Haunted Cemeteries Page 6

  But it was while Googling “Yorba Linda” that a curious listing caught David’s eye. Three miles down the road from the library was a vestige of the earliest days of the city: the old Yorba Cemetery.

  And it was haunted!

  The graveyard was established prior to the founding of Yorba Linda, which incorporated in 1909. Before the California territories came under Spanish rule, the area was native to the Chumash, Tongva, and Juaneño tribes. In 1810 the crown granted José Antonio Yorba, a renowned soldier, an astonishing 63,414 acres about eighty miles north of San Diego. His homestead spread across much of modern-day Orange County, California.

  Spain officially recognized Mexico’s independence in 1830. Four years later, José Figueroa, the Mexican governor, deeded a separate 13,328 acres north of the Santa Ana River to Bernardo Yorba, the soldier-rancher’s son, on which the thirty-four-year-old established Rancho Cañón de Santa Ana. Part of that ranch is today the city of Yorba Linda, and sections of it are still owned by descendants of the Yorba family.

  In 1858, the year of his death, Bernardo gave a piece of the property, a small knoll called La Mesita, to the Catholic Church. In time, it was turned into a private graveyard, the Yorba Cemetery.

  It soon became the preferred burial ground for ranchers and townsfolk alike. Bernardo Yorba himself is interred there under an immense granite stone topped by a cross. The graveyard is the second-oldest cemetery in Orange County, the first being the churchyard at the mission of San Juan Capistrano.

  About four hundred people were laid to rest in Yorba Cemetery before new burials stopped in 1939. Almost immediately, looters and mischief-makers began knocking over markers and stealing headstones from the unattended site. Trespassers left behind their trash: empty cans, broken bottles, and cigarette butts. Within twenty years the place was an eyesore, almost totally desecrated.

  In the 1960s the Orange County Board of Supervisors decided that the cemetery was too important a part of Yorba Linda’s past to be so neglected. In 1967 the Catholic Archdiocese agreed to turn it over to the county, and it’s been operated as part of the county park system ever since. The area has been cleaned up and refurbished, and many of the individual gravesites have been restored. Unfortunately, the vandalism continued, so it was decided to keep the Yorba Cemetery locked tight, day and night, completely surrounded by tall bars.

  Which makes it almost impossible for amateur ghost hunters to investigate the legend of the Pink Lady.

  Allegedly, on the night of June 15, and only that night—from around midnight to as late as 3 a.m.—a pink, luminescent mist appears somewhere in the cemetery, often from behind a centrally located oleander bush. The cloud takes shape: a sad, dark-haired woman dressed in pink. She hovers for a time over a single spot—possibly the grave of Alejandro N. Castillo—and then drifts toward the back fence before dissipating into thin air. Oddly, the manifestation will only take place in even-numbered years. Plus, she doesn’t turn up every time, nor to everybody who comes out to spot her. Apparently, the Pink Lady, as the spectre has been dubbed, is quite selective in showing herself.

  Even if she doesn’t appear on the nights she’s expected to materialize, other paranormal activity sometimes takes place. Investigators in the past have reported that their flashlights and other electrical devices have gone haywire. The street lamps lining the pavement along Woodgate Park, within which the cemetery is now located, might flicker or conk out at the Witching Hour. And some years, clouds in the moonlit sky seem to take on a soft pink hue. All caused by the Pink Lady.

  But who is, or was, she?

  Almost all accounts of the tale say the phantom is a young woman from the early twentieth century who fell from a carriage and died. In the most popular version, the girl was Alvina de los Reyes, and the accident occurred on December 2, 1910. The story goes that, dressed in a pink gown, she was attending a dance at Valencia High School in nearby Placentia with her husband, Francisco. While heading down Kellogg Road, the rented and unfamiliar buggy overturned. Alvina spilled out and fatally hit her head. She was buried in Yorba Cemetery.

  Some reports say it was her boyfriend, not her husband, who was in the carriage with her that night. One narrative has the man deliberately pushing her out of the coach or tipping it over. Another variation has the victim being tossed out of the buggy next to a set of train tracks and struck by a passing locomotive. Plus, the incident may have taken place on Orangethorpe Street rather than on Kellogg. Or Alvina may have been the victim of a car crash rather than a fall from a wagon.

  A few people believe that Alvina was the daughter of Bernardo Yorba, but none of his six daughters was named Alvina, nor did any of them die from falling out of a carriage. Then, too, the real Alvina de los Reyes was not a young lady when she passed away as the legend suggests: She was thirty-one, and she died of pneumonia or possibly while giving birth. Also, Valencia High School had not been built at the time of her death. Its first graduating class wasn’t until 1934.

  To throw another curve at the legend, a psychic has claimed that the Pink Lady is the wandering soul of Eloedia de Los Reyes, or Ellie, who was buried in an unmarked grave next to Castillo. The two may or may not have been married or even a couple at the time of her death.

  It’s not agreed what year the Pink Lady started appearing. Some people date the first rumors to soon after Alvina’s death. Others say the folktale didn’t begin until the 1940s, with town kids daring one another to stay overnight in the cemetery. One of the town’s historians says that the whole thing originated as a Halloween story made up by a Yorba Linda librarian in the 1960s or 1970s.

  It’s also been suggested that the Pink Lady was invented to scare vagrants and vandals off the cemetery grounds. If that’s true, the plan more likely had the opposite effect. Many of the people who defaced the property were probably first drawn there by the story of the phantom.

  So many versions of the tale to choose from! The facts are uncertain. But we shouldn’t let that get in the way of a good ghost story, should we?

  Several days later, after visiting the Presidential Library, David checked his GPS as he drove out of the parking lot. It was a hop, skip, and a jump to the Yorba Cemetery. After a few quick turns, he hit the southwest corner of Woodgate Park, a small green tract encircled by houses and apartment buildings.

  Whoever or whatever the spirit was, David wished he had a chance to see her. But he knew it was impossible. At one time, crowds gathered on the years the biennial midsummer midnight haunting was supposed to occur. But a few years after the county closed off the cemetery, police began to enforce an evening curfew in the entire park.

  Daytime visitors can walk up to the graveyard’s gated entranceway, read the brass historical marker, and gaze through the evenly spaced bars; but to get inside the grounds, they must take one of the free docent-guided tours or make special arrangements with the park office. There was no way that David, or anyone else, was going to be allowed in there at night, especially on June 15.

  Still, he felt the place was worth a look.

  David parked his car by the tennis courts. A jogger pointed him toward the cemetery, and before long he had made his way along a stretch of high black bars, edged on the inside by a low hedge. He stood in front of the closed entryway and peered through a vine-laden arched trellis that led into the graveyard.

  The place seemed devoid of grass, the bare, hard-packed earth trodden flat. Several large trees dotted the property, their full, leafy branches providing a bit of shade for some of the parched earth. There were dozens of widely separated grave markers, many with simple wooden or stone crosses. A few graves were encircled by white rocks or enclosed within a low iron or picket fence, and carved pillars stood here and there.

  David slowly walked the outer perimeter of the cemetery, keeping a lookout for any movement or unexpected activity within. What was he expecting to see? It was broad daylight. No self-respecting ghost was going to show up when the sun was out. Pity. Sure, he was able to appre
ciate the stark beauty of the graveyard, but all in all, his trip to the cemetery had been a bust.

  Oh, well, no ghost for me today, David thought as he walked back to his car. He made a mental note to come back to take the tour. And maybe, just maybe, someday he’d figure out how to sneak into the place on a certain night in June.

  David was so intrigued by the possibility of seeing the Pink Lady that it never dawned on him that it might be possible to encounter a ghost at the Nixon Library as well.

  The first reports of an apparition and supernatural activity at the Presidential Library surfaced within a few years of Richard Nixon’s burial. One of the night watchmen reported seeing a green, glowing haze hovering over the former president’s headstone. On another occasion, a guard spotted a man entering the front door of the birthplace home. When he rushed to apprehend the intruder, he was surprised to discover the door was locked. No one—no one living—could have gotten inside.

  Then there were the mysterious disembodied rappings that would emanate from the Watergate display at night. Often, when such manifestations happened, the next morning the machines that played the White House tapes were malfunctioning. (No such “hauntings” have taken place since the display was updated in 2007, but some of the new plasma screens go down occasionally without explanation.)

  All these spooky occurrences could easily be explained away if only one individual had reported them. But subsequent investigations turned up a whole raft of people who have bumped into the Unknown while visiting the center.

  Many guests have reported catching a glimpse of “something” out of the corner of their eyes as they passed through the grounds, but when they turned to see what had captured their attention, nothing and no one were there. Folks standing by the Nixon graves have sometimes felt uneasy, uncomfortable.

  A few have experienced sudden, unexplainable cold drafts inside the library and museum buildings. One person has felt the touch of a clammy, invisible hand. And now and then, an unidentifiable buzzing sound or a distinct, unpleasant odor temporarily wafts through the air.

  Of course, most people aren’t sensitive to such supernatural sightings. But, hey, why not travel to Yorba Linda to see for yourself? At least two spirits, the Pink Lady and a former commander in chief, may be there to welcome you.

  Chapter 9

  Kabar, the Cavorting

  Canine

  Fans of filmdom love to visit the burial sites of celebrities to feel some sort of connection with their favorite stars. Two of Hollywood’s most active graveside ghosts belong to a movie icon and his pet dog, albeit in very different cemeteries.

  The others just didn’t understand.

  They had never had a pet for as many years as Nancy did. As she was growing up in Tennessee, she and her siblings kept many animals over the years—her brother’s dog, Rags; her own orange-and-white tabby, Ginger. There were also Mom’s parakeets and the family goldfish. At one point, there was even a domesticated skunk.

  Living in a rural area, there was never a question as to what would be done with the furry, finned, or feathered loved ones when they died. That’s what the backyard was for. The first “funeral” Nancy remembered wasn’t that of her grandmother or her Aunt Edie. It was for her little sister’s gerbil, Rodney.

  She remembered the scene as if it were yesterday. Their mom wrapped the lifeless body of the whiskered wheel-turner in one of her dad’s white Sunday handkerchiefs and gently placed it in an old shoebox, carefully punching the carton full of pencil holes so the tiny guy could “breathe.” Then in a mock procession—had they actually done that, all those years ago?—their mom led the children out to a corner of the lawn, right where it met the line of trees that marked the beginning of the woods, and solemnly put the box into a shallow hole she had dug the night before.

  Tears were shed; goodbyes were said. The family moved on. Seemingly within days, her sister had thrown out the rodent’s cage and replaced it with a giant glass aquarium filled with a spiky-headed South American iguana named Izzie.

  The only rule Nancy’s mom ever laid down regarding pets was that whoever brought them home had to take care of them. As the kids grew up and their interests changed—to Gameboys, cars, dating—the animals were not replaced after they died. By the time Nancy moved to California, the family homestead was pretty much an empty nest, both figuratively and literally.

  It was years before she considered allowing another animal into her life, that is, if you didn’t count the succession of best-forgotten boyfriends that littered her twenties. In fact, a pet was the furthest thing from her mind when her girlfriend Janice took her out to lunch to celebrate Nancy’s “Big 3-0”—near a mall, of course. The main event for the afternoon would be shopping.

  But then, over an amazing salade niçoise, Nancy heard the words that would change her life: “Did you hear that Holly wants to get rid of her monkey?”

  Really? Nancy loved Bertha, as Holly had named her little treasure. It was the cutest capuchin ringtail, no more than a year old and almost small enough to fit in Nancy’s hand. And it was fuzzy, with brown fur, a white face, and a black dome on its head.

  But Holly had discovered, as have so many people who buy exotic animals as pets, that monkeys are wild animals. Bertha required much more time and attention than Holly was able to give. Not to mention, the primate was entering her teething stage. Why hadn’t someone told her that monkeys and rattan furniture don’t go together?

  Nancy, however, knew that if she took Bertha she’d have none, or few, of Holly’s problems. She had a large house out in the western San Fernando Valley with plenty of space outdoors to put a large cage for the monkey to play. And she could convert one room into Bertha’s “bedroom” so the monkey could stay indoors on those rare cold or rainy days. (She had an eight-by-ten “sewing room” that would be perfect!) Plus, monkeys ate anything, especially fruits and vegetables, so she wouldn’t be that expensive to feed.

  Nancy mulled over the pros and cons for less than a day. What started out as pleasant mealtime conversation turned into a lifelong commitment—twenty-one years—but Nancy never regretted her decision. Bertha was a constant source of amusement and delight, the great joy of her life and its common denominator, in a way that only a true pet lover could understand. So when Bertha finally passed, Nancy knew she had to bury her longtime companion in a proper setting with the respect and dignity she deserved.

  The Los Angeles Pet Cemetery was founded on September 4, 1928, by Dr. Eugene C. Jones, veterinarian to the stars, along with his brother Rollins. The burial grounds were set on a ten-acre property in the hills of Calabasas, twenty miles northwest of Los Angeles. Four years earlier, the doctor had founded one of the first pet hospitals in the City of Angels. Now, with the graveyard, he would be able to offer complete services for his clients.

  Interment was not cheap when the cemetery opened, at least by 1920s standards. The least expensive coffin was $7.50, and a four-foot by one-and-a-half-foot grave was $12.50. For those who wished to have their pets embalmed before they were laid to rest, the cost could run up into the hundreds of dollars. Jones built a brick mausoleum with a crematorium and columbarium in 1929. Cremations began at $17.50.

  Eventually the cemetery would become the last stop for Topper, Hopalong Cassidy’s horse; Scout, Tonto’s steed from The Lone Ranger ; Charlie Chaplin’s cat Boots; Humphrey Bogart’s dog Droopy; and one of the pit bulls (but probably not the first) that played Petey, the canine with a black ring around one eye in the Our Gang/Little Rascals comedies. In more recent years, Steven Spielberg placed his Jack Russell terrier there as well.

  But one of its first celebrity residents was Kabar, a Doberman pinscher–Great Dane cross that was Rudolph Valentino’s favorite dog.

  Valentino was known to be a great animal lover. There’s a famous anecdote that his ex-wife, Natacha Rambova, once accused the film star of hating her teeny Pekingese. No, he assured the woman, it was she, not the dogs, he despised.

  When th
e “Latin Lover” died unexpectedly in New York on August 23, 1926, from peritonitis following surgery for gastric ulcers (and, in the end, pleuritis), it sent shock waves across the country. A hundred thousand people lined the streets as his coffin was moved to a funeral home for the viewing. During his subsequent burial in Los Angeles, ten thousand people are said to have tried to force their way into the services.

  But none was more upset by Valentino’s death than Kabar. It’s said that the moment the screen idol died, his devoted dog back at his Bel Air estate let out a mournful howl that echoed down the canyon. Beatrice Lillie, who was driving past the mansion at the time, was so surprised by the unearthly yowl that she almost crashed her car.

  Kabar outlived Valentino by three years, dying on February 2, 1929. Rudolph’s brother Alberto had an autopsy performed on the trusty canine because no physical cause could be found. It seems the dog died of a broken heart. He was laid to rest in the Los Angeles Pet Cemetery. A simple brass marker was placed on his grave, pressed flush with the earth. It read:

  KABAR

  MY FAITHFUL DOG

  RUDOLPH VALENTINO

  OWNER

  Years passed. In 1973, the Jones family donated the graveyard to the Los Angeles branch of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. On September 12, 1986, S.O.P.H.I.E. (Save Our Pets’ History in Eternity), a nonprofit organization made up of pet owners, bought the property and rededicated it as the Los Angeles Pet Memorial Park.