The Weird Series

Weird Thing #2: Why You Should Avoid Estate Sales of Angry Dead People

In the late 70s, I moved to Los Angeles to pursue acting.

My brother was already living there in hopes of establishing a music career. He lived in Echo Park in a group of five cottages up some ridiculously steep stairs, and he told me there was a vacant one I should snap up. I’d expected that I would need a roommate, which did not appeal to my introverted nature.

With the exception of the landlord’s sizeable house at the top of the hill, the cottages were tiny. You couldn’t swing a cat in the kitchen. (Note: NEVER swing a cat.) The refrigerator was on the back “porch,” a humble concrete square. There was a small living room and a pleasant little bedroom. Everything about my new home was petite.

I loved it. I planned to be a scrappy new actress, get a job as a waitress to pay my dues, and then get my first Oscar. In my captivating acceptance speech, I would wax poetic about my first microscopic dwelling with the marvelous view and inspiring sunsets. My next triumph would be a chat with Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show that would be talked about for years.

Boy, was I delusional.

The cluster of cottages, including my own, was called Robin Hood Gardens, a name that gave them an aura of Hollywood romance. They overlooked the Hollywood Hills, and I could gaze at them from my kitchen table, which was fixed to the wall with built-in benches for sitting.

The above painting depicts the view from my kitchen window. The cottage right below mine had a beautiful vine overflowing with pink flowers.

I had arrived with nothing but clothes and a toothbrush. Luckily, my brother supplied a mattress, but that was all.

My cozy cottage was a bright and happy place until I hopped into my used blue Toyota Celica and drove to a nearby estate sale. I intended to be the first person to arrive so I could have my pick of the jumble of items.

I had imagined an opulent home owned by a sweet elderly lady who had died. Instead, I found myself in a musty run-down Hollywood apartment that was light-years from the glamorous place I had pictured. My brother had come along to help me, and we scooped up silverware, dishes, towels, sheets, blankets — everything I needed to begin my climb to stardom.

There was one creepy thing about the sale though. The now-deceased lady who had lived and died in the apartment had scribbled rage-filled gibberish on every wall in the place.

She was obviously very angry when she was alive and perhaps with good reason. I pondered that for a moment and then got back to the task at hand. After all, who was I to judge when there were cheap goods to be had? Once I gave everything a good washing, I was sure they’d be nice and clean and best of all, mine.

It turned out that the Dead Lady thought otherwise.

I washed everything carefully. The bed linens and towels got a thorough hot water cleansing at the laundromat, and I scrubbed all the dishes and silverware while practicing a monologue for an audition.

I was set! Hollywood, look out!

I can’t remember exactly when The Weirdness commenced.

Having already had a few run-ins with spirits back in my hometown, I recognized the sensations that enveloped me one night while in bed not long after the estate sale.

There was a presence in the room in a corner near the ceiling. A few happy spirits had visited me in the past. This spirit was not one of those. This was chaotic, furious energy that crackled and sparked.

I immediately employed a white light technique that I’d learned to counter unwanted ghosts. I pictured a white light filling the room, and I kept my eyes shut tight because I was scared. Horrified. The energy was not a pleasant “howdy, just passing through” thing.

What I had done seemed to work because the frightening energy dissipated. The Robin Hood Gardens Cottages were old, likely built in the 40s, so I wrote the experience off as a probable previous occupant. Then I shoved it to the back of my mind.

I went about my life, auditioning, going to acting classes, and learning as much as I could about Los Angeles.

Time passed pleasantly until I woke up abruptly one night to the awful feeling of “someone” mere inches from me in my room — the same angry, chaotic energy. I tried the white light again. It had no effect. I tried speaking to this whatever/whoever. “You are not welcome here. This is my place. You have to leave.”

The energy lifted. “That was easy,” I thought, and I began to drift back to sleep.

It’s hard to explain, but suddenly, it was as if this spirit “stepped away” briefly to gather all the energy it could muster, and then it returned with a vengeance and used that energy to grab my thigh. Hard. If I hadn’t known otherwise, I would have been certain that a corporeal human hand had gripped my leg.

I knew this spirit’s intention was to intimidate me, and I also knew that if I let that happen, I would lose this battle. And that would mean I’d have to move out of my cute cottage and leave my view of the Hollywood Hills.

No. Way.

“If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working,” I said, terrified but determined to bluff. I acted nonchalant. No big deal, just an invisible something that was outraged and powerful enough to keep a grip on me. Ho Hum. La de da. Just a typical Saturday night.

I finally had the realization that this spirit was the Dead Lady from the Estate Sale, and she was furious that I had her stuff.

Summoning as much bravado as I had in me, I told her that what I had was no longer hers, and she needed to accept that and move on.

The grip lessened, and the dark energy lifted. I took a deep breath, reassessing my desire to live there.

The next day, my whole cottage felt…off. It was almost as if the floors were slanting or I was having dizzy spells.

The landlord of the cottages who was familiar with the paranormal offered to help. He came to my cottage and did some cleansing ritual that I don’t remember anymore. He suggested I spend money on brand new essentials, to which I agreed.

He also thought it would be helpful if I spoke to the dead lady with more compassion in addition to understanding that she was confused and in a situation she couldn’t comprehend. She had followed her belongings, and she wanted them back. Simple.

Once I had done all the things the landlord had suggested, everything returned to normal, and I went back to working on my Oscar speech.

I hope the lady finally found her way.

Don’t miss the other Weird Things.