Due to the graphic nature of this haunted place, listener discretion is advised this episode includes discussions of suicide, post-traumatic stress disorder, murder and stalking. We advise extreme caution for children under 13. When Marcus planned his trip, he'd imagine stepping off the ferry and feeling like he was 10 years old again, Mackinaw Island had been his special spot when he was a kid. He'd come with his parents and gaze at the cheerful Victorian shopfronts, imagining what life used to be like.
Then he'd pictured fancy parties with ball gowns and towers of champagne glasses, no broken marriages or divorces, you know, losing custody of his kids.
But that wasn't how this trip worked out. As he walked down Main Street, a thick gloom settled over him. The town was as picture perfect as he remembered. No cars, people riding bicycles in the street, kids eating ice cream on the sidewalks. But it only made him feel like he was lying to himself. He wasn't happy.
Marcus started walking toward the mission. He walked past the resort and out to a little trail leading up to the bluffs, maybe the ocean view would soothe him. But as Marcus started up the hill, he couldn't summon any pleasant thoughts Molly could think about was a story his cousin had told him about a college student who committed suicide up there. Marcus paused for a moment, standing in the lakeside breeze.
He couldn't stop picturing that kid's final moment, like the world around him had disappeared. Marcus looked down at his feet and shrieked. Somehow he had walked up to the end of the cliff. One foot was right at the edge and the other hovered in the air. He didn't even remember making it to the top of the hill. He took a step back, his heart pounding. A dense, dark fog seeped in around him, and suddenly he wasn't entirely sure where he was at all.
He could still smell the island, but he couldn't stop picturing the student from the story. Marcus wondered what it would be like to fall. Then the fog grew denser, so dense that he couldn't see as he took a step over the cliff. Then he couldn't see at all. Welcome to Haunted Places, a Spotify original fun 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. 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 Mackinaw Island, a tourist destination where time stands still and happiness is hard to find and discover. Why to this day. It's haunted. Coming up, we'll get into the dark history of Mackinaw Island.
Stepping off the ferry and onto Lake Huron, Mackinaw Island feels like stepping into a Norman Rockwell painting wooden signs for ice cream, hamburgers and several fudge stores hang from tidy shopfronts. You will not see a single car, that's all. Motor vehicles have been banned on the island for over 100 years. Instead, the streets are crowded with cyclists and supplies from the mainland are delivered by horse drawn carriage.
It is, in a word, idyllic, which is why it's so difficult to believe the horrific things buried in its history. In 1715, the French built a fort on Mackinac Island to protect their interests in the fur trade. But over the next century, a series of violent battles saw the fort change hands between British, French and American troops. During the War of 1812, the British Army captured the fort from the Americans with the help of indigenous warriors and the Canadian militia.
Two years later, the Americans brought 700 troops and mounted a two day attack on the British and the island's most infamous battle, which ultimately ended with the Americans retreat. The fort was eventually given to the Americans in the treaty following the War of 1812, but there were plenty of casualties on both sides. The troops remained at the fort after the war had seen incredible violence and trauma like that doesn't just go away even in times of peace.
It lingers like an awful smell affecting the people around it and sometimes the very air itself. Joseph picked up the lumpy brown stool in his bowl. He'd never had a problem with the food before during the war. They'd spent weeks eating meager rations of stale bread. And when the war ended, every meal had felt like a feast. But lately, he had begun to feel like the food served in the mess hall wasn't enough. He looked up toward the officers table.
Corporal Frank Hall was carving up pieces of a large, juicy looking roast. Laughing joyfully, Joseph pushed his bowl away. He wasn't hungry anymore. A few weeks ago, one of the old corbels had died in his sleep immediately after the whole fort was a buzz about who would be chosen to replace him. Promotions were supposed to be based on seniority, but that was rarely how things worked. Joseph had been enlisted for nearly 15 years and he still hadn't risen above private.
Maybe it was his own fault. Back when he was stationed on the mainland, he had been driven and ambitious. He was always doing little favors for the higher ups and finding ways to prove he was leadership material. But ever since he'd been on the island, he just didn't have the energy.
Frank Hall, on the other hand, had the energy. And when Frank had enlisted five years ago, it seemed opposite's had attracted because he and Joseph had become fast friends. Joseph was quiet and reserved. Frank was gregarious and loud. Frank like to say that that was what made them such a good team. Things were easy for Frank. He was a fast favourite with the commanding officers. It had seemed pointless for Joseph to even try for a promotion in his shadow.
That was until Frank had offered to advocate on his behalf. He had suggested it in an offhand way. But Joseph jumped at the idea. Frank had said seniority should be important, and Joseph had agreed. Frank had dinner in the officers quarters a week before the decision was to be made, and Joseph felt hope like he hadn't in years. But when Commander Robinson made the announcement, it hadn't been Joseph that was promoted to corporal. It was Frank.
Frank apologized again and again. He said he hadn't meant for it to happen and Joseph would have believed him were it not for the conversation he'd overheard between the first and second lieutenants. One dinner, they were talking about how Frank had brought up a friend to the officers, but he'd only pretended to advocate for him. Instead, he'd insinuated that the man was weak and pathetic. Joseph's pals pounded in his ears as he pretended not to hear. He was devastated.
But more than that, he was furious. Frank had wanted that promotion and he'd stepped on Joseph to get it. After that night, he withdrew from Frank and Frank, unsurprisingly, said nothing, he just strutted around in his uniform, laughing loudly with the higher ups. Joseph kept picturing things he could do to him, accidentally shooting him in the leg or pushing him off a guard tower. He didn't want to have these violent fantasies, but lately he'd had a hard time disciplining his thoughts.
It was a strange feeling he got on the island like he was trapped in some dark and distant corner of the past. Never since Frank's promotion, the strange confusion had gotten much, much worse. It had infected his mind. He would find himself picturing war, lots of war. Some of it was his own memories, like of the British officers swarming the beaches in 1812. But others were not his own. Sometimes he'd picture a Frenchman, a fur trader with bright red hair.
Joseph didn't know who he was, but he'd seen pieces of him from memory flashes of that same beach, the blood on the sand as red as the Frenchman's hair. Joseph could picture him so clearly chopping into a body as if he was doing the killing. And every now and then, he would come out of a vision to find himself cleaning his musket or standing outside the fort, looking up at Frank's window. These were the moments that really scared him.
And in the last few days, they'd been happening more.
Joseph ran his hand through his hair, his mind had wandered off again, and suddenly he was standing in a doorway watching Frank walk down the hall toward his quarters. Joseph had followed Frank out of the mess hall without even realizing it. Joseph called out to him and Frank turned around. Joseph asked how his supper had been. The roast sure looked good. Frank frowned. He'd said he'd eaten stew like everyone else. Joseph snorted. The man couldn't even tell the truth about what he'd eaten for supper.
Joseph imagined how satisfying it would be to stop Frank's lies for ever. He could shut the man's mouth with a cannonball or a musket. Joseph snarled that he was tired of lies. Frank's eyes went wide. He asked Joseph what he was doing. Joseph looked down. He was holding his musket and pouring gunpowder into the priming pan. Frank started to back away, but Joseph shouted for him to stand still. He said he wanted to talk about what Frank had done.
Frank shook his head and started saying something. But Joseph wasn't listening. He was remembering the day that the British had landed on the beach without realizing what he was doing. Joseph rammed the bullet and powder down into the barrel of the musket. Frank said that Joseph was scaring him and turned around to walk away. But Joseph thought about all the lies this man had told and all the killing he himself had already done. He remembered himself on a beach, his red haired, damp with sweat and a man bleeding before him on the sand.
Suddenly the musket fired and the sound shocked Joseph back to his senses. He dropped the firearm and stepped away in horror. When the smoke cleared, he saw his friend's body slumped. At the end of the hall, a few soldiers hurried into the hallway. Joseph's voice trembled as he said he hadn't meant to do it. It had been a mistake. It wasn't him. The men gaped at him, but he was still holding the gun. Fort Mackinaw would say more than its fair share of violence throughout the 19th century, but of all the casualties that occurred there, one is especially bizarre.
On December 5th, 1828, Private James Brown entered the mess hall at Fort Mackinaw and fired his musket at Corporal Hugh Flynn. Some accounts say he approached the corporal and the two men got into an argument. Others contend that Brown fired a shot into Flint's neck without warning. The other soldiers were not paying attention before the gun went off. But after the blast, 15 witnesses saw Brown lower his musket and cry out. My God, what have I done?
Though Brown admitted to shooting Flynn, he maintained that the actual shot was an accident. Firing a 19th century musket is a complicated 12 step process, so it's hard to imagine that someone could do it by mistake. Even so many on the island believed his story when Brown was sentenced to death. There was pushback from the community. The Mackinaw Island sheriff and the territorial governor both worked to obtain a presidential pardon for Brown, but they were unsuccessful. Perhaps they just liked the man and didn't want to see him die.
Or maybe they knew that on Mackinaw Island, it's easy to be led astray by a force outside of yourself. If you aren't careful, you might end up doing something terrible, something you can never take back. Coming up, a tragedy at Mackinaw College shocks the island.
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Now back to the story. As 19th century came to a close, Fort McKenna was decommissioned and the island took on a new role as a vacation destination. People came to fish, swim and generally get away from the chaos of cities like Detroit and Chicago. Fudge shops and hotels sprang up to accommodate ferries full of tourists. A bridge was built from the mainland, and in 1966, the old Protestant mission was turned into a college. Yet, despite its cheery appearance, gloom still lingered over Mackinaw Island.
For some, it was an idyllic getaway spot. But for others it was a prison where the violence of the past haunted you at every turn. Eventually, the strange and sinister atmosphere would be the cause of a tragedy that would haunt the island for years to come.
Wendy, you looked up at the whitewashed facade of the church, she hadn't wanted to go to the service, she'd spent hours on the dorm phone arguing about it with her mother. Normally, anyone who took up that much time would get chewed up by the other girls. But apparently when your ex-boyfriend dies, you get to use the phone as much as you want. When he stepped inside the chapel and immediately saw Harvey's distraught parents, she turned away quickly, trying to avoid them.
She had been sure that Harvey's mother wouldn't want her there. That was the main reason she hadn't wanted to come.
And judging from the furious looks that Mrs. Klein was giving her, it appeared she'd been right when she sat down in one of the pews and tried to keep to herself fiddling with the pleats in her black dress. But without even looking up, she could tell that everyone was staring at her. Wendy had originally met Harvey in first year English class, he reminded her of a golden retriever confident, boisterous and eager to please. She'd always considered herself a more serious type, but he made her laugh.
And after that first day, Harvey got her phone number after class. He called as soon as he got home that evening. In the first few weeks of their courtship, every day felt like a vacation. And the day time they went swimming and hiking, riding around on Harvey's red bike with a yellow bow tied to the basket. In the evening, they'd head to a movie or meet with friends at Mighty Mac's hamburgers. Harvey made everything so fun.
But as summer turned to fall and fall to winter, when he got tired of fun, she'd always been a generally happy person. Or so she thought.
As the school year wore on, she began to feel oppressed by a strange gloom. When she couldn't pinpoint exactly why, she wondered if her low mood might be due to the island itself. It sounded crazy, she knew, but the more time she spent at school, the less she felt like herself. And Harvey wasn't helping. Wendy had once felt he was charming and exciting. But when winter came, she found him exhausting and painfully naive. Every time he suggested something like peppermint milkshakes or sledding, she became irritated and told him she needed to study.
She knew it was time to end the relationship, but she didn't know how to do it gently. Then at dinner on a snowy night in December, Wendy found something tucked inside her napkin. It was a ring, she splashed some water on her face and turned back to the restaurant, she had let this go way too long. When she sat back down at the table, Wendy told Harvey that the ring was really beautiful. Some girl would be lucky to have it.
She just wasn't that girl. Harvey looked down at his hands. He didn't look devastated. But he did look a little confused when he wanted to explain why to him, but she felt like she didn't quite understand it herself. It wasn't him. It was her. There was a moment of silence, hardly scratched his head and said he needed to think some things over. He got up from the table without saying another word. When he didn't see him again for two months, she felt terrible, but she didn't want him to feel worse by calling his friends.
All said he was doing fine. They told her not to worry, so she moved on. In January, she met Ronald. He was the exact opposite of Harvey from brooding poet with jet black hair and a scar on his right cheek. He'd been in the Marines and told Wendy he was saving up to travel across the country like Jack Kerouac. Wendy was drawn to him with Harvey, she always felt like she was pretending, putting on a happy face to please him, she never had to do that with Ronald.
Their relationship wasn't exactly a fairy tale romance, but at least it felt real. Then one night in February, it all came crashing down.
When he returned to her dorm to find that Harvey had left a message for her, he said he'd been feeling kind of glum lately. He'd been thinking about her and wanted to meet at their spot in the woods to talk. None of that would have been so bad if Ronald hadn't been standing right beside her when she'd heard it, when he tried to explain that Harvey didn't mean anything to her. But Ronald stopped listening.
As soon as he heard the word boyfriend, he started screaming and shaking with rage.
When she was scared, she threatened to call the police. Ronald's face went red and he told Wendy that she was a tramp. Everyone knew it when he told him to never contact her again. Then he slammed the door and left.
Wendy took a moment to collect herself. She'd known that Ronald wasn't the flowers and chocolates type, but she never imagined he might become so threatening. In the course of a few minutes, she saw him change right in front of her eyes. Her mind realised she didn't know what to do about Ronald, but she knew one thing. Harvey had always been kind to her. If he needed her help, she would be there. When Dean looked at her watch, it was 26, Hapi said to meet her at seven if she hurried, she might still make it.
As Wendy left the dorm, she felt a terrible knot form in her stomach. It was a feeling she'd only experienced here on the island, a sort of creeping dread that something was about to go horribly wrong. Wendy stepped onto the path leading up to the bluffs when she heard a sound that made her blood freeze. Two shots rang out through the crisp winter air, Wendy dashed madly toward the top of the hill. Her heart was pounding. She was sure that something terrible had happened.
But when she reached the top, she sighed with relief. Harvey was standing under the old beech tree wearing a blue and white sweater, his golden brown eyes glinting in the faint sunlight. He gave her a shy smile and said he was glad she'd come. Wendy asked if he'd heard the gunshots, and Harvey shook his head. Wendy frowned. Maybe she'd heard it from somewhere else, and the sound just hadn't carried all the way up to the blob's.
She shook her head. It didn't matter, Harvey was here, she took a step toward him and said if she'd known he was feeling low, she might have reached out sooner. Harvey shrugged sheepishly. He said he'd been all right at first. Sure, he'd been sad, but it was normal to be sad. He just thought that eventually he would start feeling better. But that never happened. He said the last few weeks he'd just laid in bed thinking more and more about the past.
Eventually he'd started having frightening thoughts when he asked what kind of thoughts? And Harvey's eyes went so cold it sent chills down her spine. He said he decided to get off the island. There was something about the place that wasn't right. He was constantly picturing bad things happening, tragic things. Wendy nodded. She knew what he meant. Harvey said he was leaving tomorrow, but he wanted to say goodbye. They hugged. Then Wendy watched as he walked down the hillside.
But was the last time anyone saw Harvey Klein alive? At first, when he believed that he'd just left, but his friends came looking for him, she told them not to worry. Then his parents came and the police got involved. They didn't find his body until spring, buried under a pile of snow at the bottom of their hill. The police said he'd shot himself twice in the head. They hadn't found the gun, but said it had probably been swept out to the lake by the rain at the funeral, as people talked about how Harvey was a source of joy and light when you could hardly look up from her pew.
She knew how it seemed. People thought he'd killed himself because of her, but somehow she just couldn't believe it. After the service, Wendy found herself back on the trail that led to their spot as she approached the Hill, she noticed something strange. It was a bicycle laying in the middle of the path. It looked just like Harvey's bike. It was the same dark red, but it didn't have his yellow bow.
Her heart felt heavy again. Something was wrong. She crept up the hill and at the top she spotted a figure silhouetted against the sky. Ronald for a moment she forgot to breathe. She hadn't seen Ronald since the day she talked with Harvey. She had told the other girls to call the police if he showed up at the dorms. But there he was again under her in Harvey's tree. He gave her a chilling smile and asked if she'd enjoyed the funeral.
Wendy's voice shook as she asked what he was doing there. He smiled and said he'd just been reliving some old memories. Then he paused and his smile disintegrated. He said he thought killing Harvey would make him feel better, but he'd been wrong. Maybe it wasn't Harvey who had ruined things. Maybe he had to take his anger out on someone else when his blood went cold. Ronald was holding a silver pistol in his hand when he started to back away.
But she thought of the last time she saw Harvey. If the gunshot she heard had killed Harvey, who or what had she seen on the cliff? Suddenly, Ronald began to stutter his eyes wide with fear. He was pointing at something behind her saying, you're dead over and over again. Then he dropped the gun and took off down the trail. Wendy spun around, Harvey was standing behind her wearing that same blue and white sweater he had been six months before, he gave her a shy smile and said he was glad she'd come.
Tears Welden. Wendy sighs. She reached out a hand, but as she touched him, his body blew away as though it were made of smoke. But for the rest of her life, Wendy would always remember the strange glint of his golden eyes. In the late 60s, a student at Buchanan College died in the woods behind campus in order to protect their son's privacy. The boy's parents did not release his name, but referred to him by his nickname, Harvey.
The most common version of Harvey's story is that he fell into a depression after a girlfriend rejected his proposal and in midwinter, he disappeared. His body was found the following spring with two shots to the head. No gun was ever found, but the police ruled Harvey's death a suicide and the town moved on. Eventually, the college shut down and was turned into a resort. But today, guests frequently report seeing a young man standing on the cliffs. There are those who believe that Harvey didn't commit suicide but was murdered by his girlfriend's lover.
They say that as long as his murder remains unsolved, he will stay on those cliffs, an echo of himself reliving the last day of his life over and over again. Coming up, an OHDELA chief confronts one of the island's spirits. Now back to the story.
Agatha Bidle was an adult chief born on Mackinac Island in 1797 before the early 1980s. The island was a place of great spiritual significance for the Obama people.
But over her lifetime, Agatha watched her home changed significantly. In 1836, she witnessed the signing of the Treaty of Washington, which seated millions of acres of native lands in exchange for a promise that Michigan's tribes would never be forced onto reservations. But at the last minute, those terms were changed from never to just five years. Agatha and other indigenous leaders fought back. And in 1855 eventually secured their land through the Treaty of Detroit. But even Agatha couldn't fight the gradual dispersement of her people.
And by the time she was a grandmother in the late 80s, many Theodosia had disappeared, leaving her the sole keeper of her tribe's history and the secret to the island's mysterious forces.
Agatha sat by the fire, a circle of her grandchildren around her. She smiled knowingly and asked if they were ready for a story. Yes, they cheered, making Agatha chuckle. Children were excited by the smallest things. She leaned in closer, then looking each directly in the eye. She dropped her voice. She warned them that this was not a happy story, but it was important to the Ottawa people. And as chief, it was her responsibility to tell it.
A long time ago, there was an ancient tribe known as the Mission of Mercado's, they lived peacefully on Mackinac Island, but in this world, she said, our world, no one can live peacefully for long. One autumn, there was a great storm, the Spirit people spent months preparing their village, it did not even think of holding their war dance until well into the winter, and they began to dance. The lake had long since frozen over.
Some worried that their enemies might walk over the lake and attack while they were distracted by celebrations, but the village decided to hold the war dance anyway. This was a grave mistake. A rival tribe arrived just as the stomp dance began.
They came silently over the frozen lake and caught the villagers completely off guard. It was a slaughter and only two tribe members survived, a man and a woman. They slipped away and put their snowshoes on backwards, so anyone who wanted to find them would follow their tracks in the wrong direction. They'd had enough of people of their violence and hatred. They walked across Lake Huron and traveled to the deepest part of the woods where no one would ever find them.
But it said that the man and woman had 10 children, all boys. And there and the heart of the forest, they became wild roaming spirits. They were called Paracon National Boy. Someday, Agatha told the children, You may find yourself alone in the woods and a chill will run up your spine.
Perhaps you'll hear a rustling in the bushes or the sound of footsteps your hair might stand on and you might feel the presence of something great or something terribly evil. Agatha leaned in closer to the children, her eyes glittering in the firelight. If this happens, she told them, do not be afraid. It's only the wild spirits. If you leave a small gift, a bit of gunpowder or tobacco, it will probably leave you be. They may even give you a vision.
They will show you the great history of the island and you will never be the same for it. The children's eyes went wide, Agatha broke the frightened silence with a laugh, she told the children to run off to the kitchen. If they were lucky, there might be a few maple cakes waiting for them. When she was a child, Agatha had believed every word of that story. But back then, almost everyone on the island was in Nabay.
She was older now and so much had changed bit by bit. Their land had been taken time and time again. Promises were made and broken. They had fought tooth and nail for everything they had, but they still had lost so much it was hard to believe in much of anything. These days, the story of those wild and roaming spirits had once made the world seem grand and exciting. If a little scary, she had believed they were out there walking the woods and someday she might meet them.
They would grant her visions and she would see the history of her people, the good along with the bad.
For much of her life. Agatha had waited eagerly for that day, but it had never come, and there were less and less Odawara every year.
She wondered if the spirits had gone with them, or maybe they were never even real at all.
Maybe the world was small and dull, and the story of the wild spirits was nothing more than just that.
A tale to keep children out of the woods, one that she had even repeated to her own. Agatha spotted her youngest grandchild, Mary, lingering in the doorframe from her rocking chair, she called out and asked her to bring over Grandma's came Mary fetch the stick and handed it to her. Agatha smiled warmly. She'd always had a soft spot for this one. Agatha asked why she hadn't joined the other children in the kitchen. Mary shuffled her feet and said she had a question.
She wanted to know more about the wild spirits. Were they always evil or were they sometimes good? Agatha sighed. For a moment. She considered telling Mary the truth. But she decided to let the girl believe in mystery, at least for a little while longer. Instead, Agatha said, the wild spirits were a bit like plants.
Give them pure spring water and they will grow big, beautiful flowers, give them salt water and they will grow into a wretched, shriveled little things. She tapped Mary on the nose and said that she was the purest, loveliest glass of spring water that there ever was. Mary giggled and looked around and beckoned Agatha closer. Closer, she whispered that she'd seen one of the spirits. It wasn't far away, just down by the bluffs. She asked Agatha if she would come to see it.
Agatha froze. It couldn't be. It was probably just a child's imagination, but it might do her some good to get out and stretch her old joints. She took Mary's hand and told her to lead the way. It was a crisp winter night, Agatha could see the first green and blue shimmers of the northern lights gathering in the sky, the site never failed to send a shiver down her spine. They made her feel like she really did live in a world of terrifying magic.
They made their way down through the cobblestone streets and up to the bluffs outside the mission. Mary stopped when she'd reached a certain path.
Agatha knew every inch of the island, but this path wasn't one that Agatha had ever seen before. It led up to an old beech tree at the top of a hill. Mary whispered to her that she should go up to the path alone. Agatha looked into her granddaughter's eyes. Mary looked strangely confident, as though she knew something Agatha did not. The green and blue light seemed to grow brighter as she made her way up the hill. Agatha trying to keep her focus on the path, but her mind kept wandering.
She pictured things that had happened here as if they were her own memories, although she knew they were not. She kept imagining a great feast and a war dance held in the dead of winter, but was not picturing the people. Instead, she saw great shadows, all with golden eyes. Yet it seemed they absorbed whatever energy was around them.
When there was gaiety, the shadows danced. When a group of warriors came to slaughter them, the shadows became violent in a way she felt in her skin. Agatha shook her head, trying to dispel the images, but they didn't go away. Her heart was suddenly pounding, she stumbled and turned around looking for the trail and the comforting lights of Mackinaw City in the distance, but they were gone. Instead, there was a village she did not recognize being destroyed right before her very eyes.
I got uplinked. She must be going mad. Or or what if she was wrong? What did. The wild spirits were real, but all they knew was violence. She started running toward the top of the hill. She didn't know where she was going, but she had to get away from the visions. All at once. She emerged beneath the outstretched branches of the peach tree and the night was quiet. Once again, she caught her breath and looked around.
Soon, a gray shape moved out from the shadows, swirling like a small cyclone of smoke. When it settled, she saw two golden eyes staring at her from the gray mass. Agatha froze, but remained in place as the shape Lou caught her.
She wouldn't run from it. She had wanted it to show her its visions. So instead she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small clump of tobacco and placed it on the ground. The spirit passed right through her. She'd expected a cold feeling or pain, but instead it was like a warm summer breeze. Thousands of images flooded her mind at once. They were both horrible and beautiful, joyful and sad. Then as quickly as it rushed through her, it left.
Agatha stood breathless, and yet she'd never felt more powerful. A tear came to her eye, her grandmother, stories about the wild spirits were true. They were real and she would continue telling their stories, maybe the world was not so small and dull after all. It was tragic and joyful. The most extensive records of early Odama were people were written in 1887 by a chief named Andrew J. Blackbird, Blackbird tells the story of the populaton national boy, invisible supernatural beings who haunt the woods of Mackinaw Island, continually replaying the slaughter of their people to anyone they encounter.
But it is also said that if you leave some sort of offering for them, they will communicate with you and you would become a prophet to your people. Today, Mackinaw Island is packed with museums and historical sites where visitors can learn about the people who once inhabited the island. Most of these sites focused on European settlers, but the formation of Agatha Biddle's house into a museum was a significant step into restoring the island's indigenous history. Mackinaw Island is a place trapped in time.
The entire island has been declared a historical landmark. Everywhere you go, there are placards that bear the name of the long deceased reminders that our history is never far behind us. Just some. Going back to a simpler time may seem appealing, but the truth is there are no simpler times.
History is a complicated thing. What's important is that we tell it as it was, both the violence and the beauty, lest the spirits of the past seek us out to show us the truth themselves. Thanks again for tuning into haunted places. We'll be back on Thursday with a 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 of those Spotify originals and 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 and Louisa Lewis with writing assistants by Alex Garland, fact checking by Cheyenne Lopez and research by Adriana Gomez. I'm Greg Polson. Hi, it's Vanessa again. Before you go, don't forget to check out the new podcast Limited series, Criminal Couples from apocalyptic cult leaders to bank robbing bandits to married mafiosos.
These couples give new meaning to till death do us part. Enjoy two part episodes every Monday starting February 1st. Follow criminal couples free and exclusively on Spotify.