Episode 182: Ever-Present

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Everyone knows a little bit about Pompeii.

It's probably one of the most famous archaeological sites in the world, helped along by its dramatic origin story.

When Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD, it buried the city in ash and pumice.

When it was finished, over a thousand people were dead, but the ash also created a time capsule of their life there, preserving much of the city.

And since the middle of the 18th century, experts have been carefully digging through the layers to uncover that past.

They've learned a lot about the city over the years, but one of my favorite things is also one of the least well-known.

Scattered all throughout the city are over 80 locations known as Thermopylaea, a word that means place where hot things are sold.

They are the ancient Roman equivalent of the modern takeout restaurant, and you would know that the moment you stepped inside.

Their brightly painted walls, with images of the different foods they sold, almost look like ancestors of an Austin, Texas food truck.

We think we know a place, and then another piece of the puzzle gets added in, and all of a sudden it becomes something else entirely.

Pompeii wasn't a boring city with stiff Romans walking around like worker drones.

It was a town full of life, graffiti, and places where anyone with a few coins could buy a hot plate of what Anthony Bourdain called street meats.

Which is why I love the American state of Nevada, because it's a place that most people think they know.

Mention Nevada to most people and they'll talk about the Vegas Strip, slot machines, neon signs, fake pyramids and all-you-can-eat buffets.

And sure, that's a part of Nevada, but it's not the entire picture.

The larger story is much older than the lights of Vegas and much more dangerous than the risk of sunburn or dehydration.

It's a tale filled with big dreams, bigger losses, and more than a few disasters along the way.

Yes, you may think you know Nevada, but right around the corner is something wholly unexpected and downright terrifying.

I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is lore.

We can't talk about Nevada without discussing the people who have lived there for thousands of years.

Their words are all across the landscape and built right into county and city names that people still use today.

While there are many communities and groups in Nevada, the four major tribes of Native Americans are the Washoe, the Northern Paiute, the Southern Paiute, and the Western Shoshone.

Just about all of them have lived there for over 10,000 years, and there's a deep connection between them and the land.

But since the arrival of Europeans, life has been different for them.

Centuries ago, the region we know of today as Nevada was part of the Spanish Empire, called New Spain.

In 1804, it was pulled into a province called Alta California, which itself became part of Mexico following the Mexican War of Independence in 1821.

It was basically a revolving door of controlling governments that wrapped up in 1848 with the Mexican-American War and then finally ended with official statehood two decades later.

But what unified people for a very long time there wasn't a political idea or allegiance to an empire.

It was silver.

And all that started in 1859.

That was the year that the Comstock load was discovered.

When the ore deposit was located beneath Mount Davidson, along the western edge of Nevada, it signaled a new era for the territory.

All you need to do is look at a map of the area just to the east of Washoe Lake, and you'll see what I mean.

Place names like Gold Hill and Silver City pretty much telegraph the plot, don't they?

Over the decade that followed, a lot of things changed in the area.

The silver output from the comp stock load was so enormous that it justified building a new branch of the U.S.

Mint in nearby Carson City.

It's estimated that over the two decades that followed the discovery, close to $320 million worth of silver was extracted, worth roughly $8 billion today.

I could throw a lot more numbers at you, but they would all start to blur together.

Just know this, the Comstock load changed the region.

Like gold rushes to Alaska or California, it attracted huge numbers of hopeful people, all looking for their lucky break.

In fact, in the decade that followed the discovery of silver, the population of Nevada increased 500%.

To care for their needs, dozens of boomtowns rose up out of the dirt, and one of those places was Virginia City.

With maybe 900 people living there today, you might not believe it was possible, but by the mid-1870s, it was the largest city in the state, with over 25,000 people.

The potential for getting rich and the buzz of life around those looking for it was attractive to a lot of people.

In fact, one writer settled down there for a number of years and wrote articles for the local paper, the Virginia City Daily Territorial Enterprise.

While he would write under a pseudonym for much of his career, Virginia City was the first place he did so.

And his pen name?

Mark Twain.

But with larger groups of people come much bigger risks.

And in 1875, Virginia City had a bad role.

On October 25th of that year, a fire started in a lodging house in the early morning hours.

The fire department was called in, but by the time they arrived, the blaze was too big to stop, and it didn't help that the winds shifted unexpectedly, which forced the fire deeper into the city.

In a city filled with wooden buildings, I think you can imagine just how devastating this could be.

One report from the era claimed that the streets were filled with people scrambling for safety.

Many were dragging heavy trunks filled with their most valuable possessions.

Some were even pulling bundles of property wrapped up inside bed sheets, all in an effort to get away from the fire.

When When the smoke cleared, there was both good and bad news.

Thousands of people had been left homeless, and businesses had been left in ruin.

Everything from houses and churches to banks and breweries.

It was a disaster on a massive scale, with estimates putting the cost at roughly $300 million in modern currency.

But the silver lining, no pun intended, I swear, was that there were only two known fatalities, and that meant that there were plenty of hands to help rebuild.

And Virginia City did just that.

It had to, after all, it was a home and economic hub to thousands of workers in the mining industry.

But it was far from the only disaster to take place in Nevada.

Over the years that people have been settling and exploiting the land there, a good number of tragedies have haunted them, like shadows that followed communities wherever they went.

And quite a few of them, it seems, have left a permanent mark.

Not all of the dangers in Virginia City were above ground.

Remember, the very reason for the city's existence, as well as countless others in the area, was the promise of instant wealth hidden underground.

And if there was one common language there, it was the language of mining.

Now, it wasn't all silver mining, although that's what Nevada was known for.

In fact, its official nickname is still the Silver State, but a good amount of gold, copper, and lead was also pulled out of the earth there.

But one thing all of it had in common was the digging.

To reach whatever valuable ore they were after, deep shafts were sunk into the ground.

I probably don't need to tell you about how complex and dangerous these underground structures were.

with thick wooden beams holding up tons of rock and all the ladders and elevators and track systems that pass through them.

It's honestly a miracle anyone felt brave enough to venture down inside them.

And there was certainly a lot to be afraid of.

Some of the most common ways miners were injured or killed included cave-ins, falling down elevator shafts, and getting caught in explosions that were set off too early.

But there was more to worry about than gravity and gunpowder.

It wasn't uncommon for miners to break through into a pocket of scalding hot spring water, which would flood the tunnels and boil them alive.

In fact, years after the silver rush was over, veteran miners would still be referred to by a curious nickname, hot water plugs, a term that makes a lot more sense when you know the risks they took.

But their biggest fear, hands down, was fire.

And on April 7th of 1869, that nightmare became a reality at the Yellow Jacket Mine in Virginia City.

That was the day that a fire broke out in an unattended part of the mine, allowing it to burn unnoticed for hours.

By the time miners became aware of the smoke and flames, it was too late.

Timber supports about 800 feet below the surface collapsed, taking tons of rock with it.

Rescue efforts were fruitless due to clouds of poisonous gas and massive flames.

They tried lowering large metal cages down into the shaft, hoping trapped miners would climb in and ride it safely back up, but that cage passed through the fire and gas, making it a special kind of death trap.

According to reports of the incident, those flames burned for weeks.

Workers tasked with fighting the fires tried everything they could to stop the blaze, but by the 20th of May, a month and a half after it had begun, they simply sealed the mine, hoping it would suffocate the flames.

When it was all over, At least 35 bodies had been hauled back to the surface, with an untold number of others left trapped deep below.

And while we can't visit those burned-out shafts today, there is something close.

The Gold Hill Hotel, which operated right on top of the mine.

In fact, it's the oldest hotel in Nevada being built in 1859, and it's still there today.

And given its close proximity to such a deadly disaster, it's no wonder so many guests have reported unusual experiences there.

Folks who have stayed in room number 4 at the Gold Hill Hotel have reported some very odd things.

For some, the overwhelming scent of flowers has left them with visions of a funeral or memorial, as if the mourning for the victims of the tragedy had continued on.

All these years later, they've witnessed lights that turn on and off on their own, and objects that move from one place in the room to another.

Room number five also has its own smell, but guests there claim it reminds them of pipe tobacco or cigars.

Visions of a mysterious figure have been so common there that staff and guests all refer to the spirit in room number 5 as William.

Whether or not it's the ghost of a dead miner, well, I'll let you make up your own mind about that.

Downstairs is a room known as the Miner's Lodge, located closest to the old closed-up mineshaft, and it's been home to many of the most unusual experiences by guests over the years.

And then there's the Great Room, a common area where drinks are served.

and ghosts are witnessed on a regular basis.

The most common report, though, is really just a complaint.

Many guests over the years have been disturbed in their rooms by the sounds of children playing in the hallway outside their door.

And if their patience is thin enough, some of those folks have picked up the phone and called down to the front desk to ask if they could put a stop to the noise.

The staff is happy to help, of course, but occasionally there's nothing they can do other than to inform these unhappy callers that none of the guests in the hotel have children with them.

He was an unlikely outsider.

You would think that, in an area settled mostly by Danes, that a German man might fit in, but it seems that he didn't.

And to everyone else in the western Nevada town of Genoa, he would always stay that way.

If I'm honest, Adam's early life is a bit of a mystery.

He shows up in Genoa in the spring of 1896 and, from what I can tell, took on a reputation as a troublemaker.

How much of that was projected on him by a community that didn't want him around and how much was brought on by his own actions?

Well, that's part of the mystery.

But their assumptions about Adam came to a head on the night of November 25th, 1897.

That was the evening that he was seated at a table in a local saloon, drunk out of his mind, when an acquaintance of his named Hans Andersen walked in and spotted him.

Hans was young and popular.

He was the sort of guy everyone loved.

It might be even fair to say that the two men were opposites of each other, but they knew each other, most likely through work, and so Hans made a detour over to the older man's table.

The stories say that they talked, but that their words quickly turned dark.

One of them owed the other some money and an argument broke out.

The alcohol probably didn't help much either, but in the heat of their disagreement, Adam pulled out his revolver and fired a shot straight into Anderson's chest.

The rest was a blur.

Adam was taken into custody and hauled off to the local jail, while Hans was carried to the saloon's back room for medical treatment.

But it was too late.

Less than two hours later, the young man was dead.

And all of a sudden, Adam's crime had graduated from assault to murder.

When he woke up in his jail cell the next morning, I'm sure his head was pounding, but there was a reporter standing just outside the bars, a gentleman from the Genoa Courier, and he had some questions for Adam.

It doesn't seem like he was in a talking mood though, so it wouldn't be until a week later that the pair of men would get the chat.

By then, Adam had learned of what had happened in the saloon.

The reporter noted just how remorseful Adam was.

He was heartbroken, that he had no memory of wanting to kill Hans Anderson or of planning anything.

It was a stupid, deadly mistake, lubricated by the alcohol in his blood.

The authorities, though, weren't interested in nuance.

On December 2nd, official charges were filed.

Adam Uber was guilty of first-degree murder and would be held without bail until his sentence could be delivered.

But the trouble was, there were a lot of people in town who weren't willing to wait that long.

Mob justice wasn't an uncommon thing in those days, especially in Genoa.

In fact, in the two decades between 1875 and 1895, at least eight criminals saw their legal trials cut short by angry locals.

They had done it so often that they even had a favorite spot for their executions, the hanging tree, a large cottonwood tree in a grove near the southern end of town.

So on the night of December 7th, a similar mob appeared outside the town jail.

The only men inside were Sheriff Brockless and Constable Gray, but the building was locked and easily defended should the need arise.

Except, one of the members of the mob lied and said that he was an officer who had come there to drop off a new prisoner, and the men inside opened the door.

Once in, the mob held the two lawmen at gunpoints while Adam Uber was pulled from his cell.

They stripped him naked and then dragged him out into the cool night air, making their way to the hanging tree.

And once they arrived, the noose was placed around his neck.

The legend says that the mob gave Adam one last chance to pray to God, and so the frightened man bowed his head and closed his eyes.

And as he did, they pulled hard on the rope, lifting him high up into the tree.

But even though he was struggling for his life, he managed to spit out one final statement.

Each and every one of the men standing around him was cursed, he said.

Cursed through seven generations, in fact.

They and their loved ones would never be safe and never enjoy peace.

Suffering would follow them everywhere everywhere they went.

Then, it was over.

After his death, the mob took turns abusing his body.

Shots were fired, bones were broken, his eyes were clawed out, and then he was left on display until morning, when the full town could come and see what the mob really thought of killers and criminals.

It was pure hypocrisy, of course.

But people like that rarely understand irony.

The trial, as you might imagine, was an insult to the justice system.

A reward was offered for the capture of the members of the mob who were responsible, but it was half-hearted.

The local papers published articles condemning the actions of the mob, of course, but they also published articles that supported it, proving that the only thing they really opposed was having a moral backbone.

The authorities were even talked out of taking the case to trial.

on the pretense that it would be too expensive to bring charges against so many people, and besides, many of of them were thought to be prominent business owners and politicians anyway, so really, what was the point?

In the end, no legal actions were taken against the mob, despite the clear evidence and widespread knowledge of their identity.

Yes, a grand jury was assembled to investigate the incident, but the jurors, most likely members of the mob itself, refused to bring any charges.

Even the sheriff escaped punishment for so easily letting it all happen.

And I wish I I could tell you more.

I wish there were better records with names and accusations, or even lists of the evidence that was brushed aside.

But for that, we would have to go to the Douglas County Courthouse, where those sorts of things are kept.

The trouble is, even though the records for 1896 and 1898 are still in storage and perfectly intact, There's a problem with the county records from 1897, the year of Adams' vigilante execution.

Those records are missing.

If there's one word that can be used to describe Nevada's past, it's danger.

It was incredibly dangerous for the hopeful miners who flooded into the territory in search of riches and for the people who lived in those quickly built boomtowns.

And it was certainly dangerous, albeit in a very different way, for the indigenous people who were displaced by those settlers.

It seems that for a very long time, life in Nevada meant existing side by side with the danger that was ever present, whether those threats were caused by people or by the natural world around them.

And for us today, over a century later, That's a challenge to properly understand.

But the case can be made that life was much more risky back then.

It certainly was for Adam Uber.

Yes, he killed a man, and there should obviously be consequences for violent actions like that, whether or not alcohol was involved.

But the mob took away his chance to be heard and for justice to be handed out properly, so it's easy to understand why his last words were a condemnation against those who robbed him of that.

But there are some who think that his treeside speech wasn't actually the last time he spoke, because his curse seemed to hold some sort of supernatural power over the men who hanged him that cold December night in 1897.

To prove it, they point out a long list of unusual events, and I thought I'd share a few of them with you to wrap things up.

One of the leaders of the mob would later suffer an injury that involved having one of his own legs torn off.

Where did the accident take place?

Right beneath the hanging tree.

And while another man from the mob managed to escape personal harm, he lost two of his own children to tragic events, both within the same year.

Another mob member decided it might be better to move away and settled on a ranch in Lovelock, about 130 miles to the northeast, but the curse eventually found him on the day that his daughter got caught in the gears of a horse-drawn water pump, right before his eyes.

A number of men from the mob suffered from insomnia.

and a few simply lost their minds, either because of what they had done or what they had witnessed.

Two men in particular were said to have been placed in an institution where they spent the rest of their days.

Others, it's said, died by suicide.

But one story in particular stands out among the rest.

Many years after the death of Adam Uber, a woman came forward who claimed that both her brother and her cousin had been present at his hanging.

They too suffered for their actions and it brought an early death to both of them.

But she knew of one other man who was part of the mob that night, an older German fellow, and it was his death that brought her out of silence to add one more piece to the puzzle.

He apparently lived a long life that seemed absent of suffering, but eventually died of old age.

His family was around his deathbed, and their physician nodded and confirmed that he was gone.

About an hour later, though, something happened.

Those who were still in the room with his body claimed that it suddenly came back to life, drawing a deep breath and then sitting straight up in bed.

And then, the dead man shouted,

Oh God, oh God, he cried out, with fear painted across his face, why did we do it?

And with that, he fell back to the bed, taking the pain of the curse with him to the grave.

I hope you've enjoyed this brief tour through some of the darkest history of the Silver State.

But we're not done quite yet.

In fact, there are a few more tales I'd like to share with you.

Stories that demonstrate just how attached the past still is to the buildings that are there.

Stick around after this brief sponsor break to hear all about it.

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If there was a mining hot zone in Nevada, it was along the western edge of the state.

It honestly makes a lot of sense.

That border roughly follows the line of the mountains, with the foothills spilling into Nevada from the California side.

And while Carson City and Virginia City are situated right in that neat little corner by Lake Tahoe, there's a lot more to see if you follow the borders south and east.

That's where little boom towns like Tonipa and Goldfield were built over a century ago.

And because they're still there, the stories from their past are still very much alive.

In Tonipa, the silver came late, around 1900.

But the promise of riches never gets old, and so people flocked to the town, which meant that there was a big need for places to stay.

Thus, the Mitzpah Hotel, which opened its doors in 1908.

And for a turn-of-the-century hotel, the Mitzpah brought a lot of luxury to the table.

It had electric lights all throughout the building, which was a huge plus, as well as steam heat for those cold nights and a nice elevator for guests.

And they would need it too, since the hotel was the tallest building in Nevada when it was completed, at a whopping five stories tall.

Now, there are a lot of stories about unusual experiences at the Mitzpah Hotel, all of which contribute to its reputation as one of the most haunted hotels in America.

There are stories of invisible children tugging on the hands and clothing of guests.

Sometimes they'll even approach staff and ask them what they're working on.

There are the usual tales of disembodied voices, objects that move, and lights that turn on and off by themselves.

There are even stories about bottles of liquor exploding at the bar.

But if there's one ghost story that tourists come to experience firsthand, it's the tale of the red lady.

It's said that she was the lover of a businessman who lived there at the hotel while traveling the area for work.

According to the legend, this man kissed her goodbye one day before heading to the train station for a brief trip.

But when his train was canceled, he returned back to the hotel, only to find her in the arms of another man.

They say that after the other man was sent away, the businessman and his lover had a heated argument.

At some point, she tried to run out of the room, and that was when he killed her right there in the hallway.

It was the perfect mix of passion, betrayal, and tragedy that any ghost story needs to succeed.

And succeed it has.

To this day, guests and staff alike have reported sightings of a woman dressed in red, floating up and down the hallway as if she's looking for a way out.

Others claim she has left them pearls on their bed, perhaps as a peace offering.

or maybe an effort to return the gifts given to her by her killer.

Whatever the reason is, the hotel has renamed her room the Lady in Red Suite because, well, why not, right?

A few miles south of town, on U.S.

Route 95, is another old boomtown, the town of Goldfield.

As the name suggests, it was once the center for the mining of gold, and it lived up to its name.

Between 1902 when the gold was discovered and 1918 when it stopped, it's estimated that the town was producing the modern equivalent of hundreds of millions of dollars in ore each and every year.

And all that wealth meant that the place was attractive to newcomers, so just like in Tonipa, a hotel was built.

The Goldfield Hotel went up in 1908 and boasted over 150 rooms, along with all the luxuries people would expect, an elevator, electric lights, and the telephone.

And for a while, life was really good there.

The population topped out at over 20,000 residents, but started to decline around 1910.

The death knell for Goldfield was probably an event in 1923.

In July of that year, a fire broke out in town, most likely from a moonshine still that exploded.

They say 25 blocks of the town went up in flames.

Tons of businesses were lost, but somehow the Goldfield Hotel survived.

And it's still standing today, although it's seen better days, having shut down in 1945.

Still, the stories told about the place paint quite the picture.

There was, of course, the George Wingfield Room, named after the hotel's first owner.

Visitors there claim that they've smelled his cigar smoke and have even found cigar ashes there.

The gold room was said to have been home to a memorable spirit known as the stabber, who could be seen with a dangerous-looking knife.

Those who have witnessed the stabber said that he would throw himself at visitors, only to disappear just before making contact with their body.

Room 109 was supposed to be the place where Wingfield kept his pregnant mistress locked away, to protect his reputation, I'm sure.

And while it's said that she was later thrown to her death down the elevator shaft, many believe her spirit remained in that room, calling out for her baby.

But that elevator shaft is featured in another story from the hotel's past.

Many believe that George Wingfield made a lot of his money by stealing it from the miners who stayed at his hotel.

And once he robbed them, he supposedly tossed them down the elevator shaft.

Whether they were dead or alive at the time isn't known.

Of course, legends aren't always the same as truth.

But in the 1980s, something happened that caused people to wonder.

One of the owners of the hotel at the time, who had plans to restore and reopen the place, claimed that a rattling sound could be heard coming from the basement.

So he went down to have a look.

What he found, though, was a far cry from a failing elevator or noisy steampipes.

No, he found something altogether different and much more terrifying:

human remains.

This episode of Lore was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research by Megan De Roche and music by Chad Lawson.

Lore is much more than just a podcast.

There is 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.

You can learn more about all of those shows and everything else going on over in one central place, Grimandmild.com.

And you can also follow this show on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

Just search for lore podcast, all one word, and then click that follow button.

And when you do, say hi.

I like it when people say hi.

And as always,

thanks for listening.

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