Due to the graphic nature of this haunted place, listener discretion is advised. This episode includes descriptions of abuse, violence, murder and child death. We advise extreme caution for children under 13.

The glow of dawn was just creeping over the horizon as Joey approached the mansion, its gray stone facade blended into the misty morning, looming out of the fog. Joey had been doing restorations on the old house for weeks now, but this was the earliest she'd ever arrived. And this time she hoped to be hours ahead of the House's new owners. Mr. and Mrs. Anders, she was tired of hearing the couple fight. They seemed to bicker all day, even when she was there the day before they entered the house amid argument and before long, their bickering turned into yelling, then crying.

Today, though, Joey was determined to be out before they even set foot in the house.

She made her way up to the master bedroom and sat down in front of the basalt fireplace. Joey pulled out her masonry tools and started where she'd left off. But as she got to work on the crumbling mortar, she heard the front door open.

Joey groaned.

It was barely six a.m.. What were they doing here so early? She gritted teeth as angry voices drifted up from downstairs.

Leander's paid well, so she tried to ignore them. But this was unacceptable.

Joey started down the stairs when her phone rang. She frowned in confusion. It was Alan Sanders. She raised the phone to her ear and heard Mr. Sanders voice. He asked how the restoration was going and apologized. They wouldn't be able to make it to the house until later that afternoon. Joey's blood went cold. She dropped the phone. If the András weren't here, then who was? Joey crept down the stairs, trembling as the arguing voices grew louder than she saw them.

A man and woman stood in the foyer in the midst of a heated fight. Then they both eerily went silent and slowly turned to look at her.

Joey froze when she noticed the right side of the woman's face. There was a gaping hole in her temple. Torn bits of flesh had exploded out of her forehead and blood stream down her pale face, pooling on her lips. Irritated, the woman asked what she was looking at, but Joey could only Schary. Welcome to Haunted Places, a Spotify original from podcast. I'm Greg Polson. Every Thursday, I take you to the scariest, eeriest, most haunted real places on Earth.

You can find all episodes of Haunted Places and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcast and every Tuesday, make sure to check out urban legends. These special episodes of Haunted Places are available exclusively on Spotify this week. Join me on a supernatural journey to the Horn Mansion in Spokane, Washington. This Craftsman style home has attracted misery and misfortune ever since it was first built in 1916. We'll learn about the many tragedies that left their mark on the house and discover why to this day it's haunted.

Coming up, the wretched history of the horn house. This episode is brought to you by Fan Sportsbook, don't just watch college basketball, get in the action and shoot your shot with the fan to a sports book. There's more ways to play the bracket all tournament long. New users get your first bat risk free up to 1000 dollars. Sign up with code upsets on the Faneuil's Sportsbook app and make your first deposit today 21 plus and present in Virginia.

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At the edge of Spokane's affluent South Hill neighborhood, a private driveway winds through the looming pines and up to a large craftsman. There, a wide veranda wraps around the sprawling home and gabled dormer windows look out on a moss covered fountain. It resembles a cottage out of a fairy tale. But the house's history is closer to a Gothic horror story. Long before it was dubbed the Haunted Mansion, one of the home's first residents was a woman who was once married to the president of a mining company when her husband died unexpectedly a year after their marriage.

She became an extremely wealthy widow. A few years later, she married another man and traveled to Spokane to move into his home in South Hill, dubbing it their love cottage.

Little did they know that the house would soon become a dark magnet for misery, resentment and betrayal. Anna stepped out of the automobile and stood in front of a little square house. She looked it over. It was quaint, certainly smaller than what she'd been accustomed to. Peter came up behind her and beamed. It might not look like much, he said, but with just a few thousand dollars, he could make it the home of their dreams. Anna smiled.

She didn't mind where they lived as long as they were together. Her last home was a grand mansion in Spokane that she shared with her late husband. It at stables, ballrooms and even a pool. But none of that made her happy. The truth was, Anna never loved George. She married him for his money and did everything she could to avoid spending time with him. She took countless trips to New York and Detroit, saying she'd just be gone a week and then would send telegram after telegram, postponing her return.

This house was a shack compared to the one she'd shared with George, but she'd much rather live in a shack with a man she loved than in a mansion with one she detested. Besides, this house had potential once the renovations were finished, and I could see them happily living there for a very long time.

Construction began right away every morning and awoke to the sound of hammers and saws. At first she didn't mind. She knew it would be over soon and they'd have their dream home. But then things started going wrong. Almost immediately, the Italian marble never arrived and the copper pipes were the wrong size. It was one problem after another, and the solution was always more money. And it might not have minded if Peter was around, but she barely saw him anymore.

He was always running off to Chicago or San Francisco to look at mahogany paneling or bid on mother of pearl light fixtures. Her life became a dismal parade of bills and handymen set to the ever present din of construction. She thought things couldn't possibly get worse. Then came the accidents. It was a balmy day in August and I was looking over some invoices when the sound of hammering was interrupted by a blood curdling scream.

She vaulted down the steps and into the unfinished dining room.

There, a white based carpenter sat on the floor, cradling his bloody hand when Hannah asked what happened. The young man explained in a trembling voice that he was using a handsaw when a strange figure appeared. It was a tall, real thin man, he explained, half cloaked in shadow, the man's hands around his throat, and he was gasping for air. Then the man raised one finger and pointed right at him. The carpenter was so frightened that he dropped the song on his hand.

And it gazed at the young man too short to speak, she could tell he was genuinely afraid and so was she. That night, and it couldn't shake the haunting image that the carpenter described, it was one that had haunted her for years, a terrible memory she had managed to forget for a while now with this reminder, it tormented her every time she closed her eyes. But Anna was determined to forget it again and a a glass of brandy to quiet her nerves.

Then she crawled into her side of the carved four poster bed and shut off the light. That was when she heard a strange voice gasping for air, and I sat straight up. Her heart raced as she fumbled with her bedside lamp. Finally, she switched it on and looked around the room. But there was no one there, and aside her heart still racing and laid back down. It was nothing, she told herself, only her imagination. And I spent the next week in a daze.

Perhaps she was just lonely, she mused. Things would be better once Peter returned. He was due back Friday afternoon, but soon she received a telegram. The shipments had been delayed and he'd be away another week and his heart sank.

Then she jumped.

A scream came from the roof. There was the sound of clattering tiles and then a thud. And I ran to the front door with a pit in her stomach. When she opened it, she encountered a gruesome sight there on her front walk. One of the roofers was lying on the ground, his neck bent at an odd angle and his legs a crumpled mess of blood and bone. And I felt like she was going to be sick. She watched as the other roofer made his way down a ladder, his face drained of color.

The man said they'd seen something sitting on the roof. It had been just as the carpenter said, the shadow of a tall, gaunt man holding his hands to his throat, gasping. The shock had caused the roofer to lose his balance. Then he paused for a moment and Anna saw him tremble after he fell off the roof continued. The thing lingered for a moment. Then it pointed at the dead man and vanished. And it felt like she couldn't breathe.

She shook her head and backed away, the roofer called out after her, but Anna didn't answer him. She ran to her dressing room and shut the door.

The memories, the ones she tried so hard to bury, were all coming back now and one horrible flood, she paced, trying to breathe, to calm herself, but she didn't dare close her eyes. She knew that if she did, she'd see George just as he looked at the night he died. In the weeks before her husband's death, Anna had sprained ankle. She did what she could to avoid George while she recovered at home, but they still ate dinner together every night.

That was the one thing he insisted on one afternoon, and it happened upon a recipe in a magazine, stuffed peppers and a walnut cream sauce. She asked the chef to make it for her. He was a new cook, and he didn't know about George's allergy to tree nuts. As for Anna, she must have forgotten she hadn't done it on purpose.

At least she didn't think she had. But when his face started to swell at the dinner table, she hadn't moved to help him.

George clawed at his throat, gasping for air.

But still, Anna did nothing. Finally, he looked at her and pointed in her direction.

Assignment, accusation. Anna didn't want him to die. She just wanted to be free and after 20 terrible minutes, she was at least that's what she thought. But now. He was back, there was no point in running, she knew he'd find her wherever she went. So Anna waited for him in her dressing room. As darkness fell over the house, she heard a gasping, choking sound that made her hair stand on end. As the sound grew louder, shadows began to gather.

They formed a figure, the dark silhouette of a man clawing at his throat. George, he raised a finger and pointed. But to his confusion, he wasn't pointing at her. He was gesturing at a jacket hanging in the closet. And I stood up unsteadily and picked up the coat. It was one of Peter's, a houndstooth overcoat that he'd taken on his last trip to San Francisco. The specter pointed down at the pocket. Anna felt inside and pulled out a piece of paper written in loopy cursive.

Was the address of a hotel had a message. It read, I can't wait to see you. Then below the words was the scarlet imprint of a woman's lacquered lips, and his eyes widened as she realized George hadn't come to hurt her. He came to warn her. She never loved her late husband, but he loved her just as much as she loved Peter. Peter, who delighted in spending your money, who took every opportunity to run off to some distant city.

Peter It was younger than her and had needed her funds when they married, just as she had when she married George. Peter, who at this very moment was probably lying in the arms of the woman who had written this note as the spectre of her late husband dissolved into mist and put her head in her hands and started to cry. In 1987, Sarah E. Smith married James Smith, the president of the Hecla Mining Company, but we don't know many details about Sarah's marriage to James after his unexpected death from pneumonia in 1988.

Sarah was left with a sizeable fortune, and after just a year of marriage, she became a very eligible widow. A few years later, she married Ralston Wilbur, otherwise known as Jack. Jack was a handsome machinery salesman, also in the mining business, instantly smitten. They were married in an impromptu courthouse wedding and moved into his newly built cottage in Spokane. Sarah paid 130000 dollars for Jack to expand the house into a 17 room mansion. But as the home grew, Sarah and Jack's relationship fell apart.

Jack had a reputation as a womanizer and getting married didn't change that. He used Sarah's money to take other women on trips to Chicago and San Francisco after less than three years. Sarah was granted a divorce on the grounds of cruelty and abandonment. The house was sold in 1919 and the couple went their separate ways. As for the mansion, it had been marked by a shadow of misery and misfortune, a shadow that only darkened after the house was purchased by its most infamous owner, known as the Mad Doctor of South Hill.

Coming up, the mad doctor makes a house call. Hi, listeners, it's Vanessa from Park Cast. If you haven't had a chance to check out my series mythology, you don't know what you're missing. Heroes, Gods, Monsters and Mayhem. This podcast has it all every Tuesday. Take a deep dive back in time exploring the history, origins and meaning behind the myths that have shaped the Earth.

Each episode of mythology dramatizes a story pulled from beliefs from around the world, giving insight into how our ancestors saw the universe and how those stories resonate in our lives today. Recent episodes include the epic battle between Hercules and Theseus, the grieving spirit known as Ladona, and A Treacherous Journey to the Land of the Dead. Catch new episodes every Tuesday and binge the classics any time. Follow mythology free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts.

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Gambling Problem Call one 800 gambler. Now back to the story. In 1924, Rudolph had purchased the South Hill mansion that would eventually bear his name. Rudolph was an eccentric with a penchant for lavish spending and throwing wild parties when he and his wife moved into the mansion. They immediately set about renovating the property, adding fountain statues and a pool. Rudolph claimed he was a doctor and earned his fortune, providing discrete services like abortions and electroshock treatment to Spokane's elite.

And as his wealth grew, he quickly gained a reputation as one of the upper classes more unconventional members. He allowed his racehorses to graze on the front lawn and once drove his car into the swimming pool during a party at 59. Rudolph was more than 30 years older than his wife, with whom he had a tempestuous relationship. They considered divorce multiple times, and according to one rumor, Rudolph once chased her out of the house with a sword. All of the other owners of the mansion hadn't lasted long, but Rudolph had stayed in the house for 21 years, and the longer he and his wife stayed, the worse things got until eventually their marriage imploded in a frenzy of violence and self-destruction.

It started over such a trivial thing, Julia made an offhand comment about the wine tasting cheap, and Rudolph asked if she was calling him stingy. They started bickering, then yelling. He followed her into the bedroom and stood in the doorway screaming and rage. Julia seized a champagne glass and threw it at him. The glass missed his head by several feet, but it did make him take a step back. Julia slammed the door in his face and collapsed on the bed.

She wished she could go back to the way things were. They'd always fought, but they used to love each other too. Then things started to change. She knew when it had started she could picture the exact day. It was a rainy day in February when Julia opened the door to find a skinny 15 year old girl shivering on her doorstep. She ushered her into the kitchen and told her doctor Hahn would be back shortly. The girl looks so sad and scared.

Julia knew immediately that she must be there for one of her husband's clandestine operations. She wanted to wrap her up in a hug, but she worried that the girl would think it inappropriate. Instead, she offered her a cup of tea. After a few minutes, the front door opened and Rudolph stumbled into the kitchen. Julia could smell the liquor on his breath. She seized his hand and suggested he wait a few hours before he tended to the girl.

But Rudolph pulled away and said he was fine. Then he guided the patient into the basement. Julia wanted to stop him, but she knew he wouldn't listen, not when he was in one of those moods, she told herself he was a professional. He'd done this a hundred times, hundreds. But the entire afternoon she was gripped by anxiety. They emerged several hours later, Rudolph guiding the girl by the shoulder. Julie had never seen any of his patients in such a state.

Her face looked green, a string of drool dangled from her lips, and there was a red spot in the front of her skirt. Julie asked what had happened, but Rudolph only laughed and said the girl was just tired. He'd give her a tonic and she'd be fine in the morning. Julia learned what had really happened sometime later, he punctured that girl's uterus with an unsterilized instrument. She nearly died of sepsis and Rudolph nearly went to court.

He admitted to Julia that he wasn't exactly registered to practice medicine in Washington state. In fact, the medical license he did have was from a correspondence course.

Julia was furious after that. She begged him to quit. Not only were the operations he performed illegal, he was hardly qualified to perform them. It was too dangerous. But he refused to listen. Finally, she threatened to leave and Rudolph gave in. He promised to stop. Julia wanted to believe him. She thought things could go back to the way they were and that the house would be a warm and happy place once more. She was wrong.

Rudolph withdrew from her, focusing instead on renovating the house. He disappeared for hours at a time. He always claimed he was in his study or the billiard room. But sometimes she heard noises coming from inside the walls, bumps, thuds and low moans.

Julia wondered if she was losing her mind. Rudolph said the sounds were all in her imagination. She threw things at him and he threatened her once.

He even pulled out his antique bayonet and held the point to her stomach for a moment. They both just stood there frozen, waiting to see what happened next. Then he put the weapon down and told her to never make him take it out again. These days, the littlest things would set him off, even something as harmless as saying that a glass of wine tasted cheap.

That night, Julian laid out her bed and sighed, she wished she hadn't said anything about the wine, wished she hadn't thrown her champagne glass at him, now she'd shut him out of the bedroom.

God only knows what he'd say when she finally emerged. Julie was startled from a reverie by the sound of a gunshot, followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs. The next second, a bullet ripped through her door. She jumped up from the bed and ran into the closet, closing the door behind her. She was trapped.

There were three more shots, and then the bedroom door swung open.

In that moment, Julia rested her hand on the back wall of the closet and felt something odd a crack. She ran her fingertips along the crevice until they came to a small knob sticking out of the wall. She pulled on it and felt a panel open up. Julia stepped into the narrow hallway running behind the bedroom. She knew her husband was doing renovations here, but she hadn't realised he was building a secret tunnel. It was the kind of thing he would do.

Rudolph could be incredibly paranoid. Julia made her way through the passage until she came to a ladder. She took a deep breath and began to climb down. By the time she felt flat ground, she knew she had to be in the basement. She felt around until she found a light switch. A bare bulb illuminated an operating table, bloodstained towels in a bowl and an array of glinting steel instruments. Julia's face grew red and hot. Rudolph hadn't stopped the operations at all.

He'd been carrying on right under her nose. All those noises, the mysterious disappearances, he had made her think she was going crazy. Julia clenched your fists and screamed. She wasn't going to let Rudolph get away with it. Not this time. Julia wrenched open a door in the corner of the room and stormed up the basement stairs without thinking. She ran up to the second floor and burst into the bedroom.

Rudolph spun around, still holding his antique rifle with a bayonet. Acting on instinct, Julia knocked the weapon out of his hand and it clattered to the floor. Then she quickly picked it up. Her voice shook as she said she knew what he'd been doing. It was the same thing he'd always done. It didn't matter to him if he hurt people or even killed them. He was always going to do exactly what he wanted. Well, not anymore.

She told him this time she was going to turn him over to the police. He wasn't going to get to butcher anyone ever again. Rudolph took a deep breath. He told her to put down the gun so they could talk about it. Julia laughed for a moment. They just stared at each other. Then suddenly he wrapped his hands around her, trying to wrench the rifle out of her grip. She struggled against him, but he twisted her arm, his finger closed over the gun, and there was an earsplitting bang.

The world broke around her.

The pieces fell away and were replaced by blackness. When Julia woke up, she was laying on the floor of her bedroom and two men in grey coats were leaning over her. She asked them what was happening, but they didn't respond.

Angry, she asked why they weren't answering her. But then the men started to leave as she got up to follow them. Julia looked down.

She went cold. Her body was laying on the floor in a pool of blood.

There was a ragged hole in her head, a gunshot wound. Julia started to back away, shaking her head in terror, but as she did, she saw Rudolph.

He was speaking to a uniformed officer explaining how he found Julia dead in the bedroom. She had killed herself. He said. Rage course through Julia's body. She reached for a nearby lamp and tried to hurl it at his head, but her hand went right through it. She swiped out the dresser, the curtains, even a chair, but she couldn't touch anything. Julia screamed and cried. She yelled at the top of her lungs, but it did no good.

No one could hear her. In May of 1940, Rudolph Horn's wife, Sylvia, was found lying in a pool of blood in the master bedroom of their mansion. The room was riddled with bullet holes and the lock had been shot off the door. Sylvia had a bullet wound just above her right ear. Rudolph was initially suspected of Sylvia's murder, but an inquest ruled the death a suicide. But soon, rumors of what really happened spread across town.

According to gossip, Rudolph and Sylvia's relationship was troubled, even abusive. And legend had it that their mansion was outfitted with a series of hidden rooms and secret tunnels where Rudolph performed his illegal procedures. However, none of these rumors have been confirmed. We do know that after Sylvia's death, Rudolph continued his illegal medical practice. But five years later, his fortunes took a turn for the worse in 1945. He was tried for manslaughter after a young woman died due to complications from an abortion because he was already in his 80s.

He was placed on probation and fined rather than sent to prison.

Rudolph sank into debt, sold the mansion and moved into a hotel in downtown Spokane. But his bad luck was far from over the following year in his hotel apartment. Rudolph Hahn was stabbed by a traveling salesman who used Rudolph's antique bayonet.

It was a bizarre and violent end, just like Silvio's.

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So please become a donor at Biola. Visit Biolabs Plasma Dotcom to schedule an appointment. Now back to the story after Rudolph had sold the mansion in 1945, the property changed hands several times. It was used both as apartments and a single family home and then was left empty in the 1960s.

For years, the house sat vacant, decaying alone under the deep green shadows of the Ponderosa pines, though the home had been abandoned by the living. Some believed that the Horne mansion was far from empty. Locals claim to hear screams coming from the house. There were reports of figures in the windows and strange lights floating around the property. Then, in the 1990s, there was a renewed interest in the house. It was restored by a string of wealthy couples who all purchased the property only to sell it again.

Several years later, it seemed there was something inauspicious about the place, and ominous gloom hung over it.

But no amount of new flooring or refinished crown moldings could get rid of.

Jeanne sat down the heavy box and looked around the empty dust covered bedroom. She tried to picture it not as it was, but as it could be once they restored the original stonework, stripped the carpeting and got rid of that God awful 80s wallpaper. But the only image Jeanne could summon was herself exhausted by all that work. It made her want to crawl into bed and never get out again, which was frustrating because her bed was still in the moving truck.

She took a deep breath and counted to ten. It was a trick Dr. Myers taught her and Alan in their first session together. Whenever Jean felt frustrated or anxious, she would close your eyes, breathe and count to 10. She heard footsteps behind her. Alan was coming up the stairs. He entered the bedroom and looked around, beaming. He still couldn't believe what a steal this place had been.

Sure, it was going to need a lot of work, but that's why they were here, Jean sighed. Technically, yes. That was why they were here. Though Jean had never been enthused about the idea of flipping a house, she was much more interested in lying in bed and watching Netflix all day. She wanted to stop eating and showering and sink into her sadness. She wanted to grieve. Dr. Myers had told her that that was OK, but it was not OK to let grief consume you.

Dr. Myers also thought buying the house was a great idea. She said sometimes having a shared purpose can bring a couple closer together. Jean had told her that they'd had a shared purpose. Her name was Lily. She was two years old. She had curly brown hair and she couldn't be replaced by a construction project. Jeanne could feel tears stinging at her eyes. She cursed softly and swallowed them back then she did the counting trick. She took a deep breath and began.

When she was finished, she got to her feet and meandered over to the fireplace, she ran her fingers over the stonework. The contractor they'd hired to restart the basalt had quit after five days. She said there was something wrong with the house and she didn't feel safe there. Jeanne understood what she meant. The house was beautiful, but there was something off about it whenever she was returning home and saw its blue gray eaves appear through the woods. Jeanne unconsciously grit her teeth like she was at a strange family reunion, feeling the ambient tension seep into her bones.

It didn't make sense. There wasn't anyone there except for them, but it still felt very real. Allen said he was going to head downstairs, Jane replied that she'd be down in a minute, she'd been avoiding Allen ever since they'd arrived. She didn't trust herself not to bite his head off for something stupid and insignificant. She was just so tense once he was gone.

She knelt down and grabbed a box. He had used too much tape and it was nearly impossible to open.

She pulled so hard that the box ripped in half, sending a glass of ace rolling out.

Jeanne reached for it and froze.

There was a stain on the floor, one that hadn't been there a moment ago. It was round and red and wet and fresh. It looked like blood. The base rolled onto the stage and the whole room started to change, the base transformed into a little girl's head Ben. The bedroom was disappearing. Jeanne could hear the sirens and the traffic, she could feel the heat from the flames and smell burning rubber. She closed her eyes and screamed. Allen found her huddled in a corner, sobbing and shaking.

Jeanne pointed to the stain and told him to look. Allen inspected the spot on the floor, then looked up at her concerned. He didn't understand. Jeanne told him to look again. There was blood on the carpet, fresh blood, and that Vaisse didn't he see it looked just like Lily Allen shook his head. He said it was just a brown smudge on the carpet. It could be anything. Gene shoved him out of the way and knelt by the stain, even if the rest of it was gone.

That stain was clearly blood. There was something wrong with this house.

Ellen looked at her pityingly and asked if she wanted to take a break and they could go into town and get some food. She was fine. She just needed him to give her some space. She wanted to finish unpacking for a moment. Ellen looked like he was going to argue, but then Gene shot him a fiery glance and he nodded, starting down the stairs. As soon as he was gone. Gene ran to the bathroom. She grabbed a bottle of detergent and an entire roll of paper towels.

She was going to get that stain out.

An hour later, Ellen came back upstairs to find Jean still scrubbing away. He sighed deeply and reminded her that they were going to tear out this carpet anyway. Jean declared she wanted to snap at him, but instead she took a deep breath, closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she was done, she nodded and said it was probably time they stopped for dinner. They ordered Chinese and ate it on the dining room floor. Allen said it reminded him of when they moved into their first apartment right after college.

Gene wanted to reminisce with him, but she couldn't stop thinking about the stain. There was something evil about it.

It was like it knew the worst moment of her life and had shown it to her on purpose, like the stain was being cruel. She knew that sounded crazy, but she didn't care. She needed to get rid of it. Allen set up the Fold-out couch and they settled in for the night, Jean waited until he fell asleep before slipping out of bed. She grabbed a knife from the kitchen and headed for the master bedroom.

The stairs creaked with every step she took and strange thumps in the walls seemed to follow her as she walked down the hall. Jean tried to tell herself that it was just the wind. She reached the bedroom door and pushed it open. Her pulse quickened, the stain had grown. She closed her eyes and tried counting to 10, but she was interrupted by the crackling sound of fire. The thing was taunting her again, the sounds grew louder, she could smell smoke, Jean's heart raced.

She had to destroy it, she had to kill it. She ran to the middle of the room, fell to her knees and plunged the knife into the carpet. She ripped out the matting, separating the carpeting from the floor. Then she ran to the window and tossed the ragged carpet out into the darkness.

Everything stopped. The smell disappeared, along with the sound of sirens and traffic. Inside, it was over. And then she turned back to the room that her whole body went cold. Blood was flowing from between the floorboards, spreading into a pool and laying in the middle of it was really.

The day she died, Alan and Gene had been driving back from a party with Lilly in the back seat, they had started bickering about some stupid thing, a woman at the party who Allen didn't like as the argument got more heated, genes driving got more erratic. It only took a moment. The car swerved into the next lane and clipped an 18 wheeler. They spun out and slammed into the guardrail. Gene crawled out of a burning wreck and there was Lilly bleeding on the pavement.

Now, she was seeing it just as she saw it that day, Jeanne closed her eyes and ran. She practically hurled herself down the stairs and shook Allen awake, they had to leave this house, she told him there was something evil here. Allen rubbed his eyes and asked what she was talking about. Jeanne told him about the pool of blood, about seeing Molly Allen side. She was probably having a nightmare. She shook her head and insisted Allen raised his voice and told her to calm down.

Jeanne suddenly realized she was screaming, but she didn't care. They needed to get out now. She tried to pull him out of the bed, but he pushed her away and said she was acting crazy. She screamed for him to listen.

He started to interrupt her when another voice came from behind them, Jeanne and Allen Rose. They both turned to see the silhouette of a woman standing at the foot of the stairs. She stepped forward and the moonlight illuminated her face. There was a gaping chasm above her right ear. She looked at them with empty black eyes, pointed to the door and told them to run. The first serious renovations on Horne mansion began in the early 1990s as workmen tore up carpets and peeled back wallpaper.

The secrets of the house were slowly revealed. Construction workers witnessed strange apparitions, unexplainable sounds and shadowy figures. One man saw a woman standing at the top of the stairs. Even more chilling was the large bloodstain on the carpeting in the master bedroom. It would periodically appear and disappear, always in the same spot. No matter how much the frustrated homeowners scrubbed at the stain, it never came out. Today, the Horne mansion is over 100 years old.

That has been home to dozens of families. Some lived perfectly normal lives. They left the house with happy memories. Instead of chilling ghost stories or tragic betrayals, other families were not so lucky. Perhaps the haunted mansion is like a mirror. If you go into it with rage and fear and grief, then it will reflect those emotions. Back to you. Some people have ghosts that won't stay locked in a haunted house, stains that can never be washed clean.

Perhaps the Horne mansion doesn't make its horrors. It just reveals them. Thanks again for tuning into haunted places. We'll be back on Thursday with the new episode. And don't forget to come back on Tuesday for our Urban Legends series available only on Spotify. You can find more episodes of Haunted Places and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify. I'll see you next time. Haunted Places is a Spotify original fun podcast, executive producers include Max and Ron Cutler, Sound Design by Kenny Hobbs with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Travis Clark.

This episode of Haunted Places was written by Zoe Louisa Lewis with Writing Assistants by Alex Garland, fact checking by Claire Cronin and research by Niki Taylor. I'm Greg Perlson.