Lore - Lore 259: Where the Heart Is

Episode Date: July 29, 2024

Often the places that are closest to our hearts are the most vulnerable to being haunted. Which is why, even in folklore, there’s no place like home. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with research and writing by GennaRose Nethercott, and music by Chad Lawson. ————————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  All the shows from Grim & Mild: www.grimandmild.com Sponsors: BetterHelp: Lore is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at BetterHelp.com/LORE, and get on your way to being your best self. Quince: Premium European clothing and accessories for 50% to 80% less than similar brands, at Quince.com/LORE for free shipping on your order and 365-day returns. 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.

By 1990, rumors about the old house had already been spreading for years. Local children whispered of poltergeists, of phantom voices wafting from empty rooms. The residents claimed that spirits shook the beds, and a man had even appeared hovering mid-air in the living room. Yes, just about everyone in the town of Nyack, New York knew the place was haunted. Everyone that is, except for Jeffrey Strambovsky. Which was too bad, because Jeffrey was the one person who really should have been informed. You see, he was the one who was buying it.

By the time he learned about the house's otherworldly inhabitants, it was too late. Jeffrey had already put down a $32,500 deposit and signed a contract. But that didn't stop him from trying to get out of the deal. He wasn't spooked by the ghosts, mind you. He was more afraid that the rumors would plummet the property value. But a contract is a contract, and so when he tried to break it, the sellers took him to court. What followed was a trial that would go down in history.

In the end, Strambovski vs. Ackley, later known as the Ghostbuster ruling, ended up changing real estate law forever. The verdict? That sellers were legally required to disclose a house's haunted reputation before selling. And it's from this case that we get one of the greatest soundbites ever uttered in a courtroom. As a matter of law, the justices announced in closing, the house is haunted. Ultimately, it didn't matter whether the house was really haunted or not. The belief that it was had been enough.

And belief, as you know, can often behave like poison. Because sometimes a little goes a very long way. I'm Aaron Manke, and yet no one would live there. It wasn't a high price tag or the threat of repairs that kept people away. No, it was the rumors. This house, you see, just like the one in Nyack was said to be haunted. The pattern was always the same. Every so often a family would move in

and all would be well at first. That is until they were awoken in the dead of night to a sound like clashing iron and rattling chains. The terrible noise would grow nearer and nearer. And then at last an emaciated old man would appear. He was squalid, with a long beard and disheveled hair, but his most startling feature? Why that would be the shackles, of course, bound to his hands and feet.

Suffice to say, it wasn't the best living situation, and understandably the house was eventually deserted. At least for a while. One day a new fella came to town and happened upon a piece of real estate that was wildly cheaper than the rest. The man was suspicious, sure, but unlike Jeffrey Strombowski, when the neighbors confessed that the low price tag was because of a pesky little ghost, this man shrugged it off and moved in.

Better than termites, right? That night he plopped down on the couch, took out his pen and papers, and settled in to do a bit of work. He had hardly started writing though before a telltale rattle filled the air. And suddenly, lo and behold, the phantom man stood before him, just as described. But look, this guy, he had stuff to do, so he waved the ghost off and went back to his writing. Bold, I know.

But the rattling grew louder, and the ghost drew nearer, hovering right over the man's head now, and this ghost was doing more than just hovering and rattling. He was beckoning, as if asking the man to follow. And follow he did. Through the house, out the door, and into the yard, where suddenly the ghost vanished into thin air. So the following day, the man, along with a few town magistrates, dug in the spot where the spirit had disappeared, and there, buried in the earth, was the decayed corpse of an old man, wrapped in metal chains.

Now, if you've been imagining a crumbling Victorian mansion, you would be off the mark. Because when this story was written down, Victorian mansions, while they hadn't exactly been Now, if you've been imagining a crumbling Victorian mansion, you would be off the mark. Because when this story was written down, Victorian mansions, well, they hadn't exactly been invented yet. The Victorian era was in the 1800s, but this particular spooky tale, although it might sound a lot like your typical ghost story today, is actually almost 2,000 years old and was penned by none other than Pliny the Younger. That's right, haunted house stories are no modern genre, as it turns out they're actually

ancient, and Pliny the Younger's ghost story is not unique. In fact, most haunted house tales of antiquity followed a similar pattern. Someone is murdered on the property, the property gets a bad reputation for being haunted, and then a wise, brave man, often a philosopher, shows up and courageously bests the ghost, and in the end, remains are discovered and properly buried, after which the hauntings stop. And it's worth taking note of that last part.

Proper burial was a big deal in ancient cultures. It was essential for public health to stave off the spread of disease, and important for ritual and religious purposes, too. So these ghost stories were really cautionary tales. Don't murder people, sure. But what they were really warning against was improper burial. Bury your dead correctly, the stories taught, because if not, the ghosts will rise and they would not be happy. Now Pliny's story may be one of the most influential

early haunted house tales, but it isn't the oldest. The actual oldest surviving haunted house story in Greek and Roman literature is called Mastellaria or the haunted house and was first performed around 200 BCE. It was written by Roman playwright Plautus who had based his work on an even older play called Phasma from the year 288 BCE. Or at least we think so. Copies of Phasma didn't actually survive, which is how Mastelaria can boast the oldest haunted story title. The funny thing about Mastelaria, though, is that it isn't actually a horror, but a comedy. In the play, a character named Trano convinces everyone that the house they're in is haunted. Hijinks ensue.

Oh, and the play also includes singing bats. Lots of singing bats. Of course, the concept of ghosts themselves is much older. I mean, like 50,000 years older. According to Irving Finkle, scholar of ancient ghosts, which, quick aside, might be the coolest job of all time, the idea of ghosts probably began in the Upper Paleolithic period, perhaps as far back as 50,000 BCE. And if you're like me, you're probably wondering, how could we possibly know that?

Well, from peeking into ancient graves, of course. 50,000 BCE is when the habit of, quote, burial with bits started, or rather the custom of burying people with objects and supplies. According to Finkel, this practice implies the existence of three things. First, that something of us survives after death.

Second, that something separates from our body and escapes and goes elsewhere. And third, if that thing exists and escapes, it's only reasonable to assume it might show up again. Now, just because we've had ghosts for ages doesn't mean that they've always looked the same. They weren't always transparent. Sometimes they would appear as solid as you or I. The earliest known visual depiction of a ghost is thought to be embedded in an ancient Babylonian cuneiform tablet from around 1500 BCE, now housed at the British Museum. And the tablet gives instructions on how to exorcise a ghost. A ritual that involves sunrise, a few magic words, some figurines to trap the ghosts inside,

and of course a couple of hearty jugs of beer, because no exorcism is complete without beer. And this fierce belief that the dead have the power to come back spans across time and geography, religions and cultures. It seems there is something hardwired into us that makes us incapable of fathoming that life might truly have an end. And of course, just as long as we've had deaths to ponder, we've had lives to deal with it,

lives that rely on shelter. So perhaps it's no surprise that as the ghost has evolved over time, so too has the haunted house. Ghosts are everywhere. There are the yuurei of Japan, spirits of the dead tethered to a specific place, often right where they died, who will bring misfortune on the living. In Korea, when a woman dies before ever having intercourse, she becomes a virgin ghost, a cruel spirit who haunts abandoned buildings, tormenting young women.

Kenya has tales of the shinaietsu, ghosts who live in holes, but scurry up in the form of white lizards to haunt the homes of sick people, biting and stepping on the ill person until they die. In Russia, a haunted house isn't necessarily due to a murder or a death, but rather haunted by an array of non-human house spirits like the domovoy or the kikimora. These tiny deities protect the house and its inhabitants rather than threaten them, at least as long as you feed them well. If not, all bets are off. And look, I could spend the rest of this episode naming examples

of domestic spirits and we still wouldn't get to all of them. Haunted houses, it seems, are nearly as common as, well, houses themselves. But why is this one specific type of story so common across cultures and centuries? Well, think about it. Our homes are supposed to be places of refuge, a port in the storm, as they say, the one haven that's safe and familiar and ours. So when an outside force violates that, it chills us in a way few other threats do. Be it predator or soldier, natural disaster or burglar, the fear of a home invasion is ancient and ubiquitous. But a force we can't touch, can't stop, an entity that locks and bolts won't work

on? That's downright horrifying. An intruder you can kill, but a ghost, like a disease or a dangerous idea, you cannot. And suddenly, right there within the only place in this world you thought we had control, your control is stripped away. There's an inescapability to it. A ghost out in the world we can simply leave alone, walk away from, but inside our homes. There's nowhere else to go, at least not without making major sacrifices. So understandably, haunted house stories have popped up everywhere and are as varied as

they are widespread. But when it comes to haunted house stories in Western culture, specifically Western literature, there's a pretty recognizable formula. You know, crumbling castles, gothic spires, dark and stormy nights. And as it turns out, we can trace that entire genre back to one specific book. It's called The Castle of Otranto, and it was written in 1764 by Horace Walpole, who just so happened to be the son of the British Prime Minister. And this isn't just any book. The Castle of Otranto is actually considered to be the very first Gothic novel ever written.

And let me tell you, this book's got everything. Talking skeletons, mysterious deaths caused by falling medieval armor, ladies locked in high towers, giant ghosts, mistaken identities, and accidental stabbings. All tucked into an Italian Gothic castle. Now mind you, Gothic castles weren't really associated with hauntings then the way that they are now. So why did Walpole choose to set his story in one? Well, it's because he was an absolute medieval history nerd.

In fact, 15 years prior, he'd even built a fake Gothic castle of his own, which he named Strawberry Hill House. And so when it came time to write a book, he actually used his own personal castle as the setting. To this day, we associate looming Gothic architecture with hauntings, all because Horace had a fake castle in his backyard. But it isn't just the Gothic that gives us the shivers. There's another architectural style that signals all things unnatural.

That is, the Victorian. We've come to sort of lump Victorian houses and Gothic buildings together under the general umbrella of spooky, but in reality these styles come from very different time periods. In fact, Victorian houses were considered quite modern and trendy in their day. In the 1870s, buildings with mansard roofs and gingerbread ornamentation were all the rage, but then, just like all trends do, they fell out of fashion. Victorian style gave way to modernism, the clean, sleek lines and minimalists of architects like Frank Lloyd Wright, in other words, the absolute opposite of a Victorian house.

And all of a sudden, that character that had once made Victorian architecture so popular was now considered tacky and excessive. Which, let's be clear, I fully disagree with. Give me an eclectic old house over dull and tidy any day. But to the people of the early 1900s, these houses were more than just ugly. They were also haunted with a very specific kind of ghost. The past. Think about it within the context of the time period. Returning from the horrors of World War I, soldiers looked at those houses and factories of their Victorian forefathers and saw only pain. These buildings represented the generation that had led them to the slaughter, a reminder of corruption,

of impending war. In short, the houses became symbols of death. As you could expect, no one was really buying Victorian houses after that, and so abandoned Victorians were everywhere. Of course, being empty and decayed made them even creepier. With all of that, it didn't take long for novelists and screenplay writers to start making use of them. Already associated with a sense of discomfort and dread, these houses became a quick and easy way to unsettle an audience. Murder mysteries, and later spooky films and TV shows, began to be set

in, that's right, Victorian houses. After all, if you want to scare an audience, why not use something that they're already afraid of? In other words, the haunted house is a tool. A tool used to frighten, to signal a particular type of story, and at times, even to manipulate. Every family has at least one legend of a house that's a little, well, off. And if you're thinking, not my family, just ask your aunts and uncles or cousins or grandparents, hey, have you ever lived in a haunted house? I guarantee you someone will launch into an anecdote about a basement they hated to go into or a kitchen cabinet flying open all on its own.

But despite the bounty of haunted houses, there are a few that stand out above the rest. Houses that are so haunted they've catapulted out of simple family lore and become national sensations. Take for example 112 Ocean Avenue, or as you may know it, the Amityville Horror. Here's the thing though, there's something that you might not know about this famous legend. Because, you see, it wasn't ghosts that made 112 Ocean Avenue in Amityville, New York so famous.

No, it was something far more dangerous. Money. We begin with murder. I'll spare you the honestly horrific details, but what you need to know is this. On November 13th of 1974, the entire DeFeo family was shot to death in their beds. There were the parents, Ronald and Louise, plus their 18-year-old daughter Dawn, the 13-year-old Allison, 12-year-old Mark, and the youngest child John, who was only nine. Six lives snuffed out in a single night. But there was a sole survivor,

the DeFeo's oldest son Butch, who was 23 years old at the time. Although survivor might not be the right word. You see, it was Butch DeFeo himself who confessed to killing his family. And for his crimes, he was given six sentences of 25 years to life. With Butch locked away and the rest of the family gone, their once beloved home fell empty. Now, you would think that a place with a history like this would be an uphill climb on the housing market, but just a year later, the place sold. Sure, it had been the site of a grisly mass murder, but at only $80,000 for a six-bedroom Dutch colonial house, it was a steal.

They couldn't not afford to buy it. And by they, I mean a couple named George and Kathy Lutz. And so, with the paperwork signed and the bloodstained scrub clean, George and Kathy moved in, three children of their own in tow. And this is where the story veers off from the one that you may have heard. Because, you see, the Lutzes weren't just interested in saving money when they bought the Amityville house. No, they were interested in making it. And so, as soon as they entered, they began to put their plan in motion. A plan that would soon prove to be one of the most successful paranormal hoaxes in history. The family spent 28

days in the former DeFeo house before fleeing in theatrical panic. And where did they go? Well, right into the office of the eagerly waiting William Weber, none other than Butch DeFeo's attorney. That's right, the new homeowners and the killer's lawyer were in cahoots. Together, the group cracked open a bottle of wine, sat down, and began to weave a tale of terror. According to the story the Lutzes and Weber concocted, a priest had come to bless the

house who, upon flicking holy water in the space, had heard a low masculine voice growl the words, Get Out. Later, after leaving, the priest developed a fever and his hands bubbled with blisters. They wrote of sinister forces taking over the home, of doors ripped from their hinges, of smashed windows, of mysterious winds and bent locks. There was greenish black slime oozing from the ceiling and the walls of 112 Ocean Avenue. A crucifix turned upside down on the wall. One room had become infested with hundreds of houseflies, despite it being the dead of

winter. And it got worse from there. The Lutzes claimed that George had awoken one night to find Kathy levitating over the bed. That's invisible hands had groped and grabbed at Kathy. And outside in the snow, cloven footprints appeared encircling the family home. There was even a description of, and this one seems way out of left field, an invisible pig named Jodie with glowing red eyes who befriended Kathy's daughter. Now there was just one problem with this whole story, though. None of it was true. And really, anyone who spent five minutes in the house would know it.

For example, all those hinges and doors and cabinets that had supposedly been destroyed, one glance would show that they were all still in perfectly good original condition with no evidence of repairs. The cloven hoof prints in the snow? Well there hadn't been any snow on the ground in the months when the Lutzes lived there. Oh, and remember that priest with the blistered hands? That very priest testified that he had never experienced the fever and the blisters as the Lutzes had claimed. But hey, George, Kathy, and William Weber didn't care about plot holes, and more importantly,

neither did the public. We created this horror story over many bottles of wine that George Lutz was drinking, Weber later told the Associated Press. We were creating something the public wanted to hear about. Why would they go to all of this trouble? Well, it's pretty simple, really. Think of it as a math equation. A high-profile murder case plus a terrifying ghost story plus the book deals, national

tours and movie deals to back it up equals cold hard cash. And the Lutzs and Weber alike would get to dip a hand into the pot. The Lutzes eventually split with Weber, deciding to go with a different, higher-paying book deal for their story instead, with writer Jay Anson attached, which didn't make Weber too happy, hence him finally admitting to the hoax. What followed was a whole lot of legal rigamarole and various lawsuits, but in the end, one thing came out of it.

A massive, lucrative franchise. Jay Anson's book titled The Amityville Horror sold more than three million copies. The major motion picture that followed grossed over $80 million, and all the while, the Lutz family gladly toured the country promoting their so-called true story. Suddenly, what had started as the site of a tragedy had become a cash cow, and everyone wanted in. On March 6th of 1976, famous paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren decided to host a seance in the house.

Naturally, they invited Channel 5 News, you know, out of the goodness of their hearts, certainly not for fame and fortune. During the seance, Lorraine claimed that she had an encounter with Butch's spirit, never mind the fact that Butch was very much still alive, and also insistent that none of the rumors were true and that he was being exploited. Amityville was a hoax that Weber and the Lutzes started, Butch said publicly. Yes, to make money. It started as my trial was in progress. But the psychics did plenty of their own moaning and groaning to make sure that things were exciting.

And it wouldn't be the last seance in 112 Ocean Avenue. At another seance a little less than a year later, a different medium falsely claimed that the house had been built on, and this gets a big ol' eye roll from me, an Indian burial ground. And it wasn't until the end of the year that the house was built on that the seance a little less than a year later, a different medium falsely claimed the house had been built on, and this gets a big ol' eye roll from me, an Indian burial ground. He even said that Butch had likely been possessed by an angry Native American chief that forced him to kill his parents and siblings. Apparently exploiting a murdered family wasn't enough. They had to exploit indigenous peoples, too. But eventually Butch changed his tune and got on board, pushing the story along for a taste of the fame and a cut of the money.

And wildly, he and Weber hoped the ruse might even help with Butch's appeal. After all, if he had been possessed at the time of the killings, he couldn't be held responsible for the murders, now could he? In the end, it didn't help. Butch remained in prison, dying there in 2021, at the age of 69. Yet the legends only grew stronger, ultimately making the Amityville Horror one of the most famous haunted houses in history. Except, of course, for the fact that it wasn't haunted at all. Houses are containers. They hold so much of our lives, our loves and losses, our hopes and fears. The stories of entire families play out at kitchen tables or on living room sofas, or tucked into quiet bedrooms.

And listen, whether or not you believe that the dead can return to haunt us, there is no denying that our homes do contain a very specific kind of ghost. Memories. Just think about the last time you visited your childhood home. That rush of nostalgia. For better or for worse, it's impossible to step into a familiar room without running into these ghosts of our past, prior versions of our self, that only takes a small push to imagine them becoming solid again, becoming real.

In a way, every home is haunted. But some are haunted by more than just memory. Some homes, you see, are haunted by secrets. And it turns out there was another phenomenon Kathy and George Lutz experienced while in the DeFeo house, something beyond green slime and talking pigs. George's temper began to change. He started yelling at Kathy's children, who were from a prior marriage.

The couple were only recently married, and she said she had never seen him behave that way before. In fact, in the book written by Jay Anson, it claims that on day four of living in the house, Cathy and George both beat the children with a strap and a heavy wooden spoon. But they didn't own up to this abuse themselves. No, the book implies that the ghosts were responsible. The evil within the house had apparently driven the couple to violence and made their children unruly.

And this might just be the hearts of the whole Amityville story. The hearts of most haunted house stories, really. Because when faced with the truth of the world around us, all of humanity's cruelty, along with the shame of our own actions, isn't it just a whole lot easier to blame a ghost instead? Haunted house tales are just about as universal as stories get. Setting aside whether or not they are true, we'd be hard-pressed to find many adults around us today who haven't heard a story set inside one. But of course the Amityville horror isn't the only famous haunted house around. In fact, there's a story about a cursed mansion

that I am just dying to share with you, and just like Amityville, the legends inside it aren't quite what they seem to be. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. This episode of Lore was sponsored by BetterHelp. When your schedule is packed with kids activities, big work projects, and so much more, it's easy to let your priorities slip. Honestly, even when we know what makes us happy,

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to get free shipping and 365-day returns. Quince.com slash Lore. We'll start with the legend. After all, it's the legends that endure long after the facts fizzle out. And that is certainly the case for the Winchester Mystery House. We've all heard it before, right? A labyrinth of a mansion in San Jose, California. It had once belonged to a woman named Sarah Winchester. She was the widow of William Winchester, heir to the Winchester Rifle Empire, and after

William died, she used the company's riches to build a vast, lavish house in which to live out her old age. But there was a catch. Sarah, as the story goes, had inherited much more than just money. She had also inherited ghosts. And not just any ghosts either, but the spirits of all those who had been killed by none other than the Winchester rifle. According to the legend, she consulted a medium about how to appease these spirits, and the medium provided her with a simple solution.

All she had to do was move to California and build a house large enough for all the ghosts, plus Sarah herself, to call home. Basically a McMansion for the dead. And that's exactly what Sarah did. Don't worry though, she took precautions. She designed the blueprints to be as twisty and confusing as possible to throw off the angry spirits and keep them at bay. After all, if the ghosts couldn't find their way around the house, then they wouldn't be able to find Sarah herself. It was a solid plan, but there was one small caveat. The building process could never end, because as soon as construction stopped, the ghosts

would track her down and seek their revenge. Luckily though, Sarah was loaded, and so she built and built and built, and the house grew with every step. It didn't matter what was being built, only that construction was taking place, and so the manor filled up with staircases to nowhere, doors that opened into thin air, and room upon room with no function or purpose. And to help, they say that Sarah slept in a different bedroom every night to keep herself safe.

And it worked. Except, here's the thing. As appealing as it is, the story just isn't true. But don't worry, the real tale behind the Winchester Mystery House is just as fascinating as the lies. The real Sarah Winchester was indeed the heiress to the Winchester fortune. But she wasn't some spooked housewife. In fact, Sarah was kind of a genius.

Born in roughly 1839 in New Haven, Connecticut, Sarah Winchester, or Sarah Lockwood Pardee, as she was called back then, was something of a child prodigy. By only 12 years old, she was already fluent in Latin, French, Spanish, and Italian, and had an intimate knowledge of Homer and Shakespeare. Plus, she was a talented musician as well. Growing up near Yale University, young Sarah was steeped in Freemasonry and Rosicrucian philosophy from an early age. She was even admitted to Yale's only women's branch at the time, known as the Young Ladies Collegiate Institute. And it was during her years at Yale that she met her future husband, fellow student William

Wirt Winchester. Say that one ten times fast. William's father owned the Winchester Repeating Arms Company, manufacturers of the famed Winchester rifle. In other words, Sarah was about to marry into a lot of money. The happy couple wed on September 30th of 1862, and four years later, Sarah gave birth to a daughter. But little did Sarah know these joyful beginnings would soon give way to tragedy.

Their newborn child wasn't well, and she passed away only 40 days later in August of 1866. The couple would never have another child. Then William himself passed away in 1881 from tuberculosis. He was only 42, and suddenly, Sarah found herself utterly and completely alone. Well, alone with $20 million, that is. Not to mention nearly 50% of the Winchester Arms stock. Overnight Sarah had become one of the wealthiest women in the world. She did what any of us might do after coming into money.

She bought a beautiful farmhouse way out in California. And no, she didn't choose the area because a medium told her to. She had family near there. And after the grief of losing her husband, her doctors and friends basically told her that she needed to move somewhere nice and go get a hobby. And boy did she take that advice to heart. Apparently when her doctor said hobby, Sarah took that as permission to start building one of the most deranged houses the world has

ever seen. A sprawling mansion that's generated nearly as many rumors as it has rooms. Of which there are between 500 and 600, by the way. Unfortunately though, many rooms were destroyed during an earthquake in 1906, leaving a measly 160 today. Which by the way is an explanation behind the staircases leading to nowhere and the dead-end doors, all just hasty repairs made after the earthquake. Within those 160 remaining rooms though, you'll find 10,000 windows, 2,000 doors, 47 stairways and fireplaces, 17 chimneys, 13 bathrooms, and six kitchens. Rotating shifts of construction workers labored 24 hours a day, seven days a week,

not even stopping for holidays. And who was designing all of this? That would be none other than Mrs. Winchester herself, the project's sole architect. She poured all of her creative energy into that house. She developed miles of maze-like corridors and twisting sole architect. She poured all of her creative energy into that house. She developed miles of maze-like corridors and twisting hallways. She played with scale, in which tiny doors led to large spaces and large doors led to very small ones. Oh, and Sarah may not have been a spiritualist, but she was into numerology. Remember, she had always been a brilliant thinker.

She was fascinated by geometry and the numeric ciphers of Francis Bacon, which she experimented with often. The number 13 was a particular favorite of hers. And just like anything Taylor Swift, once you start looking for it, you'll find it everywhere in the Winchester house. There are 13 stairs in the staircases, 13 lights per chandelier, 13 rails in the railings, 13 windows in a room, and more. Seven and Eleven also appear in her designs, as did complex masonic, rosicrucian, and kabbalistic symbols. In short, Sarah finally had a space to let her brilliance

run wild. Yet despite it all, rumors of madness and the occult swirled around her. She was ridiculed by society and dismissed as an eccentric, crazy old lady. And this is where the ghost rumors began. The architectural world couldn't accept that a woman, and not only a woman, but an elderly woman, could be a talented and dedicated architect. It was a male-dominated art form, after all, and Mrs. Winchester just didn't fit the mold. And so rather than recognize her for the innovator that she was, they just figured that, nope,

she must be doing all of this because she is terrified of ghosts. In the end, the gossip didn't even slow her down though. The only thing that would finally bring an end to the project was Sarah's own death in 1922. You see, in her 13-part will, which she signed 13 times, Sarah had her entire estate divided up among charities and faithful employees. And the house wasn't her only legacy. In fact, far from it. Remember, the mansion was just a hobby. Her life's work was something else entirely.

That is, the fight against the very illness that had stolen her husband from her, tuberculosis. In fact, most of her estate went to benefiting the William Wirt Winchester Hospital, a tuberculosis clinic back in New Haven. Her generous work saved countless lives. Architect, philosopher, philanthropist, polymath, Sarah Winchester was a formidable person. Summed up nicely in a quote from her lawyer, Samuel Lieb, after her death, she was sane and clear-headed a woman as I have ever known. She had a better grasp of business and financial affairs than most men.

That, it seems, should be her legacy. And yet most people only remember her today as that crazy ghost lady. This episode of Lore was produced by me, Erin Manke, with research and writing by Jenna Rose Nethercott and music by Chad Lawson. Don't like hearing ads? I've got a solution for you. There's a paid version of Lore on Apple Podcasts and Patreon that is 100% ad-free. Plus, subscribers also get weekly mini-episodes called Lore Bites.

It's a bargain for all of that ad-free storytelling and a great way to support this show and the team behind it. Lore is much more than just a podcast, though. There's a book series available in bookstores and online and two seasons of the television show on Amazon. Information about all of that and more is available over at LorePodcast.com. And you can also follow this show on threads, Instagram, Facebook and YouTube. Just search for Lore Podcast, all one word, and then click that follow button.

And when you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi. And as always, thanks for listening.