Lore - Episode 29: The Big Chill

Episode Date: March 7, 2016

Thanks to the writings of Stephen King, the state of Maine has become known as a place of fictional horror and tragedy. But it's at the real-life intersection of Maine's harsh winters and deadly coastline that we find the most tragic stories of all. Stories that no one would want to experience for themselves. ———————————————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  Lore News: www.theworldoflore.com/now  Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.com Access premium content!: https://www.lorepodcast.com/support See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Some places are more frightening than others. It's hard to nail down a specific reason why, but even so, I can't think of a single person who might disagree. Some places just have a way of getting under your skin. For some it's the basement, for others it's the local graveyard. I even know people who are afraid of certain colors. Fear, it seems, is a landmine that can be triggered by almost anything. And while history might be full of hauntingly tragic stories that span a variety of settings

and climates, the most chilling ones, literally, are those that take place in the harsh environment of winter. The incident at Dyatlov Pass, the tragedy of the Donner Party, even the sinking of the Titanic in 1912 happened in the freezing waters of the North Atlantic. Winter, it seems, is well-equipped to end lives and create fear. And when I think of dangerous winters, I think of Maine, that area of New England on the northern frontier. If you love horror, you might equate Maine with Stephen King, but even though he's tried

hard over the last few decades to make us believe in dairy and castle rock and Salem's lot, the state has enough danger on its own. Maine is also home to nearly 3,500 miles of coastline, more than even California. And that's where the real action happens. The Maine coastline is littered with thousands of small islands, jagged rocks, ancient lighthouses, and even older legends, and all in the cold north where the sea is cruel and the weather can be deadly. It's often there, in the places that are isolated and exposed, that odd things happen,

things that seem born of the circumstances and climate, things that leave their mark on the people there, things that would never happen on the mainland. And if the stories are to be believed, that's a good thing. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. The coastline of Maine isn't as neat and tidy as other states. Don't picture sandy beaches and warm waves that you can walk through. This is the cold north. The water is always chilly, and the land tends to emerge from the waves as large jagged rocks.

Go ahead and pull up a map of Maine on your phone. Oh wait, you'll see what I mean right away. This place is dangerous. Because of that, ships have had a long history of difficulty when it comes to navigating the coast of Maine. Part of that is because of all the islands. They're everywhere. According to the most recent count, there are over 4,600 of them scattered along the

coastal waters, like fragments of a broken bottle. One such fragment is Seguin Island. It's only three miles from the mainland, but it's easy to understand how harsh winter weather could isolate anyone living there very quickly. And when you're the keeper of the lighthouse there, that isolation comes with the job. The legend that's been passed down for decades there is the story of a keeper from the mid-1800s. According to the tale, the keeper was newly married, and after moving to the island with his bride, they both began to struggle with the gulf between their lives there and the

people on the coast. So to give his wife something to do with her time, and maybe to get a bit of entertainment out of it for himself, the keeper ordered a piano for her. They say it was delivered during the autumn, just as the winter chill was creeping in. In the story, it had to be hoisted up the rock face, but that's probably not true. Seguin is more like a green hill protruding from the water than anything else. But hey, it adds to the drama, right? And that's what these old stories provide.

Plenty of drama. When the piano arrived, the keeper's wife was elated, but Bayer's remorse quickly set in. You see, the piano only came with the sheet music for one song. With winter quickly rolling in from the north, shipping in more music was impossible. So she settled in and made the best of it. The legend says that she played that song non-stop over and over, all throughout the winter.

Somehow, she was immune to the monotony of it all, but her husband, the man who had only been hoping for distraction and entertainment, took it hard. They say it drove him insane. In the end, the keeper took an axe and destroyed the piano, packing it into nothing more than a pile of wood and wire. And then, still deranged from the repetitive tune, he turned the axe on his wife, nearly chopping her head off in the process. The tragic story always ends with the keeper's suicide, but most know it all to be fiction.

At least, that's the general opinion. But even today, there are some who claim that if you happen to find yourself on a boat in the waters between the island and the mainland, you can still hear the sound of piano music drifting across the waves. Boone Island is near the southern tip of Maine's Long Coastline. It's not a big island by any stretch of the imagination, perhaps 400 square yards in total. But there's been a lighthouse there since 1811 due to the many shipwrecks that have plagued the island for as long as Europeans have sailed in those waters.

The most well-known shipwreck on Boone Island occurred there in the winter of 1710, when the Nottingham Galley, a ship captained by John Dean, wrecked there on the rocks. All 14 crew members survived, but the ship was lost, stranding them without help or supplies in the cold winter. As the unfortunate sailors died one by one, the survivors were forced to eat the dead or face starvation, and they did this for days until fishermen finally discovered and rescued them. But that's not the most memorable story from Boone Island.

That honor falls to the tale of Catherine Bright, the wife of a former lighthouse keeper there in the 19th century. According to those who believe the story, the couple had only been on the island for a few months when Catherine's husband slipped while trying to tie off their boat. He fell, then hit his head on the rocks, and then slid unconsciously into the water where he drowned. At first, Catherine tried to take on the duties of keeping the light running herself. But after nearly a week, fishermen in New York on the mainland watched the light flicker

out and stay dark. When they traveled to the island to investigate, they found Catherine sitting on the tower's stairs. She was cradling her dead husband's corpse in her arms. Legend has it that Catherine was brought back to York along with her husband's body, but it was too late for her. Just like the lighthouse they had left behind, she was now cold and dark. Some flames, it seems, can't be relit.

There's been a lighthouse on the shore of Rockland, Maine for nearly 200 years. It's on an oddly shaped hill, with two large depressions in the face of the rock that were said to remind the locals of an owl. So when the light was built there in 1825, it was, of course, named Owl's Head. Give any building long enough, mix in some tragedy and unexplainable phenomenon, and you can almost guarantee a few legends will be born. Owl's Head is no exception. One of the oldest stories is a well-documented one from 1850.

It tells of a horrible winter storm that ripped through the Penobscot Bay area on December 22 of that year. While these five ships were driven aground by the harsh waves and chill wind, it was a destructive and fierce storm, and it would have been an understatement to say that it wasn't a wise idea to be out that night, on land or at sea. A small ship had been anchored at Jameson Point that night. The captain had done the smart thing and gone ashore to weather the storm inside, but he left some people behind on the ship.

Three, actually. First mate Richard Ingram, a sailor named Roger Elliott, and Lydia Dyer, a passenger. While those three poor souls tried to sleep that night on the schooner, the storm pushed the ship so hard that the cables snapped, setting the ship adrift across the bay. Now, it's not exactly a straight shot southeast to get to Owl's Head. It's a path shaped more like a backward sea to get around the rocky coast, but the ship somehow managed to do it anyway. They passed the breakwater, drifted east and south, and then finally rounded the rocky

peninsula where Owl's Head light is perched, all before smashing against the rocks south of the light. The three passengers survived the impact, and as the ship began to take on water, they scrambled up to the top deck. Better the biting wind than the freezing water they assumed, and then they waited, huddled there under a pile of blankets against the storm, just waiting for help. When the ship began to actually break apart in the waves, though, Elliott, the sailor, was the only one to make an escape from the wreckage.

I can't imagine how cold he must have been, with the freezing wind and ocean spray lashing at him from the darkness. But standing on the rocks with his feet still ankle deep in the waves, he happened to look up and see the lighthouse on the hill. If he was going to find help, that was his best option, so he began to climb. He was practically dead by the time he reached the lighthouse, but when he knocked, no one answered. A moment later, the keeper of the light rode up the path on a sleigh, having been out for

supplies and realized at once that Elliott needed help. He took him in, gave him a hot rum, and put him into a warm bed, but not before Elliott managed to whisper something about the others. The keeper immediately called for help and gathered a group of about a dozen men. Together, they all traveled down to the shore where they began to look for the wreck of the ship and the people who may still be alive on board. When they found the remains of the schooner, the men began to carefully climb across the wreckage looking for signs of the other passengers.

It was treacherous work, the wood was encrusted in ice, and each step swayed dangerously with the waves. When they finally found them, they were still on the portion of the deck where Elliott had left them. But they seemed to shiver whenever the light of the lantern washed over them, climbing closer than men discovered why. Ingram and Dyer were both encased in a thick layer of ice, completely covering their bodies. They were frozen.

Not taking any chances, the men somehow managed to pry the couple free from the deck of the ship and the entire block was transported back up the hill to the lighthouse. All that night, they worked fast and carefully. They placed the block in a tub of water and then slowly chipped away at the ice. And as it melted, they moved the limbs of each person in an attempt to get their blood flowing again. And somehow, against all logic and medical odds, it worked. It took them a very long time to recover, but Ingram and Dyer soon opened their eyes.

Ingram was the first to speak, and it was said that he croaked the words, What is all this? Where are we? Roger Elliott didn't survive the aftermath of the shipwreck. Maybe it was the trauma of climbing up the hill to the lighthouse, soaked to the bone, and exposed to the freezing winds of the storm. Perhaps it was an injury he sustained in the shipwreck itself or on the climb to the lighthouse. Dyer and Ingram fared better, though.

They eventually recovered and even married each other. They settled down and raised a family together in the area. All thanks to the man who died to bring them help when all seemed lost. Later stories from inside Owl's Head Lighthouse have been equally chilling. Although there are no other tragic events on record there, it's clear from the first-hand accounts of those who have made Owl's Head their home that something otherworldly has taken up residence there. The Andrews family was one of the first to report any sort of unusual activity on the

property. I can't find a record of their first names, but the keeper and his wife live there along with her elderly father. According to their story, one night the couple was outside and looked up to see a light swirling in her father's window. When they climbed the stairs, they found the older man shaking in his bed from fright. Some think he might have seen the old sailor, a common figure witnessed by many over the years.

When John Norton was keeper in 1980, he claimed to have seen the same apparition. He had been sleeping, but when a noise woke him up, he opened his eyes to see the figure of an old sea captain, standing over his bed, just staring at him. The old sailor has been blamed for mysterious footprints that tend to appear in the snow. Footprints that could be found on the walk toward the house. The prints never seem to have an origin point, and always end abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. Others have claimed to feel cold spots in the house, while some have gone on record to

swear that brass fixtures inside the lighthouse, fixtures that were usually tarnished and dark, would be found mysteriously polished. None of the keepers have been able to figure out who was doing the cleaning for them. There have been other stories as well, tales of a white lady who has been frequently seen in the kitchen, of doors slamming without anyone in the room, and of silverware that has been heard to rattle in the drawers. Despite this, though, most have said that they felt at peace with her there. More at peace, at least, than they are with the old bearded sailor.

In the mid-1980s, Andy German and his wife Denise lived there while tending the light. They moved in and settled into life on the harsh coast of Maine. Andy divided his time between tending the light and a series of renovations to the old lighthouse, which left the yard outside rather chaotic and full of construction materials. One night after climbing into bed, the couple heard the sound of some of the building supplies outside falling over in the wind. Andy pulled on his pants and shoes and left the room to go take care of the mess before the wind made it worse.

Denise watched him leave, and then rolled back over to sleep with the lamp still on. A short while later, she felt him climb back into bed. The mattress moved, as did the covers, and so she asked out loud how it had gone, if there had been any trouble or anything unusual. But Andy didn't reply, so Denise rolled over. When she did, she found that Andy's spot in bed was still empty. Well, almost. In a spot where he normally slept beside her, there was a deep depression in the sheets,

as if an invisible body were laying right there beside her. Of course, it was just the dent where Andy had been sleeping moments before. At least, that's what she told herself. But thinking back on it later, Denise admits that she has doubts. There were moments when she was laying there, staring at the impression in the sheets that she could have sworn the shape was moving. Maybe she was too level-headed to get upset, or perhaps she was too tired to care. Whatever the reason, Denise simply told whoever it was to leave her alone, and then rolled

over and fell back asleep. At breakfast the next morning, she wanted to tell Andy about the experience, thinking he would laugh it off and help her to explain it away. But before she could, he told her his own story. It turns out, Andy had an unusual experience of his own the previous night. He explained how, as he had exited the room and stepped out into the dimly-lit hallway, he saw what he could only describe as a faint cloud hovering close to the floor. This cloud, he said, had been moving.

According to Andy, when he walked down the hall, it moved right up to his feet and then passed on through him. That's when Denise asked Andy where the cloud had been going. Into the bedroom, he told her. Why? You don't have to travel to a lighthouse to bump into tales of the unexplained or other worldly. You can hear them from just about anyone you meet, from the neighbor down the street to

your real estate agent. But lighthouses seem to have a reputation for the tragic. And maybe that's understandable, is our after-all houses built to help save lives in a dangerous setting. It might be safe to say that the well for these stories runs deeper than many places. But are they true? Like a lot of stories, it seems to depend on who you talk to. Keepers across the decades have had a mixed bag of experiences.

Some see odd things, and some don't. Maybe some people just connect to the stories more than others and go looking for hints and signs where there are none. One recent family described their time there as normal. They never saw ghosts, never watched objects move, and felt right at home the whole time they were there. Another family, though, acknowledged that something unusual seemed to be going on in the lighthouse.

They would find light bulbs partially unscrewed, and the thermostat would constantly readjust itself. Perhaps whatever it is that's haunting the lighthouse is just very environmentally conscious. It's easy to laugh off most of these stories, but we've never lived there. We've never heard or felt something that can't be explained away. And like most samples of data, there's always the outlier. Another family who lived at the lighthouse in the late 1980s claimed to have experienced their fair share of unusual activity, though.

One night, while Gerard and Debbie Graham were asleep, their three-year-old daughter Claire quietly opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She stared into the darkness for a moment, as if carefully listening to something, and then climbed out of her bed and left the room. Her little bare feet padded on the cold floor of the hallway as she made her way down toward her parents' room. Inside she slowly approached the side of their bed and tapped her father on the arm to wake him.

When he did wake up, he asked Claire what was the matter. The little girl replied that she was supposed to tell him something. Tell me what, her father asked. There's a fog rolling in, Claire replied, somehow sounding like someone infinitely older. Sound the horn. When he asked her who had told her this, the little girl looked at him seriously. My friend, she told him. The old man with the beard.

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Lore is much more than a podcast. There's a book series in bookstores around the country and online, and the second season of the Amazon Prime television show was recently released. Check them both out if you want more Lore in your life. I also make two other podcasts, Aaron Mankey's Cabinet of Curiosities, and Unobscured, and I think you'd enjoy both. Each one explores other areas of our dark history, ranging from bite-sized episodes to season-long dives into a single topic.

You can learn about both of those shows and everything else going on all over in one central place. The World of Lore.com slash now. And you can also follow the show on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Just search for Lore podcast, all one word, and then click that follow button. When you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi. And as always, thanks for listening.