The Money Pit

Death is not always an admirable selling point, or an effective one; but in San Jose, California, the Winchester Mystery House is an easy sell. It’s one of the biggest, literally, tourist attractions in the area. Finding the place is not hard, but its obviousness should not be held against it. As an accomplishment and an allegory it should be experienced. Although atmospheric enough in the comforting California sunshine, flashlight tours of the house are offered on bewitched dates like Friday the 13th and All Hallow’s Eve, to up the eeriness quotient. These after dark tours would likely not include the small, but vocal, crowd of protesters lamenting the lack of gun control legislation after another vicious spree. Visiting as an architecture and not a firearms enthusiast, their jeers and condemning signs should have been shrugged off. Who could fail to appreciate the opulent undertaking and leave politics at the door? Situated just across the street from an upscale outdoor shopping mall, the mournful maze of Victorian design is incongruous to the neighborhood’s chic modern storefronts. Several years later and the striking Queen Anne façade of corn husk yellow shingles and claret red roof has not diminished from memory. The quirkiness and irregularities are noted; something is not quite right. The whimsicality of turrets, finials, and classic gingerbread woodwork belies the desolation that inspired its creation. It is in essence a sprawling mausoleum if the legends of rampant spirits are to be believed. And they should be. Even discounting any uninvited ghostly guests, it was built with blood money by a woman who believed herself cursed, and her torment saturates the house more than the varnish on the exquisitely crafted parquet floors. Brother murdered brother and indigenous nations were razed in wars across America, as the Winchester repeating rifle became a harbinger of grief. As heiress to the company’s fortune, Sarah Winchester paid for every lavish detail, from the burnished precious metals in the Hall of Fires, to the bejeweled panes of Tiffany glass in hopes of honoring and appeasing the dead. She locked herself in an eccentric labyrinth fearful of vengeful specters and her despair is almost tangible as doors open to nowhere. The protester echoes linger throughout, haunting the living with culpability for every moment of awe at her mansion of misery. It is a site of incredible beauty that capitalized on the most beastly intent.