The Whaley House

Mr. W was the docent at the Whaley House for a long time. He was a nut job and he drove me crazy. He was supposed to talk to people for 5 minutes, but routinely took 12. His wife and I would stand in the back behind the seated guests and wave at him to try to get him to wrap it up. But there was no shutting this guy up. When we finally stopped having him speak, he'd corner people so he could go on and on about whatever came into his head. He was a real know-it-all despite the fact that he routinely misused and mispronounced words. My favorite example was that he'd say, "Ghosts are narcistic; they like to know who you are and what you're doing." Now "narcistic" sounds wrong, but it's actually a rare shortened form of the word narcissistic that's used by at least some people, so I'll let him have that one, but he totally misused the word. Narcissistic means having an unhealthy amount of self love, vanity, or self preoccupation. The word comes from Narcissus of Greek mythology who was so in love with himself that he stared at his reflection in a pool of water until he died. It has nothing to do with an interest in others. If anything, narcissism is the opposite of interest in others.

But my favorite moment came when we were outside the house one night letting people in. As usual, I was there doing my job and Mr. W was there trying to make conversation. There are some large trees above and people often notice them. Mr. W saw that one of the men on the tour looked up at the trees and he said, "A lot of people wonder what kind of trees those are...". To which the guy responded, "It's a fig." Now I have no doubt that this guy was some kind of horticulturalist or something because there was no hesitation and no hint of doubt in his response. But Mr. W knew better. "Actually, it's a kind of ficus." said Mr. W, secure in the knowledge that he had shown the blinding light of truth upon yet another ignoramous. "That's what a fig is; it's a kind of ficus.", said the man.

Now that was pretty great. But then Mr. W said, "Oh, well I guess I'll just stop talking then." It was great. I'm sure that reading this doesn't do justice to the situation, but it just seemed like poetic justice to see this pompous know-it-all windbag get shot down and know it. Ah, the memories.

The Whaley House was actually the house I came to know best. Every one else involved with the house was really nice. We were able to arrange to have all the hosts stay in the house late at night with the nice docents. We didn't see any ghosts, but we did see what looked like on in the rocking chair upstairs. Could it have been Violet, the Whaley's daughter?

We all clamored around the plexiglass partition staring at the chair and wondering if we were catching a glimpse of the beyond. It looked like it was moving, but it was hard to see. Well, we're pretty sure now that it was just a reflection of light off of the chair.

People on the tour would often feel cold spots in the house. And invariably, said "cold spots" would be near a door or window. One of the other ghost hosts claimed to feel spirits push her or wind themselves around her. She said she saw a face come out of a plaque on the wall. But the most famous "face" back then was the one photographed by many of our guests. It was a face that Mr. W loved to take people over to photograph. He claimed it was Mr. Whaley himself watching the tour.

I went to the Whaley House durring the day once and had a look at the spot on the wall where the face alway appeared. It was obvious that the plaster had been repaired. It was a different texture in spots, and if someone took a flash photograph of that wall, at night it would almost certainly look different. People are genetically programed to see faces, shapes and patterns where none exist. I think that's the best explanation for this particular face.

One of my favorite Whaley House moments came when I had a charter of eleven and twelve year old girls. People claim to have seen Mrs. Whaley standing on the stairs and I'd usually tell people about that before we entered the house. Guests were not allowed upstairs. One of the docents would stand on the stairs to prevent people from going upstairs, and someone would always be startled when they looked up the stairs and saw a woman in period costume standing there looking down at them.

On the night of my charter of pre-teen-aged girls, we went into the house and the girls all huddled together as they entered the hall. When the first brave girls looked up the stairs and saw the docent there, screams echoed through the hall. The girls all moved in a huddled mass toward the front door, but ended up falling all over themselves like dominoes screaming in pitches so high only the neighborhood dogs could truly appreciate it.

After the Whaley House, we'd get on the trolley for a short trip back to where we started, but before we left, I'd tell the story about how a local TV reporter named Regis Philbin spent the night at the Whaley House and ran out the front door in the wee hours of the morning after a woman floated into the room he was in. I think we all know who that woman was. Say it with me people it was... Kathy Lee Gifford! Duhn.. Duhn... DUHNNNNN!!!!