Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Pickled Corpses, Cursed Vaults, and Screaming Spirits A True Tale of Haunted Isles #52

Episode Date: September 14, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #hauntedislands #cursedplaces #pickledbodies #screamingghosts #paranormaltruth  Pickled Corpses, Cursed Vaults, and Screaming Spirits – A True Tale of Haunted IslesStep into the horrifying true history of a group of forgotten islands where the dead don’t rest. This isn’t just urban legend—this is a chilling journey through real vaults filled with preserved corpses, land soaked in blood and mystery, and spirits that scream through the night. From cursed crypts to phantom wails echoing through centuries-old stone, these haunted isles hide secrets no one was meant to uncover. Terrifying, twisted, and steeped in death—this story will leave you wide-eyed and uneasy long after it ends.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hauntedislands, cursedvaults, ghostlyscreams, pickledcorpses, supernaturalhistory, terrifyingencounters, trueghosttales, deathrituals, hauntedcrypts, chillinghistory, realparanormal, cursedland, spookytrueevents, islandhorrors

Bodies in barrels, whispers in the dark, a journey through the haunted past of the aisles. You ever stumble on a story so nasty, so unbelievably messed up that it just won't leave your head? Like something out of a nightmare, except it's all true. Well, buckle up, because this one kicks off in Liverpool, back in October of 1826, and it's got everything, dead bodies, haunted houses, ghostly whispers, and secrets buried deep in cellars and under stone. Picture this, it's a foggy morning at George's dock, Liverpool. Sailors are getting ready to load a few barrels onto a ship headed for Scotland. Three barrels, to be exact, labelled all proper and innocent, bitter salts. Sounds harmless, right? But the moment they start handling them, the stench hits, so foul, so gut-wrenching, even the old salts gagged.

The captain of the ship. He's no fool. orders the barrels to be hauled off immediately. Get this filth off my boat, he probably yelled, maybe in a rough scouse accent. Whatever the case, the barrels were dragged to the old city dead house for investigation. Now here's where things start to rot, literally and figuratively. When officials cracked open those barrels, what they found wasn't salt. It was death. Eleven corpses, jammed inside like pickles in a jar.

men, women, children. Soaked in brine. Preserved like meat. You can only imagine the horror on the faces of those poor dock workers. One minute they're dealing with cargo, next thing you know, they're face to face with pickled corpses. Turns out the barrels were bound for Leith, near Edinburgh. They weren't going to spice up anyone's bathwater, they were headed for dissecting tables. Back then, medical schools were desperate to for cadavers. Desperate enough to pay good money for them, anywhere from 10 to 15 pounds a body. And where there's money, there's always someone willing to do the dirty work. The law only allowed 55 cadavers a year for medical research in Scotland. But get this, anatomists were cutting up more than 500 bodies a year. You do the math. So how did the bodies get from a dark, damp cellar to a

hosh Scottish Anatomy Table. That's the rabbit hole investigators went down. A local shipper eventually spilled the beans. He'd collected the barrels from a large house with creepy cellars, across from what's now the Everyman Theatre. Back then, it was the residence of one Reverend James McGowan. He ran a school upstairs, but the cellar. That was rented out to a sketchy Scotsman who claimed to be in the fish oil business. Ah ha. Fish oil. That's what they all say. Police knocked on the cellar door. No answer. So they knocked it down. What they found inside. Worse than any horror movie. Barrows. Sacks. And inside them, 22 more bodies. Again, a mix of men, women, and children. One barrel, just to drive the nightmare home,

was full of baby corpses floating in brine. Babies. Police believe most of the bodies had been dug up from a nearby cemetery, but a few may have come from the local workhouse. Word had it that the workhouse would sell off the bodies of dead tenants instead of burying them. Cheap and easy. As for the mysterious Scotsman, vanished. Never caught. But a known body snatcher named James Donaldson was hauled in. authorities couldn't pin the whole thing on him, but they sentenced him to a year in Kirkdale prison anyway. A slap on the wrist, considering the horror. These days, that house across from the theatre is considered one of the most haunted spots in Liverpool. Cold spots crop up

out of nowhere. People hear whispers, sometimes even a voice crying softly in the night. And more than one person has claimed to feel invisible hands grabbing at them in the dark, as if someone still reaching out from the cellar, begging to be saved. Now, let's shift the scene north to Edinburgh, Scotland. Ever hear of the Edinburgh vaults? They're a cluster of chambers built into the arches of South Bridge back in 1788. At first, they were storage for merchants, taverns, cobblers, you know, honest folk. But poor drainage and moldy air made the place basically unlivable. The respectable folks left. The not so respectable ones moved in. Think prostitutes, thieves, murderers. The vaults became a dark underworld where crime and misery

ran wild. Each vault is its own little horror show. Over on Nidri Street, one room is ruled by a poltergeist. Replace a light bulb. It explodes. Women walk in and get scratched, shove, or worse. Some faint. Some leave with bruises they can't explain. The air in there. It's thick. Too quiet, until it's not, whispers, footsteps, cries from unseen mouths. You walk in laughing, but you leave shaken. Then there's Blair Street vaults. Haunted, but not all bad. One friendly spirit is known as the cobbler. Old man, sweet face, always appears to be fixing shoes in his little corner. People say he gives off a warm feeling, like visiting your granddad.

But don't get too comfy, because there's also Mr. Boots. He hates lights. Hates women. Hates people in general. If you walk into his room with a flashlight, brace yourself, he's known to push, choke, even slam folks against the walls. His energy fills every inch of Blair Street, except for the cobbler's room. That space. Untouched. Like even Mr. Boots knows not to mess with it. Now let's drift over

to Northern Ireland, to the rugged and eerie Rathlin Island. A remote place, battered by wind and history, and home to Bruce's castle and the cave beneath it. This place. It practically bleeds tragedy. Back in the day, Sir Francis Drake and Sir John Norris showed up with English forces. locals, around 600 people, surrendered quickly. But Mercy wasn't on the menu. The English troops massacred every soul, sick, old, children, everyone. The castle was left to crumble. Today, hikers and tourists swear they still hear the screams. Cries that rise and fall with the wind. Some see a soldier in worn leather armor patrolling the ruins. He appears, watches for a bit, then disappears without a trace. There's also a woman, known only as the brown lady. She walks the

grounds like she's looking for someone. She'll come right up to you, eyes pleading, lips moving, but never makes a sound before vanishing. Down in the cave beneath the castle, things get even weirder. Locals say it's cursed. That pagans once performed dark rituals there. People claim to hear whispers from the deep, unintelligible but persistent. There's a legend that Robert De Bruce himself hid in the cave with his men after a crushing defeat. According to myth, they never died. They're just sleeping, enchanted by old magic, waiting for the day they're needed again. Believe it or not, this legend got a strange little boost recently. A group of fishermen were taking a break in the cave. They sat down, made some tea, started pouring. One of the

them looked up and saw a hand reach out from the shadows. A human hand. It held out an extra cup. The fishermen, absolutely terrified, filled the cup and watched the hand retreat back into the darkness. Not one of them dared to follow. Now, if that's not spooky enough, let's swing over to Dublin, Ireland. There's a pub there called Kavanaugh's. It's the oldest family-run pub in the city, opened in 1833, and it just so happens to sit right next to Glasnevin Cemetery. Because of its location, it became known as the Gravediggers' pub. Grave diggers used to bang their shovels against the wall to signal they wanted a pint. No joke. Body snatchers used to gather there too, sipping drinks after a hard night of grave robbing.

The cemetery was a prime target for medical schools who needed cadavers, and adult bodies went for two pounds each. Children were sold by the inch. To fight back, the cemetery built 12-foot walls and even rotating watchtowers. Still, the snatchers got through. They were clever, desperate, and ruthless. Today, people swear the pub is haunted by an old man in tweed. He'll sit at the bar, order a drink, and vanish before finishing it. Glassnevin itself is still crawling with spirits. With over 1.5 million people buried there, it's no surprise. Strange sights, cold gusts, and ghostly figures wandering between graves are just part of the atmosphere now. And finally, we come to the most gut-wrenching tale of all. Five cottage tree, in the heart of York.

Back in the 1300s, the Black Death ripped through the city like wildfire. One family, desperate to escape the plague, made a terrible choice. They noticed a red ring around their young daughter's neck. Afraid it was the first sign of the plague, they did the unthinkable. They tucked her in bed, packed their things, and left. But before they went, they locked the house and painted a red cross on the door. The mark of the infected. It meant stay away. Quarantine. The girl woke up the next day, alone, scared, and confused. She screamed. She cried. Day after day, her voice echoed through the streets. People going to church, people shopping at the market, everyone heard her. But no one helped. No one even tried. Weeks passed. Finally, someone opened the door.

What they found was the girl's skeleton. Skin and bone. She hadn't died from the plague. She had measles. And she'd starve to death, alone, in the dark, while the city moved on around her. People say her spirit still roams the house, running from room to room, trying to escape. Her cries still echo on quiet nights. So yeah, next time you hear a noise in the dark, or feel a chill down your spine, don't be so quick to brush it off. These stories might be old, but the echoes?

They're still loud and clear.