MANSON INC.

We’re all curious about what mighthurt us.
―FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA

The Benedict Canyon house was demolished years ago. A church looks down on the old ranch, which is now a state park. Most everyone who fell under his thrall is dead, or aging quietly in prison.

None of that matters. The further events recede into history, the longer their shadow looms, and that of their dark progenitor.

That’s the way it is with myth. With the stories that we tell each other, that we’ve handed down since before we huddled around the cave fire at night, seeking safety from predators. Those fables were filled with gods, mortals, evil, good, power, and forbidden pleasures; they were meant to teach us and scare us and set us on a path of righteousness.

But what if all this time we were just tricking ourselves, thinking the danger was out there in the dark and we were safe inside.

What if the predator has been in the cave with us from the beginning?

What if he is inside us?

This story is real.

It happened 50 years ago, during the extended hangover that followed the Summer of Love. Joan Didion said that it slammed the door on the 1960s. But the decade was already on life support.

You all know his name. He was born elsewhere, in obscure poverty, but, like so many, was drawn mothlike to the lights of Los Angeles, the possibility of shedding the past, reinventing himself, and claiming the fame and fortune this city has always dangled before dreamers with the wiles of a femme fatale.

Here, he began the metamorphosis from petty crook to Hollywood-adjacent wannabe to L.A.’s ur-demon.

Fifty years after the infamous murders, the mythology of Manson shows no sign of abating—nor does the pop culture cottage industry that has arisen around him.

This couldn’t have happened in Des Moines or Fairbanks. It could only have taken root in the nutrient sludge of sex, rock and roll, trust funders, drugs, outlaws, movie stars, crime, mysticism, and hippie flower power that defined ’60s L.A.

And there it bloomed like a noxious weed—in the remote sandy