Episode 144: Birds of Prey

This is the story of the one.

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Save on items like Hershey's, Reese's, Pumpkins, Snickers, miniatures, Tootsie Rolls, raw sugar, milk, chocolate, caramel, jack-o'-lanterns, Brock's candy corn, charms, mini pops, and more.

All friends, October 7th.

Restrictions apply, offers may vary.

Visit Safeway.com for more details.

Everyone in the neighborhood looked at him with a bit of caution.

Maybe it was his odd behavior, or the way he seemed to hide from everyone else, as if social contact were his least favorite thing.

Maybe it was his single, filthy outfit that he wore each day working in the backyard, or the way his unkept beard made him look more than a little wild.

William's behavior was certainly odd, that much was clear.

But it wasn't because he was hiding some nefarious crime or dark secret.

No, it was odd because he was obsessed, and it all started with a wine cellar.

You see, back in the 1960s, William had decided that he could build his own by cutting through his basement wall and digging out the necessary space.

But that simple action of pressing his shovel into the dirt triggered something inside him, and he just kept on digging.

For over 40 years, William kept his unusual hobby a secret from his neighbors, digging a series of tunnels that spanned multiple levels below his East London home and extended well beyond his property line.

What gave it all away was the cave-in.

You see, in 2006, the sidewalk in front of his house suddenly fell into the earth, and when the city sent an inspector to check it out, they discovered that William's decades of digging was the cause.

Almost overnight, the odd man who made his neighbors feel a bit uneasy earned himself a nickname that stuck with him for the rest of his life ⁇ the Mole Man of Hackney.

It's a fascinating story with a powerful lesson.

At the end of the day, we can't really claim to know the people around us.

Most of the time, that's just an accepted part of life.

But every now and then, that mystery plants a seed that eventually grows into suspicion and fear.

It's one of our innate habits as human beings.

If there's a gap in our knowledge, we'll invent anything to fill it.

But that's also the problem, because while the vast majority of these whispers turn out to be nothing more than fiction, every now and then they are the shadow cast by something bigger than we could ever have imagined.

Some rumors, it seems, just might be true.

I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore.

There's nothing like a good tavern.

If you're a traveler, they're they're a good spot to grab a bite to eat and have a cold drink after a long day.

Depending on where you live, you might call it by a different name, a pub or a bar or just the local watering hole.

But the concept is pretty universal.

If you want to drink, you head over to the tavern.

But taverns have evolved a lot over the past few centuries.

Just in America alone, the idea of what a tavern is has changed dramatically.

If you were to jump into a time machine and head back to, say, the late 1600s, you would find them there in spirit, but a lot of the details would seem foreign to you.

And it all starts with the name.

Back in the colonial era, these establishments were known as ordinaries.

Yes, they sold food and drink, and many of them also offered a room to rent for the night.

But they did more than that, too.

These were the social hubs for the local community.

They were the gathering place for important meetings.

They even served as a temporary meeting house when there was official community business to take care of.

For example, if you've ever read the story about the early days of the Salem witch trials, you'll have bumped into a building known as Ingersoll's Ordinary.

It was a tavern owned by a guy named Nathaniel Ingersoll, but it was also where the very first examinations were held before being moved to the meeting house for more space.

And if you ever visit Danvers, Massachusetts, you can still drive right past the tavern, although it's just an empty building now.

These taverns offered a moment of rest for weary travelers.

If someone was on a long journey, stopping at a tavern was like arriving at an oasis.

Fresh food, cold beer, and a bed to sleep on were just what they needed.

So it's no wonder that taverns popped up all along the western edge of the colonies throughout the late 1700s, because as settlers and supply wagons passed out into the great unknown, they needed one last sliver of safety.

In 1793, a man named Jacob Gerhardt finished construction on his own tavern.

It was situated along an old Native American trail that had quickly become a stagecoach road as the colonies spread westward.

Anyone wishing to leave the region of Long Island and head directly west would have to pass through his small Pennsylvania town, so a tavern made good business sense.

In fact, that meeting of original inhabitants and European newcomers was central to Jacob's life, although for him, it wasn't a happy memory.

In 1756, his parents and siblings were all killed when a local tribe of Native Americans defended their land against colonial expansion.

Jacob was the only survivor, but rather than move back east toward larger communities, he stayed and rebuilt his life there.

And there was a place called Hawk Mountain.

It stood at the western end of a valley that had a long reputation for being home to unusual and unexplainable things.

On the opposite end of the valley to the east was a hill the local German immigrants called the Hexenkopf, or the Witch's Head.

and it was home to all sorts of rumors and stories.

Some people claimed that the Hexenkopf was known to glow at night.

The reason, they said, was because the local Lenape tribe had used the hill as a location for sacred rituals, including the removal of evil spirits, which were then forced into the stone of the hill.

Whether or not the hill actually glowed is something that we'll never know, but we can't deny the power of the stories that still radiate out from that spot.

One such tale involves a man who is known for being abusive toward just about everyone in his life, his family and farm animals alike.

This unnamed man was said to have driven driven his horse-drawn wagon over the Hexenkopf one dark night, beating the horses violently all along the way.

When he reached the top, though, a thick fog descended on the hill, and when it left, the man and his horses were gone.

The best explanation the locals could come up with was that the evil spirits inside the hill had risen up to take him away as punishment.

But then again, that's probably just another bit of that convenient fiction people like to invent to fill in the gaps.

Unanswered questions have a way of bringing out our creativity, after all, which certainly highlights the power of story.

For Jacob Gerhardt, the location of his tavern was powerful in yet another way.

It looked down on his old family land, giving him a constant reminder of the loss and tragedy of his younger days.

And while that experience didn't inhibit his ability to serve travelers as they passed through, More than a few people noted that Gerhardt lived a life that seemed haunted by the past.

A perfect fit, I suppose, in such a storied valley.

The tavern itself was nothing to write home about, but it served food and drink and had a handful of rooms to rent out.

It was a small, one-story building made of sandstone and timber, with two doors facing the road, one for guests and one for the Gerhardts' residence.

Again, it wasn't much, but it was located in a perfect spot, as travelers passed by in an almost constant trickle on their way to the west.

Jacob and his family held on to the tavern for nearly 60 years, finally selling it in 1850 to a local couple named George and Priscilla Bollock.

But almost right away, they decided to rent it out to let someone else run the day-to-day business while they manage their busy farm.

Within a year, the perfect candidate had arrived.

But this new manager would have a powerful effect on the local community.

During his tenure there, he would create more questions than answers.

And along the way, those gaps would become home to terrifying stories, which is is why, over 150 years later, the place still goes by his name.

But if the stories are true, that's not all.

He left behind.

Names are tricky.

If you're descended from immigrants who passed through Ellis Island, you probably have a family story about how the spelling of your last name changed as they entered the country.

And the further back in time we go, the more common it is to find inconsistencies in surnames.

For example, everyone seems to have settled on one particular spelling of William Shakespeare's name, but even the legendary playwright himself wasn't too clear about it.

Historians today know of six verifiable signatures by the man himself, and together they represent five different ways of spelling his last name, the most common being William Shackspur.

So when I tell you that the new managers of the Hawk Mountain Tavern were the Schaumbachs, don't get upset if you've heard it differently.

During our research we found that name spelled a number of different ways, and some stories even refer to them as the Schaumbachers.

But while that spelling might not be definitive, the reputation certainly is.

Matthias and Margaret Schaumbach were German immigrants, but that was nothing new for the area.

Remember, the term Pennsylvania Dutch wasn't a term for people of Dutch descent, but a mangled version of Deutsch, the German word for something from Germany.

The original tavern builder Jacob Gerhardt was German, and the nearby hill the Hexenkopf still carries that German name.

So honestly, there was no reason why these newcomers shouldn't fit right in.

And according to the stories, Margaret did.

By all accounts, she was pleasant, friendly, and mild-tempered.

One secondhand description states that she was a small, thin woman with a warm smile and a generous heart.

the perfect hostess for a tavern frequented by weary travelers, if ever there was one.

No, the problem wasn't with Margaret, it was her husband Matthias that ruffled the feathers.

He was described as a lean man of medium height, but constantly silent and grim.

He was the sort of man who children avoided on the road and had a reputation for not being the most friendly or cheerful man around.

But despite all that, he ran a good tavern, and patrons of his establishment left with their needs met.

The majority of those customers were travelers, as I've already mentioned, and while a number of those were settlers heading west, there was a good amount of peddlers passing through, complete with horses and wagons burdened with all the goods they hoped to sell.

And as the 1850s gave way to the 1860s, it was also common to see Civil War soldiers passing through.

Like I said, the Schaumbachs were good tavern keepers, but that didn't stop rumors from being whispered around town.

It didn't help that Matthias had an unusual sense of decorating either.

One newspaper article from the late 1870s tells the story of how Matthias and a hired man found and killed two enormous snakes, which he then had stuffed and put on display in the barroom.

But other stories are more troublesome, and a good example comes from the testimony of a local man named Elias Featherolf.

According to him, as he was passing by Schombach's barn one day, he caught the sound of painful groaning.

Afraid that someone had been injured, he left the road and approached the barn, only to see Schombach himself standing up top in the loft, a hatchet in his hand.

Go away, the tavern keeper told him, or I'll sink this hatchet into your head.

And that barn pops up again and again in the stories people told about him.

According to another eyewitness account, an area man was passing through the valley, but an oncoming storm forced him to stop for the night at the Schombach Tavern.

After asking for a room, he was told to take his horse across the road and put it in the barn.

The trouble was, his horse refused to step inside the large building, actually rearing up and trying to break free.

So, this traveler tied it to a post and then stepped in to see what might be frightening the animal.

When he did, he found the interior of the barn in disarray, and scattered all around the floor, among the dirt and bits of straw, were traces of blood, still wet and glistening.

But of course, these were just stories, nervous fictions crafted to patch up holes in an incomplete picture.

Kids in every town in the world still do it today, creating legends to explain why that old man never leaves his house or what caused a particular tombstone to lean so far to the side.

We might not all be authors, but every one of us is filled with story.

But when there's more than just a whisper, When actual physical clues begin to point to something real and tangible, that's when people really start to feel afraid.

We can call things fake all we want, but when the evidence is right there, staring us in the face, the responsible thing to do is stop and listen to the evidence.

And the evidence against Matthias Schombach seems to point to something that no one would have expected.

Something that would have sent any visitor to his tavern running for their lives.

No, it wasn't the macabre decorations in the barroom.

or the suspicious sounds coming from his barn.

It wasn't even his angry demeanor or that vicious-looking hatchet.

Instead, it was something they couldn't see, something that should be there, but wasn't.

Visitors to his tavern, you see, had a tendency to disappear.

Every story has some level of provenance, a trail that leads back to the source, if you will.

The stronger the connection, the more trustworthy the claim.

A lot of the tales we have about Matthias Schombach have been passed down to us by a man named Maurice Brown, who lived and worked in the area around the tavern in the first half of the 1900s.

He arrived at a time when many of the witnesses to these stories were still alive and did his best to document their experiences.

What he recorded, though, paints a terrifying terrifying picture.

One local man named Dan Bailey was so troubled by what he knew that he was only able to express it in German.

As a side note, Brown also described Bailey as, and I quote, 85 and remarkably alive.

Maybe it was remarkable because that was pretty old for the time, or perhaps Brown was just amazed that Bailey knew the Schombach's personally and lived to talk about it.

According to the old man, a good number of people in town suspected Matthias Schombach of using using strong drink to take advantage of strangers who stayed the night.

And his main targets, it seems, was that steady stream of peddlers who passed through the valley.

They were unattached strangers, missed by no one, and therefore easy targets for someone with a thirst for blood.

The claim embodies just about every aspect of the folklore we have about travelers and their safety.

Whether we're talking about a solo road trip across modern America or settlers making the trip by wagon two centuries earlier, there has always been an undercurrent of risk.

When we travel, we step out of the safety of the known and put ourselves at the mercy and chaos of the unknown.

Travelers are, almost by definition, less safe.

One story stands out though.

Just a couple of years after the end of the Civil War, a particular man used to pass through selling the leftover trappings of war.

used military uniforms, firearms, and an assortment of camp supplies that would have been instantly recognizable to veterans of that era.

And just like always, folks saw the man approach the tavern from the east and slip inside for a drink and a place to stay.

The fact that they didn't see him leave wasn't anything strange, though.

He very well could have slipped out at first light in the morning.

What was strange was that Schombach himself was seen a few days later in a town about 20 miles to the south.

He went there often to sell goods made in his tavern and to buy the supplies that they needed.

But this time he was spotted by a local from his own community, and this witness was frightened by the wares the tavern keeper was trying to sell.

Old military uniforms, firearms, and camp supplies.

These reports went on for decades, it seems, but because the rumored victims were strangers passing through, no one in town seemed to have an interest in rocking the boat, especially since that meant angering an alleged murderer who lived near them.

But eventually, the tragedy became personal, and it stirred the community into action.

George Taylor was a local herb doctor, serving the people as a supplier of medicinal aids and probably a good helping of less tangible things too.

I can't find evidence that he was known as a powwow healer, a German-American form of folk magic, but there's a good chance that's exactly what he was.

And people like that were valued by most of their community for the services they offered.

So, when George went missing, people who had been patient with Schumbach for decades suddenly lost their cool.

A group was formed to plan their next step, and it was decided that a trip to the sheriff was just too far out of their way.

Instead, they drafted a petition for the eviction of Schambach, hoping it would force him out of the area.

But the tavern keeper refused to leave.

In response, the townsfolk gathered a good amount of dynamite and placed it around the tavern's foundation, ready to blow it and the killer inside to pieces.

Somehow, though, they backed down at the last minute, but not before Schambach learned of the plot.

Amazingly, it seems to have frightened him into retirement.

Stories after that paint the tavern keeper in a different light.

It's said that he fell ill and would spend most of his days in a chair in front of the fire.

He rarely spoke, but when he did, it was mostly nonsense, and soon after, his wife began to refuse visitors.

While there's no way to prove it, Many think it's because he had started to say incriminating things, things that his wife felt were better left hidden.

Matthias Schambach died sometime in 1879 at the age of 55, but a man like that doesn't die without a few legends popping up.

They say that as his brief graveside funeral was taking place just outside of town near the New Bethel Church, a great storm blew in, all dark and angry.

Soon enough, the sky was full of rain and thunder.

As they were lowering his rough wooden coffin into the grave, a bolt of lightning struck the earth with such force that the coffin actually flipped flipped over, leaving Schambach face down, a bad omen in many cultures.

Whether or not it's true, the story certainly shows us what the locals thought of the man.

In their eyes, he didn't deserve an eternity of rest, as punishment for all the pain and suffering he had caused.

And one last thing.

For a long while, people have wondered what exactly Schambach did with all of those murdered travelers.

Was it purely about theft so that he could take a wagon full of stolen goods to a far-off town and make a quick profit?

Was it the thrill of crime, the sort of bloodlust that drove him to repeat it over and over again?

Or was it something darker?

Because one story passed on to Maurice Brown by a regular traveler through the valley seems to suggest that there were layers to Schombach's crimes.

According to him, He rode up Hawk Mountain for the first time many years before and spotted the refreshing sight of the tavern, so he decided to stop for a bite to eat before continuing on his way.

The meal he was served looked tasty too, and Schambach called it old German sausage.

But after taking his first bite, two things occurred to him.

First, the meat itself tasted rather odd, but not spoiled.

Just,

well, odd.

He couldn't help but wonder what sort of animal the tavern had made it from.

which led him to his second realization.

On his way up the hill, he had spotted the tavern, the barn, and the fields around it, but one thing was missing from sight.

There had been no livestock.

Travel has always carried a bit of risk.

The era of smartphones and credit cards has certainly certainly changed a lot of that, but that's just a blip on the timeline of history.

For a very long while, if you traveled overnight, you faced a not-so-insignificant amount of danger.

And for the 19th century peddler, it was even worse.

From personal belongings and cash for expenses, to wagons filled with valuable goods and the horses that pulled it all, they were walking targets for something bad to happen.

Yes, it would be nice to assume that everyone they met along the way would be friendly and hospitable, but assumption rarely gets us what we want.

Which is why people like Matthias Schombach represent a frightening category of villains from folklore.

They were the ones who needed to be trusted the most, and when that kind of trust was broken, it felt like a violation.

Peddlers were vulnerable travelers, and Schombach acted like a bird of prey.

So I can understand that slowly building frustration his community must have felt.

And of course, that explains the legends surrounding his death.

Someone as evil as Schambach must have seemed like they deserved some sort of supernatural punishment, so lightning strikes and a face-down burial look like a natural fit.

Whether any of it is true or not is a mystery we'll have to leave unsolved.

But thankfully, there's more to the story than that.

It seems the tavern itself has been home to quite a bit of unusual activity since his death.

Some visitors have claimed to see flashing lights, while others have heard the piercing screams of someone in pain.

Tavern historian Maurice Brown reported a regular stream of thumping sounds and furniture that mysteriously moved on its own.

And he should know, considering he lived there for nearly 30 years.

You see, after Schumbach's wife moved out around 1900, the place was sold to a man named William Turner, who kept the business going for another 20 years.

The next owner was forced out in 1930 when a massive bootleg distillery was found in the tavern's cellar, and then the the place just sat empty for nearly a decade.

When Maurice Brown and his wife arrived in 1938, the place was a mess, but they repaired what they could and set up the Hawk Mountain Sanctuary Association, a wildlife sanctuary for birds of prey.

And it wasn't long before they successfully stopped the hunting of the hawks that gave the mountain its name.

Brown eventually wrote a book about their time there with the birds and oddly included tales of Matthias Schombach within it, but apparently there were some stories he left out.

According to a woman who knew him well, he claimed to have found records from William Turner's time that describe the discovery of some sort of evidence of the murders.

What that evidence was, though, was unclear.

And then one day, Maurice was working outside, cleaning up around a large hedge at the back of the property, when he noticed something odd in the dirt.

Bending down, he brushed the soil off the unusual objects he could make out beneath it, and then backed away in in horror.

They were bones.

Human bones.

If you're like me, you love the story of the Schombach Tavern for a lot of reasons.

His predatory behavior puts him right up there with the classic villains of folklore, while also blending in a bit of early American history.

It's a stark reminder that even here, in the land of the free, there are shadows.

But Pennsylvania has one more unusual story to give up for us, and while it's not about murder, it is about risk and theft.

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

The Schumbach Tavern wasn't the only house with a reputation in the area around Hawk Mountain.

If one were to follow the Little Schuylkill River south, it would eventually connect to its larger, better-known namesake.

And it was along that stretch of the Schuylkill River that Charles settled in to work on a project in the early 1800s.

Charles was working on something that could be likened to alchemy.

If that dark science had been focused on turning lead to gold and the Philosopher's Stone's gift of immortality, then Charles was chasing something that seemed just as impossible, perpetual motion.

But for a very long time, that goal did not seem so out of reach.

Perpetual motion is one of those concepts that most people have heard of, if only in passing.

At the basic level, it's about energy and effort.

A normal machine needs a power source to keep running, like a windmill used to grind grain.

If the wind were to ever stop blowing, the mill would cease to operate, because friction, gravity, and a whole lot of other forces would all bring the mechanism to a halt.

Which is why perpetual motion was the holy grail.

There were some scientists who believed that it was possible to create a machine that wouldn't slow down if the power source went away.

It would be like having a windmill that only needed a strong breeze to get going, but then it could run forever without stopping, regardless of the weather outside.

And in 1812, Charles claimed to have cracked the formula.

He opened his house there along the Schuylkill River and invited anyone who might be interested to stop in and see his machine in action.

And sure enough, there it was, an odd-looking contraption that seemed to be operating without any sort of power source driving it.

This was alchemist gold in a very real sense.

A machine that required no power source meant that the cost of production would be reduced for anyone doing manufacturing, which would generate more profit.

So the claims that Charles was making naturally drew interested parties.

But of course, he had found his own way to earn a bit of cash.

He was charging admission.

Some say that it cost $5 for men to see the device, while women paid just one.

Others say that it was the men who paid the dollar while women were allowed in for free.

Either way, the big crowds and long lines translated into a fat bank account for Charles, and like every other successful business, he started dreaming dreaming bigger.

So he approached the state of Pennsylvania to get funding for a larger version.

After receiving his request, the state sent a team of investigators to see what all the fuss was about, but things didn't quite feel like they were on the up and up, if you know what I mean.

For one, the tour Charles offered was very limited.

In fact, his miraculous device was locked inside a room by itself, only visible through a window.

And second, some of the more keen-eyed of the investigators noticed wear and tear on a few of of the gears that hinted at an external power source.

After adding it all up, the state refused to give Charles the funding he had asked for.

So he packed up and moved out.

His next stop was New York City.

Once settled, he set about building a new version of his perpetual motion device.

And when it was completed, he sent out word that anyone interested could come and take a look at it.

Well, for a price, of course.

And people showed up, just like before.

One of those to come knocking was a a man in his late 40s named Robert, who claimed to be a fan.

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Hey there, it's Ryan Seacrest for Safeway.

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All friends, October 7th.

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He was intrigued by the device on display, as anyone would be, of course, and asked if he could take a closer look.

Now, maybe it was his overwhelming sense of pride, or perhaps it was the enormous crowd who stood behind the man waiting for an answer.

Whatever the reason, Charles agreed to let him do so.

You see, this visitor had noticed something very odd.

The machine wobbled in a very unique way, almost as if there was some constant force tugging at it from another place.

So Robert walked around the device, studying the various parts, tracing their functions with his eyes and visually putting the pieces together.

And that's when he noticed the string.

It was barely visible from where he stood, but he could see that it was moving and that it vanished into the rough wall of the room.

So Robert removed one of the boards, revealing more of the mysterious cord, and then followed it in.

What he discovered was utterly astounding.

There in an adjacent room, the long string came to an end where it was tied to a small wooden gear.

And beside it, turning the gear with a hand crank, was an old man, eating a piece of bread with his free hand.

The reveal was like the bursting of a great dam.

The crowd of tourists who had all paid good money to see the magical device suddenly turned on Charles.

His machine was torn from its mountings on the floor and quickly dashed to pieces.

It's probably safe to assume that more than a few people went home that day with a chunk of it in their hand, and if so, they were probably one of the few who actually got their money's worth.

Charles left town after that, although I'm sure that's not a surprise to you.

If only he'd been more careful about who he let into his little exhibit.

Because Robert wasn't your average run-of-the-mill tourist.

No, he was a mechanical engineer.

And a good one, too.

You see, a decade earlier, he designed one of the first commercial steamships in the world.

A few years before that, he constructed the world's first practical submarine, the Nautilus, armed with torpedoes packed with gunpowder, also a first.

So, if there was any one person Charles Redheffer should have kept away from his fraudulent device, it was this man.

Today, there are half a dozen counties in America named after him, and almost twice as many towns.

His name is on countless streets, schools, and public buildings, a true testament to his greatness.

And who was he?

The legendary inventor himself, Robert Fulton.

This episode of Lore was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research by Marcette Crockett and music by Chad Lawson.

Lore is much more than just a podcast though.

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Check them both out if you want more lore in your life.

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Each one explores other areas of our dark history, ranging from bite-sized episodes to season-long dives into a single topic.

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thanks for listening.