Lore - Lore 292 Message In A Bottle

Episode Date: January 11, 2026

Our world can often feel like an open book, with every secret laid bare. But there are still locations that cling tightly to mystery, and the questions they force us to ask are sometimes terrifying. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with writing by GennaRose Nethercott, research by Jamie Vargas and Cassandra de Alba, and music by Chad Lawson. ————————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  Official Lore Merchandise: lorepodcast.com/shop 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. Squarespace: Head to Squarespace.com/lore to save 10% off your first purchase of a website or domain using the code LORE. Mint Mobile: For a limited time, wireless plans from Mint Mobile are $15 a month when you purchase a 3-month plan with UNLIMITED talk, text and data at MintMobile.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 ————————— ©2025 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved.

It's believed to be the largest ever created. Casted from nearly 600,000 pounds of silver, gold, copper, and tin, the great bell of Damasedi was created in 1484 for a Burmese king of the same name, before he gifted it to a pagoda in Myanmar. And for over a century, that's where it stayed, which is no surprise. After all, as wildly valuable as it was, you would think an insanely heavy, nearly 18-foot-tall bell would be safe from theft. But, well, you'd be wrong. In 1608, the region had been overtaken by the Portuguese, who decided that they would like to steal that shiny bell and transform

it from an instrument of peace into a weapon of war. The plan was to float the bell via raft across the river to Syriam, where the metal could be melted down and turned into a cannon. And so in what I can only imagine was a deeply unwieldy operation, Portuguese warlord Philippe DeBrito and his men transported the bell toward the water through a combination of elephant hauling and good old fashion rolling down a hill. Finally, Debrito wrangled the bell onto a raft, tethered it to his own ship, and started across the river. Unfortunately, 295 tons of solid metal wasn't exactly buoyant. The raft sank, dragging Debrito's ship down with it, which is how the last

legendary bell plummeted deep into the waters where the Bego and Yangon rivers met, and that's exactly where it stayed. Because the thing is, the great bell of Dama Zady was never found again. That's right, despite countless attempts over multiple centuries, not to mention repeated scans using high-tech sonar, the bell is still missing. Which certainly feels hard to believe. It seems impossible for this absolutely Leviathan treasure to simply disappear. But the truth is, there's another body of water elsewhere in the world that has seen not one, but thousands of giant objects vanish without a trace. And this spot also just so happens to be a whole lot closer to home.

I'm Aaron Manke, and this is lore. The indigenous Ojibwe called it Michigami, which means large body of water. And for good reason, with a surface area of 22,404 square miles, in a maximum depth of 923 feet, this lake isn't just a lake, it's a full-on abyss. And today, you still know the spot by a similar name. Not Michigami, exactly, but close. I'm talking, of course, about Lake Michigan. Known for its soft, pale sands, and clear waters, its rolling dunes, and bountiful fisheries.

The lake is one of America's crown jewels. And human beings have lived in commune with these waters for thousands of years, from the early Hopewell peoples to the late woodland Native Americans, followed later by the Chippewa, Winnebago, Ottawa, and many more indigenous communities. It's not an exaggeration to say that the lake has watched many a generation live and die. In the mid-1600s, French explorers arrived,

followed by English and American colonists, and today roughly 12 million people live along the lake's soothing shores. Well, usually soothing. Except for when the lake gets, hungry, because sometimes you see the water decides to claim a sacrifice, and if the tales are true, one particular area is more ravenous than the rest. The Lake Michigan triangle as it's known encompasses an area of roughly 3,855 square miles. Draw three straight lines on a map between Manitowoc, Wisconsin, Ludington, Michigan, and Benton Harbor,

Michigan, and you'll have traced its borders. And according to the legend, this pie slice of water boasts. more than its fair share of tragedy and mystery. It started in 1977 when a man named Jay Goreley published a book called the Great Lakes Triangle, in which he claimed that the Great Lakes are responsible for more unexplained disappearances than anywhere on earth outside of the Bermuda Triangle. And the thing is, you can see how he would come to this conclusion. Every year, drownings in Lake Michigan alone number between the double and even triple digits.

According to some estimates, the total tally may number in the hundred thousand. and of all the Great Lakes, Lake Michigan accounts for more shipwrecks than all the rest. Shipwrecks that have on multiple occasions simply vanished without a trace. But it's not only shipwrecks and drownings that have gained the Lake Michigan Triangle its reputation. Pilots flying over the area have found themselves seized by vertigo and disorientation, suddenly unable to determine up from down. Other times, plane engines will simply shut off. Equipment often malfunctions, including gyroscopes and rascopes and run.

radios, and some pilots lose control of their aircrafts altogether. Numerous pilots passing through the triangle claimed to have seen UFOs in flight, or strange lights flickering below. Some even claimed that these lights were following them. And if that weren't eerie enough, survivors of these experiences tend to have a hard time remembering exactly what happened, as if overcome with amnesia. And I say survivors, by the way, because not all of these airplanes make it out. In fact, in 1950, a commercial flight en route to Seattle vanished out of the sky, only for human hands, ears, chunks of skull, and headless torsos to begin washing up on shore a day later, along with pieces of the aircraft, so much so that the beaches along the lake had to be closed for nine days to keep vacationing families from accidentally making sandcastles out of human flesh.

Now, sure, there are plenty of pilots and sailors who pass through the Lake Michigan Triang. without incident, but enough has happened to make you wonder. There are, of course, theories to explain the goings-on. Some blame magnetic anomalies. After all, Michigan's sand does contain magnetic minerals like magnetite, which in large enough quantities could potentially mess with technology. Others blame invisible magnetic fields caused by ordinary items such as electronics, power lines, batteries, cell phones, electrical storms, and even underwire bras.

Although, I have to say that if the underwire in a bra can shut off a plane engine, you would think that the TSA would care more about that and less about whether I've packed too much shampoo. But what do I know? And there are other theories as well, stranger theories. Some point to the mysterious Stonehenge-like formation hidden 40 feet below the lake. Yep, you heard that right. Discovered in 2007, this mile-long stone V was built around 9,000 years ago and may have been designed

to kettle in animals for hunting back when the area was dry land. Then again, some insist that the stones are less practical and more magical. Others still point to something called laylines. In the 1920s, amateur archaeologist Alfred Watkins proposed that monuments across Britain were connected by invisible lines, which he believed to mark ancient trade routes. Now, while that idea has been fully debunked, no doubt about that, in the 1960s, the New Age movement got a hold of Watkins' writings and decided that not only were laylines real, but they had mystical, spiritual powers. And Lake Michigan, well, it just so happens to have

a layline running straight down the center from north to south. Meanwhile, Ojibwe folklore has long had its own explanations for the lake's monstrous temper and odd phenomena. There are stories of thunderbirds all across the great lakes whose great wings beat to make thunder while lightning shoots from their eyes. Then there's Mishapishu, aka the Great Links, a dragon-like underwater panther who causes waves, rapids, and whirlpools. There is no denying it. Lake Michigan is a dangerous place. Beautiful as it may be, the waters are home to raging winds, strong riptides, hazardous ice, and massive deadly waves. In other words, no matter the reason behind it, one thing is certain. Sometimes people go into Lake Michigan,

and they simply do not come back out. In mythology, griffins are said to guard precious treasures, and so the ship's builders named it La Griffin in hope that the title might offer the same protection. Loaded with furs and fine goods, La griffin set forth on its maiden voyage in August of 1679, but little did the crew know that first voyage would also be the last.

On September 12th, Le Griffin passed through the Straits of Mackinaw and entered Lake Michigan, where it anchored on an island for a bit of fur trading, which was all well and good, until a few days later, when it came time to set sail again. In the words of Louis Henepin, a Franciscan friar who kept a diary of the voyage, some natives advised our men to sail along the coast and not towards the middle of the lake because of the sands that make the navigation dangerous when there is any high wind. Our pilot was dissatisfied and would steer as he pleased. A letter written later by the ship's owner, Seward de La Salle, would allege that the locals told the captain that, and I quote,

there was a great storm out in the lake, but the captain ignoring them replied that his ship had no fear of the wind. The griffin may have been named for a mythological beast, but it was another mythology trope that would seal its fate. That is, hubris will always lead to downfall, because on September 18th of the first of, 1679, LaGryphon charged into Lake Michigan, never to be seen again. Search parties would later discover ruined fragments of the European ship likely belonging to Legriffin, but that's it. Not a single body was ever recovered. And sure, given all the ominous advice, it seems likely that the ship simply went down

in a storm, but there are other theories as well. Some believe the captain and crew deliberately scuttled the ship and ran off with the valuable furs, which is why no bodies were discovered. Others blame Ottawa and Huron tribesmen who they claim attacked the boat and murdered the crew, and others still have an even stranger explanation. You see, some Native Americans believe that the ship, an affront to the Great Spirit, sailed through a crack in the ice right into another realm. To this day, witnesses claim to see a ghostly ship tossing through the fog upon the raging waters of the lake. Whatever the true explanation is, one fact remains. La Griffin may have been the first ship swallowed by the Lake

Michigan Triangle, but it certainly wouldn't be the last. Meet the Rosa Bell. First launched in 1863, she was a 106-foot-long schooner designed to carry lumber, grain, and supplies, along with a tiny four-person crew. And before its disappearance, this boat suffered a number of ominous disasters. In 1875, for example, a storm damaged it and took the life of a steward named John Holm. Nearly 30 years later, it was damaged again requiring weeks of repair. But none of this dissuaded a new owner from purchasing La Rosa Bell in 1819 after five decades at sea. The new owner, by the way, was none other than the House of David cult in Benton Harbor, Michigan, which, if you recall from last November's episode 267, is the very same South Codd,

and Doomsday Cult, whose weirdly talented baseball team barnstormed across America from the 1920s through the 1950s. And just as the House of David team played to fundraise for the cult's massive compound, the Rosabelle too served as home base, shipping supplies back to the cult in Benton Harbor. In October of 1921, the Rosabelle was preparing for her last transport of the season to deliver a load of potatoes and maple lumber. But just before setting sail, the pilot, a House of David member named Ed Johnson, had a terrifying premonition of disaster.

It scared him so much that he refused to board the ship. As a result, an outsider named Earhart Glees was forced to pilot the schooner instead, and it seems that Johnson had made the right call because only a few days later, his premonition would come to terrifying fruition. It was a car ferry called Ann Arbor that spotted the schooner first, and it was clear that something had gone terribly wrong. For one, she was 42 miles east of Milwaukee, significantly off course. Also, the ship's hull was gone, and there was damage to the stern. Oh, and she was floating upside down. And her crew? Nowhere to be found. At first, it was believed that the vessel

had been involved in a collision with a larger ship, but no other ship reported any such incident. And not only that, but the Coast Guard would later declare that the damage to the stern couldn't have been caused by a collision with another craft, but cryptically failed to offer any other explanation. And just like Le Griffin's doomed crew, the souls aboard the Rosa Bell were never seen again. Now, look, both of these shipwrecks and their missing crew have garnered their fair share of supernatural rumors. But if you ask me, it sounds like they simply capsized on windy, dangerous waters. And given that the lake contains so many cubic miles of water, finding the drowned sailors, would have been a needle in a haystack situation.

But there is a third disappearance that's a little more difficult to explain a way, the vanishing of George R. Donner, captain of the OS McFarland. At 57 years old, Donner was a veteran sailor with decades of experience. It was April of 1937, and the seaharden captain and his crew

were journeying across Lake Michigan with over 9,800 tons of coal in tow. The spring thaw had yet to begin, and the Great Lakes were still scattered with a kaleidoscope of treacherous winter ice. Not only that, but two of the ship's primary compasses were malfunctioning at the time. Experienced, though he was, this was all starting to stress Captain Donner out. A lot.

In fact, he was so anxious about the failing compasses that he refused to sleep for multiple days, staying up all night to monitor them. But by 10.20 p.m. on April 28th, after successfully traversing the Straits of Mackinaw, the man finally decided. it was time for some shut-eye. And so, he stepped away from the compasses, retreated to his cabin, and instructed his first and second mates to wake him up after three hours. Well, three hours came, and three hours went, and at 1.20 a.m., the second mate went to wake him up. But when he knocked on the door, no one answered. He knocked again and still nothing. Worried, he fetched the master

key, unlocked the door, and found the captain's cabin completely empty. The bed appeared unslepten, and the port window was securely locked, and even if it hadn't been, it was too small for a man to fit through. After a search, it became clear that the captain was nowhere on board, nor anywhere else for that matter, because George R. Donner was never seen again. And before you say, well, Aaron, that's easy. He must have gone overboard. There's one other detail that I should mention.

Captain Donner's cabin, you see, had been locked. from the inside. The bottle had washed up on the beach near Benton Harbor. It was rough and weather-worn, but the note inside, scrawled on brown paper, was perfectly dry, and it read, We are the passengers on the Thomas Hume. The schooner's hold is rapidly filling with water,

and we have no hope of escape. But let's rewind. It was the late 1800s, and the lumber industry was big business on Lake Michigan. After all, Chicago was in the middle of a housing boom, and if there's one thing you need to build a house, it's lumber. All of which is to say, if you happen to own a lumber mill in the Midwest back then, you were basically sitting on a gold mine.

A very bulky, heavy gold mine, that is, the kind that needs a heck of a ship to transport it across the Great Lakes, which in 1877 is exactly what the owners of Michigan's Hackley-Hume Lumber Mill purchased. It was a 132-foot two-masted schooner with a 26-foot beam, and in honor of the latter partner in the Hackley-Hum duo, the ship was given the name the Thomas Hume. It had already been on the waters for seven years by the time the lumber mill acquired it and would go on to serve them for seven more, making a total of 409 round-trip journeys and delivering a whopping 97 million feet of lumber, roughly 31,000 homesworth. Heck, if you live in an old house in the greater Chicago area, it's possible the very rooms you inhabit right now were constructed with some of that lumber.

Hopefully, though, your house wasn't built from wood delivered by the Thomas Hume in late May of 1891, because that particular wood might be a teeny bit cursed. It was Thursday, May 21st, when the Thomas Hume's long career came to an end. It had just finished hauling a delivery to Chicago alongside its fellow. Hacquely Hume's sister ship, the Ruse Simmons, when the two boats started the journey back to Muskegon. The cargoes were empty, which for my nautical nerds out there just means that it was running lights and the ships were making good time as they bobbed along the calm waters of Lake Michigan. At least they were until the winds turned. In an instant, everything changed.

Southwest winds swept in, bringing heavy seas. Squalls loomed over the lake's surface, Thunder and lightning erupted across skies that had been clear only moments before, and so the captain of the Ruse Simmons decided to turn back. It simply wasn't safe to continue the journey. Now, we'll never know why the Thomas Hume's captain made a different choice. The story would have turned out very differently if he had. But alas, history, like the Thomas Hume itself, can't turn around and make a new ending. It can only stay the course, which is exactly what Captain Harry Albrightson and his crew of seven sailors did, continued onward toward Muskegon as the waves rose around them. When the storm finally quieted down,

the Ruse Simmons got back on track and landed at its first destination only to discover that Thomas Hume had never arrived. At first, no one was worried. After all, it had probably stopped somewhere else along the way to let things blow over, right? But when days became a week and there was still no sign of a ship or a crew, the Hackley-Hum Lumber Company began to fear the worst. Search teams set out to comb the lake along the Thomas Hume's route. Hackley-Hum sent telegrams to all nearby ports begging for information. They even placed a notice in the Chicago Tribune promising $300, the equivalent of over $10,000 today, to anyone who had information on the ship's whereabouts.

But all the efforts amounted to nothing. And I mean, nothing. No life rings washed ashore, no wreckage floated on the lake, no splintered boards or tattered sails. And even stranger, not a single person had seen even the slightest hint of the ship, despite the fact that it had been on a heavily traveled route. So what had happened to the Thomas Hume? Had the schooner been dashed in a storm? Had it sunk in a hit and run by a larger ship? Had the captain and crew stolen the schooner and sailed it to another port where they repainted it and renamed?

the vessel, theories swirled, but nothing quite made sense. And it's easy to see why they were confused. Yes, the weather was rough, but the Thomas Hume had handled far rougher in the past without incident. The lack of debris seemed to rule out the idea of a collision with another ship, and as for potential theft, that seemed unlikely as well. In the words of owner Charles Hackley, we don't care for the boat. It's a loss of the captain and men that makes it sad.

The captain had been in our employ for 12 years. was a reliable man and every inch a sailor. No, it seemed the ship had simply ceased to exist, at least until the message in a bottle washed ashore. You've already heard the first part. We, the undersigned, our passengers on the Thomas Hume, the schooner's hold is rapidly filling with water, and have no hope of escape.

But it didn't end there. The note went on to say, and I quote, we are on the St. Joseph course and have been drifting for hours. We have friends in McCook, Nebraska, and Elkhart, Indiana. Please notify them of our fate. And it was signed Frank Maynard and Wilbur Grover. Now, you might think that this would be major news, but it wasn't. In fact, Hackley Hume immediately denounced the message as a cruel prank.

Remember, the Thomas Hume was a lumber ship, didn't carry passengers. Not only that, but it was sailing on the northerly Muskegon route, not the St. Joseph course. And so the bottle they decided was a hoax. And the Thomas Hume? Well, it was more lost than ever. It's like they sailed through a crack in the lake. That's how sailors described the thousands.

Yes, thousands of vessels that have vanished into Lake Michigan over the years. And with so much tragedy, it's no surprise that leagues of supernatural folk tales have cropped up around the lake. After all, it's human nature to try and make sense of the senseless, even if the explanations we come up with defy logic, because in the end, a bizarre answer is better than no answer at all. In the words of maritime historian Frederick Stonehouse, everyone who sails the lakes has a tale of something they experienced they can't explain, whether it is a light that shouldn't be there, the faint outline of a ship where the radar says

there isn't anything, or even a shadowy figure standing on the bow rail. Sometimes, though, we do receive a real concrete answer to the mystery, an answer that in some cases only breeds more questions. In 2006, a diver named Teres Lysenko descended into the depths of Lake Michigan in search of an old naval aircraft when something unexpected registered on the sonar. Upon closer inspection, what Lysenko found was no aircraft, but rather a schooner, resting 150 feet down on the lake bed. A schooner, by the way, that had not only been running light when it sunk, just as the Thomas Hume had, but met the missing ship's exact size

and description. Also on board were a number of coins, all dating prior to 1891 the year of the disappearance. Could it be, had the lost ship finally been found? The cold, clear water had kept the wreck pristine, as if frozen in time, and I mean pristine. The hall was perfectly intact with no evidence of collision, and the boat still contained clothing and personal effects belonging to those on board. Shirts, pants, knit hats, socks, sweaters, and more. All neatly preserved. But there was something odd about this clothing. It included a designer-label jackets and fancy leather gloves, not the sort of thing that a crew member would carry on board. No, these garments suggested that the Thomas Hume had been carrying passengers.

And the final nail in the coffin, that would be the location of the wreck, because the diver had found the vessel not along the Muskegon, but partway between Chicago and St. Joseph, smack dab in the middle of the St. Joseph course. It turns out that the message in the bottle had been real all along. I hope you enjoyed our voyage today through the Lake Michigan Triangle and its many mysteries. I will never not be amazed at how many unexplainable events can take place in a relatively small geographical area.

But the strangeness isn't done just yet, because there's at least one more victim of the lake that won't seem to stay dead. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. This episode was sponsored by BetterHelp. As seasons change and days grow darker sooner, it can be a tough time for many. This November, BetterHelp is encouraging everyone to reach out, check in on friends, and remind people in your life that you're there, just as it can take a little courage to send that message, reaching out for therapy can feel difficult too, but it's worth it, and it almost always leaves people wondering, why didn't I do this sooner?

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That much was clear. And though he was fully visible from shore, there was no way to reach him in time, no way to stop it. So all the horrified spectators could do was look on helplessly as the man flailed and gasped for air, bobbing in and out of view beneath the waters of Lake Michigan. And the worst part, this wasn't the first time it had happened. I don't mean a drowning in the lake. I meant this man's drowning.

Because, you see, this same tortured scene had replayed itself again and again along the jagged coastline of Lake Michigan for 20 years. Some call him seaweed Charlie, others the aviator, and throughout the 1950s and 60s, joggers, bicyclists, and other passers-by traversing the Evanston side of the lake allegedly watched him die more times than history can count. But unfortunately, the episode doesn't end with the drowning alone. Oh no, witnesses claim that after dying, the seaweed-covered corpse drags itself up out of the water, crawls over the sharp rocks along the shore and staggers across Sheridan Road before arriving at the gates of Calvary Cemetery. And there, the very wet specter would pace back and forth in front

of the locked gates before ultimately vanishing. Now, according to the tale, this continued until one night when the cemetery groundskeeper accidentally left the gates open overnight. After that, the spirit was never seen again. Now it's easy to see where the ghost's would have earned the name Seweed Charlie being covered in seaweed and all, but why the aviator? Well, the legend has it that this wasn't the ghost of any old swimmer or even a sailor, but actually of a naval pilot. In 1951, 30-year-old Lieutenant Laverne neighbor crashed his jet into Lake Michigan just off the coast of Evanston, and that tragedy beget more tragedies because the attempts to retrieve his body were so fraught that another four Navy men perished

in the process. Eventually they were successful. finding his remains just north of Dune State Park. In other words, right in the area that the ghost sightings are said to take place. Maybe the ghost stories came first and they were tacked on to neighbor's death after, or perhaps the news of the lieutenant's accident inspired the stories. But there's one element that seems a little off. That is, after finding his body, it was shipped to his wife in Minneapolis for burial. In other words, he has no connection to the Calvary Cemetery,

where the ghost is said to disappear. But then again, Lieutenant Neighbor is far from the only Navy pilot to drown in the lake near Chicago. It's a little-known bit of Midwest history, but following Pearl Harbor, the Navy converted existing steamships into two flat-top aircraft carriers called the C&B and the Greater Buffalo, and floated them right there on Lake Michigan. Between 1942 and 1945, nearly 15,000 pilots were trained to, land on deck using these very vessels. After all, safer to train them at home rather than to send them out into the ocean and hope for the best, right? Except, well, it wasn't always as safe as you

would think. Plenty of rookie airmen didn't quite stick the landing, plummeting instead into the icy depths. In the course of this training, a whopping 100 to 200 World War II fighter planes and dive bombers sank to the bottom of Lake Michigan. Some of the pilots were able to be rescued, but many were not, and some think that seaweed Charlie may be one of these unfortunate casualties. Except, well, you guessed it, none of them are buried in the cavalry cemetery either. In fact, the graves there predominantly belong to soldiers from the Civil War and World War I. My guess is that the cemetery gate part of the story developed organically as part of the oral tradition, rather than because of any actual tie to the ghost's historical origins.

Speaking of the pilots who trained to land on Lake Michigan, though, one of them graduated early enough to become one of the youngest pilots in the Navy. Back then, he went by the nickname Skins. But you probably know him by another name. That is, the 41st president of the United States. George H.W. Bush. This episode of lore was produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with writing by Genre Rose Nethercott, research by Jamie Vargas and Cassandra DiAlba, and music by Chad Lawson.

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