Meet our Cast

In 1846, I traveled through the Great Plains to California with the Donner party. However, when our party became snowbound at the base of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the situation became dire, and I was left with no choice but to resort to cannibalism in order to survive. Years later, in 1852, once I had already made my way to San Diego (having developed a taste for more “exotic” flavors along the way), I decided to have an old friend for dinner. I thought he might pair nicely with some farmer beans and a nice chianti. So, I made my way to one of the local shops, La Tienda General, to look for the necessary ingredients. It was there that I met the co-owner Thomas Whaley, who would go on to allow me the great pleasure of hosting and cooking several lovely dinners for him and his family.

I worked alongside Yankee Jim and helped him out using my expertise in the realm of archery. He offered me a “job,” alongside him mentioning plans to steal some boat. I knew that the law was onto him so, for the right price, I told them Yankee’s plans and sold him down the river. They agreed to my reward and on September 18, 1852, they threw him an old-fashioned necktie party. I watched from afar as they botched his execution. Quick as a flash, I rode away with my money to the nearby town of Julian, California.

Four years ago, my watcher assigned me to this house. My slayer instinct knew something was not quite right. Once I arrived, I was met with the ghost of Thomas Whaley pleading for my help. He explained to me that when the criminal James Robinson, known as Yankee Jim, was hanged in 1852 on the grounds where eventually the Whaley House would stand, you see … he didn’t quite die. Yankee Jim was actually a vampire overlord controlling the bloodthirsty empire of the undead. And now, I spend my time here tracking Yankee Jim, and I cannot leave until he has been slain.

It was a cool day in January of 1852 as I was promenading about the Old Town plaza when I saw a lovely señorita cross my path. I gave her a toothy grin and my smoothest line, and she answered back with a snap of her fingers, alerting her burly 6’7” husband with a gun strapped to his side. I ran like a flash to the outskirts of town, with Hubby quick on my tail, and crashed straight through a crowd of folks. Little did I know it was a “goodbye party” for some fellow named Antonio Garra. Bang! Sounded like several shots rang out, and I fell flat to the ground at the foot of Garra’s grave. Suddenly, the merchant Tom Whaley picked me up, and I felt a burn on my backside like a huge bee just bit me. “You are quite lucky, sir! I think my bullet missed your head but got you right in the rear.” And from that day on, I was known as Bullitt.

My family was in great debt. The fire back at the St. Augustine homestead prompted us to head out west. California was the paradise to escape to—but little did I know what that really meant. Dusty but driven, we pulled our wagon into the town of San Diego. As I walked past a tall brick house, an old fortune-teller jumped out, grabbed my hands and began reading my palms. “You can never leave!” Just then, a man named Tanner came to my rescue and shooed the fortune-teller away. “My stars! You have a shine that could capture a room. Why, I may have just the job for you!” He ran a theater upstairs in the brick building. Before I knew it, I was performing for crowds every night … but it seemed never-ending. And then I realized—the old fortune-teller was right! I could never leave! The theater was cursed, and I have been performing for audiences nonstop for more than 150 years.

I lived in 6 different cities by the age of 6. My family finally settled in San Diego and I met my dancing wife during college at UCSD. My motto for life is to smile, take risks, and enjoy the ride!

I, Jack McClintock, was born in Ireland, 1837. At 15, my family immigrated to America to escape The Famine. Growing up in gambling halls, I learned various trades of the games and became a card dealer. Because of my polite nature, a rare form in the Wild West, the name Gentleman Jack stuck. I made my way to the town of San Diego and became friends with George Whaley. There wasn’t a saloon that was a stranger to us! On August 17, 1885, George and Gentleman (as we were called) were in the Tivoli Saloon. While dealing cards, I accused a player of cheating and was subsequently shot. I staggered out of the saloon and into the brothel next door. As I lay dying on the floor, I turned to Mag Mucklish, the brothel’s madam and said, “May I please have a whiskey?” They say I, Jack McClintock, was a gentleman until the end.

I was born and raised in San Diego. My parents had come from farming stock but ventured out west for the Gold Rush. My sister and I grew up visiting the Whaleys. One cold November day, there was a flurry of advertising and construction! Our father told us a theater troupe was in San Diego! They would be performing in the Whaley House, and our family had tickets! Watching the Tanner Troupe perform ignited in me a lifelong love of theater. For more than a decade, I have studied performing, rehearsing pieces of classic and modern repertoire, learning what I could from the travelers that pass through our growing city.

The year 2312. My mission was to return 40 years in the past, 2272, to eliminate the future resistance leader. As a carbonetic bipod, I was programmed and assimilated to think, talk, and appear as the flesh beings. Upon time transport, the circuits were tampered with, and I was incorrectly sent 400 years into the past to the year 1912 to Oceanside, California. There, a young humanoid of two Earth rotations discovered me. She was eating a form of paste from a jar, thinking it was a substance called honey. She gave the bottle to me and ran away crying. Humanoids are strange. But I learned the skills of the child and I ate from the jar, tasting nothing of course. That is when more strangers discovered me—unclothed and eating honey from a jar. They laughed, chained me to a sideshow cart and brought me to the town of San Diego, where I sat in front of paying onlookers dubbed as “Hunny—the Man Bear of Oceanside.”

Hello, my name is Jeff, and I am a paranormal investigator at the Whaley House Museum. My family history has a past going back to the Salem witch trials. Ultimately, the reasons I enjoy paranormal investigating are personal and varied, but they often stem from a combination of curiosity, fascination with the unknown, and a desire to explore the boundaries of what we understand about the world and the supernatural. The Whaley House is renowned for its paranormal activity, with numerous reports of ghostly sightings, unexplained sounds, and eerie occurrences that I would love to share with those who are interested in the supernatural. Investigating a location with a haunted reputation such as this one can be thrilling and a once-in-a-lifetime event.

I’m originally from Carson, CA, but I moved to San Diego to attend SDSU then crossed over into the Whaley vortex and I’ve been here for more than 20 years!

Kenneth Orioles, or K.O. as I am known to most, was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. I worked with my father at his shop as a young lad, but I had dreams of my own. After turning 18, I decided to head west, hoping the vast frontier expanse would kick-start my creativity. But, just as dark and tortured as Edgar Allen Poe’s writings, this aspiring author found little success. I finally settled down in San Diego and found employment at Mr. Whaley’s general store. But just as I thought my creative ink had faded, this old brick house gave me a new horrific sense of inspiration!

My name is Lovely Leslie of the House of Lovely Leslie. Some say I run a house of ill repute here in Old Town San Diego, but I assure you there is nothing ill about it. Not only are my entertainers of the highest caliber, but I also serve only the finest champagne and offer the best-quality meals for miles around and a space of luxury and refinement for those who have the right amount of gold. Give in to your tawdry nature, and follow your curiosity down around the corner from the brick Whaley House. Or, you can often find me on the Whaleys’ front porch, always willing to talk some … business. Please do stop by as I’m always striving to achieve my goals!

In 1846, at the height of the Great Famine in Ireland, the Mexican government offered a lifeline to Irish farmers. In addition to sending food aid to Ireland, farmers were offered transport to California, provided they would agree to support the side of Mexico in the looming Mexican-American War. I, Hannah Cleary, was 12 years old when my family left our native Ireland and traveled across the sea to enter the port of Galveston, Texas. My father, James, became a part of San Patricio’s Brigade and fought bravely on the side of Mexico. As a reward, James was awarded a land grant in central California, where a small community of Irish expats was forging a new life in a new land. Eight years later, I met and married Brian Sullivan, a well-educated but poor man, and left my family to move to San Diego where Brian was establishing himself as an attorney. It was there that I met Anna Whaley, who would become a lifelong friend.

Since I was very young, the presence of paranormal activity always fascinated me. I began doing investigations when I was 16 years old with nothing more than a camera and a flashlight. Over time, I gained many different experiences and eventually found my way into the Whaley House. I approach every situation with a healthy skepticism, making sure not to jump to conclusions by gathering all evidence and ruling out reasonable possibilities. Yet, night after night, I am drawn into the Whaley House’s consistency for things happening that just cannot be explained. With 20 years of ghost-hunting experience behind me, the Whaley House is my favorite place to search for spirits — now more than ever!

In 1868, I was stopping by San Diego for the opening of the first commercial theater. A friend of mine was traveling with the Tanner Troupe and sent me an invitation to the Whaley House! The show was fine enough, the theater a bit crowded, but I particularly enjoyed meeting the gracious Anna Whaley who said I was welcome back anytime. During the slow season of my own traveling show, I stopped by and took her up on her offer. As the Tanner Troupe had moved on, I created my own act for the Whaley’s theater.

After receiving two years of shock therapy treatment, I knew that perhaps a change of scenery may do wonders for my “ailments.” Eventually, I escaped the asylum, making my way west, like everyone else searching for a new beginning. Here is where I met the Whaley family, who took me in. I performed household tasks and cared for the animals in exchange for a place to stay. Although I am still afflicted with these so-called ailments, the Whaleys have yet to mind, and the voices in my head say I’m just fine.

As a paranormal investigator, I did not choose this field — it chose me! From abandoned warehouses to dark cemeteries or even my own home, ghost hunting has become a passion. With that in mind, the mystery of the unknown, urban legends, and any unexplained phenomena, has always consumed my imagination! But today, it’s a great pleasure to have turned a hobby into a reality with an opportunity as a Whaley House Paranormal Investigator! My love for the paranormal started at a very young age when I encountered my first spirit around 6 years old, and from then on, I was hooked! The rush of what could be lurking, the unity of others, (and most importantly) the fun associated with ghost hunting keeps me energetic! However, the Whaley House is special! Unlike the hundreds of spots I have investigated throughout my years, I feel a connection with everyone inside the house, something I’ve never felt. The Whaley House is truly unique and its story has only begun!

I was born in a small town just north of Boston, shortly before the outbreak of the War of 1861. In my early adult years, I became enamored with the game of “base.” Growing up with rounders, I took to the new game and decided this was my way to see the world. I assembled a talented barn-storming team called the Shepherds, yet many small towns shunned us. One day, while playing against a team in Wahoo, Nebraska, tragedy struck. I hit a line drive right into the third baseman’s chest. The man dropped to the ground and was later pronounced dead. Realizing the legal ramifications, I left for the West Coast and landed in San Diego, where I took the name “Shep” from the old team. This is also where I struck up a friendship with Frank Whaley, frequenting the saloons and questionable establishments all around San Diego.