Lore - REMASTERED – Episode 30: Deep & Twisted Roots

Episode Date: June 13, 2022

Nothing is as alluring as vampire folklore. And in this remastered classic, we return to the villages of Eastern Europe to explore just how deep those roots go. Come for the refreshed narration and production, and stay for the brand new bonus 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.

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In the early 1990s, two boys were playing on a gravel hill near an old abandoned mine outside of Griswold, Connecticut. Kids do the oddest things to stave off boredom, so playing on a hill covered in small rocks doesn't really surprise me. And my guess is that they were having a blast. That is until one of them dislodged two larger rocks. But when the rocks tumbled free and rolled down the hill, both boys noticed something odd about them. They were nearly identical in shape, and that shape was eerily familiar. They headed down the hill one last time to take a closer look, and that's when they realized what they'd found. Skulls

At first, the local police were brought in to investigate the possibility of an unknown serial killer. That many bodies, all in one place, was never a good sign. But it became obvious very quickly that the real experts they needed were in fact archaeologists. They were right. In the end, 29 graves were discovered in what turned out to be the remnants of a forgotten cemetery. Time and the elements had slowly eroded away the graveyard, and the contents had been swallowed by the gravel. Many skeletons were still in their caskets, though, and it was inside one of them, marked with brass tacks in the form of the initials of the occupant that something unusual was discovered.

Long ago, it seems, someone had opened this casket shortly after burial and had then made changes to the body. Specifically, they removed both femurs, the bones of the thigh, and placed them across the chest. Then, moving some of the ribs and the breastbone out of the way, they placed the skull above them. It was a real-life skull in crossbones, and its presence hinted at something darker. The skeleton, you see, wasn't just the remains of an ordinary early settler of the area. This man was different, and the people who buried him knew it. According to them, he was a vampire. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore.

While it might be a surprise to some people, graves like the one in Griswold are actually quite common. Today, we live in the Brahms Stoker era of vampires, so our expectations and imagery are highly influenced by his novel and the world it evokes. Victorian gentlemen in dark cloaks, mysterious castles, sharp fangs protruding over blood-red lips. But the white face with red lips started life as nothing more than stage makeup, an artifact from a 1924 theatrical production of the novel called Count Dracula, another feature we associate with Dracula that high collar also started there. With wires attached to the points of the collar, the actor playing Dracula could turn his back on the audience and drop through a trapdoor, leaving an empty cape behind to fall to the floor moments later.

The true myth of the vampire, though, is far older than Stoker. It's an ancient tree with deep and twisted roots. As hard as it is for popular culture to fathom, the legend of the vampire and the people who hunt it actually predate Dracula by centuries. Just a little further into the past from Brahms Stoker, in the cradle of what would one day become the United States, the people of New England were identifying vampire activity in their towns and villages and then assembling teams of people to deal with what they perceived as a threat. It turns out that Griswold was one of those communities. According to the archaeologists that studied the 29 graves, a vast majority of them were contemporary to the vampire's burial

and most of those showed signs of an illness. Tuberculosis is the most likely guess, which goes a long way toward explaining why the people did what they did. The folklore was clear. The first to die from an illness was usually the cause of the outbreak that followed. Patient zero might be in the grave, sure, but they were still at work, slowly draining the lives of others. Because of this belief, bodies all across the Northeast were routinely exhumed and destroyed in one way or another. In many ways, it was as if old superstitions were clawing their way out of the depths of the past to haunt the living.

The details of another case from Stafford, Connecticut in the late 1870s illustrate the ritual perfectly. After a family there lost five of their six daughters to illness, the first to have passed away was dug up and examined. This is what was recorded about the event. Exhumation has revealed a heart and lungs, they wrote, still fresh and living, encased in rotten and slimy integuments and in which, after burning these portions of the defunct, a living relative else doomed and hastened to the grave has suddenly and miraculously recovered. This sort of macabre community event happened frequently in places like Connecticut, Vermont, New York, New Hampshire, and even Ontario, Canada. And longtime listeners of lore will of course remember the subject of the very first episode

and how the family of Mercy Brown in Rhode Island exhumed her body after others died, doing a similar thing. Mercy Brown wasn't the first American vampire, though. As far as we can tell, that honor goes to the wife of Isaac Burton of Manchester, Vermont. All the way back in 1793. And for as chilling and dark as the exhumation of Mercy Brown might have been, the Burton incident puts that story to shame. Captain Isaac Burton married Rachel Harris in 1789, but the marriage was brief. Within months of the wedding, Rachel took sick with tuberculosis, what was then called consumption because of the way the disease seemed to waste away the person as if they were being consumed by something unseen.

Rachel soon died, leaving her husband a young widower. But that didn't last long. Burton married again in April of 1791, this time to a woman named Hulda Powell. But again, within just two years of their marriage, Burton's new bride became ill. Friends and neighbors started to whisper, and as people are prone to do, they began to try and draw conclusions. Unanswered questions bother us, so we tend to look for reasons. And the people of Manchester thought they knew why Hulda was sick. Although Isaac's first wife Rachel had been dead for nearly three years, the people of Manchester suggested that she was the cause.

Clearly, from her new home in the graveyard, she was draining the life from her husband's new bride. With Burton's permission, the town prepared to exhume her and end the curse. A town blacksmith brought a portable forge to the gravesite, and nearly a thousand people gathered there to watch the grim ceremony unfold. Rachel's heart, liver, and lungs were all removed from her corpse and then reduced to ashes. Sadly, though, Hulda Burton never recovered, and she died a few months later. This ancient ritual, at least as far as the people of Manchester, Vermont, were concerned, had somehow failed them. They did what they had been taught to do, as unpleasant as it must have been, and yet it hadn't worked. Which was odd, because that hadn't always been the case.

A lot of what we think we know about the roots of the vampire legend is, thanks to Dracula, the novel by Brom Stoker. Most of us know the basics. Stoker built a mythology around a historical figure from the 15th century named Vlad III. Vlad was from the Kingdom of Wallachia, now part of modern-day Romania. Now, Vlad had two titles. Vlad Tepes, which meant the impaler, referred to his brutal military tactics in defense of his country. The other, Vlad Dracul, or the dragon, referred to his membership in the Order of the Dragon, a military group founded to protect Christian Europe from the armies of the invading Ottoman Empire. But Brom Stoker never traveled to Romania.

The castle that he describes as the home of Dracula, a real-life fortress known as Bran Castle, was just an image he found in a book that he felt captured the mood he was aiming for. Bran Castle, as far as historians can tell, has no connection to Vlad III whatsoever. The notion of a vampire, or at least of an undead creature that feeds on the living, does have roots in the area, though. Stoker was close, and he missed the mark by a little more than 300 miles. The real roots of the legend, according to most historians, can be found in modern-day Serbia. Serbia of today sits at the southwestern corner of Romania, just south of Hungary. Between 1718 and 1739, the country passed briefly from the hands of the Ottoman Empire to the control of the Austrians.

Because of its place between these two empires, the land was devastated by war and destruction, and people were frequently moved around in service to the military, and is so often the case. When people cross borders, so do ideas. Peter Blagojevic was a Serbian peasant in the village of Kisilova in the early 1700s. Not much is known about his life, but we do know that he was married and had at least one son. And in 1725, through causes unknown, Peter died at the age of 62. In most stories, that's the end. But not here. You probably knew that, though, didn't you? In the eight days that followed Peter's death, other people in the village began to pass away.

Nine of them, in fact. And all of them made startling claims on their deathbeds. Details that seemed impossible to prove, but were somehow the same in each case. Each person was adamant that Peter Blagojevic, their recently deceased neighbor, had come to them in the night and attacked them. Peter's widow even made the startling claim that her dead husband had actually walked into her home and asked for, of all things, his shoes. She believed so strongly in this visit that she moved to another village to avoid future encounters. And the rest of the people of Kisilova took notice. Something had to be done.

And that would begin with digging up Peter's corpse. Inside the coffin, they found Peter's body to be remarkably preserved. Some noticed how the man's nails and hair had grown. Others remarked that the condition of his skin, which was flush and bright, not pale. It wasn't natural, they said. And something had to be done. They turned to a man named Frumbald, a local representative from the Austrian government. And together with the help of a priest, he examined the body for himself. In his written report, he confirmed the earlier findings and added his observation that fresh blood could be seen inside Peter's mouth.

Frumbald describes how the people of the village were overcome with fear and outrage, and how they proceeded to drive a wooden stake through the corpse's heart. Then, still afraid of what the creature might be able to do to them in the future, the people burned the body. Frumbald's report details all of it, but he also makes the disclaimer that he wasn't responsible for the villagers' actions. Fear, he said, drove them to it. Nothing more. Peter's story was powerful, and it created a panic that quickly spread throughout the region. It was the first event of its kind in history to be recorded in government documents, but that report was still missing an official cause.

Without it, the story might have died where it started. But then, just a year later, something happened, and the legend has never been the same. Arnold Powell Arnold Powell was a former soldier, one of the many men transplanted by the Austrian government in an effort to defend and police their newly acquired territory. No one is sure where he was born, but his final years were spent in a Serbian village along the great Moraeva River near Paris. In his post-war life, Arnold had become a farmer, and he frequently told stories from days gone by. In one such story, Arnold claimed that he had been attacked by a vampire years before while living in Kosovo.

He survived, but the injury continued to plague him until he finally took action. He said that he cured himself by eating soil from the grave of the suspected vampire, and then, after digging up the vampire's body, he collected some of its blood and smeared it on himself. And that was it. According to Arnold and the folklore that drove him to do it, he was cured. When he died in a farming accident in 1726, though, people began to wonder, because within a month of his death, at least four other people in town complained that Arnold had visited them in the night and attacked them. When those four people died, the villagers began to whisper in fear. They remembered Arnold's stories, stories of being attacked by a vampire, of taking on the disease himself,

stories of his own attempt to cure himself. But what if they hadn't worked? Out of suspicion and doubt, they decided to exhume his body and examine it. Here, for what was most likely the first time in recorded history, the story of the vampire was taking on the form of a communicable disease transmitted from person to person through biting. This might seem obvious to us now, but we've all grown up with the legend fully formed. To the people of this small Serbian village, though, this was something new and horrific. What they found seemed like conclusive evidence, too. Fresh skin, new nails, longer hair and beard, Arnold even had blood in his mouth.

Putting ourselves in their context, it's easy to see how they might have been chilled with fear. So, they drove a steak through his heart. One witness claimed that as the steak pierced the corpse's chest, the body groaned and bled. Unsure what else to do, they burned the body. And then they did the same to the four who had died after claiming Arnold had attacked them. They covered all their bases, so to speak, and then walked away. Five years later, though, another outbreak spread through the village. And we know this because so many people died that the Austrian government sent a team of military physicians from Belgrade to investigate the situation.

These men, led by two officials named Glasser and Flökinger, were special, though, because they were trained in communicable diseases. Which was a good thing. By January 7th of 1731, just eight weeks after the beginning of the outbreak, 17 people had died. At first, Glasser and Flökinger looked for signs of a contagious disease, but they came up empty-handed. They noted signs of mild malnutrition, but nothing deadly could be found. The clock was ticking, though. The villagers were living in such fear that they had been gathering together into large groups at night, taking turns keeping watch for the creatures they believed were responsible.

They even threatened to pack up and move elsewhere. Something needed to be done, and quickly. Thankfully, there were suspects. The first was a young woman named Stanna, a recent newcomer to the village, who had died during childbirth early in the outbreak. It seemed to be a sickness that took her life, but there were other clues as well. Stanna had confessed to smearing vampire blood on herself years before as protection. But that, they claimed, had possibly backfired and most likely turned her into one instead. The other suspect was an older woman named Milica.

She was also from another part of Serbia and had arrived shortly after Arnold Paul's death. Like so many others, she had a history. Neighbors claimed that she was a good woman who never did anything intentionally wicked, but she had told them once of how she'd eaten meat from a sheep killed by a vampire. And that seemed like enough evidence to push the investigators to go deeper. Literally. With permission from Belgrade, Glasser and the villagers exhumed all of the recently deceased, opening their coffins for a full examination.

And while logic and science should have prevailed in a situation like that, what they found only deepened their belief in the supernatural. Of the 17 bodies, only five appeared normal in that they had begun to decay in a manner that should be expected. Those were reburied and considered safe. But it was the other 12 that alarmed the villagers and government men alike, because these bodies were still fresh. In the report filed in Belgrade on January 26th of 1732, signed by all five of the government physicians who witnessed the exhumations,

these 12 bodies were completely untouched by decay. Organs still held fresh blood, their skin was healthy and firm, and new nails and hair had grown since burial. These are all normal consequences as we understand decomposition today. But three centuries ago, it was less about science and more about belief. This didn't seem normal to them. And so when the physicians wrote their report, they used a term that until that very moment had never before appeared

in any historical account of such a case. They described these bodies as vampiric. In the face of unanswered questions, the only conclusion they could commit to was that each of the 12 bodies had been found in a vampiric condition. With that, the villagers did what their tradition demanded. They removed the heads from each corpse, gathered all the remains into a pile,

and then burned the whole thing. The threat to their village was finally dead and gone, but it was already too late. Something new had been born, something more powerful than a monster, something that lives centuries and spreads like fire. A legend. Many aspects of folklore haven't fared too well

under the critical eye of science. Today, we have a much deeper understanding of how illness and disease really works. And while experts are still careful to explain that every corpse decomposes in a slightly unique way, we have a better grasp on the full picture now than any previous time in history. Answers, when we can find them, can be a relief.

It's safe to say that we don't have to fear a vampiric infection when the people around us get sick today. But there were still people at the center of these ancient stories. Normal folk, like you and I, who simply wanted to do what was right. We might do it differently today, but it's hard to fault them for trying. Answers don't kill every myth, though. Vampire stories, like their immortal subjects,

have simply refused to die. In fact, they can still be found if you know where to look for them. In the small Romanian village of Maratino de Sus, near the southwestern corner that borders Bulgaria and Serbia, authorities were called in to investigate and illegal exhumation. But this wasn't 1704, or even 1804. No, this happened almost two decades ago.

Petrotoma had been the clan leader there in the village, but after a lifetime of illness and hard drinking, his accidental death in the field almost came as a relief to his family and friends. That's how they put it, at least. So when he was buried in December of 2003, the community moved on. But soon, individuals from Petra's family began to get sick.

First, it was his niece, Mirela Marinescu. She complained that her uncle had attacked her in her dreams. Her husband made the same claim, and both offered their illness as proof. Even their infant child was not well. Thankfully, the elders of the village immediately knew why. In response, six men gathered together one evening in early 2004. They entered the local graveyard close to midnight

and then traveled to the burial site of Petrotoma. Using hammers and chisels, they broke through the stone slab that covered the grave and then moved the pieces aside. They drank as they worked. Could you blame them? They were opening the grave of a recently deceased member of their community, but I think it was more than that, too.

In their minds, they were putting their lives in danger. Because there, inside the grave that they had just uncovered, lay the stuff of nightmares. A vampire. What these men did next will sound strangely familiar, but to them it was simply the continuation of centuries of tradition. They cut open the body using a knife and a saw. They pried the ribs apart with a pitchfork,

and then they cut out the heart. According to one of the men who was there, when the heart was removed, they found it full of fresh blood. Proof, to them at least, that Petra had been feeding on the village. When they pulled it free, the witness said that the body audibly sighed and then went limp. Yes, it's hard to prove something that six incredibly superstitious men,

men who had been drinking all night, mind you, claimed that they witnessed in a dark cemetery, but to them it was pure, unaltered truth. They then used the same pitchfork to carry the heart out of the cemetery and across the road to a field, where they set it on fire. Once it was completely burned, they collected the ashes and funneled them into a bottle of water. They offered this tonic to the sick family,

who willingly drank from it. It was, after all, what they had been taught to do. Amazingly, everyone recovered. No one died of whatever illness they were suffering from, and no one reported visits from Petra Toma after that night. In their mind, the nightmare was over. These men had saved their lives. Maybe something evil and contagious has survived for centuries after all,

spreading across borders and oceans. It certainly left a trail of horrific events in its wake, and its influenced countless tales and superstitions, all of which seem to point to a real-life cause. But far from being unique to Serbia or Romania, this thing is global. And as if that weren't enough, this horrible, ageless monster is,

and always has been, right inside of each of us. Like a vampiric curse, we carry it in our blood. But it's probably not what you'd expect. It's fear. Vampire Folklore Vampire Folklore has a firm grip on our imaginations, and I hope our journey today helped you understand just how deep those roots might be. But it's one thing to talk about the history of the name,

and another to follow the footsteps of the activity. And for that, I have one more story to tell. One that takes us back even further in time to what is quite possibly one of the first vampire stories ever told. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. There's a lot we don't know. That's a feature of older stories that I've learned to be more comfortable with over the years,

even though my brain always wants to fill in as many blanks as possible. Thankfully, though, the meat of this tale is more than filling. His name was Jura, and he was, from what I can tell, nothing more than an old villager who lived in Kringa. Back then, the region was called Istria, but today we call it Croatia. That's less important to the story, but also worth mentioning because it plants the tale in familiar soil.

Geographically speaking, to the others that we've already covered today. Jura was in his late 70s when he passed away in 1656, leaving behind a wife and at least two grown children. The usual traditions were observed, and the local priest, a man named Georgio, presided over the burial in the village graveyard. And with that, the book was closed on his life, and the community moved on.

Things were normal for a while, but that eventually changed. Soon enough, folks around town started reporting something strange. It seems that during the night, one or two of the houses in the village would receive a knock at their door. Later, sometimes the next day and sometimes days later, one of the people inside those homes would die unexpectedly. And you know how those things probably worked.

The first couple of deaths were just viewed as a tragedy, probably a lot like Jura's death months before. But once they continued, people started to pay attention to other details. And once those households share their stories, that midnight knocking must have come up in conversation. And this activity, the knocks, the death, and the occasional sighting of some mysterious creature,

all of it continued for 16 long years, long enough for an entire generation to grow up with stories of the monster and the curse it brought to the village, long enough to fill the entire community with fear. Now, I don't know how they made the leap in logic from an unknown door knocker to a specific person, but eventually the pieces were put together. It was probably the moment when poor dead Jura Grandot

paid a night time visit to his frightened widow. She described him as looking like a rotten corpse, smelling of decay and death. In 1679, the villagers decided that they had finally had enough. First, the very same priest who had buried Jura 16 years before tried to stop him by confronting the walking corpse one night by raising a crucifix to invoke the power of Christ. But when that failed, new plans were set in motion,

spearheaded by a young man named Miho Radetic. One night, after a midnight chase, Miho managed to stab the creature through the heart with a wooden stake. But this wasn't a Hollywood action film, and the rules we might consider canon didn't apply. The stick simply bounced off the dead man's chest, failing to deliver a killing blow. The victorious Jura ran away,

heading in the direction of the graveyard. So that's where Miho and the others tracked him down. The old man's grave was intact, though, which meant that they all had to pitch in and dig it out. Shovel after shovel, they moved closer to their target. Until finally, there he was. The monster folks had begun to call a Strigon, a Venetian word for a sorcerer.

The legend says that once the coffin was opened, they found Jura entirely intact, almost as if he'd been buried the day before. And most disturbing of all, the dead man's unmoving face was split by a wide, wicked grin. That was all the evidence the villagers needed. After another attempted exorcism by the priest and another try at stabbing him with a wooden stake,

they fell back on an older, more effective method. They cut off the head. It's said that the dead man screamed in agony as they did it. Fresh blood even poured from the new wound in the long dead corpse. But despite being such an unpleasant and messy task, they finally achieved the results they were looking for. The creature's power had been broken. The village of Kringa finally had peace.

But while the drama was over, the story had been written. And story, like so many other aspects of life, has a way of spreading far and wide. Soon, that Venetian word for sorcerer took on a new connotation. And Strigon became Strigoi, one of the most common words for a very specific type of creature in the region around Croatia, the vampire. It's a frightening story, no matter how we accept it.

Fact or fiction, it was a seed. And from that dark soil, one of folklore's most twisted roots eventually grew into one of its most famous branches. All because of a truth the people of Kringa felt in their bones. It's amazing what you could find. When you do a little digging. 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.

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And as always, thanks for listening. Thank you.