Lore - Lore 306: Disorienting

Episode Date: May 18, 2026

Some folklore can be very confusing, which can cause a lot of fear. Which was exactly the point for this specific realm of ancient belief and tradition. Just try not to get lost. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with writing by GennaRose Nethercott, research by Cassandra de Alba, and music by Chad Lawson. ————————— PRE-ORDER 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: 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. HomeServe: Help protect your home systems – and your wallet – against covered repairs. Plans start at just $4.99 a month at HomeServe.com. 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. ————————— 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

Hey folks, Aaron here. You've probably heard that I have a new book coming out in August. If not, give me a few seconds to sum it up, and to do that, I need you to think back to the very first episode of this show, an episode called They Made a Tonic. That episode spends a little bit of time on the story of Mercy Brown, a young woman who died in Rhode Island in 1892, and then when her brother became sick with tuberculosis, her community had her body dug up so they could look for proof that she was draining his life from the grave. The book I've written to explore that event is called Exhumed, and it comes out on August 4th.

Now, to celebrate the release, I'm going to be heading to Boston that night to take the stage at the Wilbur Theater alongside my good pal Elena Urquhart from Morbid, to talk about the book, do a reading from it, some Q&A, and then sign books. It's a ticketed event, but every ticket gets you a seat in the theater

and a hardcover copy of Exhumed, and I would really love to see you there. Okay, that was a lot of information, and you're probably driving or doing laundry or walking the dog, so just do this for me. When you have a moment, tap the link that's in this episode's description to head over to Aaron Mankey.com slash Exhumed and click on the big green button for the Boston release event. I can't think of a better way to kick off my Exhum book tour than by spending the evening with a thousand of you in my favorite theater. It's going to be a blast, so grab your tickets now before they're gone.

And with that, on with the show. A lot can go wrong on the open sea. Storms and scurvy, mutinous crews, and towering icebergs. But the most dangerous threat of all, why, that would be simply getting lost. Now sure, even before computerized tools, any seasoned sailor could navigate by the sun, But what about at night, or in the midst of a thick fog? It didn't take much to get off course, and by the time you figured out the mistake, your whole crew was doomed. Lucky for the Vikings, though, they had protection, at least so the old Norse myths claimed.

It took the form of a magical gemstone, and according to the tales, one simply had to peer through the glassy enchanted stone, and it would reveal the position of the sun, even in the dark. Quite a story, right? And for centuries, that's exactly what people thought it was, just a story. But then, in 2011, some amazing information came to light, literally. While studying a certain calcite-based crystal common in Viking territories, researchers were amazed to find that the stone had the power to locate the hidden sun. That's right, the mythical Viking sunstone may have been real all along.

Basically, they figured out that the stone worked because of the way calcite bends lights. Even when the sun is hidden behind clouds, the crystal splits what little light remains into two images. When the stone is slowly rotated and those images darkened to the same degree, the sun's true position is revealed, with startling precision. In the end, what seemed like fairy tale magic was really just good old human ingenuity. After all, the Vikings weren't master seafarers by accident. But beware, because there are some places in history so disorienting, so beguiling that not even the finest compass in the world could lead the lost to safety.

I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is lore. The scent of wood smoke hangs in the autumn air as you wend your way through the cornfield, papery leaves rustling underfoot. The crops are so tall you can't see over them, and you use it. them and you swallow the eerie sensation that someone something is hiding just around the next corner you turn once then again and suddenly you realize you're more lost than ever but that's okay you're supposed to be after all what else are corn mazes for they become a Halloween season classic and I say become because believe it or not

corn mazes were only invented in the 1980s then again their inspiration is much older so old in fact that when Traverseas those maze mazes on October nights, hot cider in hand, you're actually participating in a ritual thousands of years old. That's right. Long before the maze ever came to be, there was the labyrinth. Now before you ask, yes, a labyrinth and a maze are technically two different things. A maze is a multicersal puzzle, meaning there are multiple paths that a person can follow while hunting for the right one to beat the game. Labyrinth, on the other hand, which predate mazes, are unicursal,

meaning that just a single meandering path leads to the center and then back out again. There are no choices to be made and no wrong turns. And like I said, labyrinths have been around for a while, as in at least 4,000 years. But here's the wildest part. No matter where you go in the world, from India and the Americas to Sumatra and all across Europe, most ancient labyrinths were built in the same specific shape.

It's called the classical labyrinth pattern and consists of a single pathway that loops back and forth to form exactly seven circuits bounded by eight walls all surrounding a central destination. That's right, disparate cultures all around the world, all building the exact same thing. Some of these ancient labyrinths were simply stone patterns laid on the ground. Others, a motif carved into stone. But sometimes, well, they were something far grander. In the 5th century BCE, Herodotus wrote a visiting a labyrinth in Egypt. It was intricately painted and comprised of 3,000 rooms, half above ground and half below. While the upper level was open to visitors, the lower levels were sealed off, to the living, at least.

They served as tombs for both pharaohs and sacred crocodiles. In awe, Herodotus basically said the pyramids were lame in comparison, and that, I quote, all of the works and buildings of the Greeks put together would certainly be inferior to this labyrinth. And before you argue that this sounds far too marvelous to be real, Herodotus wasn't the only witness on record. Several other historians wrote of visiting the exact same place. But all this raises a pretty important question, right? If this same pattern was appearing all over the ancient world, why? What was it for? Well, to tell the truth, we don't fully know. But there are some theories.

Some people believe that the classical labyrinth shape originally documented the steps of a group dance in which a chain of dancers followed a specific path. In fact, the traditional name for labyrinth in some Scandinavian countries even translates to Maidens Dance. Then again, there are also bloodier theories, because in some cases, labyrinths may have less to do with art and more to do with war. For example, one Indian variant on the classical labyrinth is called the Chakra Vua, or spinning wheel formation, and contains a spiral in the center. According to the 4th century Hindu epic, the Mahabharata, this design was once a deadly military formation.

Apparently, soldiers would assume the shape of the labyrinth and swirl around the enemy in trapping them within. Terrifying, right? And then again, other labyrinths were less about murder and more about magic. For shepherds and hunters, walking a labyrinth was said to protect against wolves. In the Baltics, fishermen would lay out a labyrinth of stones on the ground, which they would traverse before heading out to sea. Why? Well, they believed unfavorable winds would follow them in and become trapped, leaving only good winds to fill their sails. Meanwhile, in northern Sweden, fishermen were out to trick more than just the wind. They told legends of a meddling

troll known as the Smygobar, who, if left untended, would track their boats and bring bad luck. The solution, lure the troll into a labyrinth and trap it there, of course. By the way, this theme of entrapping creatures in a labyrinth is found across countless cultures. Some folklorists believe it's tied to the idea that demons and evil spirits can only travel in straight lines, thus becoming totally bamboozled by even the simplest of labyrinths. Now, when a tradition is prevalent enough, especially a magical one, it's only a matter of time before Christianity tries to co-opt it. The labyrinths are no different. In medieval Europe, churches and cathedrals began inlaying labyrinths into their tile floors, and these weren't

just for show. No, just like the labyrinth of old, they were used for dancing. Starting around the 1300s in the French city of Oxer, clergy would join hands and perform a ring dance in the Labyrinth every Easter Monday. They would chant hymns, all while the cathedral's dean tossed a leather ball back and forth to the dancers. And if you're thinking that this all sounds rather pagan, well, you aren't alone. In 1538, the dance was banned for exactly that reason. Now, banning a dance is one thing, but tearing out a bunch of cathedral floors is quite another. And so rather than hiring a demolition crew, the church simply decided to treat Labyrinth lore to a little dose of revision history. By the 18th century, the church had begun convincing people that those curvy things

on the floor were symbolic and that walking along them represented a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. As a result, the pagan overtones were gone. This rebrand was so successful that even today, many people will insist that church labyrinths were built with Christian symbolism in mind in the first place. I think it's fair to say that even historical accuracy has a way of getting lost within those winding trails, be it ill winds or demons, opposing armies or troublesome trolls, labyrinths have a way of separating those within from those without, sealing its wanderers away from the outside world forever. And no story exemplifies this better than that of the dreaded Minotaur. He never asked to be born. According to Greek mythology, it all began when a man

named Minos started vying for the throne of Crete. Now, in order to become king, Minos had to prove that he was favored by the gods, basically the ancient Greek version of securing the party nomination. And so, agreeing to help, Poseidon put on a big show of gifting Minos a beautiful white bull that rose right out of the sea. In exchange, Minos was supposed to sacrifice the bull to Poseidon once the king's stuff was all squared away. Did Minos become king? Yes. Did he sacrifice that bull? No, he did not. Which, yeah, was a big mistake. As vengeance, Poseidon filled Minos' wife with an uncontrollable lust for that to aforementioned white bull, which seems a little unfair given that none of this was actually her fault.

The result of this unholy union was a pretty freaky, human-bodied, bull-headed baby, and thus the Minotaur, meaning Bull of Minos, came to be. Somehow this kid had a pretty normal childhood. He was raised in the palace where he romped and played like any normal child. But as he grew, things began to change. He became violent, terrorizing palace visitors. Oh, and he developed a pesky taste for blood. And so Minos decided to take a normal, rational approach to solving his problem of a stepson.

That is, by hiring a famous architect named Dedalus to create a vast subterian. labyrinth in which the boy would be imprisoned forever. And let me just add here that I know I just gave you a whole spiel about the difference between a labyrinth and a maze, but ignore that for a bit, because despite being known as the labyrinth of Crete, this thing sounded suspiciously like a maze. It was so winding and strange,

so filled with false turns and optical illusions, that even the architect himself had trouble finding his way out. Some versions of the story even claimed that the walls themselves, could move, blocking the escape route just as you thought you were about to be free. Suffice to say, the Minotaur wasn't going anywhere, but hey, at least he had plenty of snacks. Every few years, you see, a tribute of seven Athenian boys and seven Athenian girls were locked up in the labyrinth to serve as the Minotar's dinner. And if that sounds familiar, yes, Suzanne Collins did draw from this myth while writing The Hunger Games.

Enter a teenager named Theseus, who, just like Catnus Everdeen, stepped forward and volunteered as tributes. Lucky for Theseus, though, one of King Minos's daughters, Ariadne, took a shine to him and smuggled him a tool to use in the maze. No, not a weapon and not a key or a map. Theseus's only defense was a ball of yarn, which, it turns out, was all he needed. While the other tributes stumbled blindly through the baffling corridors, Theseus plotted methodically toward the center, letting the ball of yarn unravel behind him. Eventually, he found the minotaur, the two battled it out, and miraculously, Theseus won. And from there, well, he simply had to follow the trail of thread back to the entrance,

escaping, safe, and sound. Honestly, it's hard to express just how famous this story is. References to the labyrinth of Crete pop up just about everywhere. Heck, in the wreckage of Pompeii, the words, Labyrinth Here Lives the Minotaur were discovered scratched in Latin onto some guy's wall because even 2,000 years ago people loved graffitiing each other's houses with insults.

Some things never change. I wish I could tell you where the legend started, but with a story that old, it's impossible to track. Some think the Minotar story was an attempt to make sense of Crete's frequent earthquakes. After all, the idea of a beast, trapped underground, shaking the earth, and roaring, is a pretty good explanation.

It's a good theory, but it's just that, a theory. And the truth is, there is basically no evidence to back it up. So if the story wasn't a metaphor, could it possibly have been literally true? Okay, sure, hopefully not the whole bullheaded man-monster thing, but might there have been a real-life physical maze? Now, surprisingly, that theory has some solid foundations. Some historians believe that an elaborate cave system in Scotino might have served as the inspiration for the tale. It does appear the spot once played host to some sort of ancient rituals.

Others, though, think that a quarry near the Cretan city of Gorton is the real labyrinth, but it's hard to accurately excavate because the quarry was damaged during World War II when Nazis used it to store their munitions. But it's a third theory that really makes my treasure hunting heartbeat faster. Because, you see, starting in 1900, a British archaeologist named Arthur Evans began excavating the ancient Cretan city of Canos. And as he dug, he made the kind of discovery most archaeologists could only dream of. It was a palace, and not just any palace. Vast and winding, the palace corridors twisted and turned, linking room after countless room, just like a labyrinth. Arthur was convinced. This, he believed, was it, none other than the labyrinth of Crete. And the thing is,

there's data to back up that hunch. Most early versions of the minotar myth, locate the labyrinth right there in Canosos. In fact, Greek coins minted in the city, dating from the 5th century BCE, often featured a labyrinth pattern, and some even depict the minotar. The clues are all right there. Oh, and speaking of which, that word, clue, we have the labyrinth of Crete to thank for that as well. Because clue, you see, comes from the old English C-L-E-W, but it doesn't mean a hint or a lead. Not yet. No, you see, the word clue originally referred to a ball of yarn. We may never be sure whether the labyrinth of Crete's ever actually existed or not.

But that's okay, because guess what? Despite being the most famous labyrinth under a castle, it sure wasn't the only one. And even better, some are still there. In the heart of Hungary lies the capital city of Budapest. In the heart of Budapest, sits a grand, Baroque Palace known as Buddha Castle. Beneath that castle sits a hill, and deep within that hill lies a geothermal spring. For thousands of years, long before the castle ever became a castle, water from that spring trickled over underground rocks, and as it flowed, bits of stone and mineral chipped away little by little at a time, until eventually what began as small cracks in the earth had widened into a vast network of interconnected underground caves.

Welcome to the mysteries of the Buddha Castle Labyrinth. Now, the first humans to discover and use these caves probably lived during the Stone Age, but it was in the 13th century when construction on the castle first began, that this subterranean layer really became the hottest spot in town. It started simply enough as a place to store grain and wine, but people have a way of taking something benign and turning it into, well, kind of evil, which is exactly what happened when folks turned part of the cave into a prison. I can only imagine how horrifying it must have been for the inmates held in those cold, dark tunnels.

First, to be shackled and dragged down a narrow staircase, to go deeper and deeper into the earth as if descending into hell itself, the light of day snuffing out behind you. Until finally your captors abandon you in what looks like nothing short of a tomb. Anyway, over the next two centuries, people continued to connect the snaking corridors to one another, expanding the labyrinth's reach beneath the city. They dug wells, unearthing a human skull or two in the process. They built further storage. Some caves even led to the basements of regular homes.

In other words, people actually took up residence there. And, of course, there were always the darker uses. It said that when 16th century Turkish diplomats grew bored of the ladies, in their harem, they would lure them deep into the caves and throw them down a well. Some whispered that they even bricked the women up alive, which was probably just anti-Turkish propaganda, although the later discovery of several real female skeletons sure does make you wonder. And the dangers didn't end there. Criminals ran amok, hiding in the tangled corridors to evade the law. The caves played host to air raid shelters during World War II, and in 1944, even housed

a hospital where soldiers lived and died on dingy underground operating tables. During the 1956 Hungarian uprising, the space was briefly used by revolutionary forces before becoming a prison for those very same rebels when the revolution failed. It held nuclear bunkers during the Cold War when no one knew if there would even be a world above to return to. And all the while, that Grand Palace sat firmly on top, a sparkling jewel balanced on a an ant hill. Today, the labyrinth is still there, stretching a good six miles below Castle Hill. Of course, it's mostly a tourist trap these days, stuffed with its fair share of ghost tours.

Which makes sense, right? Given all the imprisonment, suffering, and death that took place in the Buddha Castle labyrinth over the years, there are bound to be a few hauntings in the mix. Over the years, visitors have claimed to hear unexplained noises and see ghostly figures while exploring the labyrinth. Some believe that these spirits were awakened in the 1800s, when some of the tunnels collapsed, shaking the dead from their slumber. But of all the spooks inspectors, supposedly wafting through the caverns, there's one phantom more famous than the rest.

His name is the Black Count, and allegedly his story is rooted in real history. There are two main theories about who this guy was. The first, that he'd been a very real Hungarian count, who during the 1800s fell on hard times. He may not have had money anymore, but what he did have was one of those houses with a cave-adjacent seller. And so eager to make a quick buck,

the Count allowed bandits to use this basement to slip in and out of the tunnels unseen, for a price, of course. And it seems it worked out just fine, while he was alive, that is. It was only in death that he got his comeuppance, doomed to wander the various corridors from which he'd made a dirty profit.

As for the second theory, well, some believe that the Black Count was none other than a real 15th century political prisoner named Vlad Tepas. Now, Old Tepas was a prince of Wallachia, and unfortunately for him, he ticked off the king of Hungary, earning him a cozy little cell in the Buddha Castle labyrinth. Far from the sunlight, he rotted away year after year,

for some say up to a decade. Eventually, Vlad Tepas was set free, But some legends claim that he came back eventually, or at least his body did. It said that after Tepa's death, his corpse was buried right back there in the underground caves, missing one vital part, that is, the man's head. And I'll admit, while it's true that the man was imprisoned in the caves, the whole thing about Vlad Tepa's body having been buried there after his death is probably just an invention of the labyrinth's very booming haunted tourism industry.

In reality, Vlad Tepas has a grave at an island monastery in Romania. Or, well, so everyone thought. It turns out when excavators opened that supposed Romanian graveyors later, it contained nothing but horse bones, which means the real body of Vlad Tepas is still missing. As J.R.R. Tolkien famously wrote, Not all who wander are lost. And the same is true when it comes to the ancient mysterious art of the labyrinth.

For thousands of years, pilgrims have walked these winding paths as an act of meditation, ritual, and even in the case of those superstitious Swedish fishermen, for safety. But it's a fine line between walking a labyrinth and being trapped inside one. And you know what they say. One man's contemplative spiritual space is another man's horrible torture prison. Perhaps this is part of the labyrinth's enduring appeal, the fact that it can help or harm. It can lead to salvation or certain,

doom. And honestly, maybe that's intentional. You see, when we get lost, something strange happens in the human brain. With the smallest tinge of panic, our frontal lobe, the part that processes logic, basically turns off while blood rushes to the mid and hind brain where we process emotion. In other words, the labyrinth with its perfect cocktail of occult mystery, blind corners, and unreachable exits, turns us from thinking creatures into feeling one. the same mindset from which supernatural belief is born. By the way, I recommend looking up an image of a classical labyrinth. You'll find it looks suspiciously like a drawing of the human brain.

In 2011, there was a police raid in the Buddha Castle Caves. After that, the government shut off some of the tunnels to the public. And here's the thing. No one knows why any of this happened. Could the authorities have found something down there that they're trying to keep hidden? Are the caves being used for a secret government operation? Were more bodies discovered, even perhaps the headless corpse of Vlad Tepas? Anything is possible.

Oh, and by the way, you probably know of the Wallachian prince Vlad Tepez by another name. His more famous moniker, you see, was Vlad the Impaler, also known as Count Dracula. I hope you've enjoyed this journey through the twists and turns of Labyrinth Lourth, throughout the ages. I will admit, I'm glad that the chance of being imprisoned in one of these things is pretty low in this day and age, so we should be safe, right? Well, according to one final story, even if we make it to our deathbeds labyrinth free, there might just be a whole new one waiting for us after we die. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. This show is sponsored by BetterHelp. People often say that life is a journey, and they're right. Some

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first payroll. That's three months of free payroll at gusto.com slash lore. One more time, gusto.com slash lore. It's probably best to think of it as the world's most upsetting escape room. The place is called Shibala, which translates to place of fear. Although if you happen to be born as a pre-colonial Mayan person, you would probably know it as the underworld. Now, let's be clear here. This doesn't function like our modern idea of hell, where only sinners go for punishment. No amount of good deeds could keep you out of Shibala. In fact, the only people who weren't sent there were those who died a particularly violent death, which seems like a real damned if you do, damned if you don't situation, literally. Just like Dante's Inferno,

Shibala consists of nine distinct levels, which together form a vast, labyrinthine network of caves. And I mean vast, these caves contain countless roads leading everywhere and nowhere. There are palaces in the caves, sprawling gardens, and snaking rivers. But don't get too dazzled here, because this underworld also includes cozy little spots like the so-called torture dome, and elsewhere a window that, when looked out, reveals what has only been described as unbearable darkness. Now, Shibala is ruled by a whole oodle of gods. The two most important are named Death One and Death Seven. But trust me, I wouldn't overlook the others if I were you. We've got Flying Scab and Blood Gatherer who, while on Earth, are in charge of humanity's blood-borne

illnesses. Then there's the ever-charming Pussmaster and jaundiced demon, kings of bodily swelling and oozing and their good friends, Bone Scepter and Skull Scepter, who make people wither away to skin and bone. Not to be outdone, though, the god's wing and packstrap are a jaunty duo who make you cough up blood. And finally, last, but certainly not least, the disturbingly specific sweepings demon and stabbing demon, who have a pesky habit of stabbing you to death if your house gets too messy. In short, the most metal supervillain lineup in history. When this crew isn't busy making your time on earth actively awful, they're chilling on a throne of bones down in Shibala. But as for you, well, let's just say once your soul reaches Shibala, it tends to stay very,

very busy. You see, souls aren't just blindly wandering through this underworld. No, as soon as you arrive, a series of trials and tribulations await you. You may have to cross a river made of blood, or scorpions, or my least favorites, a river of pus. Then again, you may be tabled. You may be tasked with surviving the blood-sucking house of bats or flesh-eating house of jaguars. The house of tremors is freezing cold, the house of fire burning hot. And the house of razors, well, I'll let that one speak for itself. Oh, and don't be fooled if the lords of the underworld invite you to rest your weary feet and sit down. Apparently, one of their favorite pranks is replacing all of the chairs in Shibala with hot stoves.

So, let's say you somehow survive all these trials. What exactly do you win? Well, as far as we know, the prize is pretty darn good. That is, reincarnation. Now, look, I say, as far as we know, because the truth is, I'm doing some guesswork here. And not only because I'm not, well, dead yet, no, the reason we don't have a clear answer is because the Mayan culture was intentionally and systematically destroyed by Spanish colonizers. They burned thousands upon thousands of Mayan texts and artwork.

And when the smoke cleared, vast swathes of Mayan knowledge was like, lost forever, just as the colonizers intended. In fact, most of what we know about the place of fear comes from one single text called the Popul Vu. It was first written in the 1500s, transcribed from oral tradition into Latin script by Franciscan friars. But in 1577, King Philip II ordered all copies of the manuscript to be destroyed. By some miracle, though, one copy of the Popul Vu survived King Philip's purge, and in the early 1700s, a Dominican friar in Guatemala found it and translated it into Spanish before it too vanished forever. In other words, all we have left of the Mayan underworld is a translation of a translation of an oral tradition, which sounds to me an awful

lot like a labyrinth. This episode of lore was produced by me, Aaron Manke, with writing by Geno's Nethercote, research by Cassandra DeAlba, and music by Chad Lawson. Just a reminder, folks, I have a brand new history book that is coming out on August 4th. 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 available for pre-order right now, and if you pre-order the hardcover, my publisher has a webpage setup where you can submit your receipts and get a free gorgeous tote bag. Head over to Aaron Mankey.com slash exhumed to see the gorgeous cover and lock in your copy of the book today.

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