Of ghosts, history & pendulums – one night in the “most haunted room” at Murphys Historic Hotel
A meandering afternoon drive lands us at our destination as the sun begins to drop. Sharp, clear sunlight plays freely with lengthening shadows, leaving the historic town of Murphys looking more like a movie set than a real place. The storefronts are just so, promising handmade candies, champagne cocktails, lavender products paired with wine and goat cheese, and homegrown wine. The restaurants seat last customers on patios flickering with candles. The few people walking Main Street look like they could have been dropped there by central casting, from an elderly couple holding hands and gazing dreamily into the distance to a young, bleached blonde with pouty lips, dressed in flashy cowgirl garb and staging intricate selfies.
My friend and I take our time getting here. We are weighted down with the evidence of our journey. A plastic shopping bag bulges with valley-ripened nectarines, apricots, and cherries from a fruit stand outside of Hollister. Bottles of plum and pomegranate wine from Case de Fruta clink and clank as they roll haplessly among the detritus of hastily packed bags. The car smells faintly of ripe cheese, thanks to our recent acquisition of cheese curds and a round of gouda from Oakdale Cheese & Specialties. We are ready.
As promised in an earlier post, I planned an unusual adventure for my friend’s birthday—a ghost hunt at Murphy’s Historic Hotel. This storied hotel is just one of the many locations in Murphys purported to host more spirits than live guests. I thought it would be fun to stay here.
The hotel opened in the summer of 1856, just a few years into California’s gold frenzy. Positioned strategically along the busy stagecoach route from Milton to Calaveras Big Trees, the hotel became a hub for miners, travelers, and adventurers drawn to riches and redwoods.
We later learn that the hotel offered more than just rooms during prohibition, operating briefly as a speakeasy and brothel in the Roaring Twenties. But that was decades after the hotel was tended by Eleanor, an 1860s chambermaid who fell for a miner promising to return. He never did. According to legend, Eleanor remained loyal to the hotel for decades, only to perish in a tragic kitchen fire in the late 19th century. It is said that Eleanor’s spirit lives on.
In an earlier trip to Murphys, I was drawn to the hotel. It is a portal to the past, with period architecture left untouched by time. The heart of the establishment, an old saloon, is plucked from a bygone era. Aged stone walls, iron shutters, and memorabilia hint at hopes and dreams that bloomed and died here. Patrons still sidle up to a long plank bar, polished to a gleam by the thousands of travelers who have pulled up a stool and ordered a shot of whiskey or a pint of ale to stoke their courage or nurse their wounds. The intricately carved, mirrored back cabinet behind the bar has seen it all. Fluted columns, elegant corbels, and etched glass cradle glistening bottles of spirits, still waiting to be poured.
Checking in at a simple counter edged by an antique piano and a drawing room festooned with red, white and blue bunting in anticipation of Fourth of July, I imagine the affluent and notable guests who went through this same ritual, signing their name and accepting a key. Mark Twain, J.P. Morgan, Ulysses S. Grant, Thomas Lipton, John Jacob Astor, and Susan B. Anthony all lay their heads here, just as we will. I wonder how many of them stayed in Eleanor’s room, as we did. I wonder how many of them left with a new curiosity about the afterlife or a renewed belief that there is something beyond this mortal coil.
We make our way up two flights of darkly carpeted, dimly lit stairs to Room 9, the Thomas Lipton Room, the room a clerk promised had “the most paranormal activity.” The room is smaller than imagined, adorned with simple, period antiques including a carefully-made Victorian bed, a delicately carved wardrobe, and an unusual toilet that soon takes center stage in our birthday ghost story.
Called “pull chain toilets” or simply “pull chains,” Victorian toilets have the water tank mounted high on the wall, connected by a long pipe to the bowl. You flush the toilet by pulling a metal chain that dangles from above, in this case, a gold metal chain with a heavy porcelain handle. A pendulum.
Pull-chain toilet in Room 9, the “most haunted room” at the Murphys Historic Hotel
When I planned this trip, it seemed like a lark, a fun way to peek into the history of an interesting Gold Rush town. I’ve stayed in “haunted” places before, taken “ghost tours,” and explored “ghost towns.” Little came of it beyond fun memories and newfound stories of a different time. So, when I booked this hotel and started this story, I wasn’t really expecting to have a paranormal experience. But maybe we did?
It all starts as we get ready for bed. We’d had a simple meal at Firewood and a pint of cider at Murphy’s Irish Pub before returning to Room 9. It seems to my friend and I that any ghost hunt we had planned is a bust. The vibe we get from this hotel and this room is completely peaceful.
As we tuck in, we notice the pull chain on the toilet is swaying, which doesn’t seem odd. We’d been using the sink just a few feet away to brush our teeth. We’d almost certainly jostled the chain. As more of a joke than anything, I suggest to this “ghost” that I believe is nothing more than a charming story, “If you are here and you want to communicate with us, use the chain.” She does.
Throughout the evening and again in the morning, the pull chain stops and starts and rotates in a circular motion, from clockwise to counterclockwise, seemingly in response to our questions and commands. “If you are really here, move clockwise.” It does. “If you are really here, change directions.” It does. And so on. Consistently and repeatedly, again and again.
My understanding of pendulums comes from high school science and college physics. I remain open to the possibility that everything we experienced was based on natural and environmental factors and not paranormal activity. Even small drafts can create enough airflow to gently move a pendulum. Old buildings, especially ones with wood floors, can subtly shift from footsteps, nearby traffic, or machinery like plumbing systems transmitting micro-vibrations.
If a pendulum is slightly unbalanced, or if its support point isn’t fully rigid, even gravity pulling on it at rest can initiate a tiny swing. Nearby electronics or wiring can create electromagnetic interference that causes movement. Changes in temperature can cause parts of a structure to expand or contract, subtly nudging suspended objects.
Anyone who grew up taking field trips to the California Academy of Sciences knows that pendulums can appear to move even when they are motionless. I was endlessly fascinated with the replica of the famous Foucault’s Pendulum. The exhibit demonstrates how large pendulums appear to move on their own due to Earth’s rotation.
I understand that all of these things, alone and in combination, could have moved the pendulum in Eleanor’s room or made it appear that it was moving. But that would mean the pendulum’s changing direction on command, repeatedly and on different days, at different times, was just random or lucky, one hapless coincidence after another. That is absolutely possible. More probable than accepting that we experienced a ghost? For some, no question. For me? I am unsure. This I know—we either won the lottery of seemingly synchronized pendulum activity or met Eleanor.
A finger on the scale of the explanation that we experienced paranormal activity and not just happenstance is that we are not the only ones. The whole reason we were drawn to the hotel is its long history of ghost sightings, by many people, over many years. Guests have heard Eleanor’s sobbing, seen locks sway and doors clatter, watched cutlery move around the room—the list goes on and on.
When we check out the next morning, I tell the clerk what we’ve seen. The hotel’s decorator is adding to the drawing room’s Fourth of July décor as I tell our story. She overhears the clerk confirm blandly, “That’s Eleanor. She’s harmless. She just wanted to get your attention.” I ask if Eleanor has ever tried to get her attention. “Oh yeah, all the time, when I clean up there, she taps my shoulder or tugs my hair until I acknowledge her. She’s not dangerous, just lonely and curious, maybe a bit sad.”
The decorator asks if we want to see Eleanor. We do. The decorator guides us to a room off the main restaurant where a portrait of Eleanor adorns an elegant dining room bathed in light.
Portrait of Eleanor, the chambermaid who is said to haunt the Murphys Historic Hotel
I ask this neatly dressed, understated woman, who has decorated the hotel for over 20 years, if she’s had any experiences herself. “Oh yes, anytime I’m decorating upstairs for Christmas, Eleanor gets my attention.” As the decorator sees it, humans are like radios. When we “tune in” to spiritual energy it’s there. “You ‘tuned in’ when you suggested she could communicate with you. She likes to be noticed. She likes to be ‘seen.’”
Did we see Eleanor? I cannot be sure. And perhaps it does not matter. In the words of Mark Twain, one of the hotel’s most interesting guests, “Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please.” I offer you the facts. Believe them or not and, by all means, distort them as you please.
To plan a visit to Happy Lake Chalet, perhaps using it as place to recover after a night at the Murphys Historic Hotel, get in touch.