Lore - Legends 88: Tell-Tale Heartland

Episode Date: September 14, 2026

The American heartland might not be as ancient as New England, but it can hold its own when it comes to dark history and terrifying tales. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with writing by Molly Quinlan Artwick, and research by Jamie Vargas. ————————— BUY EXHUMED TODAY: aaronmahnke.com/exhumed ————————— Lore Resources:  Get Ad-Free Lore: lorepodcast.com/support Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  Official Lore Merchandise: lorepodcast.com/shop ————————— Sponsors: SurfShark: Secure your entire digital life with Surfshark! It's completely risk-free with their 30-day money-back guarantee. Go to surfshark.com/LORE or use code LORE at checkout to get 4 extra months added to your plan. Gusto: Online payroll and benefits software built for small businesses. Try Gusto today at Gusto.com/LORE, and get 3 months free when you run your first payroll. 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. Chime: Chime is banking done right. Open an account in 2 minutes at chime.com/lore. ————————— 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 ————————— ©2026 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved.

Names hold a certain amount of power, especially when it comes to the place you live. With just a few syllables, you get a sense of history, culture, people, a whole identity in a few small letters. I live in New England, and even hearing those two words brings up specific images. Old stone walls, clabbard houses, fall colors, and quiet winter nights. New England can mean different things to different people. To some, it means Martha's Vineyard and Cape Cod, the Kennedys and Summer Ice Cream. To others, it's Salem and Witches and Stephen King, the perfect setting for Halloween scares. Head west from New England, and you'll get to America's heartland.

The name's simple, but it's evocative, the industry that made America's cars, the coal and iron that built its cities, and the farmers that grow its food. All of them make up the beating hearts of the country. The state of Ohio's name conjures up a specific image as well. It's from a Seneca word, which means great or beautiful river. The name evokes something natural, peaceful, nurturing, and serene. But just like in New England, this bright side of Ohio has a dark counterpart. Ohio grew during a time of great change.

Westward expansion, industrial revolution, changes to culture and traditions all left their mark. And in this great upheaval, some people, or their spirits, got left behind. A lot has changed from what Ohio looked like even 150 years ago. But in the forgotten corners of old buildings and shadowy woodlands, memories remain. And every now and then, they make themselves heard again. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is lore legends. By 1918, the Majestic Theater had been a lot of things. In 1802, it was built as the first bank in Chilicothe, Ohio.

By the 1830s, it had become a Masonic Lodge. From there, it led many lives, serving a stint as an opera house, a vaudeville venue, even as an early movie theater. And now, a morgue. The disease had come from Camp Sherman, an army facility just north of the city. Soldiers coming home from the war in Europe had brought home more than just battle scars and bad memories. Each case started innocently enough, a sore throat, a fever, a headache. But soon, coughs and sniffles would give way to more severe symptoms.

Strange odors, teeth and hair that fell out, bleeding from the mouth, the nose, and the ears, and a creeping discoloration turning the face blue. And finally, pneumonia would take over and as their lungs felt, filled with fluid, victims of the illness that people were calling the Spanish flu would drown in their own beds. Throughout 1918, this new deadly strain of influenza had been cropping up around the world. It was believed to have first appeared somewhere in Kansas shortly after the new year began. But with World War I raging in Europe, all the countries involved were keeping a tight lid on reporting any possible weaknesses, and that included illness. So the sickness spread unchecked,

only gaining a name and a reputation when neutral Spain started to report cases. By the time the plague came to an end, 50 million people had lost their lives. And that fall in Chilicothe, nearly 2,000 at Camp Sherman would die. Beyond preventing infection, the people of Chilicothe had another problem on their hands. What to do with all the dead bodies? The military morgue was full, as were the funeral homes around town. So the majestic theater answered the call. Embalmers set up shop on stage, while the seats were taken out to make room for the coffins.

The alley behind the theater was rechristened Blood Alley after the bodily fluids that were dumped in it nightly. The bodies themselves were stored in the dressing room, stacked on top of each other like so much firewood. And in some cases, these poor souls weren't actually resting in peace. More than once, a body was brought. up for embalming, only for the mortician to discover that the patient was still alive. After the epidemic ended, the majestic returned to its previous life as a theater. But while the bodies left the stage, some souls stayed for an encore. Multiple people have spotted a man laying on the stage when no one is supposed to be in the

theater at all. It's only when they get closer that they realize that the man is wearing an old-fashioned army uniform from World War I. And the, the The spot that he's laying in, right where Spanish flu bodies were prepped for burial. The soldier, though, isn't the only person who hasn't moved on from the Majestic. Other sightings seem to be related not to the flu epidemic, though, but to the theater itself. Like Abigail. According to legend, Abigail was the daughter of a traveling actress. She spent her childhood playing in dressing rooms and watching backstage as her mother toured across the heartland.

One night after the curtain fell on her mother's performance at The Majestic, a fire suddenly broke out. Fleeing the flames, Abigail ran to the basement, but she couldn't find her way through the thick, acrid smoke, and according to staff and actors at the Majestic, she has never left. Backstage, actors have reported hearing a little girl's laughter echo through the halls. Crew members have noticed a small, shadowy figure, dancing in dressing rooms and dark hallways. and in one instance a performer followed Abigail as she skipped down to the basement, only to watch her vanish through a closed door. Abigail spent her life growing up in the theater. It seems only right that she would spend her death there as well. The Majestic is still a functioning theater today. In fact, it's the oldest continuously operating theater in America.

And visitors love to see the history of the place. There's the old neon marquee out front, the classic red curtains and chairs, pictures of stars who graced its stage from Buffalo Bill to Laurel and Hardy. They're especially decided to see The Usher in his old-fashioned uniform who guides patrons to their seats in the theater. It's not until after the performance when they asked the staff about him that they learn the truth. The Majestic hasn't employed an Usher in over 60 years. The Usher seems to be a genuine lover of the theater. Some actors have reported, his invisible hands, straightening their costumes backstage. Guests have heard his disembodied voice whispering directions to their seats,

and at the end of the show, when the audience applauds, the usher can be seen just by the exit, clapping along with them. The Majestic has been operating for 173 years now. That's 173 years of curtain calls and encores. But for some spirits that call the theater home, it seems it's not quite time for their final bows. It sounds a bit like a problem on a standardized test. One train is traveling west at 60 miles per hour,

the other is going east at only four miles an hour. When will they meet? And at what time? And more importantly, who will survive? Unfortunately for two trains traveling through Republic, Ohio, this wasn't a hypothetical question. And on January 4th of 1887, at 3,000, 2 o'clock in the morning, the passengers on board learned the deadly answer. In this situation,

one of those trains was a freighter heading east, and the other was a fast-moving express train heading west on the same stretch of tracks. The freight train's plan was to arrive at the Republic Station, pull aside to a separate track until the express train passed in the opposite direction, and then continue on their way. But then the conductor got word that the express train had gotten off its normal schedule, it would approach Republic in about 50 minutes. And to be fair, that wasn't a problem. He calculated that he could get to Republic in 35 minutes and pull off with 10 or so minutes to spare.

Unfortunately, though, real life is not like a math problem, and there are other factors the conductor hadn't considered. Like the fact that his engine was old and not very powerful, that his freight load was incredibly heavy, and that the entire track to Republic was up a steep hill. All of these combined meant that the freighter was slowing down until it was traveling at just four miles per hour, and every second the express train was getting closer. And all of this led to the conductor's first mistake of the night. Pushed to its limit, the freighter's engine gave out. The train was dead on the tracks. The conductor then made his second mistake. You see, rather than jumping off

immediately, he waited for the train's momentum to come to a complete stop before he headed out into the night, holding a red lantern aloft to warn the oncoming express train. It was already too late, and the passenger train was almost upon them. The train's engineer had just seconds to react upon seeing the red lantern. He braked suddenly and threw his engine into reverse, and then he jumped from the cab landing in a snowdrift, but it wasn't enough. The passenger train ran into the stopped freight train at just under 60 miles per hour, colliding head-on. The two engines reared off the track, pushing each other high into the sky. The train cars on the passenger train crashed into each other in a chain reaction,

and the impact toppled the warming stoves that were on board, catching the wooden cars on fire. And in moments, the two trains had become an inferno. For the 15 people in the smoking car just behind the engine, death came mercifully swift. But others weren't so lucky. One railroad worker was raised into the air, caught between two iron beams

where he spent three painful hours before dying. And a passenger in the baggage car had his feet pinned inside while he hung out the window, trapping him in the path of the flames. We don't know exactly how many died in the Republic train crash. This was before the days of detailed passenger manifests. Some say 16, others say more. But what we do know is that even after the wreckage was cleared and the bodies buried,

something still lingered on those tracks. Two months to the day after the crash, a curious report surfaced in a local Republic newspaper. According to the article, the night before, a new passenger train was driving the express route westbound through Republic. The engineer was peering through the darkness up ahead when something appeared that sent a jolt straight into his heart. A woman all in white, holding a lantern that glowed red. The engineer did as he was train, throwing the train into reverse. The brakes squealed as the train came to a halt almost exactly where the wreck had occurred just two months prior.

This time, though, there was no other train on the track, and no sign of the woman or her red lantern. In the years since the disaster, the mysterious woman with her red lantern has a appeared again and again on this stretch of tracks. But it's not clear what she wants. Is she trying to send a message from beyond, keep alive the memories of those who died, or is her red lantern a warning of danger to come? As kids, twins Jimmy and Dedey knew that their house wasn't like the others in their neighborhood.

For one, there was the look of the place. Sure, it was huge. It had four stories, 20 rooms, and a carriage house. But the dark brick facade, the tall turrets, multiple gargoyles and wrought iron fence made it look more like Frankenstein's castle than a family home. And for another thing, there was the strange stuff that kept happening inside. Like the time they awoke to the blankets being pulled off their bed, but no one was there, or how Dee Dee found that if she asked nicely, unseen hands, would turn the pages in her book.

And then there was the little girl. Now, at first, she seemed like an ordinary imaginary friend, who the twins would play with in their fourth floor ballroom. But then they started to realize something eerie. She always had an air of melancholy. The only time she ever spoke, it was to tell Dede that her mother had left her. And as they got older, Jimmy and D.D. Romano finally realized something else. If their friend was imaginary, how come both of them could see her? Now, it must be said that the Romano were not the first to report strange things happening in that house. In fact, almost from the moment building began, rumors started to swirl.

The building that became known as Franklin Castle started as the Teetaman home. From 1881 to 1883, Hanas Teeteman, a wealthy German immigrant, had the house built in one of Cleveland's most prestigious neighborhoods for his growing family. But the moment the builders broke ground, a dark cloud settled over the home. According to local legend, Hannes was a cruel and controlling man who thought nothing of homicide. He was said to have murdered his first wife,

his mistress, and even hung his daughter Emma from the rafters in the castle. It was even said that his crimes were so dark, they cursed the family so the Teeteman line would die with him, which, according to the stories, came true. All Teeteman's children and grandchildren passed away before he did. Three of his children even died suddenly and suspicestered.

on the exact same day. Teeteman sold the house in 1897, and it was owned by several families before ending up in the hands of the German Socialist Party in 1919. And so a property already marked by blood was now the home to the Ohio Nazi Party. And it was around this time that several tunnels were reportedly dug under the house. Perhaps they were built for smuggling in alcohol during prohibition, which would make sense, as the house did function as a German social club, and even had its very own secret liquor still installed in the early 1920s. But it's possible the tunnels had a more nefarious purpose.

Later owners discovered notes from a Nazi party meeting in the house, which mentioned a radio tower installed on the castle turret. And so the tunnels, it seemed, weren't just for running rum. They were also for secretly smuggling in Nazi spies. The most terrifying rumor involved one particular tunnel, that stopped at a dead end. This place, people said, wasn't for sneaking in or out. It was for something different.

It was deep underground where gunshots could not be heard, and neither could screams. It was the perfect chamber for executing a spy by firing squad. By 1968, the German socialists had sold the castle to Jimmy and Dedey Romano's parents, and the Romano family quickly learned that all the rumors of mayhem and murder may have had some truth to them. Beyond Jimmy and Dede's imaginary friend, the Romano's noticed odd things, like hearing organ music when no one was playing or seeing doors and furniture move on their own. A babysitter was once pushed down the stairs, and one night Mrs. Romano awoke screaming

to a ghostly presence standing by her bed. The Romano's invited paranormal investigators into the house. They didn't have much luck recording evidence of the hauntings, although one radio host had his tape recorder ripped out of his hands and thrown down a stairway. They asked a Catholic priest to bless the house, but the priest refused when he felt the evil inside. Finally, terrified that their children might die if they stayed, they sold the house in 1974. The castle would go on to pass through a number of different hands over the next few decades, at one point even being owned by Mickey Deans, Judy Garland's widower.

It was abandoned, then set on fire by an arsonist, before finally the being revitalized as a private home and hotel in the early 2000s. Today, you can take a tour and learn all about the haunted history of the place. But when you do, keep your wits about you. Because over the years, it's become clear that some of these phantoms were actually fake. The stories from the Franklin Castle have haunted Cleveland for over a century. But like any old house, when you start examining the foundation of these myths, cracks start to appear. First, let's look at the original owners.

Honest Tiedemann, the terrifying, domineering, abusive husband and murderous father, was likely nothing of the sort. His family did see a lot of tragic deaths, but disease was to blame. Not a curse. Hannes' mother and his daughter Emma, who he supposedly hung from the rafters, actually died before the house was even built. And Emma's cause of death? Complications from diabetes. As for the other three children who died on the same day, that had an explanation as well.

Three of Tiedemann's children died as infants from disease, one in 1863, one in 1870, and one in 1873. All were buried in the same plot in Riverside Cemetery. A decade later, the bodies had to be moved to a different plot. They were all recorded as being reburied on August 29th of 1883, giving rise to the rumored. of three children sharing one death date. And then there's the rumor that Hannes outlived his entire family line. Since there are still Teetam and descendants around today, I think it's safe to say that the curse did not exist.

And as for the rumors that Franklin Castle was used as a German social club, there's no evidence the castle was ever involved in spying and certainly no proof that Nazis gun down people in the secret tunnels under the house. Even the Romanoes claimed their reports were taken audits. of context. While they do maintain that they had strange experiences in that house, they felt the media made them look like lunatics, or even worse, like fakes. With all that said, it does still feel like something is in the air in the place. There have been a lot of skeletons rumored to be in the castle's closets over the years, and it turns out that at least one of them might just be real.

In January of 1975, the Franklin Castle's owner, Sam Muscatello, was making renovations on the third floor when he made a bone-rattling discovery. There, hidden behind a secret panel, was parts of a human skeleton, two femurs and a pelvis. With so few bones, authorities couldn't make an identification. They couldn't tell the age, ethnicity, or sex, just that someone, sometime, had placed two legs and a pelvis inside the wall. So did Sam place them there himself, trying to drum up publicity for tours of the home, or did something even more sinister lead them to end up in that wall?

Whatever you believe, it's clear that something strange still stalks the hallways of Franklin Castle. No bones about it. I hope today's supernatural sojourn has given you a peek into the darkest parts of America's heartland. But we aren't done just yet. We might have explored Ohio's ghosts and ghouls, but we haven't yet heard about the living creatures that haunt the woods, which is why we've picked out one last tale to tell you. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. You may have noticed today's episode has mostly focused on cities and large towns in Ohio, but the truth is the vast majority of land in the Buckeye state is rural. Sure, cities have their

theater ghosts and haunted houses. They stock basements and tunnels, the types of places that make you feel claustrophobic. But even in the wide open spaces of the heartland, something unusual is still lurking. It starts with the urge to get outside. You want to shake the dust of Cleveland off your shoes, get some sunshine and fresh air, and so you set out on a road trip. Not far, just a little ways northeast. As you cross into the small town of Kirkland, you come across a winding track that curves lazily through the trees, perfect for a Sunday drive. So you turn down Wisner Road and make your way deep into the forest. But you didn't account for the trees being so dense, The further you get down this road, the darker the canopy becomes.

You're just starting to think that maybe you should turn back when you see an old bridge. And beyond, the road stops abruptly. Oh, and emerging from behind the trees, something that you wish you had never seen. A tiny, stunted body, a swollen, oversized skull, and two eyes glowing red in the dusky light. You have entered the realm of the melon heads.

There's a few conflicting stories about how these strange creatures with bulbous heads came to reside in the Cleveland suburbs, but all of them seemed to start with one man, a pediatrician named Dr. Crow. In some versions, Crow was a good Samaritan. He ran a health clinic out of his home on Wisner Road, and after World War II, he quickly became the top researcher for children suffering from hydrocephalus. This disease, also known as water on the brain, happens when there's a build-up of spinal fluid in the skull. It puts pressure on the brain and infants and young children with the illness can develop large, swollen, strangely shaped heads. And Dr. Crow supposedly took these children in, who were often ostracized

for their condition. When he passed away, though, the patients living at the home simply stayed, making their home in the woods around the old Crow place. There, they still live peacefully, or maybe not. Another version of the tale holds that the melon heads weren't simply Dr. Crow's patients, they were his victims. In this, version of the story, the children were kidnapped from nearby homes or simply taken from the mental hospital that Dr. Crow worked at. And these stolen children didn't have hydrocephalus. Instead, their deformed heads were a result of Dr. Crow's bizarre and cruel medical treatments. Finally, after years of torture by the doctor, one day the melon heads rose up against him, killing him and

setting his clinic on fire. Then, free from their tormentor, they retreated to the woods, where they grew feral, attacking anyone who came their way. Over the years, people have continued to spot melon heads living in the woods near Wisner Road, seeming to suggest that they are the descendants of the original children who were experimented upon. But even with these recent sightings, some people still remain skeptical. The historical record does match some of the story. It does seem like Dr. Crow was a real person, and he did have a cabin on Wisner Road. He even operated a medical practice from it.

but the real Dr. Crow died in 1945. In the 1960s, a group of teenagers apparently did have a party at the abandoned Crow cabin and accidentally burned it down. So perhaps a real story about a fire at the Crow place, coupled with Crow's status as a doctor, gave Rose to the melonhead's myth. But whatever you believe, be careful when you go into those woods. Local legend says that bright colors can anger the melon heads, so wear darker tones like black or maro.

or dark green. And whatever you do, whatever you see, don't lose your head. This episode of Lord Legends was produced by me, Aaron Manke, with writing by Molly Quinlan Artwick and research by Jamie Vargas. Just a reminder, folks, I have a brand new, creepy history book that just came out last month. It's called Exhumed, and it explores the roots of the New England vampire panic and the story of Mercy Brown through the lens of centuries of folklore, medical advancements, and pseudoscience. It's still, available for pre-order right now, and if you pre-order the hardcover, my publisher has a web page set up where you can submit your receipts and get a free, gorgeous tote bag.

Head over to Aaron Mankey.com slash Exhumed to lock in your copy today. Don't like hearing ads on lore. Well, there's a paid version on Apple Podcasts and Patreon that is 100% ad-free. Subscribers there also get weekly mini bonus episodes called Lorebytes, and Patreon members specifically get discounts on lore merch and access to my inbox. Learn more over at lorepodcast.com slash support. And of course, you can follow the show on social media platforms like YouTube threads,

Blue Sky, and Instagram. 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.