living room was covered by sheets, except these two nasty mustard sitting chairs that creeped me the eff out. Combined with the SpaggethiOs packaging, Spic and Span cleaning supplies and WOMEN’S CLOTHES STILL DRYING ON A LINE IN THE HOME (do you think they’re dry yet) in subsequent rooms, the place was pretty much a shit show of paranormal proportions.
I took a number of pics, which are posted here. The security was an absolute joke. A small chain-link fence traversed the driveway and “No trespassing” and “private property” signs stood out in the front yard. I think they were put up by neighbors. The fountain in front of the home was dry. The house was falling apart.
I don’t know if it was the history of the house that made it look so foreboding in the late-afternoon sun or if the house was just generally creepy, murder or no murder. The real serious problem here is: what in the world is this person Rudy doing holding onto a home in its original murderous condition? Quote: “I’ve never looked at it [the house] as being haunted,” Rudy said in a Times’ interview. “For a time I had two cats inside there and I had to go often to feed them. I still go there often.”
The house is more than 5000 square feet, has a ballroom and real estaters estimate it could fetch as much as $3mm if spruced up. I need to speak with this Rudy Enriquez of Mount Washington STAT. Not cool brah.
More info: LA Times article
A full pictorial tour follows.