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An empty
domicile which holds many
secrets. That might be a fair description of the place
called Rispin Mansion on Wharf Road in Capitola. You will
find a story here, and a rumour there. And many legends in
between. But nothing definitive of the life and times of
Henry A. Rispin, or even the architect that apparently
designed this icon of grandeur, the fortress that was called
home sweet home through 1930 to its wealthy owner. Not many
records of anything seem to exist. The aviary for doves long
gone and missing its roof - did it even exist? Are there
plans somewhere of the layout for this cavernous dwelling of
concrete, wood, and tile?
It does seem whomever becomes
associated with, or is the owner of said house, is destined
to become penniless. As drawn from the short history of the
two whom became just that. Not to count the Order of Poor
Clares, as they take a vow of poverty in their service. Any
curse associated with money may be considered null and void
in that particular case. Though they seemed to last in the
house for the longest period of inhabitance.
I myself have heard stories that
the nuns had an altar against the door to the basement.
Relative to the bad energy that dwells there perhaps? Or
simply respective decoration within the walls that defined
their sacred space and way of life. And as far as being
vacant since the orders departure in 1952? Let us not
discount Rispin's rent free tenants; the ghosts. Not the
hippies and goats of the 60's. If you have a penchant to
believe in that realm of ethereal existence. I say that if
you see them and you feel them, then they surely are real.
That is, without the aid of liquid spirits that have been
consumed within the empty façade, as noted by remnant
cans, bottles, and boxes.
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My personal favourite, The Lady in Black, she, the keeper
of keys, and grantor of access, has allowed a certain degree
of image capture of interior spaces. Nearly gutted by years
of neglect and vandalism by those whom do not revere a place
that once was a gem of architectural design. One can still
see the tracery in resplendent craftsmanship. Who worked on
this house? Is anyone left that knows the purpose of the
secret rooms? Are there photos of the interior when it was
decked out in its heyday? The twenties were a time of lavish
indulgences for many. Was Henry involved in that sphere, or
a mysterious introvert with dreams and designs for a village
all his own?
One might feel the stilling chill in the basement and the
scent of energy surging with one intention; to stay away, or
get out! In a space so tightly secured, where exactly does
such a rush of wind come from? If not from a source, then
from an entity? The type of feeling that goes through you,
not around. Which leaves a scent on you and not in the air.
What happened and what was left behind to create such an
effect? Those sensitive to various degrees of inexplicable
activity would agree, something is there. To others, it's
merely a fable drawn from lore passed down from no one
notable. It is easy to scare oneself within the atmosphere
of an old empty estate.
Though the gardens do not seem to hold what the house
does, transparent figure-wise. Just faded limestone,
concrete, and metal. Bricks strewn about, broken shards to
one's prior symbols of affluence. A fountain and reflection
pool with nothing but dust filling its void. What did this
garden once hold? Who walked through it and cared for it?
Did Henry have anyone to share it all with? Who could have
that been? And who took the sundial from its perch?!
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The old pump house stands as a sentinel astride the drive
which descends to the porte cochere, beneath the main
entrance to the house. It's interior and roof is folding in
on itself from the ravages of time. Surely they will not be
able to renovate that. But it was once part of the grand
design of this estate. Part of the modern utilities
available in that era.
Where are all the fixtures? The doors, casings, the
railings which once guarded the gallery that looked over the
Grand Hall with its massive window bay. Are these remnants
gracing estates of others? And do they have bad luck for
taking them? Who stood in that window and what did they
think as they viewed the drop down to the creek bed below?
Where were the furnishings in the house dispersed to?
Now, this place from the past may become an inn for the
present. Does the house want to be used in that manner? Or
continue its modest existence as a vivarium for the
butterflies, wildlife, and the ivy that has embraced it as
their own.
Multitudinous questions to be asked, without any answers
to be given. This place holds many a daydream in the heart
of locals, and to those who happen by chance to become a
visitor of the place called Rispin Mansion.
- Scott Viertel
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