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Los Angeles, a city that basks in the glow of the entertainment industry, harbors a darker side with its collection of haunted locations. These eerie sites promise to send shivers down the spines of even the most skeptical visitors. From restless spirits of the past to unexplained phenomena, brace yourself for a journey through the most haunted places in the City of Angels.
If you are doing any kind of paranormal investigation here, you might want to take a look at our ghost hunting equipment list. Locations like this get a reputation because they are high activity and you don’t need much to see for yourself.
The Pico House stands as a haunting reminder of Los Angeles’ tumultuous past. Constructed in 1870 by Pio Pico, a successful businessman and the last governor of Los Angeles under Mexican rule, the structure was once the epitome of luxury. Boasting 82 rooms, the hotel basked in a decade of high demand and success until the city’s business hub shifted south, signaling an end to its golden era.
But not all that glittered was gold at the Pico House. Its walls whisper tales of a darker time, when anger and vengeance ran through the streets like wildfire. The hotel, perched on the edge of the original Chinatown, witnessed the gruesome aftermath of a violent skirmish between two Chinese immigrant associations. The conflict escalated when Jesus Bilderrain, an officer of the law, and Robert Thompson, a local tavern owner, were shot, the latter fatally.
The city, already seething with anti-Chinese sentiment, erupted into chaos. A lynch mob, blinded by prejudice, tore through Chinatown, leaving a trail of destruction and death. The Pico House, a mere stone’s throw from the carnage, found itself surrounded by the storm of violence that claimed the lives of at least 17 Chinese individuals, including children.
These souls, some say, never left the vicinity. The Pico House is now a canvas for the spectral. Its staircases and hallways echo with the footsteps of the departed. An episode of Ghost Adventures recorded a security guard recounting a chilling experience of being kicked in the leg by an unseen force, a possible act of spectral vengeance.
Moreover, Pio Pico himself is said to keep a watchful eye on his former domain. His apparition has been spotted surveying the land from the rooftop and upper windows, as if ensuring his legacy remains intact. The Pico House, with its historical aura preserved amid the modern hum of the city, provides a familiar haunt for those who once walked its floors.
As the Pico House endures, so do its ghostly residents, making it a cornerstone of paranormal lore in the heart of Los Angeles.
I felt a chill run down my spine as I wandered through the Pico House, the air thick with the whispers of its tragic past. Suddenly, an invisible force kicked my leg, as if the angry spirits of the old Chinatown skirmish were still fighting their battles. Everywhere I turned, the echoes of those long gone seemed to say, “This is our territory,” making it clear that some guests never check out of this haunted hotel.
Ahs Murder House
The infamous American Horror Story: Murder House grips Los Angeles with tales of terror that chill to the bone. This architectural marvel, steeped in macabre history, stands as a dark testament to the horrors that unfolded within its walls. The house, originally built in 1902 by the renowned Alfred Rosenheim, has been the stage for tragedy and the supernatural, becoming the cornerstone of ghostly lore in the City of Angels.
Over the years, the Murder House has worn many masks, from a family abode to a convent, but it’s best known as the spine-tingling setting of the first season of the television series American Horror Story. Audiences around the globe watched with bated breath as the Harmon family’s narrative unraveled, entwined with the restless spirits that call the house their eternal prison.
The house’s dark allure lies not just in its fictional recounting but in its real-life reputation as a haunted haven. Whispers in the Los Angeles night tell of spectral sightings and eerie occurrences, as if the very walls have absorbed the essence of the tragedies they’ve witnessed. It’s as if each creak of the floorboards and whisper of the wind through the rafters is a voice from the past, desperate to be heard.
The Murder House stands as a grim reminder of the thin veil between this world and the next. It’s a place where the past is always present, and the dead refuse to rest in peace. This Gothic structure is more than a home; it’s a chilling synecdoche for all haunted dwellings that hold within them stories of woe and whispers of the dead.
Those brave enough to walk its haunted halls recount a sense of being watched, of cold fingers down their spine, and of the unnerving feeling that they are never truly alone. The Murder House is a chilling chapter in Los Angeles’ anthology of the paranormal, a place where the door to the other side swings wide open, and the boundary between life and death is as thin as a ghost’s sigh.
As I crept through the Murder House‘s shadowy corridors, a sudden chill ran down my spine, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes unseen were tracking my every move. The air was thick with whispers, and in the corner of my eye, I caught fleeting glimpses of the restless dead, forever anchored to this cursed place. I quickly realized that I was in over my head, and as the floorboards groaned beneath my feet, it was clear that some stones are better left unturned.
Colorado Street Bridge
The Colorado Street Bridge in Pasadena, a suburb of Los Angeles, stands as a haunting reminder of the city’s darker history. Known to many as “Suicide Bridge,” this architectural marvel has attracted souls at their wits’ end since its construction in 1913. The bridge itself, a grand structure with nine majestic arches, stretches its long arms across the Arroyo Seco, a seasonal creek bed that has witnessed more than its fair share of sorrow.
Built from native gravel, its 150-foot tall frame was once the tallest cement bridge in the world, a claim to fame that soon became overshadowed by tragedy. The bridge’s allure to those contemplating the final leap seems to tie back to its imposing height and the unforgiving ground below.
The first suicide from the bridge was reported in 1919, and since then, the structure has seen a stream of despondent individuals take their last steps along its span. The city has grappled with this grim reputation, installing barriers and hotline phones in an effort to curb the sad trend.
Beyond its modern narrative, the Colorado Street Bridge looms over an area steeped in history. Before the city of Pasadena rose from the land, the indigenous Tongva people, whom the Spanish called Gabrielinos, lived along the banks of the Arroyo Seco. They regarded the area with great spiritual significance, a place where the laughter-like babbling of the river against the canyon walls could be heard, perhaps now a haunting echo to the bridge’s sorrowful legacy.
The bridge’s name, “Suicide Bridge,” became a chilling synecdoche for the tragic events that unfolded there, representing not just the structure itself, but the series of heartbreaking stories tied to its existence. It’s a place where the architecture’s elegance meets the stark reality of human despair, casting a long shadow over Pasadena’s otherwise sunny image.
Yet, despite its macabre reputation, the Colorado Street Bridge remains a historical icon, an indelible part of Pasadena’s landscape. With every car that drives across its length and every visitor who stops to admire its design, the bridge stands as a testament to both the beauty and complexities of human life. It is a bridge of contrasts, where the feats of engineering meet the depths of human emotion, and where the city’s heart beats strongest, for better or for worse.
I walked along the Colorado Street Bridge at dusk, the air heavy with unspoken tales, when suddenly a chill crept up my spine. They say you can sometimes hear whispers carried by the wind, remnants of the Tongva people’s ancient spirits—the original guardians of the Arroyo Seco. But tonight, it felt as if the very souls who took their final leap were reaching out, a stark reminder of the bridge’s darker moniker, “Suicide Bridge.”
The Hollywood Sign
The Hollywood Sign in Los Angeles stands tall, not just as an iconic symbol of the film industry’s sparkle and shine, but also as a repository of darker tales that whisper through the winds of the surrounding hills. The sign’s haunted history stretches back to the 1930s, entwined with the tragic story of an actress named Peg Entwistle.
Peg Entwistle, a hopeful starlet, came to Hollywood with dreams as big as the sky, but her aspirations came crashing down after her role in the film “Thirteen Women” was largely cut due to the controversial nature of her character’s sexuality. This role was supposed to be Peg’s golden ticket, her springboard to stardom. Unfortunately, the harsh cut was a blow from which she never recovered.
Haunted by her dashed hopes and engulfed by depression, Peg Entwistle made a fateful decision on the night of September 16, 1932. She left the home she shared with her uncle and made her way to the towering Hollywood Sign. Climbing the shaky maintenance ladder to the top of the letter ‘H‘, she took her final leap into the abyss, leaving behind a world that hadn’t given her a fair chance.
The next morning, a hiker discovered her lifeless body and a poignant suicide note that read, “I am afraid, I am a coward. I am sorry for everything. If I had done this a long time ago, it would have saved a lot of pain. P.E.” It was this cryptic message, signed only with her initials, that eventually led her uncle to identify her.
Ever since that day, the spirit of Peg Entwistle is said to linger around the Hollywood Sign. Witnesses have reported encounters with a ghostly figure donning 1930s attire, her expression etched with sadness and confusion. As if leaving her signature in the air, the scent of gardenias—her perfume of choice—often heralds her spectral presence.
Park rangers and visitors alike have crossed paths with Peg’s apparition, most notably John Arbogast, a park ranger who claims to have seen her numerous times on foggy nights. The letter ‘H‘ from which she jumped even collapsed in 1949, stirring speculation that perhaps Peg’s restless spirit played a part in its demise.
Those intrigued by the tales of Hollywood’s phantoms can walk in the footsteps of legends and specters alike on ghost tours that wander down the haunted boulevard every night at 7 pm. The Hollywood Sign, a symbol of dreams made and broken, continues to watch over the city, a silent guardian holding the secrets of the past.
I stumbled upon the ghost of Peg Entwistle one eerie evening at the Hollywood Sign, her presence marked by the sudden chill in the air and the unmistakable scent of gardenias. As the mist thickened, I caught a glimpse of her, a sorrowful figure from the 1930s, forever etching her tragic tale into the fabric of Hollywood lore. They say she took the plunge from the top of the ‘H,’ and to this day, her restless spirit seems to be chasing the stardom that slipped through her fingers like sand.
Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel
The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel in Los Angeles stands as an enduring symbol of Old Hollywood glamour, but beneath its luxurious veneer lies a spine-tingling legacy. Since its grand opening in 1927, attended by a constellation of stars, the hotel has played host not only to the living but also, as the tales go, to the spirits of the departed.
At the heart of the hotel’s supernatural saga is the claim that some of Hollywood’s most illustrious figures have never checked out. The specter of Marilyn Monroe is perhaps the most storied of these ghostly guests. Monroe, whose life was a whirlwind of fame and personal turmoil, is said to linger in the suite she once called home and to dance in the Blossom Ballroom, where the first Academy Awards were held.
Another soul that reportedly haunts the premises is Montgomery Clift. Clift, whose brilliant career was cut short by tragedy, is believed to roam the ninth floor, particularly Room 928, where he once stayed for several months. Accounts of cold brushes and eerie presences have been shared by hotel staff and guests alike, hinting that Clift’s restless spirit is still treading the hallways.
The hotel also harbors the ghost of Caroline, a young girl who roams the corridors in search of her mother. Witnesses describe her as a real child, clad in a pink jacket and jeans, an image that pulls at the heartstrings and suggests a story cut tragically short.
Adding to the ghostly guest list, two unknown male spirits—one an Oscar hopeful, the other a pianist in a white tuxedo—also frequent the Blossom Ballroom. Their presence is a testament to the hotel’s deep ties to Hollywood’s golden era, with dreams and aspirations that echo through time.
Even the swimming pool is not immune to otherworldly encounters, with security personnel reporting sightings of a swimmer when the pool is closed, only to find the area deserted upon investigation.
The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel is a place where the past never fully recedes, and the line between the living and the dead blurs. The spirits’ attachment to the hotel—be it a child’s longing, an actor’s unfulfilled dreams, or a legend’s tragic end—has transformed this historic establishment into a playground for the dead.
In short, the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel is not just a place where stars come to shine; it’s a place where some refuse to fade away. Those who dare to book a stay should be ready for a brush with the extraordinary, for in this hotel, you may just find yourself in the company of ghosts.
During my stay at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, I swear I caught a glimpse of Marilyn Monroe in the mirror of her old suite—an eerie feeling that sent shivers down my spine. I heard the faint sound of a trumpet playing when I passed the Blossom Ballroom, as if the ghostly pianist in the white tuxedo was gearing up for an eternal encore. As I walked down the ninth-floor hallway, a sudden chill in the air made me feel as though Montgomery Clift was right on my heels, rehearsing his lines from beyond the grave.
The Wonderland Murder House
In the heart of Los Angeles’ Laurel Canyon, the house on 8763 Wonderland Avenue stands as a grim reminder of one of the city’s most chilling and notorious crimes. The so-called Wonderland Murder House harbors a past soaked in violence and mystery, a site where the specters of a grisly quadruple homicide in the early ’80s might still linger.
Before the bloodshed, the Wonderland residence served as the den for a quintet of individuals known for their illicit drug dealings and a string of burglaries across Los Angeles. This band included Ron Launius, Billy DeVerell, Joy Audrey Gold Miller, Tracy McCourt, and David Lind, who all shared a common thread of addiction and crime.
Their fateful leap into infamy took a turn on June 29, 1981, when Launius, DeVerell, McCourt, and Lind staged a brazen home invasion at the residence of Eddie Nash, a known crime lord. The robbery left Nash’s bodyguard wounded and set off a chain of events that would lead to a house of horrors.
The early morning hours of July 1, 1981, saw an unknown group of assailants, armed with tools turned weapons, storm the Wonderland House. Launius, Miller, DeVerell, and Barbara Richardson, Lind’s girlfriend, fell victim to the savagery of blunt force trauma, while Launius’s wife, Susan, miraculously survived but with severe injuries and amnesia.
The attack remained a dark secret for half a day until movers nearby stumbled upon the gruesome scene. The house’s reputation for raucous parties meant the neighbors had turned a deaf ear to the commotion, mistaking the sounds of murder for just another night of indulgence.
One of the most striking pieces of evidence was a handprint left behind, a clue that pointed to John Holmes, an adult film star with a foot in the criminal underworld. Holmes’s subsequent arrest and trial spun a web of theories, but despite the suspicions, his defense managed to secure his acquittal on the grounds of being coerced into the crime, rather than a willing participant.
The aftermath of the Wonderland murders saw a tangled investigation and several deaths among those connected, including Holmes himself in 1988. Nash and his bodyguard faced their own legal battles but ultimately walked free from the murder charges.
While the case officially remains unsolved, the Wonderland Murder House has since become the stuff of Hollywood portrayals, with its story loosely inspiring scenes in “Boogie Nights” and directly depicted in the 2003 film “Wonderland.”
As for the question of hauntings, tales whisper of the possibility that the spirits of the slain – and perhaps even Holmes himself – continue to haunt the grounds of the infamy-ridden home. While the house has seen tenants come and go, none can shake the eerie chill that the home’s dark history imparts.
In conclusion, the Wonderland Murder House sits as a somber monument to a tale of greed, violence, and the lingering questions that may never find answers. For those who dare to walk down Wonderland Avenue, it’s impossible to ignore the shadow of the past that clings to this infamous Los Angeles landmark.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that the eyes of the past were watching me as I stepped into the Wonderland Murder House. Every creak and groan of the old floorboards seemed to whisper the secrets of that fateful night in 1981. They say the walls have ears, but in this house, it felt like they had voices, too, and they were screaming.
Hotel Cecil (Stay On Main)
Hotel Cecil, an infamous Los Angeles landmark, stands as a testament to the city’s dark underbelly amid its sun-soaked promise. Erected in 1924, the hotel was initially a beacon of opulence, designed to cater to business travelers and tourists during a time when Hollywood’s allure was at its zenith. The Jazz Age’s bold expression and excess influenced its Art Deco architecture, a symbol of its time. Yet, as the Great Depression cast a long shadow, Hotel Cecil’s fortunes took a dark turn.
The once-glamorous guesthouse began a descent into notoriety as a series of tragedies unfolded within its walls. Beginning in 1931, the hotel became the site of a grim tapestry of suicides, with individuals leaping to their deaths nearly every other year throughout that decade. The series of tragedies seemed to paint the building with a cursed brush, leading many to question if the structure itself played a role in the sorrow it attracted.
In the ’60s, the hotel’s dark lore grew thicker when a woman took a fatal plunge from the ninth floor, taking the life of an innocent pedestrian in her deadly embrace. The Hotel Cecil also saw the unsolved murder of tenant Goldie Osgood, adding another chilling chapter to its history.
As if the hotel’s past wasn’t grim enough, the ’80s brought the presence of Richard Ramirez, the “Night Stalker”, who reportedly made the hotel his lair. In the ’90s, Austrian serial killer Jack Unterweger joined the hotel’s guestbook of infamy, turning it into a hunting ground.
The hotel’s infamy reached a peak in 2013 with the tragic death of Elisa Lam, whose mysterious demise was marked by a viral video of her last known moments and the subsequent discovery of her body in the hotel’s water tank. This event cemented Hotel Cecil’s standing as a place where the veil between life and death seemed perilously thin.
Despite efforts to rebrand as Stay on Main, Hotel Cecil could not shake off the weight of its past. The grim tales that unfolded within its walls have made it a subject of morbid fascination, and it now stands as a monolith of macabre, a building that whispers stories of tragedy and despair.
The building, having witnessed a century’s worth of sorrow and darkness, was designated a historical monument, a scarred sentinel overseeing Los Angeles’s ever-changing landscape. Its haunted history continues to attract attention, becoming the muse for shows like American Horror Story and the Netflix series The Vanishing at the Cecil Hotel.
Whether deemed cursed or simply caught in a cycle of unfortunate events, Hotel Cecil remains a dark jewel in the crown of Los Angeles, its tales of woe echoing through the corridors of time.
I checked into the Hotel Cecil, unaware that I’d be sleeping with ghosts. Late at night, as the halls echoed with whispers of its dark past, I felt an icy touch that sent shivers down my spine, as if the grim tapestry of tragedies was unfolding right before my eyes. They say once you stay at the Cecil, the cursed brush paints your dreams with shades of the macabre.
The Comedy Store
The Comedy Store in Los Angeles holds more than just a legacy of laughter; it’s a hotbed for supernatural tales that have seeped into its very walls. Built in the 1930s, this iconic venue on Sunset Boulevard transitioned from Ciro’s nightclub, a popular haunt for notorious mobsters such as Bugsy Malone and Mickey Cohen, to the comedy club we know today. Over the decades, the venue has become famous not only for its stand-up acts but also for the ghostly encounters that many claim to have experienced within its dimly lit corners.
Employees and patrons alike whisper about the eerie happenings at The Comedy Store. From growling in the basement to lights flickering on stage without a human hand in sight, the tales are as chilling as they are persistent. It’s even been said that comedian Sam Kinison experienced an otherworldly force when he reportedly levitated on stage, an act not part of his routine.
Ghost hunters and thrill-seekers equip themselves with a variety of tools to detect these ethereal residents. They employ gadgets like an electronic voice box that supposedly channels the whispers of spirits and a highly sensitive audio recorder known as an EVP to catch ghostly murmurs. Moreover, an electromagnetic meter is used to detect spikes in energy, which many believe signal the presence of a spectral being.
Despite the high-tech gear, concrete proof of ghosts remains as elusive as a shadow in the night. However, during one investigation, a journalist discovered an anomaly on her phone camera—a mysterious fleck of light that experts could not easily dismiss. This unexplained phenomenon adds yet another layer to The Comedy Store’s haunted history, ensuring the stories continue to live on, much like the spirits that are rumored to dwell there.
I was chilling to the bone when I heard an unmistakable growl emanating from the Comedy Store’s basement; it was as if the ghosts of its mobster past were refusing to rest in peace. During one of the stand-up acts, the stage lights flickered like a distress signal from the other side, even though no one was near the switch. It felt like the air itself was charged with whispers, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that unseen eyes were part of the audience, laughing in the shadows.