Lore - Legends 23: The Devil’s Chair

Episode Date: March 18, 2024

Graveyards are the resting place for a lot of spooky folklore. But one strange element from the Victorian era has stuck around long enough to acquire some frightening stories of its own. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with writing by Harry Marks and Aaron Mahnke, and research by Cassandra de Alba and Jamie Vargas. —————— 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. 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. Death comes for all of us. It's inevitable. But that doesn't make it any easier to swallow. Not only are we afraid of dying, of missing out on so much that life has to offer, but we also worry about losing the people closest to us. As C.S.

Lewis once wrote, no one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. Grief is, at the end of the day, an expression of loss. It's an emotion that none of us should ever have to experience, and yet most of us will, probably multiple times during our lives. Grief is a reminder that we loved, that the people in our lives made an impression and left a mark. Grief is healthy and normal, and so deeply painful, it can bring our lives to a stop.

So it shouldn't come as a surprise that we humans have become very good at making tools to help us manage that grief. Maybe it's a photo on the wall, or a holiday tradition that keeps a lost loved one's memory alive, or something special at their actual gravesite. And because cemeteries tend to have an eerie connotation, those little details, once designed to be handholds on the mountain of grief, slowly transform into something different, something darker. So, let's explore a bit of that graveyard folklore together here today. Because even though something started out life as an outlet for grief, all it takes

is a legend to transform them into a nightmare. Just be careful where you rest your bones, though, because not all seats are actually vacant. I'm Aaron Manke, and this is Lore Legends. As they say, there are two things that are certain in life, death and taxes. But there is a third thing that nobody wants to talk about, that we need to go somewhere when we die. I'm not talking existentially, I mean literally.

Our bodies need to be interred in a permanent location. We might be cremated and have our ashes stored or scattered somewhere meaningful, or we could have our remains donated to science. More often than not, though, most people plan on being buried in a cemetery. Before the 1830s, most Americans were buried in small churchyards and town burial grounds. But as the country's population grew, so too did our need for more room. Many church cemeteries buried their dead stacked on top of one another to save space. But that only worked for so long.

Soon enough, better solutions were required. This spurred the creation of the Victorian Rural Cemetery Movement. Large landscape burial grounds were created outside of city centers to give people a place to inter their dead, surrounded by the bucolic site of trees, grass, and flowers. But then something strange happened. The living started spending their time there as well. They headed to cemeteries for picnics and long walks.

Children played among the headstones while their parents sipped wine or read a book. It wasn't uncommon for hunters to chase wild game there or for young thrill-seekers to race carriages. But over time, the desire to party amongst the dead faded, and towns also got wise to the need for true public gathering spaces. So they created parks for families to picnic in, rather than force them to dine with the deceased. But there was an unintended consequence of all of this progress. Our lack of connection to local cemeteries changed our perception of them.

No longer were they peaceful places to gather with loved ones. Instead, they became dark breeding grounds for urban legends. Maybe you've heard the one about holding your breath as you drive past a cemetery. I don't know where I first heard about it, and I certainly don't believe the folklore, but more often than not, I still do it anyway. And let me tell you, living in a historic New England town means there are a lot of graves to drive past. There are a few ideas as to where this superstition came from. One version claims that holding your breath prevents you from inhaling a ghost.

Another theory suggests that it's a way to avoid making the ghosts jealous, because you can breathe and they can't. It's also possible that this legend dates all the way back to the days of the plague. Back then, people feared that the illness could be inhaled if they stood too close to a dead body. Fear, as always, provided an incubator for strange and unusual ideas. In reality, a lot of the folklore surrounding cemeteries comes from a simple misunderstanding of funerary customs and burial traditions. For example, lots of headstones feature symbols that were meaningful to the

deceased and their families. Maybe you've seen the popular Victorian-era carving that depicts a hand pointed upward, indicating that the person buried there is now residing above us in heaven. But if you travel to Pine Hill Cemetery in Hollis, New Hampshire, that hand might be pointed elsewhere. It's a cemetery that's home to only about 300 graves and was established in 1769, but the locals there today know it by a different name, Blood Cemetery. This creepy moniker comes from the Blood family, many of whom are buried within its borders. But there's one grave that stands out above the rest.

It belongs to Abel Blood, who died in 1867. His headstone features the iconic finger pointed skyward. But not always. According to the legend, those who visit his grave at midnight see something different. They see that finger actually pointing downward, you know, toward hell. Others claim that the soil above the grave leaks a strange liquid, and some visitors who have approached it have been pushed away by phantom hands. Naturally, these stories have led to a rumor that Abel and the other Bloods were all murdered and that

their restless spirits wander the graveyard at night. Was he really killed? Sadly, we can't consult his grave for more details. The stone was broken by vandals some time ago and it's no longer kept in the cemetery. And the historical record is equally silent. But creepy tombstone iconography isn't the darkest thing to grace our local burial grounds. In fact, one feature has become so misunderstood that it spawned a chilling legend with a terrifying character at its core. The Devil himself. Graveyards during the Victorian era were mostly about one thing.

Death. They were resting places that were deserving of respect. As a result, people in mourning would often sit beside a loved one's grave and talk as though they were conversing with the dead. Because of this, they began investing in ways to remain comfortable during uncomfortable times, literally and figuratively. No one wanted to spend hours standing or seated on the ground as they grieved.

So that's where the idea of morning chairs came in. They provided a place for people to sit and visit with the deceased for long periods of time. Some were regular chairs, like you might find in a person's home, while others were actual tombstones that had been sculpted to look like seats. They could look like benches, too, either freestanding or built into the walls surrounding burial plots. And some of them were so ornate and beautiful, they looked more like works of art than simple

functional seating. Although they arose to popularity in the 19th and early 20th centuries, morning chairs most likely originated with the ancient Greeks, in an idea known as an excedra. It might sound like some kind of new allergy medication, but an excedra was actually a form of Greek architecture, literally meaning out of a seat. In basic terms, an excedra was a semicircular or rectangular recess, sometimes with a dome overhead, and a raised

seating area inside. It would have either stood on its own or been placed into the side of another building. In graveyards specifically, its purpose was to define the boundaries of a burial site. In the 19th century, though, their purpose evolved, and most people probably didn't even notice it happening. Yes, they were still architectural elements, a callback to an older time or a reflection of the popular style of the day, but they also had adapted to the needs of a new generation of people.

Soon, folks were actually sitting in these recesses while they mourned, hence the term mourning chair. But all fads come and go, and by the 1920s these seats began to fall out of fashion. Before long they looked more like ancient relics that had lost their meaning, and people started to invent their own stories to explain why they were there. It's honestly the same pattern that so much of folklore follows. People encounter a mystery or a question they don't have an answer to, so they invent a solution to the puzzle. They fill in the blanks. And if those little explanations catch on with enough people and stick around for enough years, we end up with a new bit of folklore.

So, you can see why people were curious about these chairs. Who put them there and why? Who had made them? Over time, a new folklore cropped up to give these seats meaning. They were no longer just morning chairs. They became the Devil's Chair. Take for example the one in the South Side Cemetery of Pontiac, Illinois. In its heyday, it looked like a chair with an epitaph carved on one side. Today it's nothing more than a stone block, broken and chipped away by time and neglect. The inscription has worn off, likely by erosion from the elements and from

mischievous teens sitting where they don't belong. Local rumor claims that this specific chair marks the grave of a witch who murdered her child as part of a magical ritual. She was, they say, arrested and hanged for her crime. As you might expect, though, the town records show no evidence of a witch ever having lived or died in Pontiac. But that hasn't stopped people from visiting this graveside chair at midnight, where they believe they'll hear the sound of a baby crying. And according to the legend, any youngster who sits in the chair and recites the grave's epitaph out loud will die before

their 18th birthday. Now this idea of a devil's chair is thought to have started back in the mid-1800s in the Appalachian Mountains. In most legends, they were active only on certain nights of the year, like a Halloween or a Friday the 13th. People believed that the ground of a graveyard would literally split open and a chair would sprout out of it like a weed. Of course, any person brave enough to sit in one of these chairs would have the chance to make a deal with the devil,

trading their soul to obtain their deepest desire. Or more frightening yet, just sitting in one would doom a person to a life of misfortune and misery. It seems that a devil's chair didn't just let someone talk to the dead. It also brought them to the attention of the grim reaper a lot faster than they'd care for. The Wild West If I had to describe the 1800s in one word, it would be wild. Obviously, America's westward expansion led to the boom of the Wild West.

And don't forget the California Gold Rush and shooting someone over a bad poker hand. But there was always the public's fascination with spiritualism. George Colby from Pike, New York was one of those people. During the late 1800s, he would travel the country attending spiritualist meetings, giving readings and conducting seances. George became so popular, he even earned himself the nickname,

the Seer of Spiritualism, which in a field with tons of other seers, that was quite a claim. In 1875 though, George Colby's life changed forever. According to him, he was contacted by a Native American spirit named Seneca, who claimed to be his spirit guide. Seneca allegedly told him to go to Florida and start a spiritualist camp.

And it wasn't just important. This was his destiny. So that year, George obtained a homestead grant, providing him with 145 acres of land on which to found his institution. He wound up using only 57 of those acres to build new homes for his community, which he called the Casadega Spiritualist Camp. The name Casadega, by the way, comes from the Seneca word meaning water beneath the

rocks, which was pretty fitting for his town. Some people believe that running water could either contain or spur on paranormal activity in a given place. And as if that wasn't enough, some have even suggested that Casa de Ga is situated above a natural vortex of psychic energy. Today the town is known as the psychic center of the world, and it continues to draw in mediums, psychics, and enthusiasts from all over.

Of course, tourists flock to Casa de Gata as well, looking for tarot readings and holistic healing services. But the real draw is Casa de Gata Lake Helen Cemetery. It's located on the border of Lake Helen and Casa de Gata, about 40 miles north of Orlando. In it, you can find a total of three morning chairs, but only one has earned a reputation for being the Devil's Chair. It doesn't look like much at first, just a plain bench made from red bricks. It was built

into a low-standing wall that looks more like the ruins of an old house than a burial plot, and this wall surrounds two graves whose inscriptions face the bench, as if to greet whoever sits upon it. They belong to Orestes Thatcher and his son George. George sadly passed away first in 1872, while his father survived until 1913. Now, every Halloween and Friday the 13th, teenagers and young adults gather in the cemetery, daring one another to sit in the Devil's Chair. It's a spectacle for sure, one that seems to have angered local residents, so much so that a metal fence was eventually put up around the graveyard's perimeter, along with signs

that warn visitors they will be prosecuted if they trespass after dark. Of course, these warnings have only made the Devil's Chair more attractive and amplified the stories about it. One legend states that if you leave an unopened bottle of beer on the chair overnight, it will be empty by morning, and some say it will appear as though it hadn't been touched at all, with its seal still intact. But the chair doesn't just enjoy a free beer from time to time. It also, if the rumors are true,

acts as a gateway to the underworld. Because according to one legend, any person who sits in the chair at midnight will come face to face with the devil. In fact, it's been suggested that the devil himself built that chair for that purpose. Lend him an ear and he will regale you with horrible sentiments that will torment your mind.

One person stated that when they sat in the chair, they were overcome by evil voices in their head. As soon as they stood up, those voices disappeared. Some even claim that the Devil's Chair is only the tip of a paranormal iceberg. Those who have wandered through the cemetery at night have caught glimpses of dark shadows lurking in the trees. Ghostly spirits have been spotted hovering about the gravestones. One witness even claims to have sat in the Devil's chair one night only to see strange

figures in the darkness, watching them. So, is the spectral figure a shadow of the Devil himself or the ghost of George Colby, who is also buried there? After all, the Casa Dega camp founder must be proud of his lasting legacy. Perhaps he's just touring the neighborhood admiring what he built. The Devil's Chair is a unique bit of folklore. Like the chairs in the legend, it seems to have sprouted from a gap. What we've been left with is a fascinating category of stories that give us a reason

to be afraid of some strange graveyard architecture. There is a bit of irony, I think, in how one culture's obsession with death and mourning has slowly transformed into another obsession altogether, and one that ended up being a lot more sinister. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that legendary chairs like the one in the Casa Dega Lake Helen Cemetery have a lot more chills to deliver. Back in 1926, an old man was spotted in the graveyard there, long before the legends and rumors that we know today began to spread.

This man wasn't looking for a thrill, and he had no interest in communicating with the devil. No, he was there because he was wracked with grief, having just lost his wife and daughter in a fire. Grief-stricken and overwhelmed, he'd had a mourning chair installed so that he could be close to them at all times. He'd had it placed facing their tombstones, which was, at least to him, the next best thing to see in their actual faces.

He had no other family or friends, so he spent hours there every day, sitting in the chair, watching over them. Naturally, most of the locals wrote him off as eccentric. Some even made fun of him behind his back. They gossiped about the strange man who seemed to spend every waking moment in the graveyard. This wasn't exactly a warm community to him. But at least they left him alone to grieve in his own way. That is, until one Halloween night.

The moon was high when two youths entered the cemetery around 11 p.m. They walked across the grass and passed by graves and headstones as they went. Maybe they just wanted a break from the Halloween celebrations, or perhaps they were looking for a spooky way to spend the night. Whatever the reason, it didn't take long before they saw him, the old man, sitting in his chair, weeping. Not everyone would have done what the boys did next. Most would have left him alone. Some might have hurled an insult at him.

Instead, they went to the police and asked for help. Clearly, he shouldn't be left alone in the cemetery, especially on a night like this. After giving the police a description, the boys walked them through what they had seen. It was dark, but clearly he was old, maybe 80 or 90 years of age, and he was sitting across from a pair of graves, crying as though he had lost them that very day. But the officers were confused. They knew exactly who the boys had seen, because the old man had done this for many, many years.

It was just hard to believe that the teens weren't trying to prank them because they knew without a doubt that what they claimed to have seen could not possibly have been real. Why? Because they knew that just days before, the old man had passed away. Cemetery Cemetery's have long been a reminder of what we have lost. And while there are volumes of folklore all rooted in burial grounds, I hope today's particular tour gave you a new appreciation for some of them.

But just in case you want more, I've got one last legend to share with you. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. This episode of Lore was made possible by Squarespace. Over the years, you have watched me build Lore from a thing that I made by myself to something that's a real team effort. And then a few years ago, I added a whole network of podcasts around it, also crafted by the same talented effort. And then a few years ago, I added a whole network of podcasts around it, also crafted by the same talented team. And I knew right away that they deserved a showcase

for all of that hard work. For that, I turned to Squarespace, whose tools and options make it easy to showcase my team. Their new asset library feature, for example, lets me save all the necessary images, like the cover art for all of my shows, and then have them available across the Squarespace platform. Their fluid engine is the easiest way to build a website.

You just start with a best-in-class website template and then customize every design detail with reimagined drag-and-drop technology for desktop or mobile. And they even offer the ability to sell products in an online store. Whether you sell physical, digital, or service products, Squarespace has the tools that you need to start selling online.

So what are you waiting for? Build your new website today. Just visit squarespace.com slash lore to start your free trial website, and when you're ready to launch it, use the offer code LORE at checkout to save 10%. Squarespace. Build something beautiful. Far to the north of Casa Dega is the small town of Weatherly, Pennsylvania, and within it is Eckley Miners Village. Today the old village is preserved for educational purposes, but if you travel up the road just five minutes, you'll find something interesting.

It's on top of Buck Mountain, near a flat stretch of woods. No one lives there, so there are no houses or stores to be seen. But along Ekely Road, where the edge of the pavement meets the grass, there is a strange rock formation. Drive too fast and you might miss it though, because it's low to the ground and not that easy to spot. But it's certainly worth a look. There's a long seat with a back and a single armrest.

Honestly, it kind of looks like a couch, just one made out of stone, which is why it's known appropriately as the Stone Couch. It has been marked with red spray paint and is missing an arm rest on one side, but there's no mistaking what it was meant to be. Strangely, though, no one knows how it got there, or whether it was man-made or naturally formed. All we know is that it's cursed. The story has changed a bit over the years, but it usually consists of three distinct parts. One legend claims that the first time a person sits on the couch, they will wreck their car soon after.

If they sit on it a second time, they'll break a limb, and a third sitting will result in death. In another version, the curse states that anyone who sits on the couch will get scratched, a second time will cause them to bleed, and a third will bring about their demise. All of the variations of the curse follow this formula, too, where the level of pain or punishment grows each time someone sits on the couch. But as to where the story came from is something of a mystery. Some say that the couch has been cursed since the native Delaware people inhabited the Pocono

Mountains. They claim that a Delaware mother had been traveling through the mountain with her baby on her back. She'd been walking for some time, so when she came upon the stone couch, it was a welcome sight. She sat down to feed her child, and that's when she faced the worst moment of her life. Her child had died. Devastated and angry, she placed a curse on the stone couch, which remains there to this day. In a separate legend, a man was crossing Buck Mountain in 1918 at the height of the influenza epidemic.

He'd been traveling by automobile with his wife and child in tow, hoping to reach a doctor in Weatherly who could help them. As they reached the top of the mountain, though, their vehicle broke down, and when the man got out to fix it, he noticed several large boulders along the side of the road. Using a large stick or some other kind of lever, he managed to move them into place, creating a stone seat for them to rest on, while he continued on foot to find help. He returned as soon as he could, but it had been too long and his family had already succumbed to the flu.

Heartbroken and possibly sick himself, the man died soon after, but not before placing a curse on the stone couch where his wife and child had died. Today most folks who encounter the stone couch don't think much about the curse. It's just a story after all, right? But it certainly does give a person a reason to pause. After all, some legends serve to document grief that is long in the past. And some hint at grief to come. [♪ music playing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echoing in background, echo This episode of Lore Legends was produced by me, Aaron Manke, with writing by Harry Marks and Aaron Manke, and research by Jamie Vargas and Cassandra de Alba.

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