 Welcome, weirdos. This is Weird Darkness. I'm Darren Marlar. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. If you are 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 Holiday by author Sylvia Schultz. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, put another log onto the fire, pour yourself an eggnog, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. A few days after Christmas, 1955, a Mr. Harry Mitherall was working as a painter at Rosseth Dockyard in Fife, Scotland. Early that morning, he showed up to work on the aircraft carrier Glory, which was in the dockyard for renovation. Mitherall had an early breakfast in the dining hall, then went aboard the ship. He kept his work clothes in cabin 8 on the galley deck, so that was where he headed first. Outside the cabin was a locker where he kept a lamp needed for work. This was a double lamp that could light both the cabin and the corridor so it had a thick electrical cord attached to it. Mitherall opened the door to cabin 8 and stepped inside to plug in the cable. When Mitherall switched on the light, he saw a man standing near the door of the cabin by the dressing table. The man was quite tall, about 5 feet 9 inches, and he was dressed in flying gear suitable for tropic conditions, blue shorts and a leather flying jacket with a fur collar, the jacket hanging open. On the right hand side of the jacket, a row of small bombs was painted in red, and a pair of pilot's wings were pinned on the left hand side. The man wore a flying helmet, pushed up on the back of his head, with a shock of blonde hair sticking out from under the front of the helmet. On the right side of the man's neck was a long, red, puckered scar. Mitherall stared at the man for a moment before realizing he was probably one of the maintenance staff, part of a skeleton crew stationed aboard the carrier while it was docked for repairs. Mitherall said, Good morning, did you enjoy your Christmas? The man made no reply to the cheerful greeting. Mitherall shrugged and stepped out of the cabin to get a leather jacket from his work locker. Suddenly he stopped, frowning. What was the man doing in cabin 8 dressed in full-flight gear so early in the morning? He poked his head back into the cabin to ask the aviator who he was. The room was empty. Mitherall grabbed the double lamp and flooded the cabin with light. There was only a bunk bed, the dressing table, and a small locker which was closed. There was no sign of the aviator. Mitherall dropped the lamp and tore down the hallway, shrieking. A workmate stopped him in his headlong flight down the stairs. He calmed Mitherall down and together they went back to investigate the cabin. They found no one in the room. When the naval commander came aboard, both men told him about the strange apparition. The officer too searched the cabin and the corridor. He found no sign of the flyer with a scarred neck. This was just too much for Mitherall. He slumped into a chair in a state of shock and had to be escorted off the ship. Rumor spread, and soon the story was making the rounds on the dockyard. Workmen said the phantom was the ghost of an officer who was killed in a crash landing on the deck of the glory after returning from a flight over Korea shortly before Christmas during the Korean War. The spectral airman had appeared before. The story is insistent. The ghost always showed up in cabin 8, his old quarters, just after Christmas. There was, however, a flaw in this spook story. It is true that 25 of the men serving aboard the glory had lost their lives in combat, but none of them had died as a result of crash landing on the aircraft carrier's deck. Furthermore, no Royal Air Force officer had ever served on that particular ship, so the identity of the scarred ghost of the glory was a complete mystery. And so it remains. Late 1939, in the early days of the Air War in World War II, was a time of uncertainty over the Royal Air Force. The German Luftwaffe was strong and aggressive, striking fear into the hearts of civilians on the ground and causing tensions in the ranks of the RAF. The RAF hadn't yet built up its strength in either pilots or aircraft. Much of the air fighting in 1939 consisted of attacks of limited strength and effectiveness as the RAF tested itself against the Luftwaffe. Those faints and jabs were still lethal though. Many planes were lost and many pilots died as the RAF struggled to find its footing in the skies. One of the main forces of the time operated out of Milton Hall Base in Suffolk, England. Pilots of No. 149 Squadron blew Vickers Wellington bombers. Unfortunately, Wellingtons were huge, bulky monsters without much firepower. The British were still sending their bombers out in daylight and the German fighter planes were tearing them apart. There were very few British fighters available to provide an escort for the vulnerable bombers. Radio silence was of paramount importance, so when the bombers left, the ground crew at Milton Hall had nothing to do but wait until the planes returned or failed to return. The missions were timed so that the Wellingtons took off in daylight, made their bombing runs then ran for home as darkness fell. On December 18, 1939, coming up on the shortest day of the year, there wasn't much daylight to work with. To guide the bombers to safety, the ground crews lined the runway with cans of paraffin placed in parallel lines, giving the pilots a place to aim. When the bomber was close enough to begin its descent, the ground crews lit a chance light, which illuminated the runway with a bright yellow beam. Nine Vickers Wellingtons had taken off from Milton Hall earlier that day. Two of them developed mechanical failures and limped home without having had the chance to drop their payload. The seven bombers, still out, were flying in wretched conditions. There was heavy cloud cover, snow had begun to fall and the temperature dropped to well below freezing. One plane straggled in just past 5 p.m., followed by two more. That left four bombers unaccounted for in the growing winter darkness. The snow came down more heavily as the clock ticked. The late afternoon gloom faded to full night. The bombers were now more than an hour overdue. The ground crews set up the paraffin flares and the chance light, even though they had the sinking feeling the planes were all down. The men watched nervously, stamping booted feet and blowing on cold fingers. Half an hour passed. Then an officer lifted his head, listening hard. A sound was approaching in the hush of the falling snow. The other men perked up. A plane was definitely on its way to Milton Hall. But something was wrong. Instead of the smooth drone of a Vickers two powerful engines, they heard a choppy, choking cough. The bomber was in serious distress. The mechanics on the ground were men who knew their engines. They could tell immediately that the plane struggling towards them wasn't a Wellington. Light the flares, the ops officer shouted. Pale light flickered down the runway from the paraffin flares and the chance light added its yellow glow. The men on the ground stood, frozen in their tracks, their eyes wide with stunned disbelief. The plane coming towards them, lit by the weak glow of the flares, was an ancient, fragile contraption. Parade fabric flapped, taut wires hummed in the cold wind and two rotted bicycle tires spun on the plane's undercarriage. Tattered canvas surrounded the open cockpit of an FE2 from the early days of World War I. The stunned ground crew stared at the pilot. In the glow of the lights they could clearly see the scarf goggles and helmet of a World War I flying ace. The pilot thrust a gloved hand over the side of the cockpit and dropped something. An object plinked on the tarmac, rolled a few times, then was still. Then the pilot pushed the ancient relic to full power and buzzed out of range of the runway lights. An airman ran over to the object the pilot had dropped and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was a wrench, with a piece of paper wrapped around it. The mechanic unwrapped the paper and the men crowded around to read the handwriting. Wellington aircraft N2961 was down, not shot down over the continent where the crew would have had a chance to escape or be taken prisoner. The pilot had coaxed the vickers bomber as far as he could, trying to get back to Milden Hall, but the valiant plane had lost its struggle over water. The bomber had gone down in the sea, 40 miles from the nearest air-sea rescue outfit. The plane and everyone on board was lost. So why did a relic of a bygone age appear in the skies over Milden Hall to deliver the tragic news? In the Second World War, No. 149 Squadron flew Vickers Wellington's out of Milden Hall. And a generation before, British pilots pioneered the Air War, flying from airfields in France. No. 149 Squadron, flying in the First World War, flew FE-2 biplanes. In the wide body of paranormal writings, there is a very specific type of ghost sighting called a crisis apparition. In this situation, the witness sees a friend or a loved one who appears to be present in the room but who could not possibly be there because, at that very moment, they had just died or were dying. A theory for this unnerving event is that when someone is going through extreme physical or emotional trauma, as at the point of death, they are somehow able to send a telepathic message to someone with whom they had a strong bond. Crisis apparitions are fascinating, but sometimes they are hard to verify. Many times, the witness who experiences the crisis apparition is alone or tells someone about their sighting after the fact. There was a famous report, though, that disproves that rule. British Royal Air Force pilot David McConnell appeared to his roommate at the exact moment he, McConnell, was dying. But not only did the roommate not realize McConnell was a ghost, he told several people about seeing McConnell well before he got the news of the plane crash that killed his friend. On December 7, 1918, McConnell had orders to fly his plane from the Scampton base in Lincolnshire to the base at Tadcaster. He left at 11.30 that morning, telling his roommate, Lieutenant Larkin, that he planned to take the train back and return to base in time for afternoon tea. At 3.25 that afternoon, Larkin was in the room he and McConnell shared, sitting in front of the stove fire and writing letters. Larkin heard a clatter in the hallway. McConnell was an energetic guy and it wasn't unusual to hear him coming a mile away. Larkin grinned and turned in his chair to face his friend. McConnell was already halfway through the doorway. He was wearing his full flying kit, with his cap pushed back on his head. Hello, boy! McConnell called. Hello! Larkin replied, back already? Yes, got there all right, had a good trip, McConnell said. Well, cheerio! He banged the door shut and went off down the hallway. Larkin turned back to the book he was reading and lit a cigarette. At 3.45, there was a knock on the door. It was Lieutenant Garner Smith looking for McConnell. All the men had plans to go into Lincoln that evening. He's back, he just came into the room a few minutes ago, Larkin told him. Garner Smith left, still in search of McConnell. Larkin went down to the mess hall for tea, then got dressed and went to Lincoln to join his friends. As Larkin walked into the smoking room of the Albion Hotel, he overheard a group of officers talking in solemn tones. Larkin tried not to eavesdrop on their hushed conversation, but the words he heard made his blood run cold. Tadcaster, McConnell, and crashed. This was too much for Larkin and he nosed his way into the officer's conversation. They told him that just before they had left the base, they'd gotten word that David McConnell had indeed crashed his camel while trying to fly the plane through dense fog to Tadcaster. The next morning, Larkin had a long conversation with Lieutenant Garner Smith. The other Lieutenant tried to convince Larkin that somehow he'd been mistaken about seeing McConnell at 3.30 the previous afternoon. Larkin, though, was adamant. Larkin later wrote to McConnell's father trying to explain his strange experience. He told the older McConnell that he and David had known each other for four months, but had only been roommates for about six weeks. While they'd had plenty of discussions about political and social topics, not once had they ever discussed anything remotely spiritual, let alone talked about the paranormal. In his letter, Larkin tried to explain his confusion by talking through it. I was at a loss to solve the problem. There was no disputing the fact that he had been killed whilst flying to Tadcaster, presumably at 3.25 as we ascertained afterwards that his watch had stopped at that time. I tried to persuade myself that I'd not seen him or spoken to him in this room, but I could not make myself believe otherwise, as I was undeniably awake and his appearance, voice, manner, had all been so natural. The hunger to know what comes after physical death can't be denied. It's why we read books like the one you're holding at this very moment. We'll all find out eventually, of course, but for some people, the compulsion to sneak a peek behind the veil is very tempting. For centuries, people have been making arrangements with trusted friends or loved ones whoever dies first should come back and try to communicate with the one left behind. And if the stories are to be believed, sometimes it works. The people trying these experiments aren't crackpots. One of these curious people was Lord Henry Broham, a British statesman who lived during the 19th century. He and his college friend Jeffrey Garner were keenly interested in the possibility that a person's soul could survive the death of their body. So intrigued were they that the two friends drew up an agreement that whichever of them died first would appear to the other. They signed this compact in their own blood. They were not playing around with this. When the men graduated from college, Broham entered government service. Garner also got a government post and was sent off to India. Over the years, the two men gradually lost touch with each other. It wasn't until many years later when Lord Broham was traveling in Sweden that he had cause to remember his college friend Garner. Broham and his travel companions had stopped at an inn for the night and Broham wanted a hot bath after his day's journey. He had a nice relaxing soak and was just about to get out, towel off and head off to bed when he turned his head to look around the bathroom for a towel. There, sitting on a chair, was his friend Jeffrey Garner. Broham lunged out of the bath, tripped and passed out. How I got out of the bath, I know not, he wrote later, but on recovering my senses I found myself sprawling on the floor. The apparition, or whatever it was, had taken the likeness of Garner, had disappeared. Broham was shaken by the sudden appearance of the college friend he hadn't seen in years, and in his bath no less. He was further shocked to discover when he returned home to England that Jeffrey Garner had died in India on December 19. The same day, Broham had seen him. To students of history and many Broadway fans, the name of Aaron Burr is synonymous with base treachery for his killing of Alexander Hamilton in a duel in 1804. But fans of the musical Hamilton also know Burr as the adoring papa of Theodosia Burr. Theodosia was Aaron Burr's only child and she and her father were devoted to each other. After the duel between Hamilton and Burr on July 11, 1804, Burr found himself on the outs politically. He left New York and knocked around for a while and even managed to get himself accused of treason in 1807 for trying to set up an empire in Mexico. He was later acquitted but went off to Europe in a self-imposed exile. Throughout all of this, Theodosia was Burr's staunchest supporter. She married Joseph Alston, himself a politician, but she never swayed in her devotion to her father. In 1812 Burr returned to New York and immediately wrote to Theodosia to ask her to come see him now that he was back home. Theodosia, although she wasn't in the best of health, jumped at the chance to visit her father. Earlier that year, in June, Theodosia had lost her 10-year-old son Aaron Burr Alston to malaria. She had been frail since the boy's birth and it's possible she was suffering from uterine cancer. On December 10, 1812, Joseph Alston had been elected governor of South Carolina. With the duties of his new position, he couldn't take time off to accompany Theodosia to New York. The war of 1812 was in full swing and travel on the Atlantic was dangerous. But Theodosia was so eager to see her father who'd been away in Europe for years that she bought passage on the Patriot and headed north. Soon after the ship's departure from Charleston, South Carolina, though, on December 30, the Patriot vanished without a trace off the coast of the Carolinas. Rumors swirled around Theodosia's fate. Stories flew that she had killed herself after resisting the advances of the pirate Octave Chauvet, or that she had written farewell letters to her husband and her father and had put them into a champagne bottle which she threw into the sea before being executed, or that she had been captured and taken to Bermuda as a pirate's mistress. One particularly fanciful tale claimed that she had ended up in Texas on the Gulf Coast and had married an Indian chief. A clue to Theodosia's possible fate came in 1819 with the execution of Jean de Farges and Robert Johnson. In an article published in the New York advertiser, the condemned man claimed to have been crew members aboard the ill-fated Patriot. They said they had led a mutiny and had scuttled the ship, killing all on board. But the most solid evidence came to light in 1878 with the publication of an article in The New York Times. A fellow named Benjamin Burdick, described as a hard, rough old salt, had made a deathbed confession at a poor house in Michigan. He told a minister's wife that he'd been a sailor on a pirate ship that had overtaken the Patriot. The minister's wife wrote up what Burdick told her and reported the tale to the paper. He said there was one lady on board who was beautiful, appearing intelligent and cultivated, who gave her name as Mrs. Theodosia Alston. When her turn came to walk the fatal plank, she asked for a few moments time, which was gruffly granted her. She then returned to her birth and changed her apparel, appearing on deck in a few moments clad in pure white garments. And with a Bible in her hand, she announced that she was ready. She appeared as calm and composed as if she were at home and not a tremor crept over her frame or a pallor overspread her features as she walked toward her fate. As she was taking the fatal steps, she folded her hand over her bosom and raised her eyes to heaven. She fell and sank without a murmur or sigh. This story lands credence to an oddity that turned up in Nag's head, North Carolina after the Civil War, a portrait owned by a woman who was quite elderly at the time. Her family, she said, had made a living by looting ships that ran aground in the Outer Banks. In 1813, a vessel had been attacked by pirates and drifted into the family's clutches. They found no one on board, but they did find some valuables that the pirates had overlooked, including a portrait of a dark-haired pretty woman in white. Descendants of Aaron Burr have noted the portrait's resemblance to Theodosia. Theodosia Burr-Alston's spirit has a wide-ranging territory. She is seen at her plantation house in South Carolina, and her spirit, at least, has finally reached her father's home in New York. One if by land, two if by sea is a restaurant in Greenwich Village that is located in a carriage house once owned and operated by Aaron Burr. Theodosia has been seen floating through the restaurant, wearing a long, flowing white dress. In life, she is said to have adored wearing jewelry, especially glittery earrings. Women sitting at the restaurant's bar have reported that someone invisible tends to tug on dangling earrings. Theodosia's ghost, again wearing the same flowering white dress, has also been seen near the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. She appears there, most often during foul weather or on foggy nights. Her ghost roams these sandy beaches because of one of history's most bizarre coincidences. In 1773, Alexander Hamilton was a passenger on a boat called the Thunderbolt, when it was caught in a storm off the outer banks. The captain of the boat tried to make for sure, but there was no lighthouse to guide him. He then tried to ride out the storm off of Cape Hatteras, but high waves pummeled the boat. The rocking of the ship spilled glowing coals out of the stove onto the wooden floor of the valley and started a fire that nearly spelled disaster for the Thunderbolt. Luckily, the fire was contained and when the gale winds died down, the ship limped into port. After that harrowing experience, Hamilton swore that someday he'd make sure a lighthouse was built on Cape Hatteras. After the Revolutionary War, Hamilton was appointed Secretary of the Treasury. Here was his chance to make good on his promise of a decade before. He twisted arms to get a congressional appropriation for a lighthouse at Cape Hatteras. One of the arms he twisted was that of Aaron Burr. Burr was irked at Hamilton's manipulations and his irritation only fanned the flames of the feud between the two men. Decades later, the Patriots' gruesome end came not far from the Cape Hatteras lighthouse, the same beacon built by Theodosia's father's bitter rival. Unfortunately for Theodosia, the lighthouse did nothing to save her, but it could have. There is a theory that the Patriot was not attacked at sea, but rather lured to shore by pirates working on land who shone a light at Nag's head to confuse the Patriot's captain. If the captain had followed the beacon at Cape Hatteras instead, he wouldn't have been taken in by the false light. We wouldn't have the ghost stories we do if it weren't for the history behind them. Jim Curran knew he was dying. The old man was nearing the end of his earthly life, and he had made his peace. He lived in the small town of Holyroot on Canada's Atlantic Seaboard, and he loved the land he'd made his home. When I go, Curran told his son-in-law James Butler, I want to be buried in the new cemetery on the south side of the village, and if you don't bury me there, I'll haunt you. You won't have a moment's peace. The headstrong old man passed away just before Christmas. His funeral was to be officiated by Father Walsh. As Butler made the final arrangements, he mentioned to Father Walsh that Curran's last wish had included burial in the new cemetery. I'm afraid that's not possible, the priest explained. Last wishes or no, I can't in good conscience bury your father-in-law there. It hasn't yet been consecrated. Well, bury Mr. Curran in the north side cemetery. If he does come back to haunt anyone, let it be me. I'm the one responsible. Butler agreed. He wanted to honor Curran's last wishes, but he certainly didn't want his loved one buried in unconsecrated ground either. As long as he haunts you and not me, I'm fine with that, Butler said. The funeral was held on a snowy afternoon just after Christmas. Jim Curran was laid to rest in the properly consecrated north side cemetery. Family and friends drifted away to mourn in private, and Father Walsh and his driver Harry headed for home. The snow that had started to fall during the graveside service got worse, and soon Harry found the road blocked. He took what he thought was a shortcut across a frozen pond, but he was soon hopelessly lost. Three hours passed before Harry saw any familiar landmarks. Priest and driver made it home safely, but they were late, cold and hungry by the time they got there. Harry, who was superstitious, swore that Jim Curran's ghost had led them astray. All that week as Father Walsh made his rounds in the parish, he heard members of his congregation muttering that Jim Curran should have been buried in the new south side cemetery after all. The next Sunday, Father Walsh took to the pulpit to explain the reasons for his decision. The parishioners might have been soothed by the sermon, but Jim Curran's ghost still wasn't convinced. Late that night, Father Walsh heard a knock at his front door. He went to answer it, but there was no one on the porch. Before he could close the door, he heard footsteps come into the house, cross the floor, and go up the stairs to the bedroom on the second floor. The next day, Father Walsh had a visitor, a friend of his who was a priest in a nearby town. Without any prompting, Father O'Donnell asked about the visitor of the previous night. Father Walsh denied that any visitor had showed up, but Father O'Donnell just lifted an eyebrow, daring Father Walsh to tell the truth. Three weird occurrences, and just over a week, were enough to convince Father Walsh. He consecrated the south side cemetery immediately. The first burial there, of course, was a reburial. Jim Curran's grave was opened, and his body was moved to the new cemetery. Neither Father Walsh nor anyone else ever heard from Jim Curran's ghost again. Curran was finally able to rest in peace. 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, a collaboration with paranormal blogger and author Sylvia Schultz. The stories I used in this episode are 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 Syndicate. Find a link to purchase and download this dark, creepy 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.