 Welcome, weirdos. This is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. If you're new here, be sure to subscribe to the podcast on Apple or Android so you don't miss future episodes. This is a special 12 Nightmares of Christmas episode. Each day from December 13th through December 24th, I'm posting a new episode of Weird Darkness featuring material from the new book The Spirits of Christmas, The Dark Side of the Holidays by Sylvia Schultz. Be sure to come back every day from December 13th through the 24th for more holiday horrors. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. The oldest private home in Victoria, British Columbia is a small bungalow on Heron Street. The wooden frame house was built in 1851 by John Todd, head trader for the Hudson Bay Company. John Todd was quite the frontier character. He emigrated from Scotland in 1813 to seek his fortune in New Caledonia, as that part of British Columbia was then known. He certainly made the most of the freedom the Canadian frontier offered. At one point he ran afoul of the governor of the Hudson Bay Company and was banished to the remote outpost of Fort McLeod. He spent nine years there and used the time to become fluent in several Native American dialects. One anecdote in particular reveals Todd's rough and tumble-take-no-crap attitude. In 1847 he was chief trader at Fort Camloops when Chief Nicola and his men showed up to attack the fort. Todd showed the chief a keg of gunpowder and threatened to blow himself and the fort sky-high if the Camloop tribe didn't leave the fort in peace. The bluff worked and Chief Nicola backed down. John Todd was married at least seven times. Four of those marriages were to Native women. Apparently his business acumen was not the only asset that was improved by his fluency in Native dialects. Todd's multiple marriages produced ten children. Wanting to keep his growing family safe, Todd made his small home into a fortress. The home was built with defense in mind. The thick wooden front door still graces the house, complete with a bullet hole said to be from an attack by rival traders from Cadbury Bay. There is also a tunnel that runs from the cellar to a spot some ways from the house, a bolt hole the family could use to escape in the event of an attack. Todd's colorful life ended in 1882 and the house was passed down to his heirs. Colonel and Mrs. T. C. Evans bought the house in 1944. What they didn't know was that their new home had already become the focus of supernatural attention. Mrs. E. C. Turner lived in the Todd house with her daughter from 1929 to 1944. She spoke of experiencing eerie feelings in a large upstairs bedroom. Neither she nor her daughter would sleep in that room. The cat too would growl and arch her back when she passed that room, as if she could see something Mrs. Turner could not. Colonel and Mrs. Evans didn't believe in ghosts. Nonetheless, he couldn't deny that the house was extremely odd. The cellar door refused to stay closed even when it was locked. Hats from the hat stand would often be found tossed around the hallway and Mrs. Evans' antique rocker would often rock by itself in the living room. The Colonel did some research on the history of the house. The rumor he'd heard was that one of John Todd's native wives had gone insane and was kept chained in the upstairs bedroom. Colonel and Mrs. Evans regularly opened their home to service men during World War II. One night two airmen spent the night at Todd house. The Colonel and his wife, despite their skepticism, couldn't deny that the large bedroom on the upper floor gave them the creeps. So they turned it into the guest room and settled the two aviators in for the night. The next morning Mrs. Evans found the room empty. The two men came back later that day in the daylight to explain their hurried departure. One man was quoted in an interview printed in the Vancouver Sun. We'd been asleep for several hours when I suddenly awoke. I can't really describe what woke me, although it sounded like the rattling of chains. Over in the corner stood an Indian woman. Her hands held out to me in such a manner that she seemed to be pleading with me to help her. On her arms and legs were what looked like fetters. She kept looking at me, her hands outstretched and saying something that I couldn't quite catch. Suddenly as she appeared she was gone. I'll never forget the sight. The spirits of Todd house seemed to be the most active during the holiday season. One morning the Evans' awoke to find that the Christmas decorations had all been stripped from the walls and the tree and that the Christmas cards had been swept from the mantle. Everything was all in a pile in the middle of the living room floor. The ghost even showed up for a New Year's party. Mrs. Evans had hung a porcelain cookie jar from the hook near the fireplace. During the party the cookie jar started to swing back and forth in full view of the astonished guests. The jar swung itself for nearly half an hour as the guests watched in amazement. After the New Year's Eve party the Todd house became famous as a haunted location. The swinging cookie jar was such a sensation that word about the hauntings in the house got out. Reporters showed up to investigate and curiosity seekers showed up just to gawk. In early 1947 Colonel Evans began work on installing a new oil furnace. Workmen were digging a hole next to the front porch for the oil storage tank. About seven feet down they uncovered a human skeleton. The workmen refused to dig any further so Colonel Evans excavated the bones himself. The skull was in good shape but the bones had largely decomposed and the Colonel figured that the body had been covered with quick lime at the time it was buried. A forensic specialist determined that the bones were those of a female of either Asian or Native American descent and that the woman had been buried over 50 years earlier making her date of death somewhere before 1897. John Todd died in 1882. Strangely enough once the bones had been unearthed the hauntings at Todd house stopped. The small town of Beachy Saskatchewan didn't see much excitement during the year but the evening of December 10th 1932 was a special occasion. That night people were braving the wintry weather and flocking to the small movie theater in town. They weren't coming to see Betty Davis or Gary Cooper or the antics of the Marx Brothers or the snide sarcasm of W.C. Fields. They were there to see a live performance by Professor Gladstone, mentalist, a real live mind reader, or so he claimed. The house lights dimmed and the audience settled in for an evening of exciting entertainment. They had no idea of how much drama would shortly come from that small stage. Professor Gladstone was tall with a distinguished manner while befitting a mind reader and showman. He put on a memorable performance as he worked the show for nearly an hour astounding the audience with his uncanny powers of mentalism. Unbeknownst to the audience the show was about to get a lot more interesting. Gladstone stopped his dramatic piecing around the stage and went eerily still for a few long moments. The audience began to murmur their uncertainty what was wrong. Then Gladstone snapped to attention and stared out over the audience. He locked eyes with a local rancher named Bill Taylor. At this moment you are thinking of your friend, Scotty McLaughlin, Gladstone intoned. As Taylor blinked in astonishment the mind reader added, Scotty McLaughlin was the victim of a foul brutal murder. A ripple of shock rustled through the theater. Three years before McLaughlin had farmed in the area with a partner, John Schumacher. He had plans to sell his share of the farm to Schumacher and move to British Columbia. He had intended to take the night train out of town on January 16, 1930. His friends had showed up at the station to see him off and wish him luck. But McLaughlin had never arrived to catch his train. The police had been notified but the investigation had long gone cold. After Gladstone wasn't finished making electrifying announcements. He pointed to another man in the audience and announced, he will find the body and I myself will be with him when he does. It was another bombshell. The man Gladstone had pointed to was Constable Kerry, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Officer for the town. Constable Kerry was himself shocked at Gladstone's revelations. The next morning he called RCMP headquarters in Saskatoon. He told Corporal Jack Woods about the previous night's astounding scene at the theater. Woods did a quick background check on Professor Gladstone and decided to reopen the case. Whether one believed in mind reading powers or not, Gladstone's act had reminded the community that one of their citizens had been missing for nearly three years. If nothing else, the police would do well to take advantage of the renewed interest in the situation. When Corporal Woods arrived, Constable Kerry contacted Professor Gladstone and the three men began to canvass the town of Beachy and the outlying farming community. They spent the entire day talking to people, mostly getting a rehash of the same dead-end information that Kerry had heard in January 1930. They caught a break in the case late that afternoon. A farmer, who was impressed by Gladstone's talents, admitted that before McLaughlin had gone missing, John Schumacher had come to see him in a towering rage. The farmer had no idea why Schumacher was so worked up, but he did say that Schumacher had threatened to kill the damned Scotsman. This new evidence was enough to send the policemen with Gladstone in tow out to Schumacher's farm that same night. As the tires of the car crunched on Schumacher's driveway, Gladstone insisted that McLaughlin's body was somewhere on the property. John Schumacher, however, stuck to the story he'd told when McLaughlin had gone missing. He kept the story simple. Scotty had wanted to leave for British Columbia, so he, Schumacher, had paid Scotty a few hundred dollars for his share of the land. He had never seen Scotty again and had no idea where he was now. The bounties found Schumacher's story a little too pat and started asking more questions. Schumacher, sensing their suspicions, clammed up. Just as the police were about to give up in frustration, Professor Gladstone spoke. He painted a sordid picture of the crime. Scotty had indeed come to Schumacher seeking payment for his share of the farm, but Schumacher had started a fight. The two men had wandered, still arguing, close to the barn. The argument had turned violent, a blow fell, and another and another. Schumacher had buried McLaughlin's body near the barn. John Schumacher's stubborn silence said more than a desperate denial ever could. The next morning, the police officers and Gladstone returned, and they brought a group of other men from the community. The men were all carrying picks and shovels. The group looked to Professor Gladstone for instructions. The mind reader concentrated fiercely for a few brief moments, then he pointed to a frozen pile of manure. Dig there, you'll find him. Two hours later, the men's hands were beginning to go numb with the cold. John Schumacher stood nearby, still saying nothing. The group was still working, but they weren't digging with the same frenzy as when they had started. Could the Professor have been wrong this whole time? Suddenly a shovel edge scraped against not hard frozen dirt, but something more yielding. A woollen sock. There was something in the ground. Soon the diggers had unearthed an entire skeleton. Shreds of rotting cloth lay limply on the bones. The men fell silent. That scarf, it's Scotty's, one man said in a thick, strangled voice. The skull, when pried from the frozen grave and brushed off, showed three distinct fractures. John Schumacher broke down and admitted to the murder. He was convicted and sentenced, and justice was finally served. The case brought Professor Gladstone the kind of publicity money just can't buy. His career flourished, and he continued to perform for many years. As good as he was, though, he never had another show as dramatic as the one he played in Beachy Saskatchewan on December 10, 1932. Constant readers and other fans of the paranormal may remember the case of the two English ladies who visited Versailles in 1904 and had the eerie experience of seeming to travel back in time to the era of the French Revolution. A Mr. William Mackie had a similar experience in Ireland around 1852. Mackie was out hunting waterfowl with his dog sometime toward the beginning of December. It was a bitterly cold night, and the moon had already set. The young man had enjoyed his long day of sport and was just about to head for home when he heard the unfamiliar bark of a strange dog. Then he heard a musket shot. Then he heard a barrage of shots which he could identify as attack and defense. Mackie, although he couldn't see the shooters, still didn't think the gunshots were anything of a paranormal nature. Then he noticed that his courageous hunting dog was crouching in a terrified huddle, trying to crawl between Mackie's feet for protection. Based with his dog's uncharacteristic behavior, Mackie started to wonder what exactly was going on around him in the darkness of the marshes. Suddenly, a few hundred yards away from him, he saw a glow like a house fire. Mackie knew the marshes well and he knew that not only wasn't there a house in that direction, there wasn't really anything that combustible. And yet, pieces of burning roof thatch and timber sparks were falling into the water at his feet, with tiny hisses as they extinguished themselves. And still, the gunshots continued. They seemed to lessen a bit as the glow of the fire rose. Then the clear note of a bugle sounded, piercing the cold night air. The gunfire stopped and Mackie heard the clop and jingle of a calvary squad trotting towards the scene of the fire. Mackie stood still for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the sound of horses going at a walk as they left the scene faded away into the distance. The phantom glow of the fire had appeared along the path Mackie normally would have taken to get home, but he was so terrified that he skirted that area of the marsh and took a longer way home. At breakfast the next morning, the young Mackie caught merry hell from his father for staying out so late. Mackie thought quickly and came up with a plausible excuse, or so he thought. He explained that while out hunting he had fallen asleep for a while. He spun the weirdness he'd seen and heard, the barking dog, the gunshots, first the wand and then a barrage of gunfire, the glow of the fire, the bits of burning thatch and chunks of glowing timber, the horses riding up then riding away into a dream. Mackie's father gave a knowing snort when his son had finished spinning the white lie. That's the case boyo, you were dreaming with your eyes open. The father went on to explain that young Mackie was not the only person ever to witness the strange series of events. Then the father told his son a family story that had taken place over 150 years before. Near the end of the 17th century, a widow named Sally Mackie lived with her three sons on the outer edge of the small Mackie settlement. The sons had somehow run afoul of the authorities and all three were accused of high treason. A warrant was issued for their arrest and delivered to the officer in command of the infantry regiment stationed in the nearby town of Lifford. High treason was a serious offense, so a company of troops was gathered immediately and set off at 11 p.m. There was a simple narrow bridle path that led from the main road to the Mackie's cottage so the military could only approach in single file. The company arrived at the cottage midnight and made their way up the narrow path. So quietly did the troops move that the first inkling Sally and her sons had that something was amiss was that their collie dog started barking. There was a single gunshot and a yelp, then silence. Someone had shot their dog. Sally and her sons raced to the windows. In one glance they took in the sight of the dead guard dog and the soldiers fanning out to encircle the cottage. Sally grabbed a musket from the stack they kept handy and started to shoot, handing the guns off to her sons to reload when she ran dry. Several soldiers dropped to the ground either wounded or killed. Sally Mackie was a good shot. No one ever found out if the fire that destroyed the cottage started by accident or was deliberately set. As the fire grew, licking at the timber walls and devouring the thatched roof, Sally stopped shooting, overcome by the smoke and flames. She heaved the door open, gasping for fresh air, then collapsed, still inside the burning cottage. The officer in command rushed in, braving smoke and falling burning timbers and scooped Sally up. He carried her a safe distance from the inferno. Sally was wounded and burned. All three of her sons were dead, but the soldiers sent to arrest them had gotten the worst of the fight. Many of them were killed and wounded. The sentries in Lifford heard the exchange of gunfire. They sent out a cavalry troop to see what was going on out in the marshes. The troop got there just in time to see the infantry officers drag Sally from the burning cottage. The cavalry milled around for a while, then left as the action was over. Sally Mackie was not fatally wounded in the gunfight or the fire. Although she had lost all three of her sons and her home, she was down but not out. She made a full recovery and lived for many years afterwards. She survived to a good old age and delighted in telling people about the firefight in which she had held off a troop of government soldiers. Every state in the union can lay claim to its own treasure trove of ghost stories, but Illinois seems to have more than its share of terrifying tales. Of course, you can't swing a dead cat in Chicago and the suburbs without smacking a ghost, but the southern tip of Illinois, the area known as Little Egypt, is also rich in ghost lore. In contrast to the urban bustle of Chicago and the suburbs in the northern part of the state, southern Illinois is quiet, some would almost say comatose. Southern Illinois is a region that has more in common with its Kentucky and Tennessee neighbors to the south than its big sister Chicago in the north. Southern Illinois is a place of mystery and tall tales. Take Doug Hill, for example. This is a spot about five miles west of Jonesboro on State Highway 126. The road here was cut through the bedrock of this part of the state to make it easier passage from the Mississippi River to the interior of southern Illinois. Doug Hill Road is a secluded spot, dark and spooky. It's not quite so terrifying nowadays in the era of Netflix and McDonald's and Facebook, but this area was once considered one of the most dangerous and most haunted places in southern Illinois. Reports of ambush, robbery and violence were common, but there was a supernatural element to Doug Hill's reputation as well. Legend says that it was haunted because of an incident that took place during the waning days of the Civil War. In April 1865, a provost marshal named Welch was working in the area. One day he arrested three deserters from the Union Army and turned them in to the authorities in Jonesboro. He was doing his duty, but word came a few days later that General Lee had surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse in Virginia. The war had ended, so the deserters were released. But the men were still seething over being arrested. They wanted revenge on provost marshal Welch. Late that night, Welch was riding home, passing through Doug Hill on his way. The deserters had set up an ambush along the road cut. They shot Welch down in cold blood and left his body lying in the road. Even though the body was discovered after only a short time, no one was ever arrested for the murder. Perhaps because the murderers weren't punished by any earthly court, Welch's ghost soon began to appear on the Doug Hill road, searching for its own brand of justice. Some people saw the ghost walking along the road dressed in bloody clothes, begging for help from passing wagon drivers. Most often, though, the ghost just appeared as a figure lying in the middle of the road where Welch's earthly body had fallen. Troy Taylor writes of the Doug Hill ghost in his book The Big Book of Illinois Ghost Stories. According to one account, a wagon driver was passing along Doug Hill road one evening when he saw the body of a man lying face down in the center of the road. He stopped his horses and climbed down to see if he could help. When he leaned down to try and turn the man over, his hands passed right through him. The teamster tried again to lift the body and again he only touched the dirt beneath it. Terrified, he ran back to his wagon. Cracking the whip, he drove the wagon forward and felt the distinct thump of the wheels passing over the spectral corpse. He looked back once and saw that the body had vanished. The unfortunate Welch was not the only spook that lurked on Doug Hill. A spectral wagon also terrorized that stretch of road. One night in late December, a farmer named Bill Smith was driving along the road after dark. The ground was frozen hard and the muddy ruts were chunks of iron in the path. Any wagon driven at a speed faster than a horse could walk would rattle and shake as it jounced over the frozen ground. The bouncing of Smith's wagon worked the yoke loose on his horse's shoulders so he had to stop to tighten it. Smith brought the wagon to a stop and climbed down from his seat to replace the horse's yoke. He blew on his cold fingers as he worked the stiff leather. He heard the rumble of another wagon approaching and it was coming fast, much too fast on a dark road with woods on both sides. There was little room on the narrow trail to pass. Smith knew that if he couldn't get out of the other driver's way or at least warn him that he was stopped in the middle of the road, they'd both end up killed. Smith shouted a warning into the darkness as loud as he could, but the thunder of the runaway wagon filled the air and it seemed impossible that the other driver could even hear him. Smith suddenly realized that the unearthly racket was much closer to him, filling his ears with the pounding of horse's hooves and the clatter of a wooden wagon about to shake itself to splinters. Smith saw a pair of huge black horses snorting foam as they thundered along the road, pulling a wagon with its sideboards rattling with the stress of the ride. The driver sat on the box, cracking the whip and urging the horses on with slaps of the reins, but Smith couldn't see his face in the darkness. The wagon crested the hill, heading straight for Smith, and then it kept arcing up on that trajectory, sailing right into the air above Smith's head. The horses were running and the wheels were turning as if the wagon was traveling on solid ground rather than thin air. The wagon gained the road again at the crest of the next hill. It had barreled over the dip in the road as if it was flat ground. Smith rose from where he'd crouched in terror and soothed to his panicked horse. He stared down the road as he thumped the horse's shoulder in stunned amazement. He couldn't see the phantom wagon anymore, but he could still hear it, and the monstrous thing was two miles away at that point. Smith decided it would be a long, long time before he traveled the dug hill road after dark again. It's unfortunate, but sometimes beautiful old buildings are demolished in the name of progress. Such was the case with the old Royal Ascot Hotel in England. The hotel stood near a racetrack in Berkshire, west of London. Guests of the high-class establishment were treated with white-glove respect. The library service from the train station to the hotel was an immaculate coach and pair. Gentlemen in stylish coats and ladies in dresses and hats of the very latest fashion poured over racelists in the elegant hotel lobby or enjoyed delicacies in the dining room. But all good things come to an end, and the old Royal Ascot Hotel was put up for auction in the spring of 1964. By the end of the year, the once grand hotel was slated for destruction. Demolition man moved into the building to prepare for its date with the wrecking ball. The workers arranged temporary sleeping quarters in some of the 40 rooms of the hotel, but they hadn't been there long when some of the men began to mutter about strange goings on in the aging building. Shortly after Christmas, the old night watchman quit in a hurry. He walked off the job one night without even stopping to collect the two or three days' pay owed him. When his supervisor finally got in contact with him, the old man swore he had heard ghostly footsteps in the hotel's hallways, but that wasn't why he had left so abruptly. It was the sight of a ghostly horse, winning and stamping late at night in one of the hotel room doorways that proved too much for the watchman's nerves. After the night watchman walked off the job, other workmen began to come forward with their own experiences. According to witnesses, the phantom horse was ghostly pale, either white or gray. The man spoke of hearing the spectral horse stamping and snorting in the empty corridors of the derelict hotel. One worker, Thomas Murphy, claimed he'd seen the phantom horse standing under an arch in a hotel. Another man, Pat Bradshaw, had taken over the night watchman's job. He heard the eerie snorts of an invisible horse which he said made his hair stand on end. Eventually, only six men of the crew were left that were willing to sleep in the hotel. The others were just too spooked. It wasn't the only ghost horse that had the man leaving in droves. One night, as the men came back to the hotel after the day's work, they found themselves unable to open the door, a door which had been left open only minutes before. Older residents had a theory for the ghost horse's origin. When the old royal Ascot hotel was being built, horses were used to drag sledges loaded with bricks from the kilns to the building site. One of the horses had collapsed from overwork and, sadly, it had to be put down. Maybe the old timers theorized after working so hard to help put up the hotel, the horse had returned to haunt the men who were now pulling it down. If you enjoyed this episode, consider sharing it with others and help build the weird darkness community by converting your friends and family into weirdos as well. This special episode is part of my 12 Nightmares of Christmas series, the collaboration with paranormal blogger and author Sylvia Schultz. The stories I used in this episode are all from her book, The Spirits of Christmas, The Dark Side of the Holidays, and you can find a link to that book in the show notes. Do you have a dark tale to tell? Share your story at WeirdDarkness.com and I might use it in a future episode. Music in this episode is provided by Midnight's Indicate. You can find a link and purchase this dark Christmas music in the show notes. I'm your creator and host, Darren Marlar. Merry Christmas and thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness. Hey Weirdos, be sure to click the like button and subscribe to this channel and click the notification bell so you don't miss future videos. I post videos 7 days a week and while you're at it, spread the darkness by sharing this video with someone you know who loves all things strange and macabre. If you want to listen to the podcast, you can find it at WeirdDarkness.com.