Walk down West Summerdale Avenue in the Norwood Park area of Chicago today, and you might not even notice it. It looks like any other suburban street. Quiet. Manicured. There's a brick house at number 8215 that looks perfectly pleasant, maybe even a little cozy with its vaulted ceilings and second-story loft. But for anyone who grew up in the late seventies, this patch of dirt is synonymous with a kind of darkness that doesn't just wash away with a new coat of paint. This was the site of the house of John Wayne Gacy, a modest ranch-style home that became the epicenter of one of the most horrific crime sprees in American history.
People often ask what happened to the actual building. Did they burn it down? Is it still there? Honestly, the story of what happened to the property after Gacy was caught is almost as strange as the crimes themselves. It’s a tale of neighborhood trauma, real estate "stigma," and the weird way we try to bury the past by literally burying it under new construction.
The Original House of Horrors
The original house, located at 8213 West Summerdale Avenue, was a brick ranch bought by Gacy in 1971 with help from his mother. On the surface, Gacy was the "model" neighbor. He was a contractor. He did free snow plowing for people. He threw massive summer block parties where he’d grill for 400 guests, including local politicians. He even dressed up as "Pogo the Clown" for charity events.
But inside, the house of John Wayne Gacy was a literal graveyard.
The most chilling part wasn't even the murders themselves, but the geography of the house. Gacy had a crawl space—a cramped, dirt-floored area under the floorboards. Over several years, he managed to bury 26 bodies in that tight, dark space. Three more were found elsewhere on the property. Eventually, he ran out of room, which is why his final four victims were found in the Des Plaines River.
Neighbors used to complain about a "rotten egg" smell. Gacy, ever the smooth talker, blamed it on "sewer gas" or moisture buildup in the crawl space. He even had a "solution" for the smell: he would pour bags of lime and more dirt over the bodies. It’s hard to imagine now, but he was literally living, eating, and sleeping just inches above dozens of young men he had killed.
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The Demolition and the Decade of Silence
Once Gacy was arrested in December 1978 and the search began, the house couldn't stay. Investigators basically had to dismantle the place to recover the remains. It wasn't just a matter of digging; they were pulling apart the very foundation of the home.
By April 1979, the house of John Wayne Gacy was officially demolished.
For the next seven years, the lot sat empty. It was just a hole in the ground, then eventually a patch of weeds. It became a local landmark for all the wrong reasons. "Looky-loos" would drive by just to stare at the grass. For the people living on Summerdale Avenue, it was a constant, jagged reminder of what had happened in their backyard. The property was eventually seized and sold at a sheriff's sale to Hoyne Savings & Loan in 1984 to cover unpaid taxes and mortgages.
Building 8215: A New Beginning or a Cover-up?
In 1986, a woman bought the lot for about $30,000. She did something that shocked the neighborhood: she built a brand-new house.
To try and distance the new structure from the ghost of the house of John Wayne Gacy, a few clever (or perhaps desperate) changes were made.
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- The Address: The original number, 8213, was retired. The new house was designated 8215 West Summerdale Avenue.
- The Footprint: The new house was a 2,500-square-foot brick home, much larger and differently shaped than Gacy’s modest ranch.
- The Layout: It featured three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a modern aesthetic that looked nothing like the 70s decor Gacy favored.
The idea was simple: if you change the look and the number, maybe people will forget. But real estate experts call this "stigma." In Illinois, and many other states, the law regarding disclosure is surprisingly murky.
The Law of Disclosure
If you’re buying a house in Illinois, does the seller have to tell you that 29 people were once buried under the lawn? Technically, no.
Illinois law generally does not require a seller to disclose that a property was the site of a felony or a suicide. However, if a buyer asks a direct question about it, the real estate agent is legally obligated to tell the truth. It's a "don't ask, don't tell" policy for the macabre. This is why the property has struggled on the market over the years. In 2019, the new house hit the market for $459,000. It took nearly two years and several massive price cuts—eventually dropping to $395,000—before it sold in 2021.
That’s a nearly 20% "stigma discount."
Why People Still Buy "Stigmatized" Homes
You might wonder who would ever want to live there. Honestly, it usually comes down to the math. For some people, a beautiful, 2,500-square-foot brick home in a nice Chicago suburb for under $400k is a steal they can't pass up. They figure the dirt is just dirt, and the man who did those things is long gone (Gacy was executed in 1994).
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Orell Anderson, a real estate appraiser who specializes in high-profile "crime properties," says the stigma stays with the land, not the bricks. You can tear down the house of John Wayne Gacy, but you can't tear down the history. People will still stop their cars. They’ll still take photos. They’ll still tell the story to their kids.
Lessons from Summerdale Avenue
If you’re a true crime fan or just a curious local, there are a few things to keep in mind about properties like this. First, respect the current owners. The people living at 8215 Summerdale today aren't part of the Gacy story; they’re just people trying to live their lives in a house they bought.
Second, if you’re ever in the market for a home and have a "gut feeling" about a place, do your homework.
- Check the address history: Use sites like DiedInHouse or simple local newspaper archives.
- Talk to the neighbors: They usually know the "local lore" better than any Zillow listing ever will.
- Ask the hard questions: Don't wait for the realtor to volunteer the info. Ask: "Has anything significant or violent happened on this property?"
The house of John Wayne Gacy is gone, but it serves as a permanent case study in how we handle the physical remains of tragedy. We can build over it, rename it, and repaint it, but some histories are written into the soil itself. For the residents of Norwood Park, the goal isn't to celebrate the past, but to finally move beyond it, even if the "stigma" of the land makes that a very slow process.