Due to the graphic nature of this haunted place, listener discretion is advised. This episode includes descriptions of infanticide, abuse, confinement and allusions to rape. We advise extreme caution for children under 13. Magnus clipped a freshly washed clergy shirt to the clothesline, then reached into his basket for another, the wind was blowing hard, shaking the branches of the pines in the surrounding forest. A cherished this routine hanging laundry steadied him. It was something slow and methodical, like prayer or singing hymns.
But most importantly, it gave him a chance to be outside the vicarage, even in the daylight.
The old gray house loomed behind him. No matter the time of day or season, it always seemed to sit in shadow.
The home was built a house, whatever. Holy man arrived to lead the town church, but the house didn't feel wholly. Magnus was a man of God. He tried to keep hate from his heart. But the hate was there within the walls of the vicarage. It made him feel angry. It scared him. He shivered as he glanced at it when he went back to his laundry, but his clean white shirts had disappeared from the coastline and ended up in a pile on the ground.
This grimaced and picked them up, dusting off the dirt. The wind must have knocked them off.
You'd have to rewash them now. Suddenly, Magnis heard a ripping sound. A row of sheets he'd hung earlier in the day lay in the grass.
He bent to retrieve them.
The wind again, perhaps as if, in answer to his thoughts, a breeze picked up and caused the other seats on the line, the ones hanging directly in front of the vicarage to flap softly. Magnus watched, waiting for them to fly away as well. But in a flash, the silhouette of a woman appeared behind them.
Her dress skirt billowed above. The shadow of her body stood still as if waiting.
She reached out and pushed on the cloth, separating them and the soft fabric dipped with her touch.
Magnus's heart pounded as the wind picked up again, but the sheet blew aside to reveal nothing.
He nervously walked to the spot where the woman had been. As he stepped closer, the sheets whipped violently in the wind. One hit his face and then fluttered around his neck. He swatted the sheet away, but he realised that it had wrapped itself around his throat. It grew tighter and tighter and tighter until he couldn't breathe. Welcome to Haunted Places, a Spotify original front podcast. I'm Greg Olsen. Every Thursday, I take you to the scariest, eeriest, most haunted real places on Earth.
You can find episodes of Haunted Places and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. 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 Borya botnet vicarage, the former home of village priests in the Swedish countryside, and discover why to this day it's haunted. Coming up, we'll take a trip to the quiet Swedish countryside.
The tiny Swedish village of Borya Botnet is nestled in the middle of the forest of Jutland, about six hours north of Stockholm. It's an old area with many structures dating back to the 18th century. But perhaps the most notable is its vicarage. Built in 1876, the vicarage served as the home of the village's priests. But it is known today as the most haunted structure in Sweden, though the denomination of the vicarage or its affiliated church is unclear. It was likely Lutheran.
Since the Protestant Reformation of the 16th century, the Church of Sweden was the state religion. Each town or parish was centered around its church, and each church was led by a priest who lived in a vicarage nearby. This figure, a body of artnet, is located in the woods a short distance from the village. It's a modest gray house with two floors and six bedrooms. Its unassuming exterior is fitting for its purpose as the town priest's domicile. But in 1927, the resident priest witnessed an event that suggested something far more mysterious lay within the vicarage as walls.
He watched as laundry was torn from the lines by an unseen force.
Supernatural events have been experienced by other clergy members who have lived there since. But why the vicarage is haunted is the subject of much speculation. Some argue that the place is plagued by abused maids or deceased holy men. But there is one goes to holds the reputation as the primary haunter of the Boy of Artnet Vicarage, The Lady in Grey. And I had to bite into her own palm to keep from screaming this contraction was worse than the last. She massaged her swollen belly, breathing through the pain.
She needed a midwife and quickly. But out the window, a blizzard was blowing in full force. The vicarage was surrounded by a bleak snow laden tree line. The forest was an icy wall, a reminder that even if the storm suddenly stopped and she could climb out the window, the cold would take her. Another contraction surged through her and a bit her palm again. She told herself to focus on something, anything that would keep her quiet so the vicar wouldn't hear her.
So she stared at the bright pink wallpaper. It was the maid's room and decorated for femininity. The room's twin beds had matching pink sheets that went with its walls. Only the huge cross above the door reminded her that she was in a prison and had always been wild. She'd been told more than once that she was going to hell, but when she got in the maid's post at the vicarage, the vicar had convinced her otherwise. He'd made her feel calm and close to God for the first time.
He'd made her realize that maybe, just maybe, her soul wasn't beyond saving. So she let him closer and closer and closer until the day he'd stuck his hand up her skirt and covered her mouth. Afterward, he refused to look at her, and then the morning sickness came and her monthly bleeding stopped. She'd gone to the vicar, then begging him for help. She'd been ruined by him, a man of God, she said. But he ignored her pleas, and once her belly grew too large to hide, he locked her in her room out of sight, as if he didn't want to look at his handiwork.
Whenever she was too loud reminding him she was there, he flew into a rage because she was a reminder that there was no God in him. There was only anger driven by his own overwhelming shame. The labour had started this morning, and she'd managed to keep herself quiet. Until now. She was scared of what he would do when the baby's cries filled the air. When her contractions slowed and lit a candle in the window, she touched the grey fabric that covered her swollen belly, gently humming to the little soul that lay within.
But then a sharp pain ceased her and allow groan escape from her lips. Before she could stop it, the vicar banged on the ceiling from below, a sign that her noise was upsetting him. In that moment, a contraction seized her again and a grab for the window sill to steady herself, knocking the candle to the ground. It hit the floor with a crack, and a small flame erupted on the carpet. She had no choice but to stamp it out.
When she finished, she heard the vicar storming up the stairs. She held her stomach and moaned, her body shaking with pain and fear. The vicar put the key in the lock and open the door. His middle aged body filled the frame. The candle in his hand illuminating the shadows on his bearded face. When he saw Anna on the bed, his eyes turned cold and his hands trembled. The candles flame shook violently as he came closer. Looming over the bed.
Then he began to pray and his blood turned to ice. His candle light danced over the walls of the room, making the cross above the door appear like it was moving, a holy warning, waving to Anna as sweat poured off her brow and her body heaved. But she'd rather look at that than the vicar looming over her. She felt like she was being ripped apart.
She'd heard stories about childbirth, but this was far worse than she'd imagined. Another stab struck her loins and suddenly her body was pushing, pushing as hard as it possibly could. Blood vessels throbbed in her head, her teeth nasch together, and all the while the vicar stared down at her, motionless, praying in that horrifying silence until suddenly her body released and a child poured for the baby screamed as it entered the world, dropping under the bed between her legs and gasped and tried to sit up.
She glimpsed the bottom of her grey dress, now soaked in blood. The pain had released her, but it had taken so much the room spun. She blindly reached for her baby. But the vicar snatched up. The wailing infant is praying, sped up, and I watched him panicked, her arms outstretched, but weak. She demanded he handed the baby. But the vicar only continued muttering his prayers, and his vision grew fuzzy as the blood continued to pour out of her.
Something was wrong. She felt like she was draining, fading. The vicar and her child became shadows. His praying grew frenzied until his voice yelled in a panic madness.
And I lay there, her heart gripped with fear, her body paralysed by weakness. She called out for her child, but the vicar disarms abruptly, and the infant's cries were cut off. And his mouth fell open in horror, but no sound came out, her world was fading. She had long been a symbol of the vicar's shame and locked away in this room. But even as her body drifted into nothingness, still, he didn't look at her.
She and her baby had died, but she would make sure. But it would not be in vain. No one knows who the woman in gray truly is, but the tale surrounding the vicarage leave us with some ideas. One story tells of a maid who became pregnant from the vicarage priest once she began to show she was shut away in a cottage on the grounds and kept under lock and key until she gave birth. The child was killed either by the woman herself or the priest and buried on the north side of the home.
Guests and former residents claim they've heard screams and the haunting cries of a woman and an infant coming from the so-called pink. But this is not the vicarage is only tragic childbirth story. In the early 1980s, the vicar's wife died giving birth to her 11th child. According to one legend, the vicar kept her corpse in the home by his side after she passed until the villagers forced him to bury her death during childbirth was common in this era. But not every mother or child was mourned as dearly as the Vickers wife.
Some were hidden away never to be remembered, although we might not know who the grey lady is for certain. One thing is clear. She refuses to be forgotten. Coming up, the vicarage is new priest inherits more than he bargained for listeners this month marks 60 years since John F. Kennedy became the 35th president of the United States, ushering his already prominent family into the highest enclaves of political power. But behind their storied successes like secrets and scandals so severe, if it were any other lineage, they would have been left in ruin this January.
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Now back to the story. Reports are that the carriages undead residents steadily increased through the 1980s with the first widely reported sighting in 1927. In 1930, a chaplain claimed to have seen the gray lady in the foyer fondly called the Great Hall. He followed the woman, but she disappeared in a room called the Expedition. The expedition was used as the vicar's office and has been a frequent spot for ghost sightings in the vicarage. Unfortunately for a priest who took a residence at the vicarage in the 1940s, odd occurrences were not contained within the expedition.
They were everywhere. Sebastian's fountain pen traveled across the page of the ledger, quickly filling in the church's new purchases. He had a lot to get through. He wasn't just doing the accounting from 1945. No one had kept any church records for years. The light on the ceiling above him flickered. The room was an old office, but like the accounting books, it hadn't been tended to. In some time, the wallpaper was peeling and gaps in the windows let a cold draught into the house each time the wind blew.
God praised modesty, but the vicarage was downright derelict and Sebastian didn't fit with derelict. Sebastian licked his fingers and smoothed his eyebrows as he worked. He wasn't some old scruffy priest. He was young, handsome, charming. He had arrived at the vicarage last week, eager to get started. This was his first position entirely on his own. But he quickly realized that he'd inherited a mess. The church needed a plethora of repairs to make it a viable fixture of the community again.
And Sebastian didn't want to just be a priest at a rural church. He wanted to be the best priest at the most magnificent church. But he'd managed to convince himself that coming to the boy of Artnet Parish was a good thing. Turning a piece of dung into gold is always more impressive than polishing something already gilded. And if Sebastian could turn this church into something special, then he'd earned the ardor of his superiors and his next post could be an Upsala or he crossed himself.
He must not say Stockholm. It was too big. God forgive him for thinking so big. It was vanity. But the truth was Sebastian had always wanted more and he knew it. Nice things. Attention, praise. Priests should be examples of piousness. And Sebastian's vanity was his secret shame. Someone knocked softly at the front door. Sebastian frowned. He glanced at his papers forlornly. He still had so much to do. He sighed in annoyance and went to answer the door.
A young woman was standing on his front steps. Snow was piled high around the stoop, and she was balanced precariously on a drift. Her gray dress whipped about in the cold wind. Sebastian took note of its frayed hem and worn patches. She shivered, pulling her worn coat tightly around her against the frigid air. She apologized for the late hour, but ask Sebastian if he would partake in a confession. She'd missed the service this morning. Sebastian stared at her.
His time was precious, and judging by her clothes, she wasn't someone he needed to impress.
He knew the likes of her young village women with no money and nowhere to go. Her confession might turn into an entire evening of begging. He told the woman to wait until the next service. He'd be happy to hear her confession. Then her smile faltered. But she nodded and hurried into the darkness. Sebastian closed the door.
His chest prickled with guilt. He was the priest. It was his job to help, but he shook off his concern. He was a good man, he told himself, trying to glorify the church. He returned to the office and sat in the rocking chair. As soon as he sat down, the chair lurched forward, knocking him from his seat. He hit the floor in a daze. He wondered if he sat on it wrong. But can you sit on a rocking chair wrong?
He slowly rose and sat in it again. He was once again thrown to the ground, this time with more intensity, he scrambled to his feet, staring at the chair nervously. A loud scraping then shook the ceiling above him like furniture was moving, but he didn't have any furniture upstairs, he'd only been here a week and his furniture had yet to arrive. He'd been sleeping downstairs on the sofa. The lights flickered as the wind picked up. The house moaned as if it took great effort to stay standing.
Sebastian slowly walked upstairs to investigate the noise. He checked each room carefully, no furniture, no interlopers, he came to the pink room last, he called it that because of its pink wallpaper, though it was more gray than pink at this point, maybe once it had been bright and cheery. But now Sebastian flicked on the light but remained in the hall. Just outside the doorway. The room brightened from the overhead bulb.
Suddenly, the doors of the room.
Sebastian had checked, all slammed shut at once, startling him. He stood there stunned, but told himself it was just the wind.
That first draft, the light in the pink room, shut off. Sebastian frowned and flipped the switch. It came on again just for a moment, and then turned off again. Sebastian stared at the switch in confusion and then a pair of hands pressed on his back.
Before he could turn to look, he was shoved into the room and the door slammed shut behind him, Sebastian banged his fists against the door, but it wouldn't budge. That's when he noticed a wooden cross hanging above the doorframe. He stared at it, unnerved. He hadn't seen it there before. When he turned back to the room, it wasn't empty anymore. A lit candle now sat on the windowsill and next to it the previously bare mattress at a pile of disheveled sheets at its center.
They were covered in blood. Sebastian stumbled backwards, in shock, murmuring a prayer under his breath. The sheets fell gently to the side, and a young woman's face peered out from the folds. Her tears stained cheeks were pale and drawn. She pushed the sheets off her body to reveal the gray dress, its bottom soaked in blood. It was the same woman that had been at his door, the same woman who asked him for a confession. His heart pounded how she got him in here.
He stammered that she needed to leave now, but when she looked at him, her grief was no longer just contained to her eyes. Her mouth fell open and a mournful wail Sebastian back toward the door, praying frantically as his prayers rose in volume, so did her. Koening The gut wrenching sound poured out of her mouth, drowning out his desperate pleas until he found himself shouting nonsense. He yelled at her that he would get her a new dress, a place to stay, anything for the love of God.
He cried, just leave. She stopped screaming and looked at him, tears still falling down her face. She murmured that he looked ashamed. She could tell Sebastian gripped the doorknob, but it was still locked. The woman screamed, telling him that it wasn't her confession she was asking for. It was his. He had placed his vanity and priestly ambition above, helping a soul in need. She cried out, ordering him to release the sick, vile shame he had kept hidden.
Sebastian screamed back. She was a sick woman. He didn't owe her any sort of confession, nor did she have a right to demand one. He was the priest. As soon as the words left his lips, the light came on.
The room was empty. Once again, Sebastian slumped against the door, his heart pounding. It had worked. He looked around, relieved. Everything was as before. The pinkish wallpaper had returned to its faded, lacklustre gray. He vowed that as soon as he got the chance, he would gut the bedroom, ridding it of any trace of the wretched experience. He went to open the door, but the knob was stuck. He grappled with it, but then caught his reflection in its shiny brass surface.
Something was wrong. He looked changed. Sebastian then turned to an old mirror at the adjacent wall. His skin was sagging and muddled and his hair had disappeared, revealing a bald spotted head. He screamed and sank to his knees. Then the door opened. The hideousness he had hidden within was finally visible to all.
Of all the priests who lived at the bottom of that vicarage, it was a vicar who lived there in the 1940s who made it famous after a rocking chair inexplicably threw him to the floor. He became certain a supernatural force was present in the House. He allegedly went to the church and begged them to investigate. Other people got wind of the haunting rumors and interviewed the priest about his experiences. Once word spread and the church acknowledged that the vicarage had a history of spiritual unrest.
It was quickly established as irrefutably haunted. Nearly 40 years later, after the vicarage had been converted into a hotel, the vicarage made headlines again when renowned Ghost Priest tour of Portland arrived in Borya Botnet. She had intended to exorcise the house of its spirits but had little luck and left within the year, giving the vicarage even more notoriety. It seemed as if the house had scared him off. Perhaps not even tour of porcelain could contend with the grey lady.
And so there she remains, waiting for whatever poor soul is foolish enough to enter. Coming up, a mother and daughter tried to make it through a night in the vicarage. Now back to the story. In recent years, the new owners of the vicarage saw an opportunity in its dark history. They converted it into a hotel that offers supernatural diehards the chance to actually sleep in haunted rooms and for a price. Visitors have the option to rent the whole house and they even get a diploma if they can make it through the night.
Helen had given her 30 year old daughter, Trish, free rein to plan their girls trip, but as soon as they pulled up to their lodgings, she knew that had been a mistake. Instead of lying in the sun somewhere in the Mediterranean, they were wrapped in parkas pulling up to some haunted priest's house in Sweden. It wasn't exactly Helen's idea of fun. This was their first vacation together. Helen had been a part time mom for most of Tricia's life that was being generous.
Helen had literally done everything she could to avoid being a mom. She'd gone off on work trips, retreats and vacations, leaving Trish with a new babysitter every time. Basically, Helen had abandoned Trish regularly. It wasn't totally Helen's fault. She'd been a single mother and way, way too young. She hadn't wanted motherhood to stop her from doing what she wanted to do. It wasn't that she didn't love trash, she'd just been selfish. Plus, Trish had always seemed fine with it.
She'd done well in school and it was always mature for her age. But as she grew into an accomplished young woman, Helen began to realize that she couldn't take credit for any of it. Trish had succeeded in spite of Helen and the realization Ilja with shame. Helen had never exactly addressed this directly with her daughter. Right now they were just guilty feelings. Talking about it would make them both realise how much the hurtful parts of their past may have been.
Helen's fault. And Helen was terrified Trish would resent her for it. No, some things were better left unsaid or solved with the girls trip.
But maybe if she'd known her daughter a little better, Helen would have done the planning herself. Trish was a history nerd and this lovely BMB is what she'd chosen the most haunted place in Sweden. Helen thought she shouldn't have taken work off for this. Come in, Trish got out of the taxi and took in the shabby, quaint structure of the vicarage, it's light gray paneling barely stood out amid the surrounding snow. It seemed fated, like 100 years of intense winter had diluted its colour.
Even so, it looked pretty harmless. In the light of day, or at least what was left of the day, the light was quickly dwindling, even though it was only two p.m. that Swedish winter for you, Trish told her. Helen stared at the taxi forlornly as it drove away. At the front door, Helen and Trish were greeted by a small woman who looked as weather worn as the vicarage is exterior. She said all but two words of hello, then handed them the keys and left.
Helen looked at Trish in confusion and Trish explained they'd get to have the whole house to themselves. Helen didn't realize they'd be totally alone. But Trish just shrugged and told Helen she just thought it would be something different to do something historical. Anyone could lie on a beach. Not everyone gets to spend the night in the most haunted house in Sweden. Helen smiled stiffly. She wondered at the beach. Comet was a dig, but decided she was just being sensitive.
They set their bags down at the door and looked around a folding table with a vat of rapidly cooling coffee, awaited them at the downstairs foyer. Helen took in the room's maroon wallpaper and mustard flooring.
It made the place seem dark, and the dwindling daylight didn't help. She flipped on a light, Helen and Trish and looked at each other. The silence suddenly felt awkward. Helen suggested they go pick their rooms and Trish brightened. She'd heard one of the rooms had been the maids accommodations. A woman died there, Trish said, giving birth again. Helen was sure that Trish meant something by that. Was she trying to point out that some moms died for their kids?
But Trish stared at Helen innocently and handed her a brochure she'd found beside the coffee. Before Helen could respond. Tricia leapt up the grand staircase two at a time. Helen followed, but when she got to the top, Trish was gone. Helen called her name, but heard nothing. Not even the creek of Trish moving around the house at her, right, a door was ajar. It had a sign on it that said Grotesqueness Room. Helen pulled out her cell to look up what that meant.
It translated quickly, the crier's room. Yikes. She pushed the door open and called out for Tresh, but the small room was empty. She flipped on a light, taking in the grayish pink wallpaper and two twin sized beds with pink sheets. Suddenly, she heard a soft whipping. She turned back to the hallway to see where it was coming from, but the upstairs landing was empty. Helen walked to the top of the stairs and looked down, calling Tricia's name again.
No one answered. Then a muffled, methodical thud came from outside the house. She went to the window to look for the source, but daylight had completely disappeared and she couldn't see into the dark yard. Helen descended the stairs and walked nervously through the vicarage. She didn't believe in ghosts, but this was undeniably creepy. She kept calling for Tresh, but the only sound that answered her was the thudding from the yard. She found a back door and stepped outside.
The night had gone cold since the cab had dropped them off and the wind had picked up. She shivered and turned to head back in. But at the north side of the house, Helen saw something moving in the darkness. It was a young woman wearing a gray dress, shoveling snow. A groundskeeper, Helen Yelda, greeting and waved, but received no answer. She stepped closer, noticing that the woman was frantically digging a hole. The shoveling stopped.
The woman looked up and Helen saw her eyes were bloodshot. The kind of red when you've been crying for a long time. Helen's heart hammered in her chest as the woman slowly pointed at the hole and said in a raspy voice. This is what happens when you hide your shame. Helen didn't know whether to step forward or run away, but her feet seemed to decide for her. She stepped closer, then closer, still crunching through the snow until she could look down.
At the bottom of the hole was Tricia's face. Her eyes were closed, her lips blue. Helen screamed, shaking her head to get rid of the horrible image it wasn't possible, Trish was fine, she was imagining it, but the icy cold whipping at her face told her this wasn't a dream. Helen dropped to her knees and reached into the hole, frantically scraping aside the cold dirt, trying to free her daughter.
The woman's voice whispered in her ear, telling Helen that she'd done this to trash her neglect, her reluctance to just say the two words her daughter needed to hear most. I'm sorry, Helen screamed. Her chest burned like she'd swallowed fire.
And then a voice called out asking Helen what she was doing. It was trash. She stood at the vicarage door looking at Helen like she was at the same. Helen looked down in shock, suddenly Tricia's corpse had disappeared, so had the hole and the lady in gray, it was just Helen sitting in a pile of snow. She staggered to her feet and ran toward Tresh, wrapping her arms around her tightly. So tightly hot tears fell from Helen's eyes as she stammered.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Helen clutched her son, daughter, sobbing and shivering. She felt Tricia's arms and her and her soft voice whispered into her ear. I forgive you, Trish said. Religion can provide a set of guidelines that advise the faithful on how to get through the treacherous journey of life, how to deal with regrets and transgressions, tragedies and misfortune. But for some, the Church of Sweden established itself as an inescapable entity.
And with it came expectations on how to live your daily life. Sweden has grown more religiously diverse over the years, and Swedes have been allowed to withdraw from the Church of Sweden since the 1950s and the year 2000, church and state were officially separated, according to twenty eighteen data from Pew Research. Only 10 percent of Swedes say religion is very important in their lives. But where religion created expectations in the past, other things may now replace it. Social media, political alliances, peers and families.
There are still societal expectations and they can feel claustrophobic. And when we don't meet these standards, shame can creep in and announced secular Sweden. The haunted vicarage can be understood as a ghostly reminder of a time when sins were hidden away at whatever cost. Yet even today, its ghosts are kept inside the vicarage, its walls, just as many of us still hide the parts of ourselves that feel shameful. But maybe the soft footsteps of the gray lady can remind us that there's a bone to heal that shame, naming it so that we can move forward.
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 the Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify.
I'll see you next time. Haunted Places is a Spotify original from podcast executive producers include Max and Ron Cutler, Sound Design by Kenny Hobbs with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Erin Larson. This episode of Haunted Places was written by Kate Murdoch with writing assistants by Alex Garland, fact checking by Claire Cronin and research by Adriana Gomez. I'm Greg Polson. Fact fiction fame discovered the real story behind one of history's most formidable families in the Spotify or original fun podcast, The Kennedys.
Remember, you can binge all 12 episodes starting on Tuesday, January 19th. Listen free and exclusively on Spotify. Hi, it's Vanessa again. Before you go, don't forget to check out the new Parkhurst 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.