Lore - Episode 20: Homestead

Episode Date: November 2, 2015

Home is where the heart is. It’s where we build our lives and celebrate the things we love. But it can also be the center of tragedy and darkness. On many different levels, there’s no place like home. ———————————————— 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.

Home, sweet home. For most of us, those words aren't about as true as it gets. The place we call home can easily become the center of our universe. That is often the source of our feelings of security and peace. Most people who tell you stories about their childhood home, do so with wide eyes and a wistful smile. Home is, as they say, where the heart is. Our home is the place where we experience life.

We fill each room with our laughter. We chase our passions. We make plans for the future. You might remember holidays in the living room, a breakfast conversations or exploring the attic on a winter day. These homes, nothing more than buildings that we dwell in, somehow become a part of us. But life isn't always roses and laughter.

Sometimes the things we experience are difficult or painful or both. Sometimes people do things that leave a lasting mark like an echo that carries on through the years. And upon occasion, these dark moments are even experienced within our home. From Macbeth to American Horror Story, from the typewriters of Shirley Jackson and Stephen King, it has been made abundantly clear just how much power a home can have over our lives.

Maybe it's the tragedy or the memories. Maybe it's the dark acts committed in the shadows or the secrets buried beneath the foundations. Both metaphorical and literal. Whatever the reason, it doesn't take a popular novelist or a historian to point out the simple truth. There's no place like home. And considering what's been known to happen there,

that might be a good thing. I'm Aaron Mankey and this is Lore. When Christopher and Elizabeth Crawley built their home in the new South Wales town of Juni in southeastern Australia, they envisioned a normal happy future for themselves. Christopher Crawley had caught wind of the impending construction of the Great Southern Railway Line through Juni. And so he built the railway hotel across from the station and it paid off. In 1884, they finished construction on a new home they called Monte Cristo.

It wasn't a mansion by any stretch of the imagination, but it did have nine rooms, a stable for his prized racehorse, a dairy barn and a separate ballroom, although that eventually became the servants quarters. But life wasn't idyllic for the Crawley family. While carrying one of the little Crawley girls, their nanny dropped her down the stairs where she died from the injuries. She claimed that an unseen force had reached out and knocked the child from her arms.

Whatever the cause, the Crawleys had to go through the ordeal of burying the child, something no parent should have to endure. In 1910, Mr. Crawley's starched shirt collars began to rub the skin on his neck. The abscess that formed became gangrenous. And by December of that year, he died as a result of a heart attack brought on, they say, by the wound. After her husband's death, Elizabeth, already known to be a harsh, disciplined woman, went into a state of mourning that lasted the rest of her life.

She converted one of the upstairs rooms into a chapel and spent much of her time there. According to local lore, she only left the house twice before her death in 1933. Other tragedies found their way into Monte Cristo, a pregnant maid committed suicide by jumping from the top story of the house. She bled to death on the front steps. Morris, the stable boy, burned to death in a fire. And in 1961, the caretaker of the house was shot and killed by a local boy who had been inspired by the recent Hitchcock film, Psycho.

Today, many young children feel anxious near the stairs. A dark stain has been seen on the front steps of the house, but it seems to fade in and out of view over time. The shape of a young woman in white gown has been witnessed passing in front of the windows of the front balcony. And some believe it's the spirit of the pregnant maid, repeating her final moments over and over. Others claim to have seen a young boy wandering around near the site of the coach house.

A few visitors to the house have witnessed the figure of an older man in the upstairs hallway, and most have assumed it to be Mr. Crawley. But it's his wife, Elizabeth, who is most commonly seen, almost as if she hasn't fully let go of her home yet. She has been reported to appear in the dining room, where she's ordered people to leave the room. Others have seen her ghostly figure in the chapel upstairs, dressed in black as if mourning for a lost loved one.

Across the world in the state of Kentucky, another home became the scene of tragedy and pain. Their names have slipped from history, but in Allen County, one of the families there in the early 1860s owned a number of slaves. According to local stories, most of the slaves lived in their own quarters on the property, but the husband kept chains in the basement of the family home four times when he wanted to discipline one or two of them. When the Civil War broke out,

word began to spread among the slaves of the South that it would be better to escape and run north, so plans were made in their small dormitory over many weeks. Finally, the night came, and the entire group of slaves left the homestead and headed north. All of them, that is, except for the two, still chained up in the basement of the owner's home. Whether it was the noise of their escape,

or part of his usual evening rounds, the man soon discovered that his slaves were gone. The stories describe how he spent hours that night on horseback with his gun, riding north and looking for his runaway slaves, but they were never found. Instead, the man returned home empty-handed and full of rage. Fueled by his anger, he descended into the basement where he shot and killed both captive men.

Later, after he had cooled off, he was said to have buried the bodies there in the dirt floor of the cellar. And then, months later, the man was called into service with the Confederate army, where he died in battle. The widow never opened the cellar door again. In fact, even though it was in the middle of the house, she hadn't boarded up.

There's a lot of symbolism in that single action, if you're looking for that sort of thing. I think she just wanted to make sure no one ever found the bodies her husband had buried beneath the dirt floor down there. She passed away a few years later due to illness, and the house was sold to distant relatives. When the new family began to move in, they opened the cellar and discovered that it reeked with a powerful odor.

They vented the space and cleaned it as best they could, but the smell never went away. It wasn't long before their children began to tell them about hearing sounds at night that seemed to come from the cellar. They dismissed it as childhood fantasies, but the stories continued. One night, many months later, the husband and wife were both pulled from sleep by strange sounds.

She stayed in bed while he went down to investigate. From their room, she claimed she heard a loud cry, and then a crash. She raced out of bed and ran to the cellar door. When she got there, she found her husband. He was lying dead on the dirt floor at the bottom of the cellar stairs. His neck broken and twisted. There are many stories like these, but they all teach the same bitter lesson. Sometimes our homes attract tragedy, and sometimes we create it ourselves.

When Daniel Benton built his small, red, cape-style home in Tallinn, Connecticut, I doubt he imagined it would still be standing today. It's not enormous like some of the plantation homes one might find in the south, but for a house built in 1720, it was comfortable. And in complete contrast to our modern, mobile life of the 21st century, it stayed in the Benton family until 1932. That's over 210 years for those of you who are counting. And that's a very long time.

The family grew. And by the 1770s, Daniel Benton had three grown grandsons who lived in the house with him. One of them, Elisha, had taken an interest in a young woman in town named Jemima Barrows. She was the daughter of a cabinetmaker and in a social station below that of the Bentons. And so Elisha's family looked down on the romance. They did everything they could to discourage them, but Elisha and Jemima were stubborn. In 1775, an alarm was raised in Lexington, Massachusetts that was heard across the countryside thanks to riders like Paul Revere.

Colonists from all across New England came to join the fight, and among them were the three Benton grandchildren. While Daniel Benton was sad to see his grandchildren go off to war, there was some relief knowing that the separation just might be the thing that Elisha needed to take his mind off the young woman. It is thought by historians that Daniel hoped the war might bring an end to their relationship forever. He was only partly right. A year later in 1776, all three of the Benton brothers were captured by British forces

and taken to Long Island, where they were imprisoned on ships in the sound. These prison ships were notorious for their unsanitary conditions and the diseases that ran wild through the inmates. It was even thought that the British soldiers working the ships actually handed out food and bedding that was contaminated with smallpox. Soon Daniel Benton received word that the two oldest of his grandsons had died while aboard the prison ships, but no word came of the whereabouts of Elisha. He sent for news and waited impatiently.

But before he could learn the truth, Daniel Benton passed away. It was weeks later when the answer finally came. Elisha was free and being brought home, but he was sick with smallpox. This was bitter sweet news for the Benton family. On one hand, Elisha was coming home. That was good for everyone, but on the other, smallpox was deadly. Nearly half of everyone who contracted the disease eventually died, and those were not the kind of odds that gave people hope.

The soldiers brought Elisha into the house, and he was guided straight to a room near the kitchen known as the dying and mourning room, where those giving birth or sick with illness could be kept away from the rest of the house and cared for. It was a colonial American version of quarantine and intensive care. But the word spread of Elisha's return. Not every son and grandson returned from war, something even homes today still deal with. And one of those who caught wind of the young Benton's arrival was Jemima Barrows. She had waited and stayed true to her beloved, and there was nothing she had hoped for more.

Elisha had come home. I imagine she ran rather quickly to the doorstep of the Benton home. I would imagine that she knocked as well, being from a lower social status after all. But it must have been hard for her not to kick the door in and race to find her beloved. Jemima knew her place, though, and she waited for someone to come to the door. She was told that Elisha was sick and that she needed to go back home. But Jemima turned out to be a very stubborn young woman. Even when they told her that he was dying and sick with a highly contagious and deadly disease,

she wouldn't relent. And in the end, she won. Jemima was allowed into the house, where she set herself up as his sole caretaker and nurse. After a time, Jemima's parents became worried. Their daughter hadn't come home all day, and so they made their way to the Benton home and asked if they had seen her. When they discovered that she was, in fact, in the room caring for a smallpox patient, it is said that they wept.

Jemima's mother said they would go back home and get clothing for their daughter, and then they quickly left the Benton house. They never came back. Elisha Benton died on January 21, 1776, after weeks of battling the smallpox that ravaged his body. Jemima stayed by his side the entire time, caring for him through it all. But her sacrifice did not come without a price. In the final days of Elisha's life, she too began to show signs of the illness. Within weeks, she was also dead.

The couple was buried on the Benton family property, alongside the stone walls that lined the road to the house. But due to burial customs at the time, they were not allowed to share the same plot. Instead, they were separated by about 40 feet, one grave on either side of the road. It sounds like the end of a tragic story, and in some ways it is. Elisha and Jemima were never able to marry, and their young lives were cut short. But in other ways, they live on. According to some, it is their separation outside that has led to the reports of the

restless spirits within the home. The Benton home was sold in 1932, and then again in 1969 to the Talland Historical Society. It was converted into a museum shortly after, but the influx of visitors only served to draw out more reports of mysterious occurrences. One member of the staff claimed that her dog would not enter the dining room. When she picked the animal up and moved it to the sitting room, it refused to go anywhere else after that. Others have felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding and unwelcome.

One woman, after cheerfully asking to visit the second floor, climbed the narrow staircase, only to return moments later, telling the staff, I never want to go up there again. Noises have been heard throughout the house that are difficult to explain. Knocking, woodsteps, and what sounds like the snapping of branches have all been reported by visitors. Some have even heard what sounds like distant voices, and sometimes the movement of furniture. Others have heard what they describe as a weeping woman, someone who is mourning a deep loss. Those familiar with the homestead's past have assumed the woman is Jemima.

Crying for her lost love. A few have even seen the figure of a young woman in a white dress in various places in the house, searching for something no one else can see. At times, the home has been used by overnight guests. One couple actually lived there for a few weeks while their home was being renovated, and on one occasion entertained a guest of their own. They claim that, on the night of their friend's visit, the conversation in front of the fireplace was interrupted by the sound of footsteps thumping down the hallway from the eastern door of the home. The sounds moved closer and closer to the living room, and then just stopped. According to the woman, their guest was packed and gone within 15 minutes.

Another couple who stayed overnight in the Benton homestead reported a very odd experience that happened during their stay. Their hosts had retired to sleep upstairs, and they themselves had settled down in the living room, which was serving double duty as a guest room. The wife claims that she was awoken in the middle of the night. It was nearly completely dark in the room, but she felt as if someone or something were in the room with her. And then, as if materializing out of the darkness, a pair of legs appeared near the head of the bed. A man, she assumed, was standing there, close to her. Her first assumption was that her host had come down to play a joke on her. Maybe that's the kind of guy he was, but the middle of the night is

probably the worst time to play the joker, no matter who you are. Either way, she decided to call his bluff and wait to see what he would do. Nothing could have repaired her for what happened next, though. A hand came out of the darkness and quickly covered her mouth. She flinched, but held her ground. If he was going to try and frighten her, she said. He was in for a surprise. She pretended not to care, but after a few moments, it became hard to breathe, and in the end, panic took over. Pushing the hand away, she sat up and whispered harshly at the figure, What are you up to? Almost instantly, everything vanished. The legs, the hand, all of it. Just gone. The following morning, she brought up her experience at breakfast and asked the hosting

couple what the reason was for their prank. The husband and wife looked at each other with confused expressions on their faces. They each made the same claim. No one had come downstairs during the night. The places we live can take on a certain life of their own. We fill them with our personality, our celebrations, and sometimes even our tragedy. And although we can move on, whether by packing up and moving out or literally by leaving this life behind, we often leave pieces of ourselves behind. Like a cardboard box forgotten in the back corner of the attic, some of our echoes stay behind where others can discover them.

Some call them ghosts. Others think of them as bad vibrations. I don't think any of us would be wrong no matter what language we use. In the end, something stays behind and it's not always easy to see. Sometimes, though, it is. A few years ago, an architectural photographer visited the Benton Homestead with his sister in order to get some pictures for a project they were collaborating on. They wandered the property outside looking for the best view of the house. It's gorgeous, really, if you have a thing for antique first-period homes, and the deep red paint on the wood clabbered is very classy and elegant. The project involved using Polaroid cameras, the kind that immediately kicks out a small

white-frame photograph that slowly fades into clarity. When they found the perfect place to shoot the house, very near to the graves of Elisha and Jemima, incidentally, the photographer took a picture. Something was wrong with the photo, so he took another. That one too seemed wrong. He showed his sister and they tried a third, then a fourth, and then a fifth and a sixth. Finally, they switched to a backup camera, one that had just come back from a camera shop where it had been repaired. But the photographs that came out of the new camera were the same. It wasn't the camera they realized, it was the house. All of the defective photos had the same flaw, as clear and easy to spot as the house itself.

There, in each image, the second-story window was glowing, as if something bright and hazy were just behind the glass. Take pride in your home with the new Swiffer Power Mop. The new Swiffer Power Mop gives you a mop and bucket clean in just half the time, leaving you more time to enjoy your home with the ones you love most. Swiffer is proud to sponsor iHeartRadio's Can't Cancel Pride 2023, an evening honoring the LGBTQ plus community and celebrating organizations creating a more inclusive and equal world. Learn more at Can'tCancelPride.com 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.