Grandeur Gave Way to Fright Nights

Alfred Hitchcock would have felt right at home.

A decaying 23-room mansion in Pasadena’s distinguished Oak Knoll District once was home to a cattle baron. But before the place was demolished in 1968, its colorful history made it seem more suited to the Addams Family.

The mansion, on a 2 1/2-acre knoll at Woodland Road and El Molino Avenue, had several incarnations: as a palatial home, as the notorious “Purple Cow House,” and as a magnet for four-wheeled night owls drawn by its odd history.

For a generation of San Gabriel Valley adolescents, it was a weekend must-see. First a cruise down Colorado Boulevard, then a stop at Bob’s Big Boy drive-in, then a drive to nearby radio station KRLA to chat with deejays like Casey Kasem, and finally, on a dare, a frantic scamper through the macabre, abandoned Purple Cow House.

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The place was rumored to be haunted. The origin of dull purple stains near the front door was explained by a ghost tale of two feuding brothers who supposedly once lived there.

One of them pastured two cows on the grounds, and while he was away, his brother cut off the cows’ heads and stuck them on poles on both sides of the front door. According to the tale, the blood dripped mysteriously for years, accounting for the stains.

Modern teenage pranksters were known to hide inside, leaping out at friends and sending them panicking into the night. Neighbors usually called the cops to run the teenagers off.

Although the cow head story was a great conversation piece, the real story begins in 1914, when Arizona cattleman Henry S. Boice built the Italianate mansion he called “Fernbrook.”

But it was under a later owner that the house became known as the bane of the neighborhood.

Thomas W. Ames bought the house in 1953 for $30,000, and soon learned that the owner of the house behind his, Arlene Kraft, was renting out one of her 17 rooms in violation of zoning laws.

When officials failed to act on his complaints, he placed an ad in the local newspaper seeking a “small cannon and ammunition” to defend his property, he said.

Finally, he rented a pregnant cow named Bossy from a local dairy, tethered her to a tree in his yard and set out signs that read: “Protect your property from the rooming house menace.”

Kraft assured neighbors and officials that she was not renting out any of her rooms. Officials pored over lawbooks to find ways to cite Ames for violating health or zoning laws or animal cruelty statutes. A veterinarian found Bossy to be hale and fit.

The neighbors’ battle continued, in and out of court. Then, under cover of night, pranksters painted Bossy purple. She mooed until morning, when Ames returned her to the dairy.

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Even though the city eventually found that Kraft was in violation of zoning regulations for having a boarder, Ames kept up his crusade. His house was now a “white elephant,” he claimed. He said he couldn’t sell it, blamed the press, and said other covert renters were occupying the neighborhood. He swore he’d move out.

But before Ames could pack up and go, a pipe bomb exploded--harmlessly--in a cement urn on his terrace. After living there less than a year, Ames abandoned the house, unsold, and moved to Sierra Madre. Within a year, the city of Pasadena was after him for letting his vacant property become a fire hazard.

Over the next 13 years, irate neighbors and city officials declared war on the residential eyesore. In 1964, a law was enacted that declares any unkempt property an illegal nuisance.

In court, Ames argued, “I have a legal right to nonconformity.” He not only lost the court battle, he lost the house. When it was auctioned off, neighbors banded together to outbid Ames by $100.

In 1967 an arson fire gutted the house. The next year, the remains were razed. Eventually the acreage was subdivided into four lots. An ultramodern mansion sits on two of them; the other two have remained vacant.

The teenagers still come--this time to the empty lots--and the neighbors still call the cops.