The Gorgeous Horrors Of Villa De Vecchi
Three years ago I penned a piece about the abandoned Villa De Vecchi for The Outsider magazine (sadly no more), as well as a no-frills version for Atlas Obscura. While the latter publication predictably — and perhaps necessarily — gave it the clickbait treatment, the decades-in-the-making backstory is too good not to share from a more personal, atmospheric POV.
That said —
This is a ghost story, an urban legend. Spliced with aspects of truth and verifiable fact, sure, but ultimately spun from over a century of rumors and embellishments. And you know what? I’m staunchly ok with that. Still, that doesn’t mean I won’t give the opposing — and likely accurate — side their say. It’s just that their say isn’t as riveting and well, it’s the riveting stuff that sticks around.
When I first wrote about Villa De Vecchi I depended entirely on local and online sources, as well as word-of-mouth retellings. Since its initial publication there have been a multitude of copycat spin-offs (complimentary plagiarism included), along with the usual know-it-all debunks. The experience has certainly reiterated how important stories are to us — especially for those living in close proximity to their origins — and where we each draw the line between fable and fraud.
Here is the piece in its entirety, lightly revised and updated, and stubbornly spooky.
Just east of Lake Como, nestled against the forested mountains of Cortenova, sits an inarguably haunted house. Villa De Vecchi, alternately nicknamed the Red House, Ghost Mansion, and Casa Delle Streghe (The House of Witches), was built between 1854–1857 as the summer residence of Count Felix De Vecchi. Within a few short years of its completion the house witnessed an inexplicable string of tragedies that would forever cement its Gothic legacy.
Count Felix De Vecchi was head of the Italian National Guard, and a decorated hero following Milan’s liberation from Austrian rule in 1848. A well-read and widely traveled man, the Count wished to build a dream retreat for himself and his family, and with the help of architect Alessandro Sidioli raised nothing short of a palace. Set within a 130,000-square-meter park, the great mansion boasted a blend of baroque and classical eastern styles, along with all the modern conveniences of the time including indoor heating pipes, dumbwaiters, and a large-scale pressurized fountain. The walls and ceilings were adorned with painstakingly detailed frescoes and friezes, and a larger-than-life fireplace presided over the main parlor where a grand piano stood at the ready. Extensive gardens and promenades rounded out the already picturesque surroundings, and an equally impressive staff house was built.
Alessandro Sidioli died a year before the villa was completed, and many would later view his death as the first ill omen. Nevertheless, the Count and his family made Villa De Vecchi their home during the spring and summer months, and by most accounts led an idyllic — if brief — existence. Hereafter is where the lore part comes in, so consider yourselves warned. Sometime in 1862 the Count returned home to find his wife brutally murdered (some sources claim her face was disfigured) and daughter missing. There’s no shortage of intriguing theories, from a home invasion to deliberate act of revenge against the Count, and even the (unlikely) possibility of his daughter being suspect. Regardless of the who and why, the Count would put out a lengthy search for his daughter before committing suicide that same year.*
The villa was then passed to Felix’s brother Biagio, whose later renovations oversaw the removal of much of the estate’s eastern aspects. Biagio and his family continued to live on the grounds until the Second World War, after which they vacated for good. The house then made the rounds of owners and prospective buyers, but by the 1960’s was left permanently uninhabited and, as of today, officially uninhabitable.
In the years following, the infamous Red House has seen its fair share of foot traffic, for better and, in my leaning opinion, for worse. While the natural elements began their assault early on, the majority of the house’s irreversible damage has been done by humans. The walls are covered in anti-Semitic, pornographic, and Satanic graffiti, and anything capable of being marred has been given its due modification. The grand piano, once said to be played at night by a ghostly entity, has sadly (and predictably, though I repeat myself) been smashed to pieces. A small comfort, some locals claim that music can still be heard coming from the house.
Bad boy occultist Aleister Crowley allegedly spent a few nights at the villa in the 1920’s, and reports of ritualistic orgies, sacrifices (animal and human), suicides, and murders abound. Having trekked to the villa several times since moving to Italy,* the rare individuals I’ve encountered were quiet, camera-toting, and disinclined to disturb anything; nonetheless, the blunt truth is that people have done their worst to Villa De Vecchi, and therein lies the real tragedy.
I wish people — someone — anyone — had embraced the opportunity to take the house’s fate into their own hands and turn it into something worth preserving and sharing. I know a place like that requires an astronomical amount of money and dedication, but it’s hard not to wonder what might have been had a more communal attitude been put into practice. Even a luxury hotel, for all the Henry James-esque pretense, would have been preferable. True, it’s a haughty relic of the 1%, and there’s enough politically charged graffiti to draw the cause-and-effect correlations. It’s also a surreal thing of beauty in a world that seems hell-bent on destroying any semblance of such. It breaks my heart a little — ok, a lot — that we’ll never know the true potential of that exotically imagined manse. Its ultimate fate has been that of a lavish wedding cake left to collapse in on itself in an isolated and indifferent terrain.
In certain instances, the house feels more enchanted than haunted. Do you remember Cocteau’s La belle et la bête, how the Beast’s castle was a living entity, watchful and shimmering just beyond Beauty’s waking vision? That’s Villa De Vecchi. Upon entering, one immediately senses eyes following them, neither welcoming nor malevolent. It’s as if the house is holding its breath, waiting to see where you step and what you’ll do next, and it’s hard to shake the feeling that as soon as you depart it will stir to life again. (A visiting friend commented on the pictured frieze above an entryway: “He looks like he got caught mid-yawn and now has to hold it until we leave.”)
As most urban explorers will gamely fess, we humans are fascinated by death and deterioration, the possibilities that lie within and beyond those truths. What’s more, who doesn’t love a good mystery? The tragic tale of the Count is only half the appeal; the other half resides in the blank space left behind, the unfinished sentence that is every abandoned site. And despite all efforts to bring about its demise, Villa De Vecchi persists. An avalanche in 2002 wiped out all of the nearby houses, while the villa remained untouched. It makes you wonder if the house really is under some kind of spell that is finally coming to an end.
When all is said and done, written about and debated, the villa is truly a magnificent piece of architecture and example of one man’s vision that surpassed McMansion standards. The Count’s palatial getaway was of an era we frequently romanticize but are seldom given the opportunity to step into, albeit in a more macabre fashion. Anyone who crosses the threshold of Villa De Vecchi would be hard-pressed not to admit, maybe even against their better judgement, that the place holds its own kind of otherworldly energy, maybe even a spirit or two. I’m doubtful of the latter, the way I doubt any of us actively linger in one dimension after hopefully moving on to the next. I’d like to think what’s left of the Count and his family is supernatural debris, without consciousness and uncondemned to the source of so much pain and suffering.
This piece first appeared in The Outsider and Atlas Obscura in 2017
*Due to the state of the house and not wanting to contribute any further to its demise, I bid my last adieu a few summers ago, with no plans to return.
*According to a handful of alternative accounts, in the early 1860s the Count fell ill with a chronic liver disorder, spending the last months of his life between Milan and Cortenova to “paint and care for his children.” These versions claim he died in Milan at the age of 46 from liver failure, leaving his estate to his children and brother Biagio.
— which I guess leaves the question: would you rather die a mere mortal or Gothic legend? Wherever the Count and his kin reside, I wish them the best of the beyond.
