A mysterious mansion hidden in the hills of Los Angeles remains frozen in time since December 6, 1959.
Never let the facts get in the way of a good story. Every writer knows that. It’s not that we’re trying to deceive. But there are requirements endemic to any story, a formula that each story must adhere to, pattern to which it must conform, and sometimes the sloppiness with which real life doles out its occurrences just won’t fit into those parameters. A little creative shoehorning is required. A little trimming or padding. A fresh coat of paint.
I don’t know if this story chronicled here is literally true. Not ALL of it, I mean. There are things that make me question that assertion. Knowing the value of real estate in Los Angeles, would a piece of property really be allowed to sit abandoned for half a century? Maybe. But would unopened Christmas presents really be left sitting underneath a dead, withered tree after fifty-plus years, safe from vandals? The Perelson estate seems to be good for tourism, so it’s certainly possible those presents are replaced regularly for the benefit of those brave enough to peek through the windows for a look (much to the consternation of the neighbors). Or it all might be true after all. Does it really matter? Isn’t the story what’s really important?