Lore - REMASTERED – Episode 28: Making a Mark

Episode Date: May 16, 2022

Let’s return to the location of another classic Lore episode, for one more tour through the sandy beaches and ancient stories of the Outer Banks. Featuring 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 ©2022 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved. Access premium content!: https://www.lorepodcast.com/support To advertise on our podcast, please reach out to [e-mail], or visit our listing here.

Hey folks, Aaron here. Before we dig into today's remastered edition of a classic lore episode, I wanted to make sure that we are on the same page about how these work. My goal with the remastered project has been to revisit the oldest episodes of lore, the ones with the worst audio quality and production, and give them new life. All of us learn skills over time, and looking back on over 7 years of doing this, it's clear I've grown and changed and tightened up my process. And I really want folks like you to experience those stories through my modern standards.

So I've remastered them. I've literally re-recorded the narration, started the production over from scratch, and scored them with Chad Lawson's hauntingly beautiful music. Not only that, but I've also written a brand new story for each remastered episode, tucked away at the end after the ad break. Be sure not to miss those. But I do need to point something else out. The normal lore schedule hasn't changed.

I haven't slowed down new episodes. Those still come out every other Monday, the same schedule I've had for 7 years. These remastered editions are just giving you a bonus, something fun to enjoy in between those new ones. My plan right now is to remaster through episode 50, so we have a ways to go. Those plans may change, but I do know that I'm having a blast revisiting these old classics, and I hope you are as well. And that's it.

Thanks for your constant and generous support. And now, on with the show. I talk a lot about New England folklore. One of the biggest reasons for that is because the northeast part of the United States serves as a sort of cultural bridge between the old world and the new. It was there, more than anywhere else, where the old tales and superstitions first set foot on American soil. The witch hysteria of the late 1600s was an aftershock of a larger tremor that had been

shaking Europe for decades. The American version of the vampire has roots in Eastern European folktales and legends. Even holidays like Christmas and Halloween were really just old world injections into the cultural soft tissue of America, and the needle pierced us first in New England. Of course, there are other parts of the country that also played host to pioneers and adventurers, people who risked their lives and loved ones to travel across the cold Atlantic and build a new home here on our shores. And the age of colonization brought more than just settlers and supplies.

It brought lore. Up and down the east coast of what would one day become America, people came ashore with heads full of superstitions and a propensity to attach meaning to things that we might overlook today. Put another way, they brought food for the journey and the seeds to grow more here. They came with minds that were perfectly wired to build new folklore on the backs of old tales, new fears, new legends, new hauntings. And we can still find those creations in many places along the eastern seaboard.

Places like North Carolina. Before the vacation homes and sun-baked tourists crowded along the sandy shores of the Outer Banks, pioneers were attempting to carve out an existence there. Those that survived left behind more than buildings and descendants, though. Today the Outer Banks is home to tales that still send shivers down the spines of locals and tourists alike. This folklore, whether it's new or old, has a way of leaving its mark. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore.

Brighans Bay sits on the northern coast of the southern part of Hatteras Island between the towns of Frisco and Buxton. Hatteras is part of the Outer Banks, which on the map look like nothing more than a thin string of earth and sand a few miles off the coast of North Carolina. Imagine the island as a backwards capital L, hugging the coastline near the Pamlico River. But don't let that thin strip of sand and state parks fool you. Hatteras, like many of the other islands out there, is still big enough for stories to take root.

And that's because it has a long history, longer than most parts of the country in fact. Near the northern tip of the island, just to the west, is Roanoke Island, the site of England's first settlement in the New World. Although the colony there disappeared sometime between 1586 and 1587, Europeans didn't stay away long. It was their constant activity in the region that gave rise to so much of the local stories still told today. There is a legend in Hatteras of the horrible deeds of one particular captain.

According to the story in 1710, an English ship crossed the Atlantic carrying refugees from Germany. They were known as Pelotines, and they had originally fled the Middle Rhine area to settle in England. But there were so many that the English decided to help them move to the New World. When these refugees boarded the ship, they hid their valuables, afraid that they might be stolen by the ship's crew. After a successful journey, the ship entered the waters inside the outer banks, heading

toward New Bern on the coast. Their new home was in sight, and after such a long journey, it must have been a relief to see. Sensing that they would soon disembark, the Pelotines removed their valuables from hiding and gathered them together for the final leg of their journey. Now, maybe it was the site of all that treasure, the jewelry and coins and precious heirlooms that triggered what happened next. Or perhaps the crew had planned it all along.

But here was their chance, and they decided to act. Claiming that the weather wasn't good enough for a landing, they told the passengers to return to their cabins and wait until morning. During the night, the crew moved systematically throughout the ship, killing the sleeping refugees and stealing their treasures. After killing the passengers, the captain and crew set fire to the ship and headed to shore in lifeboats. But the ship didn't sink.

Instead, the legend claims that the flames grew higher and higher, while the ship began to move forward in the calm waters. Fearing for their lives, the crew abandoned their lifeboats and were never seen again. To this day, locals whisper of a ghost ship that can be seen under the first full moon of September. The ship, orange with flames, passes near the Ocracoke Inlet three times and then vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Another prominent local story involves the capture of the legendary pirate Edward Teach,

also known as Blackbeard. Teach patrolled the Atlantic and the Caribbean in his ship, Queen Anne's Revenge, for a little over two years, and in the process became one of the most feared pirates of his day. As history records, Blackbeard was finally cornered by Lieutenant Robert Maynard and his men in November of 1718, just inside the Outer Banks near the southern tip of Heterus. In a battle that was horribly bloody for both sides, the Great Blackbeard suffered no fewer than 20 sword wounds and five gunshots before he was finally brought down. The English beheaded his corpse and tossed the body into the sea.

His head, though, was kept. Maynard hung it from the bowspirt of his ship, and it was turned in later to collect his reward. Locals there near Ocracoke tell of a spot known as Teach's Hole, where the legendary pirate once anchored his ship. If the stories are to be believed, Blackbeard's ghost haunts the location. There are those who claim to have seen strange lights, both above and below the water there on the coast.

They say it's Blackbeard, swimming through the waters he used to patrol. Others say you can hear voices there. When storms blow in and waves crash against the shore, locals claim you can hear something besides the rain and thunder. It's the sound of a man crying out in pain. The same words over and over again, where is my head? Heterus is still popular with visitors today, though I would assume none of them are pirates. People still build homes there.

They have streets and restaurants and parks and trees. Tourists flock there every summer to take in the scenery. But right there, on Snug Harbor Drive near Brigham's Bay, is a tree that's called the island home for centuries. In fact, it was most likely ancient when the colonists first arrived hundreds of years before, and although most of the people driving by it are completely unaware, this tree has a story to tell. According to local legend, it starts with the arrival of a woman near Frisco Bay back

in the early 1700s. They say her name was Cora, and she brought a baby along with her. They were always seen together. The child held tight to her chest or strapped into a sling. For an area frequented by sailors or widows of those who were lost at sea, that wasn't an unusual sight. The Brigham's Bay area was even more wooded than it is now, and it's said that she took up shelter in the forest there, rather than in the small community that was forming on

the coast. But it wasn't living on the literal outskirts of society that earned her a reputation as an outsider. It was her knack for the unusual. Some have said that cows she touched would dry up and turn sick. When the fishing got rough and nets were empty, Cora still managed to bring in enough to feed herself and the child. And when a local boy decided to poke fun at the baby, legend says that he got so sick

he nearly died. Naturally, people talked. People always talk when things don't fit the norm, and that talk spread. In an era when it didn't take much more than an unpleasant disposition or off-color comment to earn a woman a reputation as a witch, it seemed Cora was making it a little too easy for the locals to be suspicious. The legend also tells of how, during Cora's stay there, a ship called the Susan G ran aground off the northern coast of the island.

The captain and his crew left the ship and came to town, and from there they made their plans to repair it and continue their commercial delivery. It sounds simple, right? Just repair the damage and move on. But doing so meant unloading all of the cargo piece by piece and bringing it to shore. The captain's name, according to local legend, was Eli Blood. And that better have been his real name too, because come on, how perfect is that, right? Anyway, this captain enlisted the help of locals to move the cargo off of his grounded

ship and in the process he got to know quite a few of them. Which was good. Judging by the repairs, he and his crew from Salem, Massachusetts were bound to be there for a very long time. And it was during this long stay that he and his crew heard the stories of Cora and her baby. The hearts of the rumors pointed to one single sensational conclusion. And the child she brought with her was her familiar, her supernatural pet.

And as it turned out, Captain Blood was probably the last person on earth that this mysterious Cora wanted to draw the suspicion of. The captain, it seems, was not just a sailor from Salem. He claimed to know Cotton Mather, the Puritan minister who was a passionate voice in support of the Salem witch trials. He had read Mather's books. He had studied them. He was a student of Mather's methods and apparently shared the man's intense hatred

for the dark arts. So much so, in fact, that he considered himself a white witch, someone trained in combating the forces of darkness with their own brand of magic. He claimed to have his own familiars, which he fed with drops of blood. And those familiars acted like spies for him, informing him of black magic nearby. Captain Eli Blood considered himself a witch hunter. And I realized that this sounds incredibly hypocritical, which it was, of course. But back then, it was heroic.

It gave the people of the area a feeling of safety. At least, they might have said, we have someone here who can deal with Cora the witch if she ever gets out of hand. And that's when the body of a man washed up on the beach. The body wasn't one of Captain Blood's men, but it drew his concern nonetheless. It was the body of a young man from town, and although no marks could be found that pointed to the cause of his death, there were a number of other clues. The legend tells of how the man's face was twisted into a horrible expression of fear.

His hands, they say, were clasped together, as if he'd been kneeling before someone powerful begging for his life. The man even had the numbers 666 carved into his forehead. The most damning evidence of all, however, were the footprints in the sand near his body. They were smaller than a man's, and they moved away from the body in a clear, definable The woods. Someone needed to investigate the man's death, they said, and who better to do it than the witch hunter himself, Captain Eli Blood.

He had little else to do while he waited on the ship's owner to send help and supplies. This sounded like the perfect job for his idle mind. Captain Blood, for his part, agreed. He gathered his men, mostly slaves from Barbados, who had a healthy cultural fear of black magic, and together they went in search of Cora's shack in the woods. When they found her, she was inside making breakfast for herself and her child, and the men seized both of them and brought them back to town. They accused Cora of witchcraft and murder, of course.

How could they not, in a society governed by deep superstition and intense fear of people who failed to fit in? But before you write them off as barbaric, remember that this is a flaw we all have yet to overcome. We still fear those who are different from us. Maybe it's genetic, maybe it's culturally ingrained, and that fear is like a snake hiding in the bushes, always ready to strike. It struck hard for Cora.

Captain Blood had her bound left hand to right ankle, right hand to left ankle, and then carried to the shore. There, he ordered her to be thrown into the water. It was a test, he said. If she floated, she was a witch, and seeing as how the tide was low and the waves were calm, of course, she didn't sink. How could she? Satisfied with the results, the captain moved on to his second test.

Pulling his knife free, the man tried to cut a handful of Cora's hair, but the blade failed to do its job. More proof, he declared, that she was a witch. Or at least proof that he needed to sharpen his knife, but hey, I'm no witch hunter. The final test was the most creepy and ambiguous of them all. Seeing a bowl of seawater, the captain asked each of his crew to cut their fingertip and drip blood into the bowl. When they had all done so, he stirred this mixture with his knife until it foamed and

swirled, and then he chanted words that no one else understood while staring hard into the bowl, and then raised his face in triumph. She is a witch, he exclaimed, and then, as if needing a second opinion, he passed the bowl around to the others. Each of them, according to the legend, saw two things in the bowl, the devil and the face of Cora. It was all the proof they needed. Cora was a witch, pure and simple.

Now her execution would be completed. The captain had his men gather firewood and branches and pile them at the base of a large oak tree near the bay, and then Cora and her child were tied to the tree, ready to be burned alive. Now, what happened next will sound unusual. That's the fingerprint of an old story. They sometimes take on a patina of oddities and other worldliness, but sometimes that patina adds texture, even value to an antique.

I'll let you be the judge. According to the locals who tell the tale to this day, Captain Blood approached the tree with a lit torch in his hand, ready to set fire to the wood and burn the witch and her familiar alive. But another captain, a local man named John Smith, held him back, asking instead for Cora's trial to go through the proper legal channels. Smith, being a sane man, wanted to do things right. But as the men argued, two things happened.

First, the child in Cora's arms twisted and writhed as it transformed into a large black cat with shimmering green eyes. Second, a dark, ominous cloud began to gather overhead on an otherwise cloudless day. Both men cried out in horror, and then Captain Blood lunged forward with the torch to ignite the kindling. It was at that very moment that the cloud overhead rumbled and a lightning bolt flashed down, striking the tree and blinding everyone around it. When the smoke cleared, the base of the tree was empty.

The ropes were still there, as was the pile of branches and firewood. But the woman and the cat were gone without a trace. Well, that's not true. There was one clue, but it was difficult to believe. There, etched by lightning into the bark of the old oak tree, were four clear letters which spelled out one single word. C-O-R-A Cora

The Outer Banks is just like any other place in the world on many levels. It has a history, and over the centuries that comprise that history, stories have been told. In a lot of ways, story is one of our greatest legacies. Wherever we've been, we've left story in our wake, like footprints in the mud. Some stories are true and act like time capsules. Some are exaggerations of the truth and are meant to entertain later generations more than anything else. Some, though, serve to fill in the blanks, to answer those lingering questions, or to

explain the things we can't wrap our minds around. Are there really fiery ghost ships and headless pirates haunting the Outer Banks? Was the word on the coretry a word that you can still go see for yourself if you want, really carved into the bark by lightning? The chances are pretty good that it's all just a collection of old, entertaining folktales. But sometimes, stories do both. Beneath their decorative paint and fantastical flourishes, they conceal a grain of truth deep in their core.

The most famous local legend in the Outer Banks, by a mile, is the story of the lost colony of Roanoke. The island is located off the west coast of Hatteras, and when the English settled there in 1585, they knew they were on the edge of the world. Building a settlement there took a lot of guts, and it came with a lot of risk and danger. When John White and a hundred new settlers landed there in July of 1586, the first settlement was gone, so they started to investigate. They set up their own fort there, and also worked to establish relations with the local

Native American tribes, the Croatoan on what is now Hatteras, and the Corrie on the mainland. White left for England one year later to get more supplies, but didn't return for three years, and when he did come back, no sign of the English could be found. He'd left them with a plan, though. If they were forced to leave, they'd been told to carve a cross into a nearby tree so that White would know they'd been attacked. And he did find a carving, but it wasn't a cross. It was a single word, Croatoan.

This was good news because it meant that they'd departed peacefully, but where did they go? White wanted to search Hatteras immediately, but when a terrible storm blew in, his men refused to stay. However painful it might have been, after all, White's own granddaughter was among the missing. They had to leave the very next day. It's interesting to note that the Croatoan lived in southern Hatteras, in the area between modern-day Buxton and Frisco, right by the Corrie, and if it wasn't really lightning

that carved those letters, perhaps it was an actual human being. Sure, it could be nothing more than a century's old prank, or just a bit of lover's graffiti. Everything is possible, right? Or maybe, like a myth with a grain of truth at its heart, this tree is the last hint in a chain of clues that point to the final destination of the settlers from Roanoke. You see, the Cree tribe on the mainland went by a few other names. Some called them the Kors, or the Koranine, or interestingly enough, the Korah. The Outer Banks have a certain air of mystery and legend about them.

From lost colonies to pirates and witchcraft, there seems to be no shortage of dramatic tales for us to enjoy. And to prove it, I've pulled together one last story of danger and legend to share with you. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. Life in the Outer Banks has long meant life on the edge. To be so close to the harsh Atlantic meant a constant struggle for safety and comfort, but a century and a half ago, one way they fought back was through a series of outposts

known as life-saving stations. We've discussed lighthouses before, and those are pretty easy to describe, lights on the edge of land that helped warn ships of danger. But life-saving stations were a bit different. They were, in a sense, a sort of ocean-centered firehouse, staffed by a crew of men who were on call to come to the rescue of nearby shipwrecks. One such facility, built in 1874, was the Kitty Hawk Station. Just like lighthouses, these stations had keepers, men who were in charge of the facility

and who acted as a sort of captain to the crew of six surfmen who were on call. And the position of keeper was, at least back then, a job that was filled by appointment. In 1884, the keeper of the Kitty Hawk Station was a man named James Hobbs. As usual, Hobbs oversaw his team of six other men, and their work there along the coast kept them busy. But it also earned Hobbs a jealous eye from at least one local man, a guy named T.L. Daniels, and Daniels played dirty. That year, he reported station keeper Hobbs to the authorities.

The man's crime? He apparently used some leftover paint from the station building to do some touch-up work on his personal boat. Whether it was true or not wasn't the point. Daniels just wanted to cause Hobbs to lose his job so that maybe he could take it over instead. On July 7th of 1884, an investigator arrived to look into the matter. Lieutenant E.C. Clayton walked into a storm, though.

Yes, Hobbs was there, as station keeper, to answer his questions and show him around. But Daniels was also there and wouldn't leave, and that led to a lot of bickering between him and Hobbs, and Clayton was caught right in the middle. At one point, all three men were inside the life-saving station, where the temperature was growing hotter than the summer heat outside. It's said that Daniels, the troublemaker looking to steal Hobbs' position out from under him, threatened the keeper's life right in front of Clayton, and then he reached for a gun.

Station keeper Hobbs wasn't about to put up with that, so he opened a cupboard and pulled out his shotgun. Now, one would think that Daniels had the upper hand, reaching for his pistol first, but apparently his hand got caught on his own coat, and that gave Hobbs enough time to step forward, rest the shotgun on the shoulder of the investigator, and pull the trigger. That first shot only hit Daniels in the left shoulder, and it might be projecting here, but I'd have to believe that this would have been a good moment for him to back down. Instead, Daniels finally got his pistol free and moved closer to Hobbs.

One more blast from the shotgun, though, and Daniels was dead. Hobbs would be arrested and put on trial that fall, but perhaps thanks to Clayton's testimony, his actions were deemed self-defense, and he was acquitted on September 8th. Whether or not he got in trouble for using that paint, though, I have no idea. Over the years to come, the life-saving stations all across the country would eventually get merged into what is now the Coast Guard, and the Kitty Hawk station went through a number of changes as well, both physically and geographically. The wooden building was moved twice, and after that, additions were made.

And today, it's home to a restaurant, the Black Pelican. That unusual name, they say, comes from another story from the station's past. Apparently shortly after opening in 1874, a large pelican covered in black feathers started to show up and warn the crew of approaching ships, and for many years it served as a hybrid of an omen and a lookout, helping the men do their job. When the station was shut down in the early part of the 1900s, the bird simply vanished. But don't worry, there's still plenty of history to be found inside the restaurant that bears its name.

The Black Pelican has received numerous reports of unusual activity, and many of the people who have worked there over the years place the blame for it squarely at the feet of that angry interloper, Daniels. There's a spot on the wooden floor that locals believe is the place where Daniels bled to death back in 1884, and at least one person has also seen fresh blood running down one of the walls inside. Of course, a lot of the usual rumors also fill the restaurant, from mysterious footsteps and voices to objects that move on their own.

Whether or not Daniels is still there, haunting the current occupants in search of that ever-illusive keeper position is something you'll have to decide for yourself. But thanks to that legend and countless others, at least one thing is undeniably true. Life in the Outer Banks always has a way of leaving people feeling a bit on the edge. 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 is 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. When you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi. And as always, thanks for listening.