The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red

ellen rimbauer

the diary of

ellen rimbauer

My Life at Rose Red

new york

edited by

joyce reardon, ph.d.

the diary of

Photographs on pp. vii, 30, 34, 45, and 253 copyright © 2001 Jimmy Malecki / ABC

Photograph on p. 65 copyright © 2001 MSCUA, University of Washington Libraries,

Barnes 171-L

All sketches copyright © 2001 Hyperion

Copyright © 2001 Hyperion

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner

whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. Printed in the United States

of America. For information address Hyperion, 77 W. 66th Street, New York, New York

10023-6298.

ISBN: 1-4013-9674-7

Designed by Casey Hampton

The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer is a rare document, a record

of the mysterious events at Rose Red that scandalized

Seattle society at the time—events that can only be fully

understood now that the diary has come to light.

Visit www.beaumontuniversity.net to read more about it.

Joyce Reardon

Department of Paranormal Phenomena

Beaumont University

Seattle, WA

Dear Reader:

In the summer of 1998, at an estate sale in Everett, Washington, I purchased

a locked diary covered in dust, writings I believed to be those of

Ellen Rimbauer. Beaumont University’s Public Archive Department

examined the paper, the ink and the binding and determined the diary to

be authentic. It was then photocopied at my request.

Ellen Rimbauer’s diary became the subject of my master’s thesis and

has haunted me ever since. (Excuse the pun!) John and Ellen Rimbauer

were among the elite of Seattle’s turn-of-the-century high society. They

built an enormous private residence at the top of Spring Street that

became known as Rose Red, a structure that has been the source of much

controversy. In a forty-one-year period at least twenty-six individuals

either lost their lives or disappeared within its walls.

Ellen Rimbauer’s diary, excerpts of which I offer here, set me on a

personal course of discovery that has led to the launching of an expedition.

Shortly I will lead a team of experts in psychic phenomena through

the doors of Rose Red, the Rimbauer Estate, in an effort to awaken this

sleeping giant of psychic power and to solve some of the mysteries my

mentor, Max Burnstheim, was unable to solve before he went missing

in Rose Red in 1970. (I never met Dr. Burnstheim, but I consider his

writings the most progressive in the ?eld of psychic phenomena.)

Many thanks to my publishers, Beaumont University Press. I hope the

publication will widen the public’s perception and acceptance of psychic

phenomena, and ?rmly anchor a fascinating historical period in the

growth and expansion of the Paci?c Northwest. I have taken great pains to

edit this document to a readable size, deleting the repetitive sections and

omitting those I found offensive. For the extremely curious, or the

voyeuristically minded among you, a portion of those edits can be found

archived on the World Wide Web at www.beaumontuniversity.net.

Photos of the house can be viewed on the Web site as well.

Good reading. In the name of science I will pursue the truth of Rose

Red, wherever it may lead me.

Sincerely,

Joyce Reardon, P.P.A., M.D., Ph.D.

The following are excerpts taken from Ellen

Rimbauer’s diary, dated 1907–1928. Any and all editing

has been done at my discretion. Some effort has

been made to protect the integrity of Mrs. Rimbauer

and her descendants, though never at the cost of

content. What follows are the words of Ellen

Rimbauer, in her own hand, with as few editorial

comments as possible.

—Joyce Reardon, November 2000

ellen rimbauer

the diary of

17 april 1907—seattle

Dear Diary:

I ?nd it a somewhat daunting task to endeavor to place my

thoughts here inside your trusted pages, I scarcely know if I am

up to the task, but as my head is ?lled with lurid thoughts, and my

heart with romance and possibility, I ?nd I must con?de in

someone, and so it is to your pages I now turn. I have lived these

nineteen years in full premonition of that time when a man

would come into my heart, into my life, and thrill me with love,

passion and romance. That time has now come. I swoon just

thinking of John Rimbauer, and some of my thoughts are not at

all becoming of the lady I am expected to be.

My physical desire does at times possess me. Am I in?uenced

by my reading of popular novels, as my mother is wont to say, or

am I sinful, as my father has implied (no, not with words, but by

branding me with his raised eyebrows and scolding brow)?

I must admit here too to the simultaneous impression that

danger lurks within an arm’s reach. Death. Dread. Destruction.

Born of guilt, I wonder, for the unladylike fantasies to which I

succumb when alone in the dark? (Or is the source of these

images something, some force entirely exterior of myself, as I am

prone to believe?) Does another world exist? For it seems to me

it must: a force apart from human experience. A power, all of its

own, and not one familiar with the God to whom I pray.

Something darker, external, other-worldly. Something altogether

unknown. It lurks in the shadows. I feel its presence.

I would be lying here if I did not admit to a certain thrill this

looming sense of the future, of the unknown, affords me, both

the unknown of what John Rimbauer’s touch might bring to my

life, as well as this sense of a larger, darker force at play.

John Rimbauer is a partner in a large oil company, Omicron

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Oil, along with a Mr. Douglas Posey, an affable, quiet gentleman

whose company I’ve had the good fortune to keep, along with that

of his wife, Phillis. Oil, I’m told, holds great promise as a fuel for

lighting homes, and perhaps someday even heating them. John

says that oil water heaters for the home are all the rage in the East.

Kerosene is being used in motorcars. I hope someday to perhaps

take the train with John back to Detroit, where he does business

with the Rockefellers. Oh, but my head spins with such fancy:

dinner with John D., himself! A banker’s daughter from Seattle,

Washington! And yet . . . I sense the world is about to unfold at

my ?ngertips. John is the key to that world. I feel certain we are

to be engaged within the month. Dare I say that with such honesty?

Only here in your pages, Dear Diary!

John has ordered the construction of a grand house. Grander

than any house in all the state, perhaps in all the land. He tells

me of it often, as if it is to play a signi?cant role in my life as well,

which I now feel (nearly) certain it will. (I am blushing as I write

this!) He has offered me a motorcar ride to the construction site,

and I have accepted. Within the week we shall ride together to

what may prove to be the site of our future happiness together.

(One hopes for happiness. This dread I feel—will it too play a

role? I can only hope and pray that this sense of impending

doom will be overcome by the light and love my future husband

and I shall share.)

2

11 may 1907—seattle

With trembling hand, I ?nd myself reluctant to record in your

pages the horrible events of this day. Several weeks have passed

since my last entry, weeks given to one delay after another

brought on by John’s business affairs (or so I’m told), my own

in?rmity (a woman’s monthly “ritual of roses” as my mother

refers to it) and John’s apparent inability to arrange a convenient

time for the two of us to visit the construction site. At last that

time was set, for to-day, this very day, and I awaited John’s arrival

on the front steps of my family home with what can only be

described as a beating breast. Such anticipation!

Much to my disappointment (and to my mother’s, too, all

things confessed) an offer of betrothal has not been received.

Certainly not by me, nor has John approached my father (my

mother has informed me in the strictest of con?dences) with any

discussion of dowry. My, but the weeks have crawled by slowly.

Twice, I’ve been told by trusted friends that John’s motorcar, or

one just like it, was spotted late, late at night on the high road

between the city’s loading wharfs and the Hill where John currently

makes his residence. I am con?dent that these excursions

can be easily explained by the importing of barrels of oil to those

wharfs—as this happens at all hours, night and day. But of course

a tiny part of the woman in me fears another truth altogether, as

that part of town is known for its debaucheries. Who is this man I

hope to marry? I scarcely know!

My fears have found their way into my prayers, and I ?nd

myself in sin, making silent requests to the powers that surround

us to punish John Rimbauer if any transgressions be

known. Just last week, as I made such a “dark prayer” at the side

of my bed, an enormous wind—quite like nothing I’ve ever

seen—took wing and delivered not only a branch but an entire

tree to my window, shattering glass and throwing debris as it was

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ripped from its roots. Oddly, no other tree in our yard was

affected, nor did any neighbor report any such wind. I attribute

that reckoning to the very substantial power of prayer, though

my mother calls such reasoning foolish, despite her being a

woman of Christ. Dear Diary, let me tell you this: if that tree

had anything whatsoever to do with my prayer, it had nothing to

do with Christ. On that evening, neither Christ, nor God, were

in my prayers. Oh faint of heart, dare not read on. For it was to

Him I prayed. The other Him. The other side. For if transgressions

have been made, then John Rimbauer has already switched

his allegiance, whether aware of it or not. It is to His Power that

I pray.

I have taken a moment to lock the door. (I am staying these

nights in my sister’s room while repairs continue to my own.)

Increasingly, I feel as if someone is reading over my shoulder as I

write. John? My mother? I know not. But it is a disturbing

notion, and one that requires of me certain precautions to

which I have now dedicated myself. I not only lock the binding of

this diary, but I secure it safely in a locked drawer as well, the

small keys kept around my neck, and hidden down my dress, on

a silver necklace once worn by my great-grandmother Gilchrist.

Certain small oddities, events unexplained, continue to perplex

me and drive me to these precautions. ( Just yesterday my hairbrush

switched sides of the sink, all of its own, as I ran water on

my face. I swear it’s true! I lifted my head to ?nd the brush available

to the left hand, when only moments before it had been

held in my right!) Some furniture has been found out of place.

One of my dresser drawers stuck yesterday (the one bearing love

letters from John) and would not come open, even under the

efforts of Pilchert, our butler. To-day, I’m told Pilchert will

remove the back of the dresser in an effort to reach the drawer’s

contents. If taken individually, not one of these small events

4

would matter to me. But collectively? Are they to be ignored? I

?nd myself both terri?ed and thrilled—so perhaps I am to

blame, not only for my sinful prayers to the other Power but for

my innate curiosity and fascination with the other-worldly quality

of these apparently disconnected events. The Devil’s due, do

you suppose?

But wait! To the events of this day!

John Rimbauer picked me up this morning at 10 A.M. in an

automobile made by Olds. It is one of only a few such vehicles in

all the city. The buggy was quite loud, and the experience altogether

exhilarating, though bumpy and somewhat terrifying at

times. John drove—I believe quite well, though who am I to

know? West on Spring Street to the site of the construction that

preoccupies him. The trip consumed some ?fteen minutes—the

house is to be built atop a hill that overlooks the city. Twice I was

nearly thrown out the side (or so I imagined! John assured me I

was safe all along.).

John Rimbauer, ruggedly handsome, is a pragmatic man

(which possibly accounts for his success in the oil business),

extremely sure of himself and even given to moments of conceit.

He remains calm in the face of adversity, whether a fourhorse

team blocking the road or a storm on the high seas. (John

is extremely well traveled, having visited Asia, the Americas and

Europe.) I ?nd his strength both comforting and disarming, in

that John is often an unpredictable mixture of tolerance and

intolerance. I have never been on the receiving end of his ill

temper, but woe to those who are. Of course I don’t wish to be,

nor will I tolerate such ferocity directed at me or our children.

( Just the thought of children ?oods me with a keen, passionate