Lore - Episode 33: A Dead End

Episode Date: May 2, 2016

Folklore can change and evolve over time. But when we uncover the roots of these stories, we often find that the real events at their core are the darkest version of all. * * * Official Lore Website Access premium content!: https://www.lorepodcast.com/support

Before we begin, I want to share some news with you. The reality is, only a small percentage of you follow this show on Twitter or Facebook, so this might be the first time that you hear it. That said, you might want to sit down. Lore, you see, has captured the attention of some interesting people. About eight months ago, I started working with them on a secret project. The project isn't ready yet, but we've reached the point where we can talk publicly about it.

What is it? The Lore is in development to become a television show. And not just any show, either. I've teamed up with the producers of a tiny, unheard of television show called The Walking Dead. And together, we're going to adapt this little audio program for the small screen. I'll have more news to share in the weeks and months to come, but I wanted you to hear it from me.

Lore is growing. It's going to be amazing. The podcast isn't going anywhere, so don't worry about that. You'll just be getting more Lore in your life. I hope you won't mind. And now, on with the show. When the trucker pulled up to the toll booth on Route 895 in Virginia, it was the middle of the night, and the look on his face was one of confusion and fear.

The toll booth attendant listened to the man's story and then sent him on his way. The State Highway there is referred to as the Pocahontas Parkway, so maybe the man's story was just a play on the name's motif. So when the Highway Department received more than a few phone calls that night from distressed motorists, each telling essentially the same story, the authorities began to take notice. What the trucker saw, what all of them claimed to have seen, was a small group of Native Americans standing in the grass between the east and westbound lanes of traffic near Mill Road.

The trucker described them as standing motionless in the grass, each one holding a burning torch. He assumed they were picketing, of course. After all, the parkway is rumored to cut through land that's sacred to local Native American tribes. The middle of the night didn't seem like the right time for a peaceful protest. So it didn't sit well with him or the others who claimed to see the very same thing. The times dispatch caught wind of the story, and soon people were flocking to the Mill

Street overpass to see if they too could catch a glimpse of the ghosts. And that's what it all comes down to, isn't it? We all want to see the ghosts, to witness history press its face against the glass of the present, to cheat reality, in a sense. Each year, thousands of people around the world claim that they too have seen a ghost. They tell their stories and pass along their goosebumps like some communicable disease. But the reality is that, for most of us, we never see a thing. History is often nothing more than a distant memory.

In some places, though, that history floats a bit closer to the surface. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. When the English arrived in what is now Virginia, way back in 1607, they found the land heavily populated by the original inhabitants of the region. The English called them the Pohatan, although that was just the name of their leader. If you don't recognize his name, that's understandable, but everyone certainly remembers his daughter, Pocahontas. Before Richmond was Richmond, the land where it now stands was an important Pohatan settlement.

In 1607, a party from Jamestown traveled inland and claimed the location as their own. Richmond of the land bounced back and forth between the Native Americans and the English for years, but it was finally in 1737 that the tribes lost and Richmond was born. Early on, Richmond played host to important figures in the American Revolution against England. Patrick Henry, the man who shouted, give me liberty or give me death, did so from St. John's Church right there in Richmond. And in the middle of the Revolutionary War, Thomas Jefferson served as the governor of

Virginia out of the city. Less than a century later, Richmond became a key city in the Confederacy as the American Civil War tore the country apart. From its munitions factory and railroad system to the seat of the new government under Jefferson Davis, it was a powerful city, and rightly so, and at the center of it all is Belle Isle. It sits right there in the James River between Hollywood Cemetery to the north and Forest Hill to the south. It's easy to overlook on a map, but far from being an afterthought, Belle Isle is actually

home to some of the most painful memories in the history of the city. Before the English arrived and Captain John Smith stood atop the rocks there, Belle Isle belonged to the Pohatan. Shortly after the English took control of it in the early 1700s, it was a fishery. And then in 1814, the old Dominion Iron and Nail Company built a factory there. Positioned on the river with the strong current never tiring, it was the perfect location to harness the power of the water. As the ironworks grew, so did its footprint.

The factory expanded. A village was built around it, and even a general store popped up to serve the hundreds of people who called the island home. But they wouldn't be the only ones to live there. In 1862, Confederate forces moved on to the island and began to fortify it. The plan was to use the isolated island as a prison camp and began to transport Union captives there by the thousands. Over the three years it was in operation, the prison played host to over 30,000 Union

soldiers, sometimes over 10,000 at a time. And the crowded space and resentful feelings between Confederate and Union ideals led to deplorable conditions. In 1882, after living with memories of the prison camp for nearly two decades, New York Cavalry officer William H. Wood wrote to the editor of the National Tribune with his observations. Many froze to death during the winter, he wrote. Others were tortured in the most barbarous manner.

I've seen men put a stride of wooden horse, such as masons use, say, five feet high, with their feet tied to stakes in the ground, and left there for an hour or more on a cold winter morning. Often their feet would freeze and burst open. He also wrote of their lack of food. A lieutenant's dog, he wrote, was once enticed over the bank and taken into an old tent where it was killed and eaten raw. Your humble servant had a piece of it.

For this act of hungry men, the entire camp was kept out of rations all day. There were only a few wood in shacks to house the prisoners, so they lived out their days completely exposed to the elements, blistering heat, freezing cold, rain and frost, and all of it contributed to the suffering of the men who were held there. Estimates vary depending on the source, but it's thought that nearly half of those who were brought to the camp, that's close to 15,000, never left alive. Today, Belle Isle is a public park, but it's haunted by a dark past, and by those who lived and died there long ago.

You can't see their ghosts, but you can certainly feel them. It's a heavy place. Those who visit the island claim to have felt its dark past in the air, like the stifling heat of an iron forge. But there are other places in Richmond that are said to be haunted. Unlike Belle Isle, though, these locations aren't in ruins or nearly forgotten by the living. The right in the middle of everyday life.

Each one has a unique story to tell. They have their own past, and according to those who have been there, it can still be seen. Technically, Rexon Hall is in Chesterfield County, just south of Richmond. But when you speak to people about the city's deep haunting past, it's always brought up as a perfect example of local lore. And while it doesn't have a large number of stories to tell, what it does offer is chilling enough.

The house was built at the end of the 18th century by Archibald Walthall, who left the home to his daughters, Polly and Susanna. It was Susanna who later sold her childhood home, but because there was always risk that the property might be used for future construction, she required that the new owners at least preserve the family graveyard. Time and the elements, though, have allowed the site of the burial ground to slip from memory. And according to some, that's why Susanna has returned to Rexon Hall, perhaps in an

effort to make sure some piece of the past is still remembered. Many years after her death, the home was owned by a man named Stanley Haig. He and a handful of other men had been working in the field near the house when they looked up to see a woman in a red dress sitting on the front porch. They all saw her and even commented to each other about it. It was hard to miss that bright red against the white home. Later when Stanley headed home from work, he asked his wife if her mother had been on the porch that day.

No, she told him. She'd been away all day in Richmond. In Hollywood Cemetery, just north of Belle Isle, there are other stories afoot. The graveyard was established in 1849 and is the final resting place of a number of important figures, former U.S. presidents James Monroe and John Tyler, along with Confederate President Jefferson Davis. There are also two Supreme Court justices buried there, along with 22 Confederate generals and over 18,000 troops.

The soldiers are honored with an enormous stone pyramid that reaches up beyond the treetops. And even though no one is buried beneath it, there have been several reports of moans heard coming from the stones. Others have claimed to have felt cold spots near the base. But it's really a grave nearby that's the site of the most activity there. This grave belongs to a little girl who died at the age of three from a childhood illness. But standing beside her tombstone is a large, cast-iron dog.

According to the local legend, the dog once stood outside her father's grocery store. But when she passed away in 1862, it was moved to her grave to look after her. That might not be completely accurate, though. In the early 1860s, many iron objects were melted down to be used for military purposes. So the dog was most likely moved to the cemetery as a way of protecting it. But that hasn't stopped the stories. Stories that include visions of a little girl playing near the grave, or the sound of barking in the middle of the night.

Nearby on Cary Street is the old historic Byrd Theater. It was built in 1928 and named after the founder of Richmond himself, William Byrd. The space inside is enormous. It can seat over 900 on the lower level and another 400 or so in the balcony. And it's up there that some of the oddest experiences have taken place. When the theater opened its doors in December of 1928, Robert Coulter was the manager and he continued to serve in that role all the way up to 1971 when he passed away. For over four decades, he was a permanent fixture in the theater, often found sitting

in his favorite seat up to one side of the balcony. And if we believe the stories, Robert never left. The current manager has been told by a number of people that they've all seen a tall man in a suit sitting in the balcony at times when no one else was up there. Others have physically felt someone passed by them while operating the projector. The former manager has even been seen on more than one occasion by employees locking the front doors at night as if he were coming out to help them. The stories that are whispered about places like Byrd Theater aren't alone.

There are dozens of locations across the city that claim unusual activity and equally eerie stories. But none can claim to have played host to a flesh and blood monster. None, that is, except for one. In 1875, the Chesapeake and Ohio Railway Company was looking to connect some track in Richmond to another spur 75 miles to the south. Newport News was down that way, and that meant ocean and shipping. It was a gamble to make their railroad more profitable in the wake of the Industrial Revolution

and its increasing demand for things like coal, something mined in western Virginia. Part of the new railway line would cut through Richmond near Jefferson Park, and it was decided that a tunnel would be constructed for the track to pass through. Trains would enter on 18th Street and then exit 4,000 feet later on the eastern end near 31st Street. It was one of those ideas that sounded perfect on paper. Reality, though, had a few complications to throw at them. Richmond sits on a geological foundation of clay, as opposed to the bedrock found in other

parts of the state. It's the kind of soil that changes consistency depending on the season and weather. Rainy months lead to more groundwater, and that swells the clay. Dry months cause the opposite. As you can imagine, it's difficult to build on ground that constantly changes density. Even during construction, there were a number of caverns. Between the project's inception in 1875 and its completion six years later, at least 10 men died while working in the tunnel.

Even after it was open, water had a tendency to seep in and cause problems, something that went on for decades. Around 1901, though, alternative routes were created, and the Churchill Tunnel was used less and less. But when the railroad wanted to increase capacity in 1925, they remembered the old tunnel and began work to bring it up to modern standards. Maybe now, they thought, they could do it right. By the autumn of 1925, the tunnel was playing host to a crew of brave men, supported by a

work train powered by steam. They were slowly making their way along the length of the tunnel, making repairs, improving the engineering, and hopefully making the tunnel safe for future use. But even after claiming so many lives decades before, the tunnel didn't seem to be done just yet. On October 2, while doing what they'd been doing for weeks, dozens of men were working inside the tunnel when the ceiling collapsed. Most escaped, but five men were trapped inside, buried alive.

And to make matters worse, the steam engine exploded when the weight of the debris pressed down on it, filling the tunnel with steam and dust, eventually contributing to even further collapse. According to the story as it's told today, something did in fact walk out of the tunnel, but it wasn't human. They say it was a hulking creature, covered in strips of decaying flesh, with sharp teeth, and a crazed look in its eye. And because witnesses reported that blood was flowing from its mouth, many have since

referred to it as the Richmond Vampire. No one could explain why the creature was there. Some suggested that it had been attracted to the carnage and had come to feed. They say that's why the early rescue attempts only found one of the five missing men, still seated at the control of the work train. There was no other sign of the other victims of the tragedy though, so some suggest that perhaps the vampire had something to do with that. Witnesses say that the creature fled out the eastern end of the tunnel, passed the gathering

crowd of workers, and then made its way south to Hollywood Cemetery. Some of the workmen who had managed to escape the collapse and witness the creature's getaway were able to make chase, following it through the graveyard for a distance. And then, they claimed, it slipped into one of the tombs, the final resting place of a man named W. W. Poole. Poole, it turns out, was a relatively unknown accountant who had died just three years prior. According to the local legend, this made sense. The blood on the mouth, the jagged teeth, the return to the mausoleum.

All of it pointed to one undeniable fact that quickly spread across the city as one of the premier legends of Richmond. Poole was, of course, a vampire. It said that people returned to the cemetery for many nights, each one eagerly waiting to see if the vampire would emerge from its hiding place once more, but there were no other stories to tell us what happened next. If the Richmond vampire had been active before the church hill tunnel incident, it seemed he had gone into retirement immediately after it.

Like many tales of local lore, the story ends on an unsatisfying note. Just as the mysterious creature's trail from the collapsed tunnel finally ended in the shadowy doorway of a cold mausoleum, the story of what happened seems to end in shadows as well. Much like the tunnel itself, it was now nothing more than a dead end. A funny thing happens somewhere between real-life events in the past and the stories we tell each other around the campfire or dining room table. Much like the true-and-try telephone game, where the message is passed from person to

person through a long chain of possession, these old stories shift and change. The change is never visible, they adapt to a new culture or take on elements that are only relevant to a particular generation. But after decades, sometimes even centuries, these stories stand before us transformed, which is the difference between history and folklore after all. With history, there's a paper trail, a clear image of the original that time and distance has more difficult time eroding. Folklore is like water, forever shifting to fit the crevice as the rock breaks down.

Richmond is an old city by the standards of most Americans. Yes, there are older places on the East Coast, but it has a storied history that makes it feel almost timeless. Jamestown, the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and the Confederacy, American history would be lacking something essential without the role Richmond has played through at all. Some of that history is unchanged, but some, it seems, has undergone deep transformation over the years, and a prime example of that is the story of the Richmond Vampire. The collapse tunnel and the train inside are all fact.

There have even been modern day efforts to rescue the train car inside and clear the rubble, but the tunnel is now flooded with the same groundwater that made it unstable in the first place. The events that happened on that dark October day in 1925 were real, though, at least to a degree. A lone survivor did crawl from the wreckage, as the story tells us. His teeth were sharp, and his mouth was bloody. And even his skin, hanging from his body like wet linen bandages, is documented fact.

But the survivor had a name, Benjamin Mosby. He was a 28-year-old employee of the railroad and was described as big and strong. At the moment of the accident, he'd been standing in front of the train's open cold door, shirt off, covered in sweat, and shoveling fuel into the fire. When the tunnel collapsed, the boiler burst under the pressure, washing Mosby in a flood of scalding water. But he somehow survived, crawled free from the rock and twisted metal, and walked to safety.

He died the following day at the local hospital. And it was his appearance, with bloody broken teeth and skin boiled from his body in ribbons that fueled the story we still whisper today. It's almost cliche to say it, but it's true. Sometimes the real-life events that birth a legend turn out to be more frightening and horrific than any folktale could ever be. This episode of Lore was researched, written, and produced by me, Aaron Mankey.

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, theworldoflore.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. I'll see you in the next one.