The bogeyman of Westfield, a ghost story that won't end (2024)

If the hell John List so strongly believed in exists, surely he is there today.

If there is truth in the Bible that John List quoted - "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord" - then his eternal sentence has just begun.

John List died on Good Friday, which, for a religious man, speaks unthinkable irony.
But death will not free him from notoriety, because John List was not just a criminal. He was a lurking, dark creep of a ghost story.

John List, a killer of his own children, is the bogeyman of Westfield. He was when he disappeared and when he was captured, even after he was locked away and even after the murder-scene house mysteriously burned down. And now that he is dead.

And he will be for generations to come.

The house where John List murdered his mother, wife and three children in 1971 was a 19-room mansion called "Breeze Knoll," built in the post-Victorian era when grand houses got their own names. It was on Hillside Avenue near Lawrence, in one of the most exclusive areas of Westfield.

The centerpiece of the house was a ballroom with a Tiffany glass ceiling. This is where police found the bodies of List's wife and three children, zipped up neatly in Boy Scout sleeping bags. His 85-year-old mother was found crumpled in a third-floor attic closet, with a dishrag around her mouth.

It is a story that still hovers over the neighborhood, although the years have lessened the shock and sadness and dulled the tragedy. It is the town ghost story.

The fire that destroyed the house a few years after the murders added to the legend, because some say a witches' cult or devil worshipers from South Jersey set it ablaze. Or maybe it was just a bunch of local teenagers.

"I've always heard about it," said Kevin Kessler, 14, who lives across from a new house on the property. The new house, though, is still called "the List house" in town. "Kids talk about the crazy guy who killed his family then disappeared, and then the house burned down. I know kids who say they would never live on this street because of it."

One of those kids was Zoe Zachariades, who was a Westfield middle-schooler six years ago when her parents told her they were moving into the 1912 craftsman-style house across the street from "the List house."

"She had a meltdown," said her mother, Mandy. "She absolutely refused to go. But she didn't have a choice."

In time, Zoe became friends with a girl who lived in the new List house and spent a good amount of time there.

Adam Lorentzen, 19, moved next to the new List house in 1997.

"I told my parents I was afraid to move in," he said. "I told my friends we were moving into the List neighborhood and a lot of them freaked out a little."

Lorentzen also became friends with the kids in the new List house, and hung out in their pool.

"It was kind of cool telling people, 'This is where that guy John List lived.' Everybody knows the story."

The List neighborhood is much like it was in the days of John List, a quiet and starched-upright accountant who only brought attention to himself because he cut his lawn in a shirt and tie.

A few of the houses are new, or rebuilt brick Georgian Colonials, like the house on the List property. Some are turn-of-the-century mansions, like the old List house, and the Victorian mansion where the late artist Harry Devlin and his author/wife, Wende, lived a few doors down. There are Tudors with leaded glass and wrought-iron-door hardware.

"When the Lists moved in, my father went over with a pie my mother baked to welcome them," said Wende Devlin Gates. "John List opened the door just a crack, took the pie and said, 'We don't socialize.'"

The List neighborhood was, and is, like many affluent suburban places where neighbors welcome newcomers with pies. Always active, but safe. Yesterday, lawn service and home improvement contractor trucks were parked in front of houses. Delivery packages and dry cleaning remain confidently on front porches, waiting for their owners to arrive home from work. Bicycles were unlocked. Children's toys were left in the driveway. All was quiet, all was safe.

Except that John List, first on the run, then captured, then locked up and now dead, hangs over it. It is the List house in the List neighborhood, a piece of dark town lore not cited by a historical marker, but handed down, word of mouth, as a ghost story.

It's still more than he deserves.