S3 E7: Six Feet Under: Unearthing the History of Being Buried Alive

 

Taphephobia is the fear of being buried alive. Though probably not a worry rooted in much truth today, being buried alive used to be a lot more common. In the absence of medical technology and morgues, ways of determining whether someone had really died ranged from pinching to burning. Even then, sometimes the person had simply entered into a coma or was paralysed. 

It wasn’t until 1846 that French doctor Eugène Bouchut suggested that they use new stethoscope technology to listen for the existence of a heartbeat that proving death became more certain. Unfortunately for the poor souls in these stories, they weren’t so lucky. 

  Being buried alive is a primal fear that grips one’s very core, triggering a cascade of panic and terror. Imagine, if you will, the suffocating darkness pressing in around you, the weight of soil bearing down like an insurmountable force. With each breath, desperation tightens its grip, fueling frantic attempts to claw through the earth above or pound scratch at the thick wood coffin. Your heart races, pounding against your ribcage as adrenaline courses through your veins, urging you to fight against the inevitable fate that threatens to consume you. Every moment feels like an eternity as you struggle against the confines of your earthen prison, driven by the primal instinct to survive. But with each passing second, hope dwindles, and the chilling realization sets in that escape may be impossible, condemning you to a fate of eternal darkness and solitude. 

 

Hi everyone and welcome back to the dark history podcast where we explore the darkest parts of human history. hope everyone is well I’m Rob your host as always. Welcome to season 3 episode 7, Six Feet Under: Unearthing the History of Being Buried Alive, so we're back this time with the morbid and dark tales, In this chilling exploration, we delve into the terrifying tales and historical accounts of individuals who faced the unthinkable fate of premature burial. From harrowing accounts of accidental internment to spine-tingling anecdotes of narrow escapes, we uncover the dark and macabre realities of being laid to rest before one’s time. So grab your shovels and prepare to dig deep into the eerie world of premature burials! 

            without further ado please turn off those lights sit back and relax next to the fire for more dark history. 

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Chapters

• 0:00 Opening Music
• 1:06 Pre Roll Advert
• 2:21 Opening Description
• 4:26 Hello And Welcome
• 5:44 The Terrifying Tale Of Lawrence Cowthorn
• 12:15 The Tale Of Mrs Blunden
• 14:19 [Ad] Blue Grit Podcast: The Voice of Texas Law Enforcement
• 14:54 (Cont.) The Tale Of Mrs Blunden
• 17:24 The Strange Story Of Marjorie McCall
• 21:43 The Invention Of The Safety Coffin
• 25:32 Thank You For Listening
• 29:03 End Music

Transcript

Six Feet Under: Unearthing the History of Being Buried Alive

Taphephobia is the fear of being buried alive. Though probably not a worry rooted in much truth today, being buried alive used to be a lot more common. In the absence of medical technology and morgues, ways of determining whether someone had really died ranged from pinching to burning. Even then, sometimes the person had simply entered into a coma or was paralysed.

It wasn’t until 1846 that French doctor Eugène Bouchut suggested that they use new stethoscope technology to listen for the existence of a heartbeat that proving death became more certain. Unfortunately for the poor souls in these stories, they weren’t so lucky.

  Being buried alive is a primal fear that grips one’s very core, triggering a cascade of panic and terror. Imagine, if you will, the suffocating darkness pressing in around you, the weight of soil bearing down like an insurmountable force. With each breath, desperation tightens its grip, fueling frantic attempts to claw through the earth above or pound scratch at the thick wood coffin. Your heart races, pounding against your ribcage as adrenaline courses through your veins, urging you to fight against the inevitable fate that threatens to consume you. Every moment feels like an eternity as you struggle against the confines of your earthen prison, driven by the primal instinct to survive. But with each passing second, hope dwindles, and the chilling realization sets in that escape may be impossible, condemning you to a fate of eternal darkness and solitude.

Hi everyone and welcome back to the dark history podcast where we explore the darkest parts of human history. hope everyone is well I’m Rob your host as always. Welcome to season 3 episode 7, Six Feet Under: Unearthing the History of Being Buried Alive, so we're back this time with the morbid and dark tales, In this chilling exploration, we delve into the terrifying tales and historical accounts of individuals who faced the unthinkable fate of premature burial. From harrowing accounts of accidental internment to spine-tingling anecdotes of narrow escapes, we uncover the dark and macabre realities of being laid to rest before one’s time. So grab your shovels and prepare to dig deep into the eerie world of premature burials!

            without further ado please turn off those lights sit back and relax next to the fire for more dark history.

To start Let's travel back in time to the bustling streets of London in 1661, a city teeming with life, yet shrouded in shadows of uncertainty. Amidst the clamor of Newgate Market, a butcher by the name of Lawrence Cawthorn unwittingly became the protagonist of a nightmarish tale that would haunt the collective psyche for centuries to come. His harrowing ordeal, chronicled in the pages of a pamphlet ominously titled "The Most Lamentable And Deplorable Accident," recounts the fateful events that unfolded on a seemingly ordinary day. Little did Lawrence know that his routine journey would lead him to the brink of a fate far worse than death itself – the horrifying prospect of being buried alive. 

               In 1661, London was a bustling metropolis characterized by narrow cobblestone streets, timber-framed buildings, and towering church spires piercing the skyline. The cityscape was a tapestry woven with a mix of grandeur and squalor, where opulent palaces neighbored squalid tenements. The River Thames flowed through the heart of the city, serving as a vital artery of trade and transportation. London was a hub of commerce, with bustling markets like Newgate Market teeming with activity. The city was also a center of culture and politics, home to theaters, taverns, and the royal court at Whitehall Palace. Despite its vibrancy, London in 1661 was also plagued by poverty, disease, and social unrest, with periodic outbreaks of the plague casting a pall over the city. It was a time of contrasts and contradictions, where the allure of prosperity mingled with the specter of adversity, shaping the fabric of life in the capital of England.

           In the heart of bustling London’s Newgate Market, Lawrence Cawthorn toiled as a journeyman butcher, his days consumed by the sights, sounds, and smells of the marketplace. A solitary figure, he resided in the humble abode of Mrs. Cook’s boarding house, a place devoid of luxury but providing the basic shelter he required. However, fate took a cruel turn when illness befell Cawthorn, rendering him bedridden and unable to work. Seizing upon the opportunity, his landlord concocted a sinister scheme to hasten Cawthorn’s demise. With greed as her guide, Mrs. Cook saw an opportunity to profit from Cawthorn’s misfortune. His unpaid rent loomed large in her mind, and she saw his ‘passing’ as a convenient means to open up a bed for a paying tenant. Moreover, with no kin to claim his possessions, she stood to inherit whatever meager belongings he possessed, but only if he drew his last breath within the confines of her establishment. Thus, Cawthorn’s fate was sealed, trapped in a web of deceit spun by those he had entrusted with his care.

                          As days turned into a blur of feverish agony, Cawthorn’s condition deteriorated, his weakening pulse barely a whisper of life. Ignoring the faint glimmer of hope that flickered within him, Mrs. Cook wasted no time in declaring him deceased, eager to rid herself of the burden he had become. Three days passed, marked by the eerie silence that enveloped Cawthorn’s room, until finally, the pronouncement of death echoed through the halls of the boarding house. With solemn efficiency, his lifeless form was entrusted to the undertaker’s care, destined for a final resting place beneath the earth’s cold embrace.

             But as the final clods of earth descended upon Cawthorn’s makeshift tomb, a gut-wrenching sound shattered the silence - a desperate cry for salvation emanating from the depths below. Horror seized the hearts of those present as realization dawned that Cawthorn was not yet lost to the realm of the departed. Frantic efforts ensued as the undertakers hastily dug through the freshly turned soil, their shovels slicing through the earth in a race against time. Yet, their efforts were in vain, for when they finally breached the confines of Cawthorn’s coffin, they were met with a sight that would haunt them for years to come.

Within the confines of his wooden prison, Cawthorn’s once serene countenance was twisted into a mask of terror and despair. His fingers, worn raw from desperate clawing, bore testament to the frantic struggle for freedom that had consumed him. The remnants of his burial shroud lay in tatters around him, torn asunder in his adesperate bid for escape his head bloody and battered from his repeated head buts to the coffin lid. And yet, despite his valiant efforts, he had succumbed to the relentless grip of mortality, his life extinguished in a cruel twist of fate. As they gazed upon the tragic spectacle before them, the undertakers could not help but wonder at the cruel irony of Lawrence Cawthorn’s demise. His landlady was accused of premature burial, and the story was immortalised in myth and legend for hundreds of years.

In a quaint village of 17th-century England, nestled amidst rolling hills and tranquil pastures, resided Mrs. Blunden, a woman of ample proportions with a penchant for the finer things in life. Her husband, a malt dealer by trade, often found solace in the bottom of a tankard, while Mrs. Blunden favored the warmth of brandy to ward off the chill of loneliness in his absence. It was on a fateful day, the 15th of July in the year 1674, that tragedy struck the Blunden household.

With her husband away attending to business, Mrs. Blunden succumbed to the allure of poppy water, slipping into a deep slumber from which she would not easily awaken. Concerned for her well-being, the family summoned the local physician, who, upon administering a cursory examination, deemed her lifeless. With solemn efficiency, preparations were made for her interment, her husband’s absence prompting a request for postponement until his return.

However, the family, eager to expedite matters, proceeded with the funeral arrangements without delay. In a macabre scene that would haunt the memories of those present for years to come, Mrs. Blunden’s substantial frame proved a challenge to fit within the confines of her coffin. With great effort and a crude stick to prod and push, they managed to secure her within the wooden vessel, sealing her fate with a finality that belied the horrors yet to unfold.

Two days passed, the mournful tolling of church bells mingling with the laughter of children at play in the nearby graveyard. It was amidst their innocent frolicking that a chilling sound pierced the tranquility of the cemetery - a muffled voice emanating from beneath the earth. Curiosity piqued, the children pressed their ears to the ground, their hearts pounding in their chests as they listened to the desperate cries for help echoing from the depths below.

Yet, when they shared their harrowing tale with the adults, their words were met with skepticism and scorn. Dismissed as fanciful imaginings, they were chastised for spreading falsehoods, their youthful innocence no match for the rigid disbelief of their elders. It wasn’t until the headmaster himself ventured to the grave, spurred by a nagging sense of unease, that the truth of their claims was laid bare.

With trembling hands and bated breath, the headmaster listened intently, his heart pounding in his chest as he heard the unmistakable pleas for salvation rising from the bowels of the earth. Determined to uncover the source of the unearthly cries, he rallied the villagers to his cause, their collective efforts culminating in a grim discovery that would shake the very foundations of their small community.

As the coffin lid was pried open once more, a scene of horror greeted their eyes - Mrs. Blunden, her once placid countenance contorted in agony, her flesh battered and bloodied from her frantic attempts to escape the confines of her grave. Yet, even as they beheld the gruesome sight before them, it was evident that death had claimed her once more, her tortured soul finally finding release from the earthly torment that had befallen her.

In the aftermath of the tragic events that unfolded, the village was plunged into a state of shock and disbelief, grappling with the grim reality of what had transpired within their midst. Yet, amidst the whispers of scandal and speculation, justice remained elusive, as those responsible for Mrs. Blunden’s premature burial evaded punishment with the dubious defense that their actions had been in accordance with accepted medical practices of the time.

Hidden amidst the labyrinthine streets of Lurgan lies the solemn sanctuary of Shankill Graveyard, a timeless testament to the passage of centuries and the stories etched upon weathered tombstones. Venture beyond the rusted gates, and you’ll find yourself enveloped in a shroud of eerie silence, broken only by the whispering wind and the echoes of bygone tales. It is here, amidst the crumbling sepulchers and ivy-clad mausoleums, that the legend of Margorie McCall unfolds, a tale as chilling as the cold embrace of death itself.

In the year 1695, amidst the throes of a fever, Margorie succumbed to the icy grip of death, her life extinguished before its time. Believing her to be beyond the realm of the living, her grieving family gathered to bid her farewell, holding a wake in accordance with tradition before laying her to rest in the hallowed earth of Shankill Graveyard. Little did they know that their final farewell would be but the beginning of a harrowing ordeal that would defy all reason and logic.

As the moon cast its ghostly glow upon the desolate graveyard, nefarious figures lurked in the shadows, drawn by the promise of ill-gotten gains. Grave robbers, their hearts blackened by greed, descended upon Margorie’s final resting place, their intentions dark and their hands stained with the sin of desecration. With callous disregard for the sanctity of the dead, they pried open her coffin, intent on plundering whatever treasures lay within.

as their grip closed around the precious ring adorning Margorie’s lifeless hand, they realised the were glued tight to her fingers. With one swift swipe of their shoves, they severed poor margories fingers from her hand. With this stroke a miraculous event transpired that would shake them to their very core. With a gasp of breath and a flutter of eyelids, Margorie stirred from her deathly slumber, her once-pale complexion now suffused with the rosy hue of life. Startled beyond belief, the grave robbers recoiled in horror, their blood running cold as they beheld the impossible sight before them.

In a desperate bid to escape the unearthly apparition that stood before them, the robbers fled into the night, their hearts pounding in terror as they sought refuge from the supernatural force that had thwarted their nefarious plans. Meanwhile, Margorie, disoriented yet undeniably alive, emerged from her grave, her senses reeling from the surreal nature of her awakening.

Returning to the warmth of her home, Margorie’s reappearance sparked a chain reaction of disbelief and astonishment, as her husband and children grappled with the incomprehensible truth of her return from the grave. Mr. McCall, upon hearing the unmistakable sound of his wife’s knock at the door, was overcome with shock and disbelief, his very sanity teetering on the brink as he beheld the impossible sight before him.

In the days that followed, whispers of Margorie’s miraculous resurrection spread like wildfire through the streets of Lurgan, weaving a tapestry of wonder and fear that gripped the hearts of all who heard her tale. And though she would go on to live many more years even bringing a new baby into the world, Margorie’s final resting place would ultimately claim her once more and she would be laid to rest in the same plot this time for good.

As you can see being buried alive was quite a common thing and people were terrified of it happening so much that safety coffins were invented. A safety coffin or security coffin is a coffin fitted with a mechanism to prevent premature burial or allow the occupant to signal that they have been buried alive. A large number of designs for safety coffins were patented during the 18th and 19th centuries and variations on the idea are still available today. Most consisted of some type of device for communication to the outside world such as a cord attached to a bell that the interred person could ring should they revive after the burial.

Robert Robinson died in Manchester in 1791. A movable glass pane was inserted in his coffin, and the mausoleum had a door for purposes of inspection by a watchman, who was to see if he breathed on the glass. He instructed his relatives to visit his grave periodically to check that he was still dead.

The first recorded safety coffin was constructed on the orders of Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick before his death in 1792. He had a window installed to allow light in, an air tube to provide a supply of fresh air, and instead of having the lid nailed down he had a lock fitted. In a special pocket of his shroud he had two keys, one for the coffin lid and a second for the tomb door.

P.G. Pessler, a German priest, suggested in 1798 that all coffins have a tube inserted from which a cord would run to the church bells. If an individual had been buried alive they could draw attention to themselves by ringing the bells. This idea, while highly impractical, led to the first designs of safety coffins equipped with signalling systems. Pessler's colleague, Pastor Beck, suggested that coffins should have a small trumpet-like tube attached. Each day the local priest could check the state of putrefaction of the corpse by sniffing the odours emanating from the tube. If no odour was detected or the priest heard cries for help the coffin could be dug up and the occupant rescued.

Dr. Adolf Gutsmuth was buried alive several times to demonstrate a safety coffin of his own design, and in 1822 he stayed underground for several hours and even ate a meal of soup, bratwurst, marzipan, sauerkraut, spätzle, beer, and a dessert, delivered to him through the coffin's feeding tube.

    In 1829, Dr. Johann Gottfried Taberger designed a system using a bell which would alert the cemetery nightwatchman. The corpse would have strings attached to its hands, head and feet. A housing around the bell above ground prevented it ringing accidentally. An improvement over previous designs, the housing prevented rainwater from running down the tube and netting prevented insects from entering the coffin. If the bell rang the watchman had to insert a second tube and pump air into the coffin with a bellows to allow the occupant to survive until the casket could be dug up.

Thank you for taking the time out of I’m your day to listen to this dark episode. You'll be glad to know that this has become less and less common in modern times, I'm not saying it's completely eradicated you just need to ask Octavia smith hatcher who in 1891 was buried alive after she fell into depression after her son died, fell ill then into a coma and ultimately dying, but of course she wasn't dead as a mysterious illness swept the town where she lived. People would fall ill enter into a coma the awaken find and dandy. when her husband saw this he feared she was still alive had her disentombed. Unfortunately, Octavia had died again in the meantime.

   Even more recent then Octavia’s story was the story of Stephen Small. Smalls naferious tale begins in 1987 Stephen was an Illinois native and the heir to publishing and media throne. Small was kidnapped and buried alive in a makeshift wooden box near the town of Kankakee. His assailants, a 30-year-old man named Danny Edwards and his 26-year-old girlfriend, Nancy Rish, crafted a plan to abduct him and keep him immobile underground while asking for a $1 million ransom from his surviving family members. His kidnappers were able to provide the 39-year-old with minimal air, water, and light inside his homemade coffin via tubes, but he was left buried 1 meter or 3 ft under a sandy area. He ended up suffocating after his breathing tube failed.

     Police were only able to find Mr. Small by locating his maroon Mercedes near the burial site. Since Edwards and Rish were convicted, there has been some debate with the testimonies over whether or not the two intended for Mr. Small to die in his coffin. Either way, it was a horrific crime with tragic consequences, and Edwards and Rish will most likely remain behind bars for another 27 years.

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