Killer Ending

or rooting around in their closet. It's not always possible to lock something valuable away, because someone nosy enough will always find a way to get to it. Scribes in the Middle Ages had similar problems. They were typically monks who were experts in the art of handwriting and calligraphy. Churches at the time housed most books and would send their scribes to other churches to copy important manuscripts for

their own libraries. A dedicated monk would spend morning till night hunched over a desk, fingers gripping their pen until the sun disappeared. Candles were too dangerous to use around the manuscripts for obvious reasons. Many books from that era had been lost due to fires, some accidentally, some set deliberately, so when darkness fell it was time to retire. The work would then begin with the sun the next day.

When a scribe finished a book, he might write a little note at the end to let the reader know who copied it and what they had endured. Some messages were even amusing, like the one that read, please give me a drink. Elsewhere the comment let my right hand be free from pain conveyed in simple words a sad truth about the real cost of these volumes. Books of this time period were typically made of parchment, a kind

of paper made from animal skin. This material was crafted by skilled tradesmen, which meant it cost quite a bit of money to procure. Ascribe would then copy an important manuscript onto it, such as the Bible. All of this specialized labor made books collectors items for the wealthy. However, since these objects were usually found only in monasteries and certain private collections, they also became prime targets for thieves,

and it was easy picking too. These scribes didn't have a proper way to safeguard their works in progress, and their libraries didn't have the space or resources to keep every volume behind lock and key. Instead, they came up with a more inventive way to discourage people from stealing their books. They used their words. At the beginning of a volume, and sometimes even at the end, the scribe or the book's owner would write a curse for any

would be thief. Punishments wished upon them ranged from excommunication from the church or anathema, a special formal curse issued by someone powerful like the pope, two more um creative methods of retribution. For example, one third teenth century text kept at the Vatican cursed anyone who stole it with having their eyes torn out. Others warn of being hanged or eaten by pigs, or drowned, sometimes all three together.

And book curses weren't bestowed only upon thieves. If a book was borrowed and not returned, or if it was damaged, then that person might invite all kinds of torture upon themselves. They could be sentenced to the pits of hell, where they would be poked with forks by demons. Some books just flat out implied that the offending person would die immediately. Of course, scribes didn't spend much of their time coming up with a large variety of curses to put in

their books. Most medieval text features similar warnings within their pages. The messages were just meant to be a simple deterrent. At the time, something as serious as anathema or excommunication was enough to ward off all but the greediest defenders. For them to lose a connection to the church was punishment worse than death. Still, it's clear by of the more detailed curses that scribes and book owners took at least a little pleasure in explaining exactly how a thief

was supposed to die. In one copy of the Christian Bible, written during the late eleven hundred, ascribe wrote the following, if anyone take away this book, let him die the death, let him be fried in a pan. Let the falling sickness and fever sees him. Let him be broken on the wheel and hanged effective. Well, it's hard to say for sure, but curious you better believe it. There's a reason people are afraid of the dark. It's our fear of the unknown, what might be lurking in the shadows,

waiting to strike. Sure, our parents tell us, as they tuck us into bed, that there's nothing to worry about, that the dark can't hurt us, But oh how wrong they are. In Kenya, in the British began construction of a railway bridge over the Tsavo River. The project was part of a massive undertaking to connect Uganda with the Indian Ocean. Miles of camps were set up and thousands of Indian laborers moved in to start work on the bridge.

Heading up the project was John Henry Patterson, a lieutenant colonel with the British Army, but just days after his arrival, the disappearances started. For nine months, workers were snatched from their tents each night. Sometimes there would be no trace of them, but occasionally the remains would be found just outside of camp. And nothing they did to keep their

attackers at bay worked. The campfires they built couldn't protect them, neither could the barricades they made using the local whistling thorn trees. No matter how hard they tried to protect themselves, it just wasn't enough. Whatever was stocking them in the darkness was determined to get them. The disappearances did eventually stop, temporarily, at least, which relieve the laborers who thought the worst was finally behind them. Sadly, whatever had been taking them

had moved on to a nearby encampment instead. Once they'd grown board, the attackers returned and the abductions increased. Every night, another worker disappeared into the African wilderness, never to be seen again. But Patterson eventually figured out what was going on. There had always been two assailants, he said, but in the beginning only one would enter the camp while the others stayed behind. Once they'd gotten comfortable, both of them

entered together, picking people off too at a time. The laborers believed that they were plagued by a demonic force brought on by Patterson's arrival. After all, the disappearances had started shortly after he'd come to Tsavo. They were terrified, so much so that many started to leave the work camp, which put the project on hold, and of course, Patterson was also afraid he was at risk of both being mutinied by his workers and of being snatched by what

lurked in the darkness. The British authorities stepped in to put a stop to the killings, but don't think of them as a night in shining armor coming to rescue the workers. They were more worried about the financial straits of the project. Caused by the shutdown, so they sent an officer named Mr. Whitehead along with his assistant to investigate, but just after arriving Methodsavo train station, Whitehead was attacked. He suffered multiple lacerations to his back while his assistant

was carried off. Words soon got back to the main office and Indian soldiers were quickly dispatched to hunt down who or what was plucking these workers from their tents. But rather than weighed around and watched the infantrymen fall like toy soldiers one by one, Patterson decided to take matters into his own hands. He was a hunter and this would prove to be his most dangerous game. After setting a trap, he climbed up into a tree and

took his position for the night. When the killers arrived as expected, Patterson named his rifle and fired the bullet hit one attacker in the leg, wounding it. Sometime later, though, it came back, and when it did Patterson was ready. He fired another round, as time through its shoulder and straight into its heart, instantly killing it. Its partner was more resilient, though it took almost two weeks, nine bullets and three rifles before it was finally put down for good.

The workers soon returned to camp, and the bridge was completed in February, and Patterson became a hero, a kind of living legend. No one knew exactly how many laborers had been killed in the end, but Patterson estimated around a hundred and thirty five casualties. The actual numbers, though, are thought to be much smaller, perhaps around thirty victims in total. As for the attackers, well, they were skinned

and used as rugs in Patterson's home. Today, they're reconstructed bodies as well as their actual skulls, are all on display at Chicago's Field Museum of Natural History. Visitors can find them in the Animal Hall. The camps hadn't been attacked by angry locals who didn't want a bridge built, nor a competing construction company. In fact, the laborers hadn't been killed by people at all. Lieutenant Colonel Patterson had faced down two killers that had discovered what an abundant

hunting ground a work camp could really be lions. I hope you've enjoyed today's guided tour of the Cabinet of Curiosities. Subscribe for free on Apple Podcasts, or learn more about the show by visiting curiosities podcast dot com. The show was created by me Aaron Manky in partnership with how Stuff Works. I make another award winning show called Lore, which is a podcast, book series, and television show and you can learn all about it over at the World

of Lore dot com. And until next time, stay curious.