Lore - REMASTERED – Episode 20: Homestead

Episode Date: January 24, 2022

Home is where the most powerful experiences of our lives take place. But when those experiences are tragic, the memories can sometimes stay behind. In this Remastered edition of a classic episode, we���ll revisit a handful of homes who are still haunted by their past. With fresh narration, music by Chad Lawson, and a brand new Epilogue story at the end. ———————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  All the shows from Grim & Mild: www.grimandmild.com Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.com Access premium content!: https://www.lorepodcast.com/support To advertise on our podcast, please reach out to [e-mail], or visit our listing here.

Home, sweet home. For most of us, those words are about as true as they get. The place we call home can easily become the center of our universe and is often the source of our feelings of security and peace. Most people who tell you stories about their childhood home do so with wide eyes and a wistful smile. Home, as they say, is where the heart is. Our home is the place where we experience life.

We fill each room with our laughter. We chase our passions. We make plans for the future. You might remember holidays in the living room or breakfast conversations or exploring the attic on a winter day. These homes, nothing more than buildings that we dwell in, somehow become a part of us. The life isn't always roses and laughter. Sometimes the things we experience are difficult or painful or both.

Sometimes people do things that leave a lasting mark, like an echo that carries on through the years. And upon occasion, these dark moments are even experienced within our home. From Macbeth to American Horror Story, from the typewriters of Shirley Jackson and Stephen King, it has been made abundantly clear just how much power a home can have over our lives. Maybe it's the tragedy or the memories. Maybe it's the dark acts committed in the shadows or the secrets buried beneath the foundations, both metaphorical and literal.

Whatever the reason, it doesn't take a popular novelist or even a historian to point out the simple truth. There's no place like home. And considering what's been known to happen there, that might be a good thing. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. When Christopher and Elizabeth Crowley built their home in the New South Wales town of Junee in southeastern Australia, they envisioned a normal happy future for themselves. Christopher Crowley had caught wind of the impending construction of the Great Southern

Railway line through Junee, and so he built the railway hotel across from the station. And that gamble paid off. In 1884, they finished construction on a home they called Monte Cristo. It wasn't a mansion by any stretch of the imagination, but it did have nine rooms, a stable for his prized racehorse, a dairy barn, and a separate ballroom, although that eventually became the servants' quarters. But life wasn't idyllic for the Crowley family. While carrying one of the little Crowley girls, their nanny dropped her down the stairs, where

she died from her injuries. They claimed that an unseen force had reached out and knocked the child from her arms. Whatever the cause, the Crowleys had to go through the ordeal of burying a child, something no parent should have to endure. In 1910, Mr. Crowley's starched shirt collar began to rub the skin on his neck raw. The abscess became gangrenous, and by December of that year, he died as a result of a heart attack, brought on, they say, by the infection. After her husband's death, Elizabeth, already known to be a harsh, disciplined woman, went

into a state of mourning that lasted the rest of her life. She converted one of the upstairs rooms into a chapel and spent much of her time there. According to local lore, she only left the house on two occasions before her death in 1933. Other tragedies found their way into Monte Cristo as well. A pregnant maid took her own life by jumping from the top story of the house. She bled to death on the front steps. Morris, the stable boy, burned to death in a fire.

And in 1961, the caretaker of the house was shot and killed by a local who had been inspired by the recent Hitchcock film, Psycho. Today, many young children feel anxious near the stairs. A dark stain has been seen on the front steps of the house, but it seems to fade in and out of view over time. The shape of a young woman in a white gown has been witnessed passing in front of the windows of the front balcony. And some believe it's the spirit of the pregnant maid, repeating her final moments over and

over. Others claim to have seen a young boy wandering around near the site of the old coach house. A few visitors to the house have witnessed the figure of an older man in the upstairs hallway, and most have assumed it to be Mr. Crawley. But it's his wife Elizabeth who is most commonly seen, almost as if she hasn't fully let go of her home yet. She has been reported to appear in the dining room, where she has ordered people to leave the room.

Others have seen her ghostly figure in the chapel upstairs, dressed in black as if in mourning for a lost loved one. Across the world in the American state of Kentucky, another home became the scene of tragedy and pain. Their names have slipped from history. But in Allen County, one of the families there in the early 1860s owned a number of slaves. According to the local stories, most of the enslaved lived in their own quarters on the property.

But the husband kept chains in the basement of the family home, for times when he wanted to exercise a bit more discipline. When the civil war broke out, word began to spread among the enslaved people of the South that it would be better to escape and run north. And so plans were made in their small dormitory there over many weeks. Finally, the night came, and the entire group of slaves left the homestead and headed north. All of them, that is, except for the two still chained up in the basement of their captor's home.

Whether it was the noise of their escape or part of his usual evening rounds, the man soon discovered what had happened. The stories describe how he spent hours that night on horseback with his gun, riding north and looking for those who had escaped, but they were never discovered. Instead, the man returned home empty-handed and full of rage. Called by his anger, he descended into the basement, where he shot and killed both captive men. Later, after he had presumably cooled off, he was said to have buried the bodies right

there in the cellar. And then, months later, the man was called into service with the Confederate army, where he died in battle. His widow never opened the cellar door again. In fact, even though it was in the middle of the house, she hadn't boarded up. There's a lot of symbolism there in that single action, if you're looking for that sort of thing. But maybe she just wanted to make sure no one ever found the bodies her husband had buried

beneath the dirt floor. She passed away years later due to illness. The house was sold to distant relatives, and when the new family began to move in, they opened the cellar and discovered that it reeked with a powerful odor. They vented the space and cleaned it as best they could, but the smell never went away. It wasn't long before the children began to tell them about hearing sounds at night that seemed to come from the cellar. The parents dismissed it as childhood fantasies, but the stories continued.

One night, many months later, the husband and wife were both pulled from sleep by strange sounds. She stayed in bed while he went down to investigate. From their room, she claimed she heard a loud cry and then a crash. She raced out of bed and ran to the cellar. When she got there, she found her husband. He was laying dead on the dirt floor at the bottom of the cellar stairs, his neck broken and twisted.

There are many stories like these, but they all teach the same bitter lesson. Sometimes our homes attract tragedy. Sometimes we create it ourselves. When Daniel Benton built his small, red, cape-style home in Tolen, Connecticut, I doubt he imagined it would still be standing today. It's not enormous like some of the plantation homes one might find in the South, but for a house built in 1720, it was comfortable. And in complete contrast to our modern, mobile life in the 21st century, it stayed in the

Benton family until 1932. It's over 210 years for those of you who are accounting, and that's a very long time. The family grew, and by the 1770s, Daniel Benton had three grown grandsons who lived in the house with him. One of them, Elisha, had taken an interest in a young woman in town named Jemima Barrows. She was the daughter of a cabinetmaker and in a social station below that of the Bentons, and so Elisha's family looked down on their romance. They did everything they could to discourage them, but Elisha and Jemima were stubborn.

In 1775, an alarm was raised in Lexington, Massachusetts that was heard across the countryside thanks to writers like Paul Revere. Colonists from all across New England came to join the fight, and among them were the three Benton grandchildren. While Daniel Benton was sad to see his grandchildren go off to war, there was some relief, knowing that the separation just might be the thing Elisha needed to take his mind off the young woman. It is thought by historians that Daniel hoped that the war might bring an end to their relationship

forever. He was only partly right. A year later in 1776, all three of the Benton brothers were captured by British forces and taken to Long Island, where they were imprisoned on ships in the sound. These prison ships were notorious for their unsanitary conditions and the diseases that ran wild throughout the inmates. It was even thought that the British soldiers working the ships actually handed out food and bedding that was contaminated with smallpox.

It wasn't long before Daniel Benton received word that the two oldest of his grandsons had died while on board the prison ship, but no word came of the whereabouts of Elisha. He sent for news and waited impatiently, but before he could learn the truth, old Daniel Benton passed away. It was weeks later when the answer finally came. Elisha was free and being brought home, but he was sick with smallpox. This was bitter news for the Benton family. On one hand, Elisha was coming home.

That was a good thing for everyone, but on the other, smallpox was deadly. Nearly half of everyone who contracted the disease eventually died, and those were not the kind of odds that gave people hope. The soldiers brought Elisha into the house and he was guided straight to a room near the kitchen known as the Dine and Borning Room, where those giving birth or sick with illness could be kept away from the rest of the house and cared for. It was a colonial American version of quarantine and intensive care. But word spread of Elisha's return.

Not every son and grandson returned from war. Something even homes today can still deal with. And one of those who caught wind of the young Benton's arrival was Jemima Barrows. She had waited and stayed true to her beloved, and there was nothing she had hoped for more. Elisha had come home. I imagine she ran rather quickly to the doorstep of the Benton home. I would imagine that she knocked, being from a lower social status after all. But it must have been hard for her not to kick the door in and race to find her beloved.

Jemima knew her place though, and she waited for someone to come and answer the door. She was told that Elisha was sick and that she needed to go back home. But Jemima turned out to be a very stubborn young woman. Even when they told her that he was dying and sick with a highly contagious and deadly disease, she wouldn't relent. And in the end, she won. Jemima was allowed into the house where she set herself up as his sole caretaker and nurse. After a time, Jemima's parents became worried.

Their daughter hadn't come home all day, so they made their way to the Benton house to ask if they had seen her. When they discovered that she was, in fact, in the room caring for a smallpox patient, it said that they both wept. Jemima's mother said that they would go back home and get clothing for their daughter, and then quickly left. But sadly, they never returned. Elisha Benton died on January 21st of 1777, after weeks of battling the smallpox that

ravaged his body. Jemima stayed by his side the entire time, caring for him through it all. But her sacrifice did not come without a price. In the final days of his life, she too began to show signs of the illness. Within weeks, she was dead as well. The couple was buried on the Benton family property, alongside the stone walls that lined the road to the house. But due to burial customs of the time, they were not allowed to share the same plot.

Instead, they were separated by about 40 feet, one grave on either side of the road. It sounds like the end of a tragic story, and in many ways it is. Elisha and Jemima were never able to marry, and their young lives were cut short. But in other ways, they live on. In fact, according to some, it is that separation outside that has led to the reports of their restless spirits within the home. The Benton house was sold in 1932, and then again in 1969 to the Toland Historical Society. It was converted into a museum shortly after, but the influx of visitors only served to

draw out more reports of mysterious occurrences. One member of the staff claimed that her dog would not enter the dining room. When she picked the animal up and moved it to the sitting room, it refused to go anywhere else after that. Others have felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding and unwelcome. One woman, after cheerfully asking to visit the second floor, climbed the narrow staircase, only to return moments later, telling the staff, I never want to go there again.

Noises have been heard throughout the house that are difficult to explain. Knocking, footsteps, and what sounds like the snapping of branches have all been reported by visitors. Some have even heard what sounds like distant voices, and sometimes the movement of furniture. Others have heard what they describe as a weeping woman, someone who is mourning a deep loss. Those familiar with the homestead's past have assumed that that woman is Jemima, crying for her lost love. A few have even seen the figure of a young woman in a white dress in various places around

the house, searching for something no one else can see. Sometimes the home has been used by overnight guests. One couple actually lived there for a few weeks while their own home was being renovated, and on one occasion entertained a guest of their own. They claimed that on the night of their friend's visit, the conversation in front of the fireplace was interrupted by the sounds of footsteps thumping down the hallway from the eastern door of the home. The sounds moved closer and closer to the living room, and then just stopped.

According to the woman, their guest was packed and gone within 15 minutes. Another couple who stayed overnight in the Benton Homestead reported a very odd experience that happened during their stay. Their hosts had retired to sleep upstairs, and they themselves had settled down in the living room, which was serving double duty as a guest room. The wife claimed that she was awoken in the middle of the night. It was nearly completely dark in the room, but she felt as if someone or something were in the room with her.

And then, as if materializing out of the darkness, a pair of legs appeared near the head of the bed. A man, she assumed, was standing there, close to her. Her first assumption was that her host had come down to play a joke on her. Maybe that's the kind of guy he was, but the middle of the night is probably the worst time to play the joker, no matter who you are. Either way, she decided to call his bluff and wait to see what he would do. Nothing could have prepared her for what happened next, though.

A hand came out of the darkness and quickly covered her mouth. She flinched but held her ground. If he was going to try and frighten her, she said, he was in for a surprise. She pretended not to care, but after a few moments, it became hard to breathe, and in the end, panic took over. Pushing the hand away, she sat up and whispered harshly at the figure, what are you up to? Almost instantly, everything vanished. The legs, the hand, all of it, just gone.

The following morning, she brought up her experience at breakfast and asked the hosting couple what the reason for their prank was. The husband and wife looked at each other with confused expressions on their faces. They each made the same claim. No one had come downstairs during the night. The places we live can take on a certain life of their own. We fill them with our personality, our celebration, and sometimes even our tragedy. And although we can move on, whether by packing up and moving out, or literally leaving this

life behind, we often leave pieces of ourselves behind as well. Like a forgotten cardboard box in the back corner of the attic, some of our echoes stay behind where others can discover them. Some call them ghosts, others tend to think of them as bad vibrations. I don't think any of us would be wrong, no matter what language we use. In the end, it's clear that something stays behind, and it's not always easy to see. But sometimes it is. A few years ago, an architectural photographer visited the Benton homestead with his sister

in order to get some pictures for a project they were collaborating on. They wandered the property outside looking for the best view of the house. It's gorgeous, really, if you have a thing for antique first-period homes, and the deep red paint on the wood shingles is very classy and elegant. The project involved using Polaroid cameras, the kind that immediately kicks out a small, white-framed photograph that slowly fades into clarity. When they found the perfect place to shoot the house, very near the graves of Elisha and Jemima, incidentally, the photographer took a picture.

Something was wrong with the photo, though, so he took another. That one, too, seemed off. He showed it to his sister, and so they tried a third, and then a fourth, and then a fifth, and a sixth. Finally, they switched to a backup camera, one that had just come back from a camera shop where it had been repaired, but the photographs that came out of the new camera were the same. It wasn't the camera, they realized.

It was the house. All of the defective photos had the exact same flaw, as clear and easy to spot as the house itself. There, in each image, the second-story window was glowing, as if something bright and hazy. Or just behind the glass. Few things are as chilling and unsettling as tales of haunted homes, especially when those dwelling places are still inhabited. But if that's the sort of legend you thrive on, then you'll be happy to know that there

are plenty more stories just like them, waiting to be explored. Stick around through this brief sponsor break, and I'll walk you through another of my favorites. Hattie needed a place to live and fast. She and her five children had been on the move for weeks, and by the time they rolled into St. Paul, Minnesota in 1910, they were ready to settle down. It would be a new start for them, their first real steps forward since Hattie's husband had died. Sure, there was a bit of insurance money from his death, but it wasn't enough to provide

an extravagant lifestyle. What they had to settle for was a second-floor apartment on Pleasant Avenue. It didn't have enough space for the six of them, nor did it have a charming atmosphere, but it was a roof over their heads in a warm place during those long, cold winter months. Things didn't start off on the right foot, though. During their first day in the apartment, Hattie recalled the entire house shaking as if a great storm outside were pushing the building around. But there was no storm, and the apartment below them had no renter in it as of yet.

It felt like all of the kids were in another room jumping up and down, but they were all right there, where she could see them. This time close to Christmas, two of Hattie's younger daughters went into the cellar to set up a bed for their dog. Now, I need to describe the layout of this house so you can better understand what happened next. As I said before, they lived on the second floor, while the first floor space was currently empty.

But below them, adjacent to that first floor apartment, was their own cellar space. It was a ground floor cellar, right? Below that, and below the first floor apartment, was another cellar that everyone called the sub cellar. It was what you might imagine a cellar to be, dark and damp with a dirt floor and timbers above your head. But you could climb a set of rickety wooden stairs from the sub cellar and reach Hattie's cellar above.

So that night, while the girls were in their upper cellar, they heard the sound of someone climbing that set of stairs below them. Even with a shutter, the trap door between the two cellars popped open, and a figure climbed out. He was large, with a dark coat that seemed to be made of fur or hair, and he had hand sewn leather shoes on. When he turned toward the girls, they noticed his black hair, large mustache, and dark eyes. Frightened, they grabbed the dog and bolted up to their kitchen, where they asked their

mother to help close and lock the door. They all heard the footsteps climb up toward them, and one of the girls swears that she saw the doorknob turn slightly, but no one ever pushed against the door to try and open it. It was only after all of the children had gone to bed that Hattie opened the door to peer into the cellar for answers, but it was as empty as she had expected it to be. Still, she didn't like seeing her children so afraid, so as the weeks went on, she kept their conversations focused away from the mystery in the basement.

After that winter, after some guests had spent the evening chatting with Hattie, two of her older daughters stepped into a bedroom to retrieve the guest's coats. When they did, both of them claimed to have seen the figure of a man appear on the bed, pulling the curtain back with pale hands. It was their description, though, that was the most frightening aspect of their story. Black hair, large mustache, and a long coat made of hair. Later, after Hattie had her own experience with the dark-haired man, she made the decision to move the children out at night.

By day, they looked like a normal family, but each evening they would split up and go stay with friends. No one, Hattie said, was going to sleep in that house until the mystery was solved. Everything came to a head on one of the coldest days of the winter. The pipes had frozen, so Hattie had gone to the lower cellar to dig the water main up and pour hot water on the pipe. While digging the hole, her shovel struck something hard in the dirt, so she brought her lantern in closer and knelt down.

There in the shallow hole she had dug was a collection of odd objects, beads from a rosary, a crucifix, a folded piece of parchment, and, mixed in among them all, bones. Hattie nearly dropped the lantern and then backed out of the cellar to call for the police to come help, but not before she did something unusual. She grabbed the parchment, noticed that it was written in French, and then burned it in the kitchen above. The police found nothing helpful, but the objects were removed from the house to be inspected.

They did ask around though and discovered something else. Just a few years before Hattie and her children had arrived, the apartment had been rented to another person. He was an odd man, the neighbor told Hattie, very quiet and kept to himself. Hattie was almost too nervous to speak, but she had to know. What did he look like? She asked. He was a Frenchman, the neighbor replied.

He wasn't a big man, but he wore a fur coat that made him look much larger. And then of course there was his black hair and that big mustache. Hattie didn't wait for more answers. She had heard enough. After that day, she moved the children out for good and had them all settled into a new place a short while later. And as far as we know, the Frenchman was never seen again. This episode of Lore was researched, written, and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with music

by Chad Lawson. Lore is much more than just a podcast. There's a book series available in bookstores and online, and two seasons of the television show on Amazon Prime Video. Check them both out if you want more lore in your life. I also make and executive produce a whole bunch of other podcasts, all of which I think you'd enjoy. My production company, Grim and Mild, specializes in shows that sit at the intersection of the

dark and the historical. You can learn more about all of our shows and everything else going on over in one central place. GrimandMild.com. And you can also follow this show on Twitter, Facebook, 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.