The Santa Rosa morning was chilly, and after eating some leftover cake for breakfast, I shot down the 101 to the 37 to the 80 to the 113 and into Woodland where the air was warm and thick like the cake frosting from the night before. I pulled up in front of my house; a 19th century haunted Victorian, took a deep breath and wondered…how would my dad be?
My mom and younger brother Noah came out to greet me before I could even ring the bell, then took me inside. My dad was in bed, hurting, but really happy to see me. He looked good, said he felt the opposite. We got to talk for a half hour where he sat up. It was lunch time, but he wasn’t hungry. So I told him he had to eat and exercise cause he had to get better. He said if he got better, then I had to throw him a party. I agreed. Maybe even get some of those guys’ home brew beer for the occasion. One thing to understand is my dad is a seriously competitive guy, and especially won’t be outdone by me. So when he saw me on my feet and eating, and he wasn’t, he took action. Right then and there he did his exercises, then ate, and even walked around a bit. But after a while, he was pretty drained, and needed to rest. It was closing in on 6pm anyway, and I had to hit the road back to Santa Monica. I had stayed in Woodland for 5 hours. Much longer than I thought I was going to get. The trip had been worth it, not just for me, but for him, the whole reason I went in the first place. His energy was returning, slowly. The doctors even gave him a recovery timeline…3 more weeks to start rehab. 6 months to full recovery. Mosquito repellant had suddenly risen to the top of my shopping list.
Before I left Woodland, my dad shook my hand, gave me a hug, and we shook hands again. He made me a guarantee, then I packed up what I could into the crevasses the Solstice calls a trunk, and drove off past some hometown landmarks like the Gable Mansion, the county historical museum, and into the countryside as the sun went down.
Before I got back on the freeway in the convertible, I took another breath of fresh air from this trip, which reminded me that life’s short, so get your priorities straight, put the top down and enjoy the ride.
And that guarantee my dad made to me as we shook hands…he told me to get ready for winter, he wouldn’t be selling his skis.
Josh Kameyer, Broadband Video Production
desmolicious says:
09:39 PM, 09/19/06
Thanks for sharing in such a public forum Josh. Here's wishing your dad a speedy recovery.
rsholland says:
12:16 PM, 09/20/06
Very nicely done Josh. I too wish a speedy recovery for your dad.
tsgeisel says:
12:20 PM, 09/20/06
Wow. Cool story, glad things are working out.
It's these personal observations that reinforce why I read the blog.
dderosa says:
04:35 PM, 09/20/06
Josh, Best wishes to your Dad for a speedy recovery.
Can we hear more about the haunted house?
spargo says:
11:11 AM, 09/21/06
Great story i enjoyed reading it. Hope your father has an easy time getting better.
-Spargo
autoboy16 says:
06:17 AM, 09/24/06
Hope your dad gets better soon! Remember to fill us in on the ski trip!
-Cj
jwk13 says:
10:54 AM, 09/25/06
Thank you very much for the comments and well wishes. My dad has read them and really appreciates it as well. He's doing a lot better, says he's about 50% and has some of his appetite back, which is a huge improvement. We're both excited about the upcoming ski season, and I'll be sure to keep you updated.
With that said, by request, here is the haunted house story.
So in the small town of Woodland, CA, there are many Victorians. And some of the most famous are ones erected by the architect with the last name Stephens (pronounced Stevens). My parents actually still own this one.
He built some amazing homes, so when it came time to build one for his son, little expense was spared. This home was completed around 1892, built nearly entirely of redwood and square nails, except for a brick foundation, and iron gas pipes that line the house for lighting. No original plumbing! Added later thank goodness!
So Stephens' son lived in the house for years, passed it on to his son, who passed it on to his daughter as the story goes, and she lived there until sometime in the 1960s, well into her 80s. But one day, well, as life goes, she died in-between the parlour and the vacuous entry hall. Her body was removed, the house boarded up, but her spirit...
So in 1973 my parents bought the house. My dad was a fireman, my mom a teacher, and they decided to fix it up, and turn the carrage house (where horse and buggy were stored in old days) into an antique store. And they set about doing it.
My dad had a friend who was/is a psychoanalyst. And this guy would not go in the house due to a dream he had where the spirit of the dead Stephens woman appeared between the parlour and entry hall. The kickier, he had the dream before he even knew the story.
Then I came along, followed by 2 younger brothers. So the ghost story really starts early, but in my memory, it started as a child.
My dad gave us the backstory, which of course scared the sh*# out of us and gave me nightmares and made me afraid of the dark and such. Thanks, Dad.
But it was seriously cool. We have a front stairway and back stairway, and beneath the back stairs was a storage. But when you walked in, your footsteps made hollow sounds. So my dad used a skill saw to cut into the floorboards, and when he finished, they fell...
...into darkness. And there it was, a stairway leading down. It was a back basement, and in it, some old newspaper clippings on the history of the house (seriously, not kidding). We thought, "Cool!"
So anyway, this is when the howling started. Now yeah, it may have been the wind cycling down the chiminey through the basement, but it sure didn't sound like it, and it happened every year.
Then came the footsteps. One by one, creaking up the 20+ step staircase. I would stand right by it, listening as each step would creak in order, apparantly as the ghost of old lady Stephens would ascend the steps to her bedroom.
Now honestly, sure, this all sounds bizarre, and what I'm about to say, perhaps unrealistic...only I saw it with my own eyes.
On several occasions, after being out of town for a few days, on returning home, the parlour furniture would be rearranged. And we'd walk in from our trip, put our bags down, and look at it. My parents would say, "nah" and blow it off. But I and my brothers would look at each other, cause yeah, we knew it wasn't right.
And to top it all off, just then, this old green upholstered rocking chair (where old lady Stephens was said to have sat) would start going, rocking gently back and forth as if to say, hey kids, I'm still here, and I'm not...going...anywhere!
As you can see, nothing bad every happened. And if you believe in any of this, then it was a nice ghost. But when you're a kid, home all alone in a rain storm, windows rattling, stairs creaking, and the rocking chair rocking...nice ghost or not, it's scary as hell.
Josh
dderosa says:
11:59 AM, 09/25/06
Cool. Does it still happen?
jwk13 says:
12:56 PM, 09/28/06
As far as creepy things still happening in the house, I'm not sure. I haven't lived there in many years. However, I will find out and report back.