Lore - Legends 65: Twin Spirits

Episode Date: October 27, 2025

At the heart of their dual history and shared rivalry, this pair of midwestern cities hides a darker common ground, and the stories that live there are more than a little frightening. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with writing by Andrew Kelleher and research by Cassandra de Alba. ————————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  Ad-Free Episodes: lorepodcast.com/support 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. Visit 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 ads @ lorepodcast.com with the name of the company or organization so we can look into it. ————————— To advertise on this podcast please email: [e-mail]. Or go to: https://advertising.libsyn.com/lore ————————— ©2025 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved.

The Dakota people have a creation myth that explains not just how they came to be, but how they view the universe and their place within it. In the beginning, they were the star people, beings of light who walk the spirit road, which we know today as the Milky Way. One day they tumbled from the sky and crashed to the earth, joining with the soil. The ground opened to receive them, and where they landed, a pair of bluffs rose to frame two great rivers. Then the creator reached down between those bluffs and scooped up fistfuls of mud, and from it he formed the first man and woman, the earliest ancestors of the

Dakota. It's a strange story that says something profound. We are not separate from the land. We are the land. But this wasn't just any land. The spot where the creator molded the first people was known as Bedugte, which means the place where waters meet. It's a real physical location at the confluence of the Minnesota and Mississippi rivers in what is now central Minnesota. For the Dakota, it is the center of the world and the earth's most sacred point. But history hasn't been kind to many of the Dakota's holy places. Bedugte became the site of a U.S. military forts, then the foundation for the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Today, millions pass through without knowing they are treading on sacred ground.

But places like this don't lose their energy. When creation starts in your backyard, it leaves a mark. Maybe that's why the Twin Cities have never been short on stories, or for that matter, on spirits. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is lore legends. The place could barely even be called a town. It was more of a trading outpost in the beginning, a scattering of log structures, rough-hewn shops, and since this was the American frontier, a single tavern. The settlers called their new home, Pigs Eye.

after the town's most colorful character, a notorious one-eyed whiskey bootlegger who'd been giving the local soldiers headaches and hangovers for years. Now, granted, Pig's Eye wasn't the most attractive name, definitely not the kind of branding that you'd want your city's tourism brochure to have, but it was easier for the European settlers to pronounce than Bedugte, which is what the indigenous Dakota called it. Pig's Eye and the nearby military encampment of Fort Snelling had risen up around the confluence of the Minnesota and Mississippi rivers.

For generations, the spot had been the spiritual center for Dakota Life. But in 1805, the American government forced them to surrender the land in treaty that opened the door to European settlers. By 1849, the white population had grown enough that Minnesota was declared an official U.S. territory. And since no one wanted a capital named after a bootlegger, Pig's Eye was swiftly reborn as St. Paul. Pretty soon, a second town sprata just a dozen miles up the river from St. Paul. This one got a more respectable name right off the bat, Minneapolis, taken from the Dakota word

for water and the Greek word for city. Separated by just a few bends in the river, these two towns were close enough to bump elbows, but their growing populations could hardly have been more different. St. Paul was home to fur traders, Catholics, and Democrats. Minneapolis was a community of Millers, who also happened to be Protestant Republicans. As the towns became cities, those differences sharpened into a bitter rivalry, a rivalry that came to a head during one of the most contentious events in frontier politics, the 1890 U.S. Census. Now, you might think that a census should be a boring, straightforward task of data collection,

right? But, no, while it was a headcount on paper, for the cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis, the 1890 census was a prize fight. Everyone knew that the bigger city would get more money, more political clout, and most importantly, bragging rights. Neither side was about to lose even if they had to cheat. Minneapolis census takers patted their numbers by strolling through local cemeteries in writing down the names from gravestones. Not to be outdone, St. Paul conjured up entire blocks of imaginary houses. They also claimed that dozens of families were living in local businesses, from the Bank of Minnesota to a local barbershop.

At one point, they listed 234 residents crammed into the Union Depot and 220 people in a single small house. Talk about cozy. Eventually, the fraud became so blatant, the federal government had to step in. Census takers from both cities were arrested, and the U.S. Attorney General ordered a recount, without any funny business this time, of course. When the dust settled, Minneapolis came out on top, approximately 164,000 to St. Paul's 133. St. Paul was still the state capital, but its pride had been badly bruised. As the years wore on, the rivalry evolved, changing to suit the times. In the early 1900s, things got bloody as both cities grappled with organized crime.

St. Paul gained infamy as a gangster's paradise, thanks to a crooked police chief who struck a deal with the mob. Criminals could live in the city undisturbed so long as they paid bribes and kept their crimes outside the city limits. Minneapolis scoffed at their neighbor's corruption, but ironically suffered the most from the arrangement. Since the gangsters who lived in St. Paul crossed the river to do their dirty work, Minneapolis wound up with the crime problem. But with all the tension between them, the cities desperately needed an outlet for their animosity, and they eventually found one in baseball. Each city fielded a minor league team, and their face-offs were the stuff of legend.

They would stage intense doubleheaders with an afternoon game in one city, followed immediately by a night game in the other. The matchups often sprawled into all-out fights, like the one on 4th of July 1929, which had to be broken up by over a dozen cops. But no matter how heated things got, the two cities couldn't escape each other. They grew, they spread, and they ballooned until their borders blurred. Today, a lot of people think of them as a single entity, simply known as the Twin Cities.

Now, logistically, it would probably make sense to merge them, but that will never happen. The rivalry runs too deep, and for all their differences, St. Paul in Minneapolis do share at least one thing in common, a stubborn loyalty to their own patch of ground. They will fight to protect it, fight dirty if they have to.

Some residents are so committed to their hometown, they've refused to leave, even after death. Because in these two cities, the rivalry doesn't just live in the streets. It lingers in the shadows, in the cemeteries, and if you believe the stories, in their ghosts. Molly wasn't afraid of much. To be fair, you had to be a bit fearless to manage the hottest nightclub in Minneapolis. And in 1991, that's exactly what First Avenue was.

By this point, the cavernous Art Deco building had already lived several lives, starting as a Greyhound Bus Depot in 1937, before transforming into one of the Midwest's greatest music venues. Tina Turner, the Kinks, Pat Benatar, the Ramones, and Run DMC all played there. Prince, a born-and-bred Minneapolis native, played the venue nine times and made it the centerpiece of his movie, Purple Rain. But on this night, the musicians were all gone. After the amps had gone quiet and the crowd had filed out,

Molly McManus was doing her post-show sweep before closing up. As usual, she stopped by the women's bathroom to check for stragglers, opening the stall doors one by one. First stall, empty. Second, empty. Third and fourth, all clear. Until she opened the fifth and final stall and almost jumped out of her skin.

A woman was suspended inside, hanging by the neck, apparently having just taken her own life. She had long, blonde hair, and wore a green army jacket. And those were the only details that Molly noticed before recoiling in terror. And when she looked again, the woman was gone. After a confusing few moments in which she rechecked the other stalls, the venue manager concluded that the woman really had vanished. Molly hadn't just walked in on a suicide victim, at least not one from this decade.

Instead, the venue manager had joined the long line of witnesses to First Avenue's Most Notorious Ghost. I say Most Notorious because the woman in the green jacket is just one of the specters that haunt this venue. For years, the dance floor has been visited by troublesome ghosts. DJs have noticed their turntables moving on their own, while bartenders have seen glasses rocket off of shelves without warning. A mischievous poltergeist named Flippy, of all things, likes to mimic the sound of stools flipping over just to spook the staff. It seems that Flippy may be a Prince fan as well,

because he showed up for the filming of Purple Rain. The stage lights went haywire for half an hour, almost like the ghost was angling for a cameo. And still, none of these compare to the woman that Molly saw. Patrons and employees alike have spotted her gliding through the club, often dancing, always mournful, and frequently missing her legs. She tends to vanish the moment that anyone gets too close.

And somewhere along the way, she picked up a tragic backstory. Locals say that she lived during World War II, or maybe it was Vietnam. But she came to the 1st Avenue Bus Depot expecting to meet her soldier husband, who is finally coming home from duty. Only he didn't get off the bus. At the last minute, the woman learned that her husband had recently died in battle. Beset with grief, she retreated to the women's restroom, where she took her own life.

And for the record, there's no evidence of such an incident at the site, but that hasn't slowed the story. And First Avenue is just one of many haunted Minneapolis locales. The city is said to be crawling with spirits, just like its twin and eternal rival St. Paul. The Capitol even boasts its own haunted music venue, with ghost dating back decades earlier. The Fitzgerald Theater is said to be home to vaudeville Veronica, a singer from the early 1900s. According to the story, back when she was alive, Veronica's voice would leave audiences in tears. These days, though, it just makes them scream. Employees say that sometimes they hear her lilting melodies echoing through the theater,

but when they look for the source, the voice moves away, or abruptly cuts off whenever they get close. And then there's Ben, the ghost of a former stagehand. According to legend, he got drunk one night, passed out in an alley behind the theater, and tragically froze to death. His spirit is something of a trickster, showing up to direct venue guests or move workers' tools. He may even be dangerous, too. In the 1980s, for example, a renovation crew was almost crushed to death when a chunk of plaster rained down from the ceiling.

After diving out of the way, they looked up to see a shadowy figure standing on the catwalk above them. The specter vanished before their eyes, although Ben has never truly left. Like Veronica, he still lingers, eternally loyal to the theater where he's. he worked in life. And he's not alone. The Twin Cities are crawling with haunted locations from dilapidated mansions and speakeas to spooky bridges where disembodied footsteps echo into the night. But there's one spot that blows them all away, a shadowy labyrinth hidden beneath the streets of St. Paul that once ran with blood, bullet shells, illegal liquor,

and mushrooms. Who's up for a ghost tour of one of St. Paul's most famous sites? Starting from the downtown area, cross the Mississippi River, and head for the sandstone bluffs. Pr protruding from these cliffs is a structure that you can't miss, a brick facade of a small European castle. Now, from the outside, it looks kitchy, but step through the entrance and you'll find yourself in a glittering underworld, Rough-hewn limestone walls sparkle beneath arched ceilings, like a ballroom carved from rock. The air is damp and cool, a steady, 50-something degrees year-round. There's an eerieness down there, almost like time itself has stopped.

This is the Wabashaw Street Caves, and if the stories are true, time really has stopped there, at least for some. But long before there were any whispers of ghosts, the caves had a very practical purpose. Now, technically, they're not actually caves at all. Their hand-dug mines carved out in the 1800s to harvest silica for glass. When the glass market collapsed, the space took on a new life. The owners realized the chill and the damp made a perfect fungal playground. And soon enough, these tunnels were bursting with mushrooms.

So many, in fact, that the caves briefly held the largest mushroom farm in the nation. And then came prohibition. With alcohol outlawed, the caves found a livelier use as a speakeasy. word spread that you could slip down the bluff away from the prying eyes of the police and get your fill of bootleg liquor. Well, maybe not away from the police, though. St. Paul's leadership at the time was famously corrupt, and local law enforcement had what you might call an understanding

with the city's criminal underworld. For a time, this quiet Midwestern capital was a gangster's paradise. Rumors still swirl that John Dillinger, baby-faced Nelson, and Ma Barker once clinked glasses here. and when prohibition ended, the party did not stop. The caves were then gussied up with chandeliers, rugs, fountains, and a faux castle entrance. They named it the Castle Royale advertised proudly as the world's most gorgeous underground nightclub. It all sounds glamorous enough, but the castle's real legacy might not be the big bands or the circus-themed parties.

It's the spirits who never left. Walk the caves today, and you might hear the faint whistle of bygone tunes. and the clink of phantom glasses. Guests have reported seen well-dressed strangers in old-fashioned suits or gowns, only for them to walk straight through the walls and vanish. Some of these spirits are practically regulars, too, like the man in the Panama hat,

who hangs out near the bar, or the woman in white who drifts the corridors, heavy with sorrow. Catch her gaze, and you will feel the weight of sadness settle on you, lingering long after she disappears. You may even catch sight of the pair of, of spectral dancers who glide across the floor, forever caught in their ghostly swing. But if we're honest, the crown jewel of the cave's hauntings lies in a small chamber known as

the fireside room. The story goes like this. One night in the 1920s, when the cave was still a speakeasy, four gangsters were playing cards in this room. A waitress served drinks while a band played nearby, and then a stranger arrived, lugging a suspicious case. He asked the band to leave early, and strangely enough, they did. As the music died, the other guests drifted away until only the waitress, the four gangsters, and the newcomer remained. Moments later, a deafening burst of a Tommy gun

shattered the quiet. The waitress who had ducked into the kitchen ran back to find the stranger gone, one gangster missing, and the other three slump dead across the table. Of course, she immediately called the police, and when they arrived, they told her to wait outside. Sometime later, they emerged saying that

there were no bodies or blood, no evidence of a crime at all. The waitress couldn't believe it, but when she went back in to check the room, it was spotless, like nothing had ever happened. Legend has it that the corrupt cops were paid off by whoever ordered the hit. Rather than investigate, they buried the bodies in another section of the caves. But at least one victim never moved on. Today, many visitors have seen a grim-faced man in the fireside room who glares at them before walking straight through the limestone wall.

The Wabashaw Street Caves will probably always be remembered for its gangland connections, but that's not where the story ends. Since the 1930s, they've undergone renovations countless times, serving as a disco club and even a wedding venue. Today, they're open for private events and tours, where you can learn about their rich history, and maybe even meets a few ghostly gangsters yourself. That said, if you do join a tour,

stick close to the guide and don't wander off. Because whether or not you believe in the supernatural, the caves are genuinely dangerous. They've claimed more than their fair share of lives in recent memory, and one misstep could transform you into their next permanent resident. Most cities have a few shadows, even in places as relatively new, compared to its European counterparts, that is, like the Twin Cities in Minnesota. The trick is knowing where to look for them, and in the Twin Cities, that's not a difficult challenge. For example, if you wander

too far into the Wabashaw Street Caves, you may find yourself tripping not over a ghost, but over the remains of people's homes. The debris dates back to April of 1965 when the Mississippi River overflowed in a record-breaking flood. The torrent had ripped through the neighborhoods, swallowing buildings whole, and when the flood finally receded, some 200 homes were condemned and torn down, and all that wreckage had to go somewhere, so the work crews funneled it into the Wabashaw Street Caves, and it remains there to this day, crammed into passages that are strictly off-limits. So, of course, that hasn't stopped rule-breaking Spalunkers from stumbling upon the rubble.

Over the years, adventurous explorers have vocationally taken to making fires with the old driftwood as a way of combating the damp, chilly atmosphere of the caves. And this has had disastrous effects. The heat from the fires, weakens the cave ceilings, and releases carbon monoxide, which can turn deadly in the enclosed passageways. And I'm not speaking hypothetically here. In 1984, a young man was crushed by a sudden caven. And then in 1992 and again in 2004, groups of teenagers exploring off-limit passages died

from carbon monoxide poisoning. These are real recorded deaths, not just ghost stories. Although some people believe the victim spirits do still wander the caves, mingling with the gangsters and the dancers of the Twin Cities' past. So why do so many spirits linger here? Maybe it's the city's shared history, full of grits and glamour. Or maybe it's just another way for them to one up each other. other, a rematch of the 1890 census where the crown goes to whoever can claim the most ghosts.

Or maybe the Dakota were right, and there really is something special about the place where the waters meet, something that keeps spirits bound to the land long after their bones crumble to dust. If there's a twist to this story, it's that the land's first stewards are finally returning. The Twin Cities now hosts one of the largest, most tribally diverse indigenous communities in the country. And in 2025, the United States Congress and the city of Minneapolis joined forces to right some wrongs of the past. A historical spot near the confluence of the rivers was officially recognized as community space to honor its spiritual significance. Once again, it is a gathering place for indigenous Americans, for anyone who calls Twin Cities home, and just maybe for all those restless spirits who never left.

Thank you for joining our two-for-one ghost tour of the Twin Cities. Here, history and hauntings collide in a place where earth, water, and spirit meet, a crossroads that seems to echo with never-ending stories. But we're not done just yet. With one last tale, we're going to head north two hours to a small town with one of the Midwest's most haunted buildings, and a spirit who's a Minnesota legend in his own right. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. This episode was sponsored by BetterHelp.

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anonymous a podcast where I talk to random people on the phone I tweet out a phone number thousands of people try to call you talk to one of them they stay anonymous I can't hang up That's all the rules. I never know what's going to happen. We get serious ones. I've talked with meth dealers on their way to prison. I've talked to people who survive mass shootings. Crazy funny ones. I talk to a guy with a goose laugh, somebody who dresses up as a pirate on the weekends. I never know what's going to happen. It's a great show. Subscribe today, beautiful anonymous. On the outside, the Palmer House Hotel in Sox Center, Minnesota, seems like any other small town landmark. But this turn of the century Victorian wonder has more than just history in its walls. Rent a room, and you might wind up sharing it with someone who never checked out. Reports of the paranormal here are so common that the hotel might have more ghosts than beds. The guests wake up to find their luggage mysteriously soaked. They hear children racing

through the halls when no families are staying at the hotel. Flickr without explanation, and televisions switch on and off by themselves. Some visitors even swear that unseen hands have stroked their legs as they tried to sleep. Try explaining that in a Yelp review. Things get a little stranger the deeper you go, too. A shadowy specter is said to lurk in the basement, stirring dread in anyone who enters. There's an animatronic snowman down there, too, which has been known to sing and dance on its own, despite not being plugged in. But the Palmer House Hotel didn't always have such a spooky reputation. When it opened in 1901, it was the pride of Sock Center, a thriving town two hours northwest of Minneapolis.

With its sprawling lobby, stained glass windows, and 24 guest rooms, the hotel was a modern architectural marvel, and one of the first buildings in the area to boast both electricity and indoor plumbing. 200 people attended the opening banquets where speeches, dinner, and dance. celebrated Sox Center's glamorous new destination. But like many old buildings, being first meant that it was also first to start falling apart. Over the years, the hotel fell into disrepair and was almost shuttered completely. New owners managed to drag it back from the brink with renovations, and it eventually secured a spot on the National Register of Historic Places.

It's now a beloved stop for both history buffs and ghost hunters. The odd thing is, though, no one's ever been able to explain the Palm House's high paranormal headcount. Unlike other famous haunted hotels, there are no records of grisly murders, tragic fires, or sudden deaths within its walls. Yet guests continued to report strange voices, phantom footsteps, and ghostly figures in the hallways. One of the most curious stories centers on a young man who worked at the Palmer House as a night clerk in the early 1900s. He wasn't the most reliable employee, they say, spending more time reading and writing at the front desk than helping the guests. His laxious.

sedesical attitude got him fired more than once, but for some reason, the owners kept hiring him back, at least until he left town and headed off for college. But he kept writing, and in 1920 he published Main Street, a novel satirizing small-town American life. The book was heavily inspired by the clerk's own upbringing in Sock Center. It made him famous, although his neighbors bristled at the unflattering portrayal of their community. Still, he never seemed able to let go of his hometown or the Palmer House itself. Guests have reported seeing him lurking around, notebook in hand, like his shift has never ended. That night clerk, by the way, was Sinclair Lewis, the first American novelist to win the Nobel Prize in literature. Today, his name

adorns the street outside the Palmer House, and if the stories are true, his spirit lingers within it. Perhaps he returned because the hotel shaped his imagination. Maybe the land pulled him back in the same way it seems to hold on to so many others. Either way, the Palmer House offers proof that's in Minnesota, the connection between people and place doesn't end with death, and that sometimes checkout time never arrives. of lore legends was produced by me, Aaron Manky, with writing by Andrew Kelleher, and research by Cassandra Dayaba.

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