As my realtor Sahar and I drove up to the property at 1440 Bluejay Way, I couldn’t help but feel that something about the odd little house was familiar. Had I seen it before? When?
“This house is advertised in the MLS as needing a little TLC” Sahar remarked. TLC indeed – outwardly, the blocky and austere facade radiated all the charm and warmth of a mausoleum. On either side, houses stood vacant and lifeless, adding to the air of foreboding. It was an incongruous sight, for this was a newer neighborhood in a better end of town. What could possibly cause all the neighbors to pull up stakes, I wondered? No matter. On paper the place was a steal – certainly worth a look.
The fragment of yellow tape that fluttered from the doorway should have been a tip off. As we entered, it became clear that the entire place was in ruin. The darkened interior lent a chilling air to the devastation within: the carpet had been ripped up, the kitchen cabinets lay tumbled on the floor, the sink was gone. In a corner, a decapitated doll’s head stared blankly at the ceiling. What sort of disaster had befallen this home, I wondered? “So much for a little TLC” Sahar offered, chuckling nervously. It was obvious that place was a wreck, a complete write-off, but curiosity now had the better of me so we continued on, pushing past the debris, deeper into the grim dwelling.
As I walked, I was beset with increasing unease. There was perhaps, no – definitely, something heavy in the air, something that I couldn’t quite name, something oppressive that seemed to surround me, envelop me. It felt as if I were walking through liquid that slowed my steps and stole my breath.
We made our way through the maze of junk, and I glanced through a filthy window at the small back yard. More problems. Someone had dug a large hole right in the middle, a hole that looked for all the world like – could it possibly be… a grave? As I pondered the strange sight, I was hit with a sudden realization, one that surged through me and chilled me to the core. I had indeed seen this house before; how could I have forgotten it! Only a few short months earlier it had been on the front page of every paper – as the site of a grisly murder*! I was standing in the very heart of the death house!
“Let’s get the hell out of here Sahar – someone was killed in this room!” Sahar’s eyes widened, and we turned to find our way back out, back to the daylight and the security of the car. My mind was now reeling, gripped with a growing terror, as I stumbled to reach the door. It should have been only a few short steps to the entry, but each leadened footfall seemed to mark an eternity. Dear God! All around I could feel the terrible stifling atmosphere closing behind me, like a great and lumbering beast pursuing its prey. I feared that if I hesitated, at any moment the very walls of the house would seize upon me. Then, finally, at last, the door! I threw it open and Sahar and I passed through, grateful for the sun, grateful to be free from the grip of the baleful death house! I turned to close the door, glancing briefly back inside. Where there should have been light from the windows across the room, there was now only blackness! Was it a trick of the light – or did some dark and malevolent entity stand in the way? I slammed the door closed, and we hurriedly made our way to the car and away, away from this house of many terrors!
*In November of 2009, Adrian Rios and a few other local teens gathered at the home of their friend Jose Campos to drink, smoke some weed and watch a football game. At some point, a violent argument ensued between Campos and Rios. Campos found a gun, and fired it at Rios point blank, blowing the top of Rios’ head off and scattering his brains across the living room. The remorseless Campos then hacked to pieces and burned his friends corpse, burying all that remained in the backyard pit (the case has not reached trial, but it is thus alleged). Investigators started the job of tearing the place apart in their quest for evidence. The bank finished the destruction as they tried to remove any vestige of human remains from the interior.
I still live in Hemet, and continue to follow the stories surrounding the house on Bluejay Way. Disturbing as they are, I have found some comfort in knowing that I am not alone in what I have experienced. The tales are many.
An Eerie blue green light has been seen in the house’s empty windows, floating slowly about and flickering like a dim and dying candle. At other times, the light has been likened to the changing images on a television- but there is no television, and no electricity on the property.
Passersby have heard the muted voices of men arguing emanating from the walls of the darkened edifice. Could this be the reenactment of the fateful football party?
On November evenings near the anniversary of the grim murder, the acrid smell of charred flesh is said to permeate the neighborhood, borne on a sickening breeze. Some brave souls have followed the odor to the very edge of the Murder House, only to find that it disappears the moment the property line is crossed.
There have been numerous calls to the police reporting intruders at the property, but so far no trespassers have ever been found, at least none of the living variety, says one police detective who wished to remain anonymous, “On the record, it’s just a former crime scene, plain and simple. Off the record, I’ll tell you that house is haunted as hell – as far as I’m concerned, the whole place should be torn down. Build a park or something, but that house will never be clean.”
Yet one more unspeakable horror was witnessed by some “brave” souls. Last Halloween, five teens from nearby West Valley High decided to visit the house after a night of partying and heavy drinking. It was a lark, a good way to cap off the evening with a good scare. They were not to be disappointed, for in back of the house, the ghastly, diaphanous specter of Rios himself awaited them, rising from the pit that held his remains, strips of burned flesh hanging from his bones! The teens fled in terror. Was their encounter merely a hallucination fueled by alcohol and a wild imagination, or does Rios restless spirit still linger in the yard, waiting for justice?
Oh, I should mention that if any of you bargain hunters out there would like a place to call home, I understand that the house is still for sale, cheap. There’s even a large hole in the back yard where you might put a nice hot tub. Just be sure to save room for Rio’s ghost when you take your soak.
Sent in by Mr. Ito, Copyright 2011