BLACK RAIN, CEMETERY PICNICS, AND WAS THE CORONAVIRUS PREDICTED?

Did Psychic Sylvia Browne Predict the Coronavirus Pandemic Back in 2008?
By Tim Binall | March 12, 2020 | coasttocoastam.com

Amid the ceaseless news coverage of the worrisome coronavirus crisis, a surprising name has emerged from the past to capture the attention of people online: the late psychic Sylvia Browne, who is being credited by some for predicting the pandemic twelve years ago. This strange turn of events came about in recent days as an excerpt from the self-described medium's 2008 book End of Days has gone viral online due to its uncanny description of what has been unfolding in America and around the world.

Specifically, Browne wrote that "in around 2020 a severe pneumonia-like illness will spread throughout the globe, attacking the lungs and the bronchial tubes and resisting all known treatments." As one can imagine, the matching date and general description of the coronavirus has led many to conclude that the self-proclaimed psychic correctly foresaw the current crisis. The eerie excerpt was even amplified by Kim Kardashian, of all people, when she shared the odd prediction with her enormous audience of social media followers on Tuesday evening.

While we'll likely never know for certain if Browne's prediction was a genuine forecast informed by some kind of supernatural skill or just a lucky guess, for those keeping score at home, she did provide some indication as to how the crisis would culminate. According to the psychic's purported vision, "almost more baffling than the illness itself will be the fact that it will suddenly vanish as quickly as it arrived, attack again ten years later, and then disappear completely."

However, before one breathes a sigh of relief thinking that the coronavirus crisis will soon be over, it's important to note that a cursory search via Google Books shows several times when Browne's predictions in End of Days were pretty far off the mark. For example, she forecast that 2010 would see the development of a cure for the common cold, in 2015 all newly-built homes would be solar powered, and that aliens would begin revealing themselves to the world in 2018. As such, it would probably be wise to stay vigilant and keep washing your hands.

Eerie Black Rain Falls on Japanese Cities
By Tim Binall | March 10, 2020 | coasttocoastam.com

Residents in several Japanese cities were left fearing the worst when an eerie black rain fell from the sky. The unsettling incident reportedly occurred in the city of Hasuda and a number of nearby communities last week. People living in the impacted areas quickly took to social media to express their concern over the spooky phenomenon and authorities acknowledged the strangeness by announcing that they had received reports of "black puddles in roads and on cars."

As is often the case when a weird mystery captures the imagination of people online, various theories were offered for what could have caused the black rain which was described as resembling oil. While some worried observers wondered if the phenomenon could have the result of some kind of radioactivity, officials were quick to dismiss this explanation, saying that tests indicated that this was not the case.

Others postulated that perhaps the unnerving rain was caused by a North Korean missile launch and, in a testament to the pandemic panic that has gripped the globe, some put forward the macabre suggestion that the phenomenon was the result of officials secretly burning the bodies of coronavirus victims. Ultimately, it was discovered that a massive fire had erupted in the city at around the time that the rain fell, leading many to conclude that the inferno was likely the cause of the phenomenon.

Torture Museum Bruges
Inside this former medieval prison is a collection of objects designed to inflict unbelievable pain and suffering on the human body and mind. 
By Marjolein | March 2, 2020 | Atlasobscura.com

Located underneath one of the oldest stone buildings in Bruges, dating from around the 10th or 11th century, is a collection of medieval torture devices. 

The Torture Museum of Brugge is located in a former fortress that was designed to protect Bruges. During the 14th century, the building became known as “the Old Stone” as it became the site of a medieval prison. The museum now plays host to more than 100 different torture devices, all displayed in chronological order.   

As visitors wander through the rooms of the former prison, they also journey through a time where torture was a widespread form of punishment and public executions were the norm. The various devices on display range from the 13th century to the 18th century. It’s a wonderfully dark journey with tons of intriguing information. Many of the devices are equipped with mannequins displaying how they were used, which creates a lurid atmosphere. A few of the items on display are the wooden horse, chair of torture, and a device designed to compress the stomach known as the caretaker’s daughter. 

The building itself leaves a strong impression on all who venture inside. It displays the harsh realities of life during the Middle Ages, where crimes, heresy, or a simple accusation of wrongdoing could result in a few hours on the rack. 

I've heard of a corkscrew, but this?

Remembering When Americans Picnicked in Cemeteries
For a time, eating and relaxing among the dead was a national pastime.
By Jonathan Kendall | October 24, 2018 | Atlasobscura.com

A small group picnics on ledger-style tombstones in Historic St. Luke's Ancient Cemetery. The photo is not dated but is believed to have been taken prior to St. Luke's 1957 Pilgrimage Service. COURTESY HISTORIC ST. LUKE'S

WITHIN THE IRON-WROUGHT WALLS OF American cemeteries—beneath the shade of oak trees and tombs’ stoic penumbras—you could say many people “rest in peace.” However, not so long ago, people of the still-breathing sort gathered in graveyards to rest, and dine, in peace.

During the 19th century, and especially in its later years, snacking in cemeteries happened across the United States. It wasn’t just apple-munching alongside the winding avenues of graveyards. Since many municipalities still lacked proper recreational areas, many people had full-blown picnics in their local cemeteries. The tombstone-laden fields were the closest things, then, to modern-day public parks.

In Dayton, Ohio, for instance, Victorian-era women wielded parasols as they promenaded through mass assemblages at Woodland Cemetery, en route to luncheon on their family lots. Meanwhile, New Yorkers strolled through Saint Paul’s Churchyard in Lower Manhattan, bearing baskets filled with fruits, ginger snaps, and beef sandwiches.

A historic image of the Woodland Cemetery in Dayton, Ohio. COURTESY WOODLAND CEMETERY AND ARBORETUM

One of the reasons why eating in cemeteries become a “fad,” as some reporters called it, was that epidemics were raging across the country: Yellow fever and cholera flourished, children passed away before turning 10, women died during childbirth. Death was a constant visitor for many families, and in cemeteries, people could “talk” and break bread with family and friends, both living and deceased.

“We are going to keep Thanksgivin’ with our father as [though he] was as live and hearty this day [as] last year,” explained a young man, in 1884, on why his family—mother, brothers, sisters—chose to eat in the cemetery. “We’ve brought somethin’ to eat and a spirit-lamp to boil coffee.”

The picnic-and-relaxation trend can also be understood as the flowering of the rural cemetery movement. Whereas American and European graveyards had long been austere places on Church grounds, full of memento mori and reminders not to sin, the new cemeteries were located outside of city centers and designed like gardens for relaxation and beauty. Flower motifs replaced skulls and crossbones, and the public was welcomed to enjoy the grounds.

Sausages are served at a picnic at the Greve Cemetery in Hoffman Estates, Illinois. COURTESY OF ROGER MEYER FAMILY AND THE SCHAUMBURG TOWNSHIP DISTRICT LIBRARY

Eating in graveyards had, and still has, historical precedent. People picnic among the dead from Guatemala to parts of Greece, and similar traditions involving meals with ancestors are common throughout Asia. But plenty of Americans believed that picnics in local cemeteries were a “gruesome festivity.” This critique, notably from older generations, didn’t stop young adults from meeting up in graveyards. Instead it led to debate over proper conduct.

In some parts of the country, such as Denver, the congregations of grave picnickers grew to such numbers that police intervention was even considered. The cemeteries were becoming littered with garbage, which was seen as an affront to their sanctity. In one report about these messy gatherings, the author wrote, “thousands strew the grounds with sardine cans, beer bottles, and lunch boxes.”

Though the macabre picnics were considered “nuisances” in some communities, they did give participants a sort of admired air. One reporter lauded the fact that the picnickers looked “happy under discouraging circumstances,” and even said it was a trait “worthy of cultivation.” The fad of casual en plein air dining among the crypts would soon come to an end, though.

Cemetery picnics remained peripheral cultural staples in the early 20th century; however, they began to wane in popularity by the 1920s. Medical advancements made early deaths less common, and public parks were sprouting across the nation. It was a recipe for less interesting dining venues.

Today, more than 100 years since Americans debated the trend, you’d be hard-pressed to find many cemeteries—especially those in big cities—with policies or available land that allow for picnics. Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, for example, has a no picnic rule.

But the fad isn’t entirely dead in the United States. The country’s immigrant population includes families carrying on traditions that call for meals with departed loved ones, and cemeteries will hold occasional public events in the spirit of this era. There are still scattered graveyards where you can picnic among tombstones, too, particularly if you know someone with a sizable family lot. In those cases, all you need is a picnic basket filled with treats, and you and your undaunted party can partake in an old American tradition. Just remember to clean up after yourselves. The penalties for doing otherwise may be grave.

Meet the Cryptids Haunting Ohio’s Imagination
A new exhibition pays homage to some of the Buckeye State’s beloved—and infamous—legends.
By Jessica Leigh Hester | March 11, 2020 | Atlasobscura.com

The Loveland Frog.

ONE EVENING IN AUGUST 2016, Sam Jacobs and his girlfriend were playing Pokemon Go near the inky shore of Lake Isabella, in Loveland, Ohio. The lake is regularly stocked with catfish, bluegill, trout, and perch (to the delight of local fishers). But the couple saw something that struck them as more than a little odd—and it wasn’t a creature roaming their phone screens.

“We saw a huge frog near the water,” Jacobs told Cincinnati’s WCPO television station. “Not in the game,” he added. “This was an actual giant frog.”

Jacobs paused his play and snapped some grainy photos. They’re tricky to decipher, but appear to show a dark figure standing in the gently rippling water, light bouncing off its enormous, saucer-shaped eyes. Jacobs was convinced he was seeing a frog rearing up on its hind legs.

“I realize this sounds crazy,” he told WCPO. “But I swear on my grandmother’s grave this is the truth: The frog stood about four feet tall.”

Jacobs wasn’t the first person to claim to see a monstrous amphibian roving Loveland. In 1972, a local police officer named Ray Shockey said he crossed paths with an enormous frog near the Little Miami River. Shockey kept it pretty quiet, Dayton’s Journal Herald newspaper reported that year; he didn’t want to spook anyone.

Soon after, however, his partner, Mark Matthews, was scouting the same spot when he encountered a creature that fit Shockey’s puzzling description. It hopped toward him, he told the Journal Herald—and while it wasn’t aggressive, exactly, it was unusually, almost unbelievably, large. Keen to get a closer look and preserve the evidence, he landed four shots with his .357 magnum. He told the Journal Herald that he suspected the thing was a hefty iguana that had lost its tail—but that it was hard to say for sure, the paper noted, because “the animal gave one last hop, fell into the river and was washed away.”

There’s no reason to suspect that Rutherford B. Hayes, America’s bookish and extravagantly bearded 19th president, ever laid eyes on the giant, bipedal Loveland Frog (or Frogman), as it’s come to be known. Or that he was scared by an unsettlingly oversized iguana. He probably never made the acquaintance of the Mothman either. Or the Grassman (Ohio’s answer to Bigfoot). Or South Bay Bessie, the Loch Ness–style monster said to patrol the waters of Lake Erie.

But Hayes’s presidential library and museum, in Fremont, Ohio, has recently mounted a show called “Ohio: An Unnatural History,” about the legendary creatures that go bump in the Midwestern night.

The museum, which normally traffics in tangible objects and measurable facts, doesn’t view its dalliance with the paranormal as anything unusual. “Not only do we cover presidential history, but also local history,” says Kevin Moore, associate curator of artifacts. “And we view local folklore as part of Ohio’s local history.”

South Bay Bessie.

Hayes had a personal library of thousands of books, Moore says, and was a history buff to boot, with an interest in the legends of local Native American cultures. “We want to appreciate the folklore just being part of Ohio culture—not get into any effort to validate or disprove it,” Moore says.

Tall tales, however dubious, don’t spring from nothing—and that makes folklore a useful window into local history, says Esther Clinton, a folklorist at Bowling Green State University, in a video accompanying the exhibition.

“The stories that become folklore are the stories that are repeated often, and not just by the same person,” Clinton says in the video. “What that means is that these are stories that make emotional and intellectual sense to people. If we look at folklore, that tells us a lot about what are people thinking about, what are they worried about?”

To bring the creatures in the exhibit to life, the library tapped Dan Chudzinski, a historian, special-effects artist, and animal-anatomy aficionado who doubles as the curator of the Mazza Museum at the University of Findlay.

The child of an anatomist-cum-biology-professor, Chudzinski has always been drawn to both known anatomy and the creatures that wander the foggy, gray margins of our imagination. He cut his teeth on taxidermy as a teen, and volunteered at the Toledo Zoo. At the Mazza Museum, which is rich in children’s book illustrations, he strung a 40-foot-long sculpture of Bessie, made from urethane foam and custom hardware, from the ceiling. It has a massive skull, studded with 200 teeth, and is roughly the size of a bus—a fact that Chudzinski uses to playfully taunt schoolkids, saying, “If you all fit into one bus, theoretically you could all fit into one really hungry lake monster.”

Though he often creates sculptures so uncannily lifelike that you expect to see the eyes blink or the chest rise and fall, Chudzinski’s work for the cryptid show mainly consists of 2D images. He wanted them to feel as informed and convincing as paranormal portraits can possibly be—thoughtful and unique, yet recognizable, sporting the iconic characteristics.

To research one of his subjects—the Headless Motorcyclist, said to roam the roads after a gruesome accident—Chudzinski visited local libraries to look for reports of a vehicular decapitation. He also interviewed people who claimed to have encountered the various creatures he portrayed—and did a little fieldwork of his own.

The Grassman.

For Grassman inspiration, he visited creatures including Kwisha, a silverback western lowland gorilla who lives at the Toledo Zoo; artist and ape have known each other for about 18 years. To compile characteristics for the Loveland Frog, Chudzinski tromped to the pond near his house, where he observed the pickerel frog’s speckled skin and the tree frog’s ability to conceal itself up in the canopy. (He figured it would be superlatively creepy if the Loveland Frog could scale trees and conceal itself while spying on the humans below.)

To capture the moods he wanted to convey in the background, Chudzinski says he went “to locations that people wouldn’t wander around at times when people definitely wouldn’t go out.” There, he asked himself: “What sounds do I hear? How am I feeling?” To up the eeriness even further, he depicted most of the creatures at dawn or dusk, surrounded by wisps of fog.

The Pukwudgie.

Some of the legends, like the Loveland Frog, have local or regional roots. Stories of the Mothman have flitted around West Virginia as well as Ohio. (The two states were linked by the Silver Bridge until 1967, when it collapsed, resulting in dozens of deaths.) The Pukwudgies—little troll-like creatures spiked with quills—are hallmarks of Wampanoag and Algonquian stories, Chudzinski says. Others are Midwestern twists on other, established creatures. The Grassman, Moore says, is clearly a relative of Bigfoot or Sasquatch (though the Ohio version is said to be surlier than its Pacific Northwest counterpart).

Many have spawned local traditions or swag. The Loveland Frog earned its own musical (Hot Damn! It’s the Loveland Frog), and the Great Lakes Brewing Company sells a beer called the Lake Erie Monster, a seasonal Imperial IPA it markets with a logo of a menacing, wave-riding serpent.

These creatives are elusive, and the stories about them have an element of shapeshifting too. The legend of the Loveland Frog may actually be a mangling of the telling of an extraterrestrial encounter, said to have occurred in the 1950s, according to the exhibit.

The Mothman.

The Mothman story has changed too. In November 1966, the Associated Press reported alleged sightings of the Mothman in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, just across the bridge from Gallipolis, Ohio, and described the creature as a “gray and white ‘thing’” that looked like a “man with a 10-foot wingspan who flies after cars at 100 miles per hour.” The AP noted that the creature was winged, but didn’t mention anything about the searingly red eyes that would figure into later accounts.

Even as cryptids evolve in the popular imagination, the people who helped stoke their stories sometimes wind up recanting. After Sam Jacobs claimed to see the Loveland Frog in August 2016, Mark Matthews—the gun-slinging patrolman from 1972—got in touch with WCPO to call bull on the whole thing. He hadn’t seen a creature standing on its hind legs, he clarified—it had scuttled under a guardrail. And the body wasn’t lost to the river—he had put it in his trunk, certain that it was just a very large iguana. “It’s a big hoax,” he said.

The new exhibition doesn’t adjudicate the tales it tells. But it does make a curiously compelling case that murky accounts belong in the annals of history, shoulder to shoulder with real-world artifacts. They all help us understand the stories a place shares about itself.