World's Creepiest Places

by Bob Curran

  The 28th King of the Yarlung Dynasty (it is possible that prior to the establishment of the Tibetan Empire, these kings did not rule all of Tibet, but only the Yarlung region), he was Lha Thothori Nyantsen (the prefix Lha denotes that he is a sky god) who ruled around the late 600s. It is possible that he was an actual person, as he is mentioned in certain Chinese texts. During his reign, a golden dome (or stupa), together with a massive jewel, and a sutra (a volume of aphoristic sayings) that no one could read all fell from the skies in the vicinity of the Yumbulagang. The jewel and the sutra were taken in to the building and were stored in a secret room to which no one had access. At the same time, a mighty voice from the Heavens announced that “within five generations shall come one who can understand the meaning of the Sutra and the significance of the jewel.” So far this person (if it is a person) has not appeared.

  The palace became a Gelugpa (Yellow Hat—a branch of Tibetan Buddhism) teaching monastery during the reign of the 5th Dalai Lama, Lobsang Gyatso in the 17th century. Today, it is something of a tourist attraction and photos of it appear all across the Internet. However, strange stories about it still persist, adding to its mystery and eeriness.

  For instance, there are said to be a number of secret chambers hidden away within its confines where no man is allowed to go, and in one of these is a being that no man can look upon. The construction of the building would seem to lend itself to such an idea. It is built in two sections—the front being a high, three-story building, while the rear portion is built like a tower, containing a number of rooms in which various statues and shrines are kept. These were said to include the effigies of King Neichi, first king of Tibet, and also of Songtsan Gampo, founder of the Tibetan Empire. The legend of Nyatri Tsenpo is said to disguise an even deeper ancient truth concerning ancient beings. Might the idea that an ancient “king” descended from the skies on a golden rope (or a golden ladder) be a disguised code for something that was unworldly and held within the monastery? Perhaps something else came from the skies, or perhaps some being has been confined there since the early days of the world. No one knows where these particular chambers are or what is confined there, but it is said that the mere sight of it is enough to drive a man mad and shake our deeply held beliefs about the origins of the Universe. There is an old tale from this area that the Head Lamas of the monastery would only enter the rear sections of the building after completing certain rituals and uttering certain protective incantations. Only then would their sanity be protected from whatever they saw within the area. Could this truly be something in the style of H.P. Lovecraft?

  It is certainly an intriguing legend that has exercised many imaginations in the West. Indeed, one of those whose interest it piqued was the Nazi leader Adolph Hitler. Hitler was interested in the ancient origins of races and in the primal world in general—believing that the Aryan race may have come from some prehistoric and forgotten source. His theories enthused some of his followers, in particular Heinrich Himmler, who became fascinated by Asian mysticism. Himmler became friends with the German zoologist and explorer Ernst Schafer who had conducted a number of expeditions into the Himalayas with the intention of exploring great parts of Tibet. Schafer indicated to Himmler that he wished to mount another expedition to the country and this was funded in part by the German Cultural Department on the understanding that it would conduct certain experimentation and investigations for the German government. According to legend, part of the “investigations” was to visit the Yumbulagang Monastery and negotiate a way into the secret chamber in order to prepare a report on what was there for the Nazi High Command. This specific order was said to come directly from Hitler himself. In order to give the expedition a quasi-military and official flavor, Schafer was given a position in the Nazi SS. The expedition took place between May 1938 and August 1939.

  In January 1939, the team reached the Tibetan capital of Lhasa where they were permitted to remain for two months, studying culture, religion, and agriculture, as well as meeting Tibetan nobles. At the end of the two months, they set out on what appears to be the most secretive aspect of their mission—to the Yarlung Valley and the Yumbulagang monastery. This was, at the time, a very mysterious area and one to which previous British expeditions to Tibet had sought entry, but had been refused. What transpired within the Monastery is unknown, but the team left the area in great haste after they had visited it—the reason for this was given as being a swift return to Germany because of the approaching war. But was that the real reason? Stories that have developed around the visit to the Yarlung Valley state that although the German expeditioners were not taken into the hidden room or rooms, they were, nevertheless, shown “a great secret,” which shook the entire expedition that eventually caused them to hurriedly leave Tibet. It is also said that a report was certainly sent by Schafer directly to Hitler in Berlin but that the report was heavily sealed and for the eyes of the Fuhrer only. What became of that report is unknown and its contents still remain a secret. However, many of his acquaintances say that Ernst Schafer was never comfortable in confined spaces or closed rooms after his return from Tibet. What was that “great secret” that Schafer was shown? No one knows, for he never spoke of it afterward and it died with him in 1992.

  The expedition is often confused with the Nanga Parbat Expedition, which was in the region at the same time (May 1939–August 1939). This was essentially a mountaineering expedition that included Heinrich Harrer, a renowned Alpinist (and member of the SS Alpine Unit), and wanted to conquer Nanga Parbat (the name means Naked Peak), a killer mountain in the Himalayas that Harrer was determined to climb. However, it’s thought that the expedition had been commissioned by the Fuhrer to look into other things besides climbing mountains. There was some speculation that the expedition leader, Peter Aufschnater, had been directed to collect a number of tales, especially those concerning what might be housed in the Yumbulagang and convey these back to Berlin upon his return. Whether this was done or not is unclear, as the expedition was captured by British forces under the command of Major General Alan Van Dyke, patrolling the mountains at the outbreak of World War II in October 1939. They managed to escape, although Harrer was recaptured, but managed to escape yet again. He arrived with Aufschnater in Tibet once more in 1944, travelling to Lhasa, where he lived until the Chinese arrival early in 1951. If he had brought back some of the tales concerning Yumbulagang, they remain in an archive somewhere in Germany and probably have since been lost.

  So, although the monastery looks picturesque and in the middle of a breathtaking location does it hold a darker and more spectacular secret? There is a tale of an Italian explorer who visited the monastery in the 1920s (before the Nazi expedition) and who became friends with the Head Lama. It was said that, on his own insistence, he was taken into the secret room by the lamas. He turned up in Kathmandu in Nepal many months later, having fled the place along the Lhasa Road, raving and out of his mind. He never recovered his senses. His name is not given, but the story is said to be true. It is also said that this was the story that piqued Hitler’s curiosity about Yumbulagang and prompted him to take a personal interest in Ernst Schafer’s expedition.

  What, then, lurks within the secret chambers of the ancient monastery? A spaceman from another world; some remote ancestor from which we are descended; something else too hideous to view? The answer may lie in a lost dossier from the 1930s, lying somewhere in Germany. But it’s certainly enough to send a shiver along your spine.

  Conclusion

  “Some people do not believe in ghosts. For that matter

  some people do not believe in anything.”

  —Mrs. J.H. Riddell, The Open Door

  And so we reach the end of our journey. The choice of locations was, I admit, wholly arbitrary on my part, so I hope you found something truly creepy among them. It was a tough choice, and I could have filled another book of the same length with other places. Although they held certain macabre attractions, I tried to stay away from sites where rea
lly horrific acts had taken place such as Plainsville, Wisconsin (the home of the deranged serial killer Ed Gein) or areas of Crawley, London (the haunt of the vampire-killer John George Haigh), or even the gas chambers of the Nazi concentration camps in which millions of Jews and others were slaughtered. These places evoke responses in us, but perhaps the origins of these responses are of a rather different nature than that of genuine “creepiness.” One of the most “creepy” feelings I have ever had was when I stood in the Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp in northwestern Germany. I had been giving a talk with some colleagues in Berlin and had traveled north to the camp on a free day. As I stood in the open yard of the camp, I experienced something of a shiver running down my spine. But that sensation came not from the thrill of unease, but from one of utter horror and revulsion at what had happened within that location. Was it a feeling of “creepiness”? Yes and no. Probably something much more visceral, something lacking the subtlety of unease and uncertainty. Maybe that’s why I enjoy the old ghostly movies of yesteryear a bit more than the gory horror flicks of today, and why I tend to read more of the older better-crafted tales of bygone authors than the more modern-day splatter stories. But I hope that my choice of places has fascinated you while at the same time sending a shiver along your spine.

  So what have we learned about the nature of “creepiness” in our travels? First, that there’s perhaps no real definition for the feeling and that it can mean different things to different people. It’s a response, certainly, but maybe each person responds in a different way. And that the sensation/response is a very complex one. It’s a bit more sophisticated than imagining that something or somebody may be lurking under your bed or in the wardrobe as you did when a child (although that may well be at least a part of it). It’s more about responding to the context in which you find yourself. Although it is, I think, certainly a physical sensation, it is also one which relies on our mental and imaginative faculties. We are aware of the history of and/or the traditions concerning the site and, given this knowledge, we can imagine what might happen to us or what we might experience there. Of course, the very setting or association of the place itself may help—the lonely house, the isolated island, the remote monastery, the spectral castle, or the connection with someone sinister or obviously weird—but part of the feeling must derive from our own mental and imaginative activity. It relies on the notion of what we perceive might occur. This is what, I think, differentiates the “creepy” feeling from the basic stomach-turning schlock horror response to some of today’s movies, television, and books, which would appear to have become something of a staple in what passes for modern-day “horror.”

  Secondly, “creepiness” may require a certain attitude in order to be effective. You may well have read through this book and found some of the stories and places interesting—you may even have said “I really must go there at some point, as I’d like to see that”—without experiencing any sort of chill along your spine. Maybe (and I’m willing to acknowledge the possibility) you bought this book as a kind of travel guide to unusual holiday places. In which case, you might have enjoyed reading about some of the sites—they may even have made you think—but won’t really have experienced that “creepy thrill.” Others of you might have been scared out of your wits. As with any other response, “that creepy feeling” requires some form of willing engagement at various levels. If you deliberately dismiss or shut out the possibility of this engagement, then such places will usually leave you cold.

  Lastly, I think, despite being a recognized response, such a feeling originates in our deep-seated fear of the unknown. Perhaps it is a primal thing—when our ancestors looked out into the dark beyond the light of their tribal fires or community lanterns and heard the movements and howls of unknown animals, it provoked a reaction in them. Not exactly fear (although fear is a part of it), but some feeling that was a mixture of curiosity, anticipation, and alarm. What sort of creature waited out there in the gloom, making these noises? Once again, imagination kicked in. All sorts of bizarre creatures might lurk in the dark, and they might have glimpsed them in their mind’s eye. Such things may have been spectral or unworldly, or they might have been based on creatures that they knew, distorted by the dark or failing light. Indeed, they may have recognized the calls—after all they may have seen such animals in daylight—but the darkness and the strangeness of the landscape (the context once again) added a different resonance to the sounds. And to some extent, that feeling hasn’t left us and it forms the basis of the creepy feeling along our collective spines. This may be further linked to a feeling of helplessness in the face of an unknown danger which has been a part of us down through the ages until the present day. It even manifests itself when we watch something horrible rise up behind the hero of a film who doesn’t really realize that it’s there—he or she doesn’t know where the thing is, although we do—and we’re not sure what’s going to happen. The feeling of “creepiness” (that awful sense of anticipation) runs through our bodies. It’s the not knowing or not being in control that stimulates it.

  All these factors, of course, vary from person to person, so maybe each one of you got something different out of this book. In the end, with so many other things, it is our interpretation that is crucial, and I hope you’ve found something to interpret in a way which gives you “the creeps.” However, as I said, I could have filled another volume with similar places to stimulate you and leave you feeling uneasy.

  And of course there are those—and I’ve certainly met a few of them—who have never experienced a creepy feeling in their lives. Are they any less sensitive than those who do? Are they any less imaginative? Maybe not—perhaps they just interpret the world slightly differently or perhaps they just refuse to respond to things that they don’t know in a certain way. For them, things are “curious” or “interesting,” but not really “creepy.” They will require a different sort of book.

  For the rest of us, however, such places will exercise a terrible fascination and still have the capacity to stimulate our imaginations and to give us that particular thrill that we call “creepiness.” Long after we’ve closed this book, we might still have the urge to look behind the chair or in the far corners of the room. You never know what might be lurking there! Your everyday world might possibly, in some ways, be as creepy as those places that you’ve just read about!

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