The Church of Evil

Joan Forman was a member of the Society for Psychical Research who spent much of her life researching and writing about the stranger side of life.  (Her best-known book is probably “The Mask of Time,” an examination of the “time-slip” phenomenon.)  Her 1974 book “Haunted East Anglia” included her personal story of the time she and a friend encountered a force that was undefinable, yet clearly malevolent.

In January 1971, Forman moved from Lincolnshire to Norfolk.  Her busy schedule had left her little time to explore her new surroundings, so when her friend Mary came by for a visit that October, the two women decided to go on a brief road trip, with no particular destination in mind.  They drove the quiet roads west of Norwich until they encountered what appeared to be a perfectly charming village.  (Forman discreetly left the place unnamed in her book.)  It was like something from a picture postcard: quaint cottages, a pretty village green, and a fine old church.  They parked near the green and set out on foot to examine the place.

On closer inspection, both women soon sensed something “off” about the village.  The cottages which had looked so appealing from a distance proved to be oddly empty and seemingly neglected.  The streets were deserted.  They sought to escape the brooding atmosphere by entering the church.

As soon as they entered the church, the pair began to feel that things were going from bad to worse.  Forman wrote, “At first, all I felt was a sense of dampness and cold, then I recognised it as something more.  There was an oppressive quality in the atmosphere, and whatever the oppression was, grew as the seconds ticked by.

“I glanced at Mary.  She had ceased looking at pews and floor inscriptions and was standing stock still in the middle of the nave, a frown of concentration on her face.  Our eyes caught and flicked away.

“She said:  ‘It’s not very pleasant in here, is it?’  It was far from pleasant, and was getting less so every minute.”

The women walked towards the chancel, hoping the ominous atmosphere would dissipate.  Instead, standing in the chancel changed the “sensation of oppression” to “one of active and evil hostility.”

Mary couldn’t take it any longer.  She ran down the aisle and out of the church.  However, Forman’s curiosity managed to overcome her fear.  She continued to stand there, wondering what might happen next.  She sensed that with Mary gone, “the full force of the concentration seemed focused on me.  It was quite impossible to stay in the place, and I hurried out after my friend.”

When they were both outside the church, Mary asked her if she had any idea about what had just happened, but, not knowing anything about the history of the village or the church, Forman could not offer any explanation.  “All we knew was that we had experienced some malevolent force.  The fact that it was a church apparently made no difference to its power.”

The badly-rattled women just wanted to get away from the village as quickly as possible.  However, when they reached their car, they got a new shock: the automobile was covered with “a rash of green spots or dropping, the liquid being of a sticky, glutinous substance.

“Had it been red, one would have concluded it was blood.  The drops ran down the windscreen and windows and were fairly resistant to my attempts to wipe them off.”  They had never seen a substance at all like it.

Although Forman’s research into the village failed to give her any insight into what they had encountered, Mary had a simple, if disquieting, answer. 

“I think it’s witchcraft,” she told Forman.  “The county has a reputation for it.”

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

The Strange Company team wishes you a happy Valentine's Day!

The use of drugs in ancient Egypt.

The diary of an 1870s Manhattan schoolboy.

An intercontinental junk.

The original meaning of "spinster."

How the British Empire changed food consumption.

A new theory about how the Great Pyramid was built.

A 5,300 year old drill.

A look at "Vinegar Valentines."

Hannibal Lecter, antihero.   (Some years ago, while idly channel-surfing, I came across the middle of "Silence of the Lambs."  Within about two minutes, I saw something--I thankfully forget what--that caused me to shriek and quickly change the station.  If there is a Hell, it probably plays that film 24/7.)

When coffee was illegal.

Yet another marriage ends in murder.

Ancient Roman medicine may have included...things you wouldn't expect to pick up at the Walmart pharmacy.

A poisonous bakery.

Some fatal Valentines.

A possible link between space weather and earthquakes.

Chinese civilization may be older than we thought.

Paging Graham Hancock!

Some mysterious deaths in Bulgaria.

The Red Lipstick Murder.

A reworked portrait of Anne Boleyn.

Reconstructing the faces of famous composers.

The mystery of an abandoned Welsh village.

The hidden tunnels of Venus.

What (might) have inspired "Wuthering Heights."

The presidents who had notable non-presidential careers.

The little that we know about Shakespeare's wife.

Tragedy at Wolf Creek.

That's it for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll visit a very sinister village.  In the meantime, here's a bit of '60s pop.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

As proof that some actors never know when to go off stage, I present this story from the “Hamilton County Times,” July 12, 1906:

Los Angeles--A more uncanny visitor than death, whose silent entrance of its portals there is not a day that fails to record, has appeared at the county hospital, according to inmates. 

This weird apparition is not the rider of the pale horse, who is welcome, but a ghost, which is terrible--the ghost of a man who died there months ago--Lawrence Hanley, the actor; Lawrence Hanley in the wraith-garb of the spirit world enacting the role of Hamlet at midnight in the darkness of the corridor upon which opened the room where he died August 28 last; Lawrence Hanley smoking a cigarette and leaning with one arm raised upon thin air and with his feet crossed, saying, "Yes, I'll have another, thanks!" 

The doctors and the nurses laugh or pooh-pooh when they hear these reports, but doctors and nurses are of unsuperstitious fiber; they believe in scalpels and saws and such obviously material things, and if a ghost should appear to one he might call it a wreath of smoke, a shaft of moonlight or some other easily explicable thing.

The nurse who was with Lawrence Hanley when he died, H.S. Rea Don, when interviewed, refused to discuss the alleged spectral manifestation. Mr. Rea Don glared when he was asked if he had not chased the luminous phantom up and down the hall with a club to drive it from the building.

Those to whom the specter is said to have appeared are Willis H. Hoes, Frank Hartwell and Charles C. Morell. They tell substantially the same story, which was related by each without collaboration with the other. It seems especially strange that such a story should be told of Lawrence Hanley.

He knew more about ghosts, perhaps, than any other patient who ever died there, for his long and brilliant stage career acquainted him intimately with Shakespeare's ghostly company. As "Hamlet" and "Macbeth" he had held communion with avenging spirits; in the first year of his acting he had even impersonated Banquo's ghost and that of the Danish king. But the persons  mentioned gave him a part more ghastly than any of these, the eighth act in the human drama. Lawrence Hanley's death was itself as tragic as that of any character he portrayed, for he died miserably, the wreck of a man once fired with genius. 

Hanley's ghost is said to have appeared a month after his death.  A luminous, pearly vapor having the form of a man emerged from the southwest room on the lower floor. It was an opalescent apparition; it wore a stiff straw hat set jauntily, a light suit and carried a cane. It floated down the long corridor with the semblance of a stride--the tread of the actor upon the boards--and wailed in a voice itself the ghost of the vocal: "To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day," and so on to the end. He was Hamlet mournfully reciting "To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream." All of the great characters of his past he enacted. 

He strode quickly forward, they say, made as if to draw a sword, leaned his chin upon his hand and mused, beetling his brows until his eyes glowed with greater intensity, threw back his head and laughed, and then bowed and disappeared. The last time these men saw the spirit it was in a bibulous vein. It stood long at a bar of its fancy and tossed down unseen glasses of nothing until its wraith form began to stagger. It sang a song of revelry, then stopped short, straightened up and said: "I must go home." 

Hospital authorities do not attempt to account for the weird stories which have circulated, except to say that they must have emanated from the distorted fancy of some insane patients. 

The Abduction of Nefertiri Trader

I don’t usually write about recent crimes--it feels like prying, somehow.  I also rarely cover cases where it seems indisputable that the victim was kidnapped, simply because there’s usually not much to say about it.  However, the following mystery is so peculiar--not to mention creepy as all hell--that I have made an exception to both those rules.  Besides, it’s a case that hasn’t gotten nearly as much attention as it deserves.

33-year-old Nefertiri Trader lived with her three children in New Castle, Delaware, where she worked in the housekeeping department at Christiana Hospital.  From the little that was reported, she was an outgoing, energetic person who was generally liked.  Around 3:30 a.m. on June 30, 2014, Trader, who was on medical leave from her job (the nature of her illness was not made public) went to a nearby 7-11.  The clerk knew Trader by sight, as she often visited the store, although he didn’t recall her ever coming by at such an odd hour.  She bought a pack of cigarettes, a loaf of bread, and two cups of coffee.

She never made it into her home.  At 4 a.m., a neighbor of hers heard some sort of commotion outside.  When he looked out a window, he saw a man dragging a woman he later identified as Trader to a car, where she was placed in the back seat.  The neighbor assumed she was merely being taken to the hospital, so he shrugged off the incident and went back to sleep.  The car is believed to be Trader’s own vehicle, (a 2000 silver Acura RL with the license plate 404893) as it disappeared with her.  Nefertiri’s 17-year-old son also heard noises, but by the time he went out to the front porch, he saw nothing.  

It was not until about 4:30 on the following afternoon that Nefertiri’s family, concerned that they were unable to contact her, phoned police.  When officers arrived some two hours later, they found in the front yard a loaf of bread that had been stepped on.  On the front porch were the rest of Trader’s purchases from the night before.  There was also an unopened condom.  Trader’s flip-flops were by the front door. 

Unfortunately, that appears to be all anyone knows about Trader’s disappearance.  The police investigation failed to find any suspects, or any indication where the unfortunate woman was taken.  Her car was also never seen again.

There is one possible clue regarding Trader’s abduction.  In February 2014, Trader was drinking at a bar called Club Rebel with a man named Radee Prince.  The two were sitting in her car outside the club when five or six men pulled Prince out of the car and beat him up.  Trader later told police that she didn’t see much of the attack, and could not identify the men responsible.  Prince believed that one Jason Baul hired these men to assault him. 

Although Prince told police he “had no idea” if Trader played any role in his beating, the fact that an unknown man kidnapped her a few months after the incident is, to say the least, intriguing.  However, I have found no indication that police pursued that angle.  If Prince--who was convicted in 2020 of gunning down five people, including Baul, killing three of them--had any notion about what had happened to Nefertiri, he kept that to himself.

As usually happens in unsolved crime cases, there are a lot of unanswered questions.  Why did Trader go to 7-11 at such an unusual hour?  Why did she buy two cups of coffee?  Was she expecting to meet someone?

This was probably not a random abduction.  Trader was most likely kidnapped by someone who knew when she left the house, and when she would return.  But who could that have been?  And considering that her assailant used Trader’s car to take her away, how did this person arrive at her home?  (No strange cars were found in her neighborhood.)

There is yet another thing that puzzles me:  If I approached my front door, only to have someone suddenly appear and drag me back to the car, I would shriek loud enough to wake the dead.  I bet you would, too. But although Trader’s neighbor and her son heard noises, neither mentioned hearing any screams.  This suggests that Trader’s abductor was someone she knew, and someone she did not initially see as any serious threat.

The abduction of Nefertiri Trader is one of those crimes that, given dogged police work and a bit of luck, should have been solved.  Perhaps, it still can be.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

Come in from the cold!

Photos of a vanished London.

The long bond between humans and dogs.

The dangers of wooden derelicts.

News flash:  Medieval people drank water.

A medieval tiger mom.

The stories of WWII war brides.

How the days of the week got their names.

The latest research into near-death experiences.

A story of canine survival in Antarctica.

The (unpleasant) last moments of a dinosaur.

All I can say is, people get themselves into the damnedest situations.

Skeletons as merchandise.

When Afghanistan was a "crossroad of the ancient world."

The 100th anniversary of the Harlem Globetrotters.

A woman's journey to the gallows.

"Wilful murder" in an Oxford college.

The busy career of an early Tudor-era figure.

New evidence about Easter Island.

"Ghost rockets" in Scandinavia.

A murder that probably wasn't.

Bumblebees and Morse Code.

Possible evidence for Biblical giants.

The lavish grave of a Neolithic teenager who was killed by a bear.

So now scientists are studying roadkill.

A "farmhouse of horror."

The life of George Sand.

That's a wrap for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at a kidnapping/missing persons case.  In the meantime, here's some 17th century dance music.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

This quirky little tale appeared in the “Grass Valley Union,” March 11, 1914:

BLOOMINGTON (Ill.), March 10.-- The mystery of the "House of Mystery" at Chrisman, Ill., is still unsolved after seventeen years. It is now the resort of bats and owls and rapidly going to decay. It was in 1896 that the "House of Mystery" was erected. Without any previous announcement one spring morning, a gang of workmen from some outside point arrived in Chrisman.

Simultaneously came carloads of building material. Upon a large lot on the main street of the town there was speedily erected the structure that was to create so much gossip in succeeding years. The townspeople quizzed the workmen concerning the ownership of the house, but learned nothing. All engaged were sworn to secrecy, and none broke faith.

The progress of the structure was watched with curious interest. It was surmised that some well-to-do bachelor of the town was preparing a home for a prospective bride, but all such pleaded "Not guilty." Decorators and furnishers followed upon the heels of the carpenters, plasterers and painters. The house was fitted up luxuriously and with every up-to-date convenience. It was now felt that the mystery would soon be solved. The dining room was a marvel of luxury, with carved table and chairs and a buffet filled with expensive china.

The parlor was equipped with expensive rugs, a grand piano and silk upholstered furniture. The library and bedrooms corresponded in magnificence with the other rooms. The sleeping apartments varied in magnificence with the other rooms. The sleeping apartments varied in color and furnishings, from the palest blue and birdseye maple to rich green tones and heavy walnut. After the final touch of the outfitters and decorators the house was closed.

Time passed and no one appeared. No blushing bride and happy bridegroom. There were no developments of any kind. Weeks, months and years slipped by and the mystery deepened. Six years ago an Incendiary set fire to the house and before the flames were extinguished the kitchen was badly damaged.

A few days later workmen appeared from some neighboring city, repaired the damage and went their way. Although plied with queries by the residents, no one would furnish any information calculated to clear up the mystery. About that time a municipal electric lighting plant was installed in Chrisman and electricians wired the "mysterious house."

In 1919, various newspapers carried another brief story about the house, indicating that the riddle of who built it and why it stood empty for so many years had yet to be solved.  As far as I can tell, the “House of Mystery” remained just that.

The Ghost of Armit Island

Armit Island is a tiny, largely undeveloped island in Whitsundays, Queensland, Australia.  Accessible only by boat, Armit has a wild beauty that makes it a popular visit for the more adventurous and self-sufficient campers and bird watchers.  However, what has earned Armit a place on this blog is something entirely different: a very sad and lonely ghost.

Sometime around 1890, a man named Heron, obviously wishing to see civilization in his rear-view mirror, leased Armit from the Queensland government, and built himself a little hut on the island.  Heron was a great collector of plants, which he used to start an orchard on the island’s western aspect.  One day, some yachtsmen anchored off Armit, and one of them went to Heron’s hut for a chat.  The visitor was greatly impressed by the silence and isolation of the place, and he asked Heron if he didn’t find it oppressively lonely living by himself.

“Oh, no,” Heron replied casually.  “A sailor keeps me company.”

The bemused yachtsman, who had seen no other signs of human habitation on the island, tried to get more information, but the hermit suddenly clammed up and refused to say any more about the matter.  Other visitors to the island heard Heron mention this mysterious “sailor,” but they too were unable to get him to provide further details.

The explanation for Heron’s enigmatic remarks was finally discovered by one Captain Gorringe, who was raising sheep on nearby Lindeman Island.  On one occasion, Gorringe spent a week camping on Armit.  Like the other visitors, Gorringe was told of Heron’s sailor friend, but, not being a terribly inquisitive man, he asked no questions.  However, when after several days this sailor failed to make an appearance, the captain couldn’t help but ask about him.

Heron matter-of-factly explained that soon after his arrival on the island, one night he was awakened by some noise, and left his hut to investigate.  As he went outside, he was shocked to hear an agonized scream coming from the slopes of the island.  He then saw the figure of a man dressed in the clothing of an 18th century sailor emerge from the brush and walk to the water’s edge.  Heron called out to the man, but received no response.  He was stunned to see the sailor walk into the water…and disappear.

After that, Heron often watched the same scene play out: the horrible cry, the march to the water’s edge, the vanishing into the ocean.  Heron told Gorringe that he assumed this was the ghost of a crew member of a long-ago ship who had come to a tragic end on Armit.

Heron was not the only visitor to Armit to see the sailor.  One night in 1908, one Charles Anderson anchored his cutter off the island.  Happening to look towards the beach, he saw a figure walking through the trees to the water’s edge.  Anderson later said that “there was something about it which immediately convinced me that it was not the figure of a living man.  It did not walk so much as float a few inches above the sand.  The phantom came and went so quickly that I did not have time to examine it properly, but my impression was that the sailor clothes on the ghostly figure were those of the seventeenth century.”

In 1938, a Queensland author named Frank Reid visited Armit with a group of fishermen.  After fishing for some hours, the men made camp on the western beach.  After a late dinner, the party relaxed on the sand, talking and smoking.  This peaceful scene was rudely interrupted by the sound of a “shriek of horror” coming from the woods.  It was like nothing they had ever heard before.

When the dreadful cry was not repeated, one of the men dismissed it as the sound of some strange bird, and the group began to settle in for the night.  Then, Reid saw an apparition emerging from the nearby trees.  It was of a man dressed like a “sailor of Nelson’s days.”  The figure stared straight ahead, ignoring the fishermen.  Silently, eerily, the sailor glided across the beach and into the water.

I do not know of any more recent sightings of the spectre--every haunting, no matter how persistent, seems to have an expiration date.  However, if you are ever on Armit Island, and you hear a heartrending scream, don’t be frightened.  It is just a spirit, doomed to endlessly march into the sea…