Lore - Legends 29: Ghost Towns

Episode Date: June 10, 2024

One of our biggest obsessions as a culture is abandoned places. But once you dig into the legends about these locations, it’s clear that something still lives inside them. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with writing by Harry Marks and research by Cassandra de Alba and editing by Alex Robinson. ————————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  All the shows from Grim & Mild: www.grimandmild.com ————————— Sponsors: Squarespace: Head to Squarespace.com/lore to save 10% off your first purchase of a website or domain using the code LORE. SimpliSafe: Secure your home with 24/7 professional monitoring. Sign up today at SimpliSafe.com/Lore to get 20% off any new SimpliSafe system with Fast Protect Monitoring.  Harry’s: Don’t settle for the status quo. Get started with a $13 trial shave set for just $3 at Harrys.com/LORE. To report a concern regarding a radio-style, non-Aaron ad in this episode, reach out to [e-mail] with the name of the company or organization so we can look into it. To advertise on our podcast, please reach out to [e-mail], or visit our listing here. ————————— ©2024 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved.

Welcome to Lore Legends, a subset of lore episodes that explore the strange tales we whisper in the dark, even if they can't always be proven by the history books. So if you're ready, let's begin. Stand outside your home, close your eyes, and listen. Hear the cars passing by and the laughter of children playing down the block. A bell on a bicycle chimes. A horn blares in the distance. The wail of a siren screams toward an emergency.

There's always something going on, even in the quietest suburb. But there are other towns where nothing is heard but the wind blowing through the streets. The homes that are still standing are shells of what they used to be. All that's left behind are walls with peeling paint and water stains on the ceiling. Tall grass grows with wild abandon through the cracks in the sidewalk

as street signs rust where they stand. There is no laughter. Not a single car drives by, and the only visitors are the people who view these remains as a novelty, maybe even fodder for some social media snapshots washed with a creepy filter and a handful of hashtags. There are nearly 4,000 ghost towns in America, towns that, for one reason or another, have been abandoned and are now left standing desolate and lonely. Today, most are little more than destinations for urban explorers and bored teenagers. They break into empty houses with flashlights and cameras, hoping to catch something scary

for their platform. They smash windows and draw on the walls, vandalizing the precious memories of those who once dwelled inside. But these empty neighborhoods are called ghost towns for a reason. Because even though people are long gone, their spirits still remain. I'm Aaron Manke, and this is Lore Legends. Decades ago, one town in Alabama became the center for a growing movement, where an oppressed people tried to forge a new path for themselves in the

face of adversity. And no, I'm not talking about Selma. I'm actually talking about the lesser-known Kahaba, which sits about 14 miles south of Selma, along the banks of the Alabama River. After local tribes were pushed out by white settlers, Kahaba became a shipping hub for cotton. The arrival of the railroad in 1859 added a boom to its population. By the time the Civil War started, around 3,000 people lived there. But no matter how much the town grew, it could never maintain its success for long. Chronic flooding had always been a problem for the little town. Again and again, any progress they made was undercut by natural disasters.

But then, in 1865, Cahaba was hit by a major flood, one that was so catastrophic they had never seen its likes before. The devastation of that 1865 flood was the final nail in the coffin for most people. They started leaving in droves, even dismantling and moving their houses to other towns. One year later, the county seat was relocated to Selma. The Reconstruction Era saw Cajabah's resurrection as formerly enslaved people started moving there. They even repurposed the original town center as farmland and turned the abandoned courthouse into a kind of town hall. This new era in the town's history gave people of color

opportunities that were few and far between in most southern states. If anyone dreamed of getting into politics or owning a store or leading a congregation, then those dreams could become a reality in Cahaba. Well, for a while anyway. Unfortunately, their efforts were undermined by the white establishment working against them, especially in the political arena. As reconstruction ended, so did this iteration of Cahaba, and by 1900, the town dried up once more. People abandoned their homes, many of which were torn down or destroyed by 1930.

But some buildings are still there today, and visitors are free to wander the grounds. But perhaps the most lasting remnants of old Cahaba are the specters that haunt the town. You see, in 1862, well before the town was abandoned, a young couple came face to face with the unknown. They'd been walking under a moonlit sky, lost in a grove of cedars behind the home of Confederate leader Colonel Peggs. Then, without warning, a ball of light appeared before them, floating in front of their faces. It flew from one place to another, getting close enough to grab before darting away again.

The couple thought the strange object was an illusion caused by the moonlight, so they went back the way they'd come, only to see it hovering near them once again. And when the man attempted to snatch the ball out of the air, it sped out of view and vanished. And over the years, others have gone on to see a similar apparition in the area, leading to speculation that they might've come face to face

with a creature from folklore, the Will of the Wisp. There's also a theory that by the time this light was first spotted, Colonel Peggs had been fatally wounded at the Battle of Gaines Mill in Virginia on June 27th. Two weeks later, he died from his injuries. Perhaps the light had been his spirit, warning potential Confederate Army recruits looking to join his regiment to stay away.

Apparently, Pegs had recruited many young soldiers from Cahaba, and after seeing the horrors of war firsthand, he didn't want anyone else following in his ill-fated footsteps. But Cahaba isn't the only town that was unable to fulfill its promise to the people who live there. All over the country, there are others like it. And thankfully, they have their own stories to tell. Well, the land of cheese, that's Wisconsin's big claim to fame after all. But the Tennessee town of Purdy could sure give them a run for their money.

Located in the southwestern part of the state, it was established in 1825 on what used to be Chickasaw land, and that land was purchased by the area's first settlers using money they had earned from selling homemade cheese. That's right, the entire town's foundation is built on this stuff, but unfortunately that foundation would prove to be a soft one, and Purdy would eventually sink through the cracks of American history. Five years after its founding, a brick courthouse had been built in the main square, followed by all kinds of stores, saloons, and restaurants. It didn't take long for the quiet hamlet of Purdy to become a bustling and prosperous

town. In fact, between 1830 and 1860, the local population ballooned from 250 to a whopping 700, and that was helped in large part by the arrival of the Mobile and Ohio Railroad In 1860, the local population ballooned from 250 to a whopping 700. And that was helped in large part by the arrival of the Mobile and Ohio Railroad in the late 1840s. Well, it would have helped had the town raised the necessary $100,000 in taxes and stock subscriptions to afford it. Sadly, the town's largest taxpayers opposed the idea of paying more taxes, and the vote

to bring the railroad through Purdy failed. Instead, Mobile in Ohio built the railroad about four miles outside of the town's borders. With the track now laid, new towns started to pop up along the route. Gears were put into motion to move the county seat from Purdy to someplace adjacent to the railroad. It took almost 30 years and countless votes to make it happen, but the county seat was finally moved to the brand new town of Selmer in 1890. And that shift was the beginning of the end for Purdy.

As of 1956, only 76 people lived there, a far cry from the 700 who called it a home during its heyday. Today, almost all of the buildings are gone. All that remains is a single home, built while the town was still full of promise and potential back in 1856. It belonged to Colonel Fielding Hearst, a man who has gone down in history books as a villain, despite his contradictory beliefs. You see, he fought for the Union during the Civil War, but he was also a slaveholder,

and the former did not cancel out the latter. Hearst didn't just fight for the North. He actually had a reputation for being bloodthirsty and cruel in combat. One story claims that he marched a group of Confederate prisoners to La Grange, about 40 miles away, killing one prisoner for every mile traveled. Some say that he even stuck the heads of the executed men on mile markers along the way. It was also rumored that the men under his command killed and maimed at will, even cutting off a woman's breast in one encounter.

But perhaps his worst offense was burning his hometown of Purdy, Tennessee, to the ground. As he marched on Purdy, he set every building he passed ablaze. This was allegedly done as a punishment after Confederate sympathizers murdered his nephew and his mother. Even for a war, his rampage was shocking, and it eventually earned him a one-way ticket out of the Union Army in 1864. As one old-timer recalled, Hearst, quote, had his enemies inside and out of Purdy. Now, if you're wondering how hated he was, you only need to look as far as the bullet

hole in the staircase of his mansion, fired at him by an opponent. Apparently the home bears several bullet holes, one of which is known to leak blood every now and then. It's one of the many signs that Hearst's former home is plagued by his spirit. Shadowy figures have been reported inside, along with the sound of disembodied voices. The mansion is vacant now, but following Hearst's death in 1882, other occupants lived in the home and experienced their own confrontations with the evil presence inside. The Dodd family, for example, owned it from 1919 until 1993.

During that time, a child died after falling into a pot of boiling water. Several people took their own lives in the home, and more recently, a seasonal haunted house attraction that once used the mansion as its backdrop found itself dealing with Hearst's restless ghost. Actors were locked in certain rooms for hours with no explanation and no way out, and the sound of a crying child in the basement could be heard when there was nobody downstairs. Purdy may be long gone, but its most famous resident is still giving people something to talk about almost 150 years later.

But travel a bit to the north and you'll find a town in New Jersey that's more than the sum of its parts. Because it's not just one home that lures in thrill seekers. It's a whole village. He arrived with a mission. When David Felt showed up in Berkeley Heights, New Jersey, back in 1845, his goal was to build a paper mill and factory for his stationary company. He chose attractive land within the watching reservation that had originally been cleared

for a sawmill in the 1730s. It was the perfect place to construct his empire. And so Felt built the facilities he needed to harvest and process paper, which he then turned into things like journals and ledgers. But there was one thing missing, somewhere for his employees to live. He wanted them close to the factory, in a neighborhood where all their needs could be met. And thus, Feltville was born.

It was comprised of cottages for the workers and their families to live in, along with a combination of church and general store, a barn, a blacksmith shop, a one-room schoolhouse, and 600 acres of farmland. It was a one-stop shop for everyone involved. Of course, he didn't do this to keep his employees happy. Rather, he wanted to keep tabs on them as much as possible. This wasn't about comfort, it was about control. And he wielded that control with an iron fist, eventually turning Felteville into his own tiny kingdom and crowning himself as its overbearing ruler. The town's residents, stuck under his tyrannical thumb, actually took to calling him King David. The only goods available had to be bought from the general store, which he controlled.

He also required the village to be maintained to perfection at all times. Mill employees endured a grueling six-day work week, followed by mandatory mass on Sundays, and a bell attached to the manor house rang throughout the day to signal the start and the end of the workday, lunchtime, and the 9 p.m. curfew. Everyone's movements were tightly controlled. If you worked for King David, you had to follow his rules. But his reign didn't last long. In 1860, Felt packed up and retired to New York, selling off the village to the highest bidder.

And his final words before leaving spoke a prophecy into existence. Well, King David is dead, and the village will go to hell. And he was right. Six different owners tried and failed to keep the company town going. They pivoted from paper to things like cigars, silk, and sarsaparilla, but nothing stuck. And after 20 years, Feltville was completely abandoned. Then in 1882, the cottages were renovated with electric wiring and indoor plumbing. The town was then converted into a summer resort for the rich, called Glenside Park.

But the early 1900s saw tourists flocking to the Jersey Shore instead of the rural gateways among the hills. By 1921, the former company town had been absorbed by the Parks Commission into Wachong Reservation, one of the country's first county parks. Sadly, most of the buildings were torn down over the years, including King David's House, which is now nothing more than a foundation. The mill was demolished in 1930 for being a safety hazard, and the whole area took on a new identity.

While many ghost towns are simply known by their original names, like Perdue and Cahaba, this New Jersey location has a more obvious moniker. It's known as the Deserted Village. And this deserted village is not without its own ghostly residents. One legend tells the story of three young sisters who went camping in the surrounding woods in 1912. They'd been wearing bonnets on their heads,

and when their families went looking for them, those bonnets were all they found. Rumor has it that the spirits of those three girls haunt one of the remaining Feltville cottages to this day. And helping that legend along, some people have claimed to see the apparition of a young girl gliding among the homes, as if she were visiting her neighbors.

And the woods surrounding the village have allegedly been home to satanic rituals and gatherings of witches looking to cast their spells. It's not uncommon for visitors to the deserted village to feel a palpable sense of dread as they walk through the site. After all, the woods are lovely, dark, and deep. But restless spirits cannot sleep. Left behind, there's something attractive and mysterious about places that have been

abandoned. Perhaps it's the thought of a building that used to be a warm home becoming a cold shell. Maybe it's the waste of such an investment. Whatever the reason, we've always been drawn to ghost towns. My first glimpse of this topic was probably the same as yours, although we rarely think of it in the same way we might say, Kahaba. It's the settlement of Roanoke. In a way, leaving communities to fade into the past is sort of our legacy.

Speaking of which, watching reservations deserted village has one more legacy of its own, seen through a story that takes place at nearby Johnson Drive. According to the legend, 13 witches, who may or may not have been sisters, came to Felfill with a dark hunger. They would stalk the community, kidnapping and murdering the children who lived there. Now, depending on who you ask, this could have taken place anywhere from the mid 1700s before Feltyville actually existed up to the early 1900s when the area had already been converted into a summer resort for the rich. Alternate versions of the story claim that the sisters weren't actually killing children, but merely casting curses on people who moved to the area.

And yet another version says that they were blamed by locals for a poor harvest. Regardless of what reason you favor, these thirteen witches were said to be tried and hanged for their perceived crimes. And in true Sanderson sister fashion, they swore they'd be back someday. After their executions, their bodies were buried under what is now Johnson Drive. And in a way, they make good on their promise. If you travel along Johnson Drive today, your car will pass over 13 distinct bumps in the road.

And according to a local urban legend, if you do this while saying 13 witches out loud, you'll see them behind you, following your car. ["Thirteen Witches Out Loud"] Everyone seems drawn to abandoned places. Lists of ghost towns are a dime a dozen on the internet, and a search on Instagram will net you hours of creepy photos to browse. There's irony in this obsession, though. The places we felt compelled to walk away from have become a beacon drawing new crowds

to their borders. And with thousands of places like that in America, there are always more stories to tell, which is why we've saved one more to share with you today Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it This episode of lore was made possible by Squarespace I've been using Squarespace for nearly a decade now from lore to Grim and mild and I've even switched over my personal websites I am NOT a web designer nor a programmer, and yet I have amazing professional websites

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That's harrys.com slash lor for a $3 trial set for just $3 at harrys.com slash lore. That's harrys.com slash lore for a $3 trial set. ["The Circus"] Everyone loves The Circus, and how could they not? They're supposed to be joyful and exciting, with lion tamers facing off against dangerous animals and trapeze artists defying gravity overhead. But circuses also have a darker side, and I'm not just talking about the clowns. When the laughter has faded and the tense have come down, there's often an unsettling, empty feeling that descends upon anyone who is still there. And in Edmond, Oklahoma, that sensation is felt most

at Gandini's Circus Camp. Edmond is a suburb of Oklahoma City and looks like any normal town with chain eateries and other local businesses. But head over to Gandini's Circus Camp and things look a lot different. Why it has that name is unclear, as historians have failed to turn up any actual circus in the area by that name, but it suggested that a troupe known as Gandini's had used it as a circus camp from the early 1900s through the 1930s, until a devastating fire forced them out. After they left, the Hagen and Clyde Brothers Circus used it as their winter quarters from the 1940s through the 1970s, and that made it a local business.

The Clyde Brothers Circus was founded in 1943 by Edmund local Howard Suez, a former big band musician who fell in with the circus troupe after they performed together. Howard Suez also founded the Hagen Brothers Circus, and he paired them together with the Clyde Brothers performing in indoor arenas and the Hagenbrothers playing in outdoor tents. Then Edmund made a perfect winter home for all of that. It was affordable, the weather wasn't too harsh, and it was close to the railroad. But the performers weren't the only ones staying in town during the cold winter months. The animals did too, with their keepers living on-site.

Over the years, the circus menageries included elephants, bears, lions, tigers, chimpanzees, ponies, llamas, snakes, and coyotes. Unfortunately, the circus days of Howard Suez ended around 1976, when he sold everything off. After his death in the 1980s, he deeded the land in Edmond to his lion tamer, José Bureta. And Bureta had seen a lot in his time with the circus, including his life flashing before his eyes. He'd been feeding a 400-pound black bear when the animal suddenly lunged and attacked

him. It mauled his leg, arm, and hip. But Bereta survived. He believed it was the scent of the lion on his clothes that had caused the bear to react the way it had. Today, the land is owned by Boreda's son, but it's a shadow of its former self. What little remains is covered in graffiti and rust.

Unsurprisingly, this rundown old camp has also sparked a slew of local legends. One claims that clowns were once burned alive in a tragic accident at the campsite. Another suggests that a ringmaster was hiding a dark secret, that he would kidnap children and murder them. And of course, these stories have evolved beyond urban legends. Ask anyone living nearby and you're likely to hear about how the old Gandini Circus camp

is haunted. Disembodied voices, distant laughter, and blood-curdling screams have all been reported. Some have even claimed they've conversed with one of those voices. Occasionally, someone might hear the roar of a lion or a bear as well. But perhaps the most terrifying sight is that of a shadowy figure walking the grounds. It's been described as an unnaturally tall person clad entirely in black. It doesn't speak. It simply walks from one cage to another, like it's inspecting them.

According to one witness who spotted the figure while visiting the camp, it stopped its check on the cages and turned toward them. The figure had no eyes, they say, and no expression. It just stood there, waiting for them to leave. This episode of Lore Legends was produced by me, Aaron Manke, with writing by Harry Marks, research by Cassandra Dayalba, and editing by Alex Robinson. Don't like hearing the ads? I've got a solution for you.

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