However, the positioning of the subway stops, below ground, surrounded by a burned plastic smell and either blinding bright lights or grimy ones, there is a dark nature to the stops; they are one of the ultimate liminal spaces, transporting people from one place to another within the minute, framed by the blurriness of the metro trains leaving the stop and the mechanical announcements of the intercom. If you spend a lot of time waiting at one stop, it is almost impossible to avoid the feeling of repetition, passengers in and out, crafting the same routes.There is always a feeling of eeriness linked to the subway. So for this week’s article, I decided to explore a bit of its history and hauntings.

The first underground systems

The world first got acquainted with the concept of the metro in the mid-19th century, with the construction of the Metropolitan Railway in London, which opened in 1863, using steam locomotives. Making it a faster alternative than other commuting vehicles such as the omnibus. The first connections focused on train stations, such as connecting Paddington with King’s Cross, which is now the larger Metropolitan Line. Later other “tube” lines followed, such as the District Line connecting South Kensington with Westminster. With this new proposal of commuting in modernity, other big cities followed.

In Europe, Budapest Metro opened in 1896, with the first line (M1) being a UNESCO World Heritage Site for the electric operations and the cultural significance. The Paris Metro, one of the most iconic in the world, started operating in 1900 with the Art Nouveau entrances designed by Hector Guimard to avoid the industrial nature of the metro. The first complete subway system in the US was in Boston, constructed between 1895 and 1897 and expanding 2.4 km.

In 1904, the New York Subway opened, which has become a fixture of the city and the largest public transportation network in North America. While in Asia, the first subway system came in 1927 with the inauguration of the Tokyo Metro, which nowadays has become one of the most complex networks and also the busiest.

Ghost Stations

The ghost stations are always so intriguing to me; you may pass them in a flash, completely frozen in time when they were created, a remnant of the past, still waiting for the train to stop, for passengers to go through them, yet they’re forever closed away. In the century of the Barcelona metro celebrations, some of the ghost stations opened to a few lucky visitors and turned into a sort of museum. There is the Correus stop at the end of Via Laietana that gave service from 1934 to 1971. Once the line was modified, this stop was closed, and now it’s sort of vessel of the past, still holding on to the adverts from the 70s despite its entrance being dilapidated.

The Paris Metro also holds many ghost stations, due to it’s many reconstructions mainly after the IIWW. The most famous ghost station is Porte de Lilas, which now acts as a shooting site for many films, TV shows, and advertisements, as it’s decorated like the other stations and still has electricity. You may see it in Amelie (2001), Paris, je t’aime (2006), Julie and Julia (2009), John Wick: Chapter 4 (2023) or even the first scene in the Paris Olympics Inauguration. While other ghost stations such as Croix-Rouge have fostered some artistic experiments, like L’Enfer d’Eros, an art installation made by RATP and the Bibliothèque de France that had the objective to “make a furtive flash or hallucination to the passengers with the brief 6 to 9 seconds it took to go through the stations” (bnf).

London, of course, takes full advantage of its ghost stations with secret tours along the Euston tunnels that serve as a time capsule to the swinging sixties London, full of old and tattered posters from movies and adverts,as you advance there is an old rail line, that echoes the hum of the Northern Line moving above it. Other stations, like Aldwych, pay homage to an even older underground reality with vaudeville music reminiscing about 1907, when it opened. Down Street, on the other hand, closed in 1932, but it served a greater function during WWII, when it transformed into the bomb-proof headquarters for the government to protect it from the Blitz.

On the other side of the pond, there are also multiple ghost stations, but none like City Hall Station in NY, once the crown jewel of the metro, designed by Valencian artist Rafael Gustavino. It’s an ornamented station with natural light and candelabra; it was one of the main stops of the “City Hall Loop,” a once heavily transited line that, as the 20th century advanced, saw a heavy decline of passengers, who preferred other lines. Finally, with the elongation of the trains from 5 carriages to 10, City Hall became an impossible station due to the curvature of the structure being designed for shorter trains, and as 1945 bid farewell, so did the station to the public. Nowadays it still remains a jewel amongst the subway tunnels, only visible for sporadic tours or sudden glimpses when the Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall trains change directions.

The Hauntings

With this transient and dark nature, many underground stations around the world have ghost sightings and stories tied around stops or even whole lines.

One of the bloodiest legends is set on the L1 of Barcelona, conveniently known as the red line, at Rocafort Station. Rocafort became tainted by its construction, which saw the death of 11 workers due to the collapse of a tunnel. During the Spanish Civil War, the metro stations of Barcelona served as bomb shelters and Rocafort was located in a heavily bombed quarter of the city. On one of the bombings, it is said that a horse exploded, leaving a massive bloodstain on the gate of the station that lasted years. That is why, during the 70s and 80s, when there was an increase in suicides and passenger accidents, the station was deemed haunted. Many workers still refuse to work there, especially during night hours, as many have seen the spirit of a little boy who fell on the tracks looking for his ball. It is certainly an eerie place to visit at night.

London also bears the remnants of bombings in its underground stations, with Bethnal Green (a station of the Central Line) having its most harrowing tale. Bethnal Green, like many others, served as a bomb shelter. On the evening of March 3rd in 1943, the sound of an imitative anti-aircraft rocket being fired disturbed the people inside the shelter, who thought that a bomb had gone off, starting a general panic that ended in many women and children being crushed. It is believed that once in the station, you can hear the faint sound of screaming and panicking. Bank/Monument station also holds a similar haunting, as a bomb did explode there during the Blitz. This tragic story is combined with the earlier haunting of Sarah Whitehead, whose brother was executed in the 19th century for fraud and forgery. As he worked at the Bank of England, Sarah spent the rest of her life visiting the bank and inquiring about her brother, and it is said she still roams the station.

Even further into the past, Aldgate station is believed to be edificated on top of a plague pit from 1665, and many strange noises and sightings have been reported. On a much lighter scale, it is believed that Holborn station, next to the British Museum, is haunted by the ghost of an Egyptian mummy.

In New York, there are also urban legends that clash the past with the present. As legend says if you take the 6th train on Astor Place at night, it might not belong to the modern subway, but instead you may have taken a ghost train, a specter of the past furnished with leather and silk curtains, without any real passengers. It halts briefly at Astor Place before vanishing into the night — a portal to the past, or perhaps to death itself. No one can say for certain. According to legend, it was once the private train of businessman August Belmont Jr., used to host his most distinguished guests.

Park Street Station in Boston is believed to be haunted by the casualties of a gas explosion in 1897, while the Budapest Metro M3 line still has a ghost of a man who died in 1973 stuck there, well-dressed, taking different trains, never interacting with anyone, almost as if he wanted to get out of the metro, not comprehending his state.

From ghost structures to passengers waiting for trains that never arrived, there is a plethora of haunting stories in the subway systems.

Conclusion

By being one of the poster images of a liminal space, as a place only built for transition and at the same time filled with history and nostalgia, running through the insides of the cities. The subway is the perfect place to hold hauntings, because what are hauntings if not remnants of the past still fighting to be present?

We rarely think of the subway as anything but routine — a dim, sometimes grimy part of daily life. Yet when the train stalls, the lights flicker, or the platform empties, something strange emerges: the awareness of how old this place really is, how many lives have passed through it. In that pause between arrivals and departures, history presses close. Maybe that’s all a haunting really is — a moment when the past catches up and sits beside us, waiting for the next stop.

Feel free to drop any metro stories in the comments!

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That’s why I have such clear memories of my mother announcing, “The Devil’s Bridge!” once we were near Tarragona, as a sign that we were super close to the park, and I could already start gazing through the window in search of the outline of the attractions.

The concept of the Devil’s Bridge has been so deeply ingrained in my mind that I never thought of it as a “haunted place” until I passed through it the other day. This time, instead of looking out the window for roller coasters, I looked up the legends.

What is a Devil’s Bridge?

The concept of the Devil’s Bridge is fairly widespread across Europe. It usually refers to arched bridges that, at the time of their construction, represented a major architectural or technological achievement.

Although each bridge has its own myth, most share a common theme: the structure is either built by the devil himself or the result of a pact with him; an attempt to explain what once seemed like an impossible feat.

Given the number of strange and impressive bridge designs across Europe, it’s fair to say the continent is dotted with Devil’s Bridges.

Famous Devil’s Bridges

Aqueduct of Ferreres:
This is a different kind of Devil’s Bridge — in reality, it’s an aqueduct built by the Romans between 27 BC and 14 AD. Various legends surround its supposed construction by the devil.

The most common version tells that the village of Tarraco (now Tarragona) was struggling to access water. The townspeople set out to build an aqueduct to bring it in from the hills. Faced with the difficulty of the task, the main builder asked the devil for help. As usual, the devil agreed he would take the soul of the first living creature to drink from the aqueduct. As in many of these legends, it was an animal who ended up paying the price.

Another version involves a young woman who, tired of walking to the hills to fetch water, asked the devil to build the aqueduct. He agreed, in return for her soul. But the girl added a condition: the aqueduct had to be finished before sunrise. Just as the devil was about to complete it, God made the sun rise an hour early, saving her soul.

A third legend also involves divine intervention. In this one, a man gambles away his soul in a game. When God hears of it, he punishes the devil for meddling in “his domain” by forcing him to build the aqueduct as penance.

Teufelsbrücke, Switzerland:
According to legend, the villagers once recruited the devil to construct a bridge across the gorge (a narrow valley). The devil agreed, on the condition of receiving the first soul. When the villagers sent a dog across instead, the devil was enraged. As revenge, he picked up a massive stone, intending to destroy the bridge. However, a holy man intervened, placing a cross on the stone that forced the devil to drop it. For centuries, this enormous rock remained visible at the end of the valley.

The rock still exists, it’s a block of granite weighing 2,200 tons. At the end of the 19th century, it was sold to a master chocolatier who used it as an advertisement. In the 20th century, the rock was nearly destroyed when its location interfered with motorway construction. However, after public opposition, it was relocated and now stands as a landmark along the highway.

Throughout history, the bridge has been the site of strange events. On St. Patrick’s Day in 1608, a party of Gaels was crossing the bridge with a fortune when one of the horses fell, sending the treasure plunging into the torrent below. Centuries later, the area became a dramatic battlefront during both the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.

Pontarfynach, Wales:
This village in Wales is famous not only for literally being named “Devil’s Bridge,” but also because the bridge in question consists of three stacked bridges above the River Mynach.

The main legend tells of an old woman who, having lost her cow on the other side of the river, asks the devil for a bridge. The devil (who by this point seems to have developed a standard contract for bridge construction) agrees, asking for the first soul to cross it. The old woman ends up tricking her dog into crossing first.

The three stacked bridges are a very curious construction. They coexist, oone built on top of the previous, as none were demolished. The lowest arch is the oldest, dating from the medieval period and made of stone. In 1753, a second stone arch was built, while the older one was repaired and repurposed to support the new structure. Finally, in 1901, an iron bridge was constructed above the others to correct the slope of the road.

Other famous bridges that caught my attention: Lezzeno Bridge in Lake Como (I want to make a post about the mysteries of Lake Como), Pont Valentré in France, and Rakotz Bridge (which is stunning, though sadly cannot be crossed).

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On Bridges

I think bridges are beautiful. They can become iconic landmarks of a city (see the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco or the Brooklyn Bridge in New York), while also helping to connect it all.

Beyond that, from a more mythological point of view, a bridge symbolizes a kind of union: it links two lands, signifying transit. If we extrapolate this to a more mystical realm, these points of connection can also extend to the divine. Think of the Bifröst, which connected Midgard (Earth) with the land of the Norse gods. A bridge can also symbolize the passage between life and death, which is why so many traditions say the first person to cross must “pay the price,” often by dying young.

Despite the fact that many bridges remain in pristine condition despite time and rough moments, they carry more than just a celestial meaning. For centuries, crossing a body of water was considered perilous, prompting travelers to mark safe crossing spots and invoke divine protection.

Even today, there’s often an uneasy feeling around bridges (and I’m not just saying this because of my vertigo). There are also lingering superstitions: many drivers believe you have to lift your feet when crossing a bridge or railroad track. If you don’t, you’ll never meet your true love—or worse, you’ll die young. In other cases, the superstitions are more romantic: leaving wishing locks as a symbol of unity (after all, the bridge doesn’t break), or kissing the person you cross with.

Despite my fears, I also see bridges as remnants of the past and present; structures that connect and give you a new perspective on the river below. Some are breathtaking works of art; others might be downright ugly. But all of them are threaded with stories: a chain tied to the railing, something you once accidentally dropped, the same bridge your parents crossed when they were young. They are enduring structures of connection.

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I hope you enjoyed it,

Meri 🐦‍⬛

The construction of the temple

Located in the 9th district on the right bank of Paris, the Opera Garnier was once described as a “cathedral not of prayer but of play and representation” (Banu, Le Theatre, Intro). It is such an iconic opera building that it has sparked some imitations across the globe, like the Thomas Jefferson Building or Theatro Municipal do Rio de Janeiro, among others.

Construction began on August 27, 1861, during the Second French Empire. It was commissioned by Napoleon III, who, during his dictatorship, promoted the “Great Reconstruction of Paris,” also known as the Haussmann renovation. This saw the demolition of overcrowded medieval neighborhoods, leaving the center of Paris with the wide avenues we know today (and with better health standards!)

The Opera Company and its ballet troupe became a state institution during the French Monarchy. However, until the inauguration of the Palais Garnier, they frequently changed venues.

The construction had many setbacks, the most notorious being the discovery of subterranean caves filled with water that had to be pumped. Of course, the image of constant water pumping and halted construction originated the legend among Parisians that under the Opera there were secret lakes, when in truth, Garnier designed some caves for canalization.

Another issue arose from the political turmoil of the time, as the Empire ended and, in the chaos, Paris constituted the "Paris Commune" to demand the establishment of a socialist movement. During these troubles, the Opera, mid-construction, was used as a prison and warehouse. It is a testament to the changing political contexts of the city.

Olympic Exteriors

The building’s exterior marks the end of Avenue de l’Opéra. The initial image presents a mélange of old styles, typical of Second Empire architecture: it pays homage to Renaissance architecture and Baroque elements, while using new materials. The most visible elements are the gold statues of Apollo, Pegasus and the allegories, adorning the gables. While medallions of famous composers and librettists fuse myth with history, turning the facade into a true temple of the arts. Two entrances mark the building: the Pavillon de l’Empereur (that, funnily enough, the emperor never used) and the Pavillon des Abonnés, reserved for the “members.”

A fun fact about the opera is that for more than 30 years, there have been five beehives located in the great dome, producing honey and keeping the biodiversity of Paris alive.

A Dreamlike Interior

The interior dazzles with gold, velvet, and ornate sculptures. The golden details, enhanced by the glow of Yablochkov candles (early incandescent lamps), make the foyer and auditorium shimmer, transporting visitors into a mythical realm.

Entering from the Pavilion des Abonnés, there's an illusion of descending into a succession of caves—especially beneath the Grand Staircase, where we find the Cave of Pythia, a nymphaeum dedicated to the priestess-oracle of Delphi. Sculptor Marcello portrayed her as an Indian woman, echoing the opera trope of the exotic “forbidden” muse, as in Carmen. This cave feels like the threshold into a dream world, far removed from the outside city.

One of the auditorium’s most iconic features is the 6-ton chandelier. Above it, the ceiling fresco by Marc Chagall—commissioned in 1960 by Culture Minister André Malraux—sparked controversy. Critics claimed it clashed with Garnier’s original vision, but the goal of the renovation was to modernize the opera and reawaken its cultural relevance. Regardless, the ceiling now bursts with color, layering tradition with mythology, music, and a touch of bold modernity.

Hauntings, Accidents, and Legends of the Opera

As I said before, since its construction, the Opera has been regarded as a place of mystery. Writer and journalist Gaston Leroux used the news surrounding the building for his most well-known book, The Phantom of the Opera.

On May 20, 1896, the counterweights that held the chandelier broke due to a melted wire, falling to the auditorium mid-performance. A great noise inundated the whole auditorium, causing panic among the audience, who initially thought it was an anarchist attack. When members of the theater reached the gallery, their hopes of the accident having zero victims vanished, as they found a little girl crying as she searched for her mother among the rubble. Police were able to locate Madame Chomette, aged 56, who died buried by the chandelier. Among the ruins, seats 11 and 13 were preserved, remaining in the gallery intact.

This incident fueled the rumor that the building was cursed and heavily inspired Leroux. Other incidents that inspired him include the mysterious burning of Emma Livry’s tutu in 1862, a stagehand found hanged without the rope, and an unknown guest always booking room number 5. The fact that most of the incidents described in the book were also found in newspapers of the time helped Leroux’s novel fuse into a real-life urban legend, playing with the concept of reality and fiction. Even after its publishing, rumors persisted, with a story about a dancer falling from the gallery and landing on, you guessed it, step 13 of the Great Staircase, leaving a mark on it.

The Phantom

The Phantom of the Opera, published periodically between 1910 and 1911, is even today the most popular and iconic story to come out of the Palais Garnier. In a general scope, it follows the hauntings of the aforementioned “phantom,” a man of incredible musical talent who inhabits the caves of the opera and scares its owners into fulfilling all his wishes. The phantom teaches orphan Christine Daaé how to sing, and eventually, she is able to be the prima donna.

Leroux touches on the Faustian theme of forging a deal with the devil. The story has a lot of gothic elements that never fall into the paranormal, as the phantom is more of a “magician” than a “ghost,” a sort of Quasimodo of the Opera.

In 1986, Andrew Lloyd Webber premiered the musical version of the novel to great success, removing many of the detective elements of the novel and instead focusing on the love triangle between Christine, the Phantom, and Raoul de Chagny. He combined the musical structure with some operatic style at times to reference the story.

Who are the real shadows?

But stepping away from fiction, the opera was not a glimmering place for everybody who passed through it. As Seberena Williamson pointed out in her article titled “Exploitation in Ballet History,” while women vastly outnumber men in ballet, men still hold the majority of positions of power within the field. This stems from the power dynamics created in the origins of ballet’s history, especially at the Paris Opera Ballet’s backstage, also known as the Foyer de la danse.

During the 19th century, the opera played a dual role, not only presenting operas to the public but also turning the backstage into a high-end brothel. While such practices were not uncommon in stage arts at the time, the Paris Opera Ballet is one of the best-known and most notable cases in history.

As Williamson points out, you just need to look at Degas’ paintings of the ballerinas to see, hidden in the background, the dark figures of men “looming” and waiting for the ballerinas.

At the time, ballet was an art form consumed by the upper classes, but most of the ballerinas were in precarious situations, especially in a France suffering from the economic consequences of many political changes. Even the Paris Opera Ballet struggled financially, and thus, they made more income by coercing ballerinas to accept this other kind of work.

Upper-class men considered the opera a “microcosm for sexuality in Paris” (Comte de Maugny). The abonnés sponsored the ballerinas so they could advance in their careers, seeing them as “demi-mondaines” or ambitious courtesans. Perhaps the statue of Pythia was a premonition of the horrors behind the walls.

The petit-rats of Paris

Yet, despite their sacrifice, not everyone got to be a prima ballerina. Instead, most of the trainees, known as petit rats, were disposable, receiving very little care. The petit rats worked 10–12 hours a week for six days while being malnourished.

Perhaps the best-known petit rat is Marie Van Goethem, who is forever immortalized in Degas’ sculpture Little Dancer Aged Fourteen. She came from a poor family and was encouraged to become a ballerina. She was picked by Degas to model nude, but modeling came at a price, and she was not able to keep up with the Opera’s demands, thus not achieving the prized contract and being dismissed. In the end, in spite of all the art created around her, she died in poverty.

Nowadays, the Foyer de la danse is a place dedicated solely to the training of dancers, but the walls still hold the dreams of all those exploited women who didn’t make it through.

The many faces of the opera

There is no doubt that between the shimmering walls of the opera, there is a dark story, looming like the men in Degas’ paintings. In fact, the whole figure of the theater within the social imaginary is a bit tricky.

The space of theater can be seen as a parallel space, a sort of heterotopic. Through the halls of the Opera, the audience and visitors have access to “other worlds”: there is the space of the auditorium, where spectators gather to see a play; then we have the stage, which offers us a glimpse into another fantastical world; and then, backstage, there was an altogether different setting, as the Foyer de la danse, for years, acted as a brothel.

So, in the words of Michel Foucault, “heterotopia is capable of juxtaposing in a single real place several spaces, several sites that are in themselves incompatible,” as we can see with the mix of light and dark inside the Opera.

Prison, brothel, museum, temple, touristic spot, or beehive. The Opera Garnier is more than a theater—it’s a layered space of beauty and shadows, of art and exploitation. A real place that holds many incompatible worlds at once.

Please drop some recomendations of media surrounding the Opera!

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Mine are:

Louise (2021)

L’Opera

Two summers later, while vacationing in Palamós ( a seaside Catalan town) I was doing my favorite thing: combing through Google Maps for hidden viewpoints. That’s when I stumbled on my newest obsession: Mas Juny. A house that felt like the song come to life — a coastal mansion haunted by hedonistic gatherings and, yes, a recurring guest named Salvador Dalí.

Mas Juny is a fascinating estate tucked along Catalonia’s Costa Brava — the “wild coast” — in northeastern Spain. The house is secluded in the midst of Cala es Castell. With its secret coves, it has long been one of the most coveted summer destinations in the country.

Originally built in the 16th century as an agricultural site and later adapted for coastal defense against pirates. Unlike the typical mas or masia — Catalan rural estates — this one includes a defensive tower connected to the house, three stories high and capped with a rooftop.

The crazy years

Although the house had stood for centuries, its most significant chapter began during the interwar period, when it was acquired by Josep Maria Sert, an internationally renowned muralist. Sert painted major commissions abroad, most notably, a mural in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City. Later, his work American Progress famously replaced Diego Rivera’s destroyed mural at 30 Rockefeller Plaza (fun fact: Rivera’s piece was torn down for featuring an image of Lenin).

After an early failed marriage, Sert wed his longtime mistress Isabelle Roussadana Mdivani ( known as Roussy) a member of the Georgian nobility. Despite their cosmopolitan lifestyle, Roussy longed for a house by the sea. After completing the Waldorf mural, Sert received $150,000, with a part of that money he purchased the house, for approximately 3 million euros in today’s terms. The couple set out to transform the rustic estate into an artistic palace. Extensive renovations followed, and Sert renamed the estate Mas Juny, after a popular sardana song: Juny.

Once the manor was complete, Sert and Roussy (who were exceptionally well-connected) began inviting the cultural elite of the time, turning Mas Juny into the ultimate holiday house. Among the many names in the guestbook: Catalan president Francesc Macià, a young Salvador Dalí (who summered in nearby Cadaqués), actress Marlene Dietrich, designer Coco Chanel, and filmmakers René Clair and Luchino Visconti, to name a few. A separate guesthouse on the property, nicknamed Mas Ponki, was devoted to love affairs (the kind whose sounds of passion reportedly reached the beach below). It was at Mas Juny, in fact, that Dalí met his lifelong muse, Gala.

With a steady influx of guests, the house became a haven of pleasure. Champagne flowed, opium was passed around, and people came to forget a bit of their minds, ignoring the warning signs of a world on the brink of collapse. In the traidtional towns along the coast, stories about Mas Juny sparked constant scandal. Whispers turned into rumors; the house was both spectacle and provocation.

One of the most talked-about topics was Roussy’s appearance. She scandalized villagers by parading through town in shorts causing public furor. Roussy remained closely connected to her siblings: Serge, Alexis, and David Mdivani. The Mdivanis had fled Georgia after the Bolshevik Revolution, clinging to the faded glamour of their aristocratic past. They styled themselves as 'princes' and 'princesses' to lure the wealthy, though many saw them as social climbers chasing fortune.

As Hollywood began to manufacture its own stars, real aristocrats (or those pretending to be) became hot commodities. Together, the brothers racked up a string of opportunistic marriages.

Alexis went on to wed Barbara Hutton, then the richest woman in the world, only to betray her with Maud von Thyssen.

The Last Ride

It was Alexis Mdivani and Maud von Thyssen who brought tragedy to Mas Juny. During their affair, Maud was still married to Baron Hans Heinrich von Thyssen-Bornemisza. While she stayed at the estate, the Baron believed she was in Paris. On the morning of August 1, 1935, Maud received a call warning that her husband would arrive in Paris earlier than planned. The news sent her into a frenzy.

To help her reach the Paris Express in time, Alexis took his Rolls-Royce Phantom II Continental (a gift from his first wife after their divorce) and set out to drive her to the station. But Mas Juny’s isolation came at a cost: the surrounding roads were narrow and serpentine. Driving recklessly, Alexis reached speeds of up to 140 km/h before losing control and crashing into a roadside embankment.

When locals arrived, they found a wrecked car off the road and Maud’s cries for help piercing the air. Alexis had died on impact, decapitated by the windshield. His body was taken straight to the cemetery, where Roussy clung to his lifeless body, begging him to come back to life.It was Salvador Dalí who was left to identify the body and sign the death certificate, while Maud was taken to the hospital.

Alexis was brought back to Mas Juny. There, he was embalmed and laid out in the smoking room, draped with a Georgian flag, before being buried in the Palamós cemetery.

After the accident, Baron Thyssen publicly focused on the disappearance of Maud’s bag of jewels, which was never recovered, and it was believed the villagers took.

The dreamlike pleasure palace of Mas Juny had become the perfect stage for death. Roussy was deeply affected and required psychiatric care, while Serge followed his brother’s fate, dying in a polo accident a year later.

In 1936, as Spain entered into civil war with the fascist uprising, Sert and Roussy fled the Costa Brava, settling in Paris and Switzerland. Roussy, by then addicted to drugs and suffering from tuberculosis, died at just 32 years old in 1938.

After the war, several of Sert’s murals had been destroyed, and Mas Juny was sold to the Puig Palau brothers, wealthy textile industrialists. Though the Sert era ended in tragedy, the house wasn’t done with glamour.

The Hollywood Age

The Puig Palau brothers were captivated by the lifestyle and spirit of the Costa Brava. So when Mas Juny was put up for sale, they eagerly acquired it. Albert Puig Palau, in particular, was determined to continue Sert’s legacy ( inviting cultural and elite figures to Cala Es Castell) while also improving the area itself.

He promoted archaeological excavations of the ancient Iberian settlement located on the creek. He also built Dalí’s Hut that still stands, with its signature twisted door.

Unlike Sert, Puig Palau was beloved by the townsfolk, who appreciated the cultural and civic improvements he brought. Near Mas Juny, he built a villa styled like an Italian palazzo. For its inauguration, he hosted a bullfight and a tablao flamenco featuring flamenco icon Pastora Imperio who he deeply admired.

Puig Palau embodied the image of the glamorous mid-century playboy, with multiple romantic liaisions like Mexican actress Dolores del Río.Through his Hollywood connections, he brought a constellation of stars to Mas Juny. Guests included Walt Disney and actor Lex Barker, who visited with his wife Tita Cervera (who, in a twist of fate, would later marry the son of Baron Thyssen).

Determined to turn the Costa Brava into an internationally recognized destination, he lobbied film producers to shoot Pandora and the Flying Dutchman there. Much of the movie was filmed in nearby Tossa de Mar (where a statue of Ava Gardner now stands) but the cast stayed at Mas Juny throughout the production. Gardner, the film’s star, began an affair with bullfighter Mario Cabré during the shoot. Upon hearing rumors, Frank Sinatra, her partner at the time, canceled concerts and flew to Mas Juny to confront Cabré in person.

By the 1960s, Albert Puig Palau had aligned himself with the intellectual-bourgeois movement known as la Gauche Divine — a circle of artists, filmmakers, and writers who embraced leftist ideals and openly criticized Franco's regime.But modernity was catching up with him. Technological advances and globalization began to disrupt the textile industry — the source of the Puig Palau fortune. As the factory’s finances faltered, Albert was forced to make a difficult decision. In 1968, he sold Mas Juny in order to settle outstanding debts and ensure his workers were paid.

With that sale, the dreamlike chapter of Mas Juny — filled with artists, aristocrats, scandal, and spectacle — quietly came to an end.

Reflections

Though there are no official tales of ghost sightings at Mas Juny, the house already feels haunted by the shadows of those who once passed through its halls. As Michael Mayerfeld Bell writes, “We moderns, despite our mechanistic and rationalistic ethos, live in landscapes filled with ghosts.” It’s as if remnants of another era linger just beneath the surface.

Apart from that, tragedy, leaves behind this kind of imprint, a haunting memory. When death comes abruptly, as it did for Alexis, it leaves a psychic residue, as if that suddenness resists closure. As Susan Cole argues in The Absent One, tragedy is marked by a kind of ambivalence, something “ghosts emblematize.” Are we truly afraid of ghosts? Or do we, like Roussy, long for them — wish for their presence as a way to bring back what was lost?

The house also preserves the melancholy of hat Dalí deemed as “the last happy summers of the interwar period.” In fact, that period in itself was a liminal place: with the looming shadow of World War II, as people were still digesting the violent collapse of the old order. The presence of the Mdivani family in this story emblematizes that struggle, remnants of aristocracy desperately trying to maintain relevance.

Mas Juny will likely remain a romanticized symbol of cultural history held within its walls, even now as a secretive hotel. When we look at places like this, there’s a sense (much like Gatsby’s longing) of wanting to relive the past. But can we ever truly do that? For a while, under new ownership, Mas Juny seemed to recapture some of its former splendor, experiencing a brief renaissance. But nothing repeated ever quite recaptures the original.

That’s why we regard Mas Juny with reverence — as a marker of the twilight of an era filled with money, art, and frivolity. Whatever its fate, both Holiday House and Mas Juny continue to exist as legends.

Thanks for reading!

If you enjoyed this deep dive, please leave a like. Got a favorite haunted place or storied mansion along the Costa Brava? Drop a comment and let me know what you’d like me to explore next.

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Often referred to as “the Garden of France,” the Loire Valley is renowned for its lush landscapes, charming towns, and a concentration of castles unlike anywhere else in Europe—more than 40 in total. Towns like Orléans, Tours, and Nantes carry echoes of the Middle Ages, while many châteaux were born or transformed during the French Renaissance.

The valley has played host to countless historical icons: Joan of Arc fought at the Siege of Orléans; Leonardo da Vinci conducted experiments in Château d’Amboise. The region is now recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. But amid all its grandeur, today we’ll focus on one exceptional château—Château de Chenonceau—a castle not just of royalty, but of remarkable women.

Chenonceau: The Ladies’ Castle

Nestled on the banks of the Cher River between the towns of Chenonceaux and Amboise, Château de Chenonceau is affectionately known as Le Château des Dames—The Ladies’ Castle. This nickname is well-earned: the château’s design, legacy, and survival owe much to the influential women who shaped it across centuries.

Apart from Versailles, Chenonceau is the most visited château in France, even though it remains privately owned. Its distinct style blends late Gothic and early Renaissance elements, a reflection of the dynamic, often contradictory roles women played in its history.

A Castle Built by Women, for Women

The current château stands on the ruins of a 12th-century fortified mill. In 1512, Thomas Bohier—then Secretary of Finances to the Crown—purchased the estate. However, as he was frequently away fighting in Italy, the responsibility of construction fell to his wife, Katherine Briçonnet.

Between 1513 and 1521, Katherine oversaw the creation of the château’s main tower and structure, introducing innovations like France’s first straight staircase illuminated by river-facing windows. The library, bearing the initials TBK(Thomas Bohier and Katherine), became her crown jewel. Sadly, after the deaths of both Bohier and Katherine, the château was sold to King François I.

Diane de Poitiers: Beauty Icon and cunning woman

After François I’s death, his son Henri II gifted Chenonceau to his mistress, Diane de Poitiers—a beauty icon and powerful political player. Diane developed extensive gardens and commissioned the château’s iconic arched bridge over the Cher. A devout Catholic and a woman of ambition, she also transformed the estate into a lucrative vineyard and farm.

There were many legends surrounding Diane de Poitiers’ beauty secrets, as she was a true celebrity of her time. For instance, it was believed she frequently bathed in the Cher River during her stays at Chenonceau. Another, more mysterious beauty ritual was ultimately the cause of her death: she regularly consumed a liquid gold elixir, believed to preserve youth and radiance. This toxic practice slowly poisoned her, and she died at the age of 66.

She passed away at Château d’Anet, another of Henri II’s gifts, but by then, she had already been forced to surrender her beloved Chenonceau

Catherine de Medici: From Rivalry to Reinvention

Once Henri II passed away, his widow Catherine de Medici took swift revenge by seizing Chenonceau from Diane. Drawing on her Florentine roots Catherine elevated the château’s grandeur by adding the now-iconic two-story gallery atop Diane’s bridge—a 60-meter-long Renaissance marvel used for galas, masquerades, and even later as a wartime hospital.

As she already did at the Louvre (the royal palace) and the Jardins des Tuilleries, Catherine turned Chenonceau into the cultural epicenter of the French court, introducing Italian innovations like formal garden design.

Louise de Lorraine: mourning times

After Catherine’s death, her daughter-in-law Louise de Lorraine, the widow of King Henri III, retreated to Chenonceau in mourning. Draping the château in black and filling it with symbols of grief—tears, crosses, and cornucopias—she gave the château a haunting, spectral atmosphere. Financial hardship soon forced her to abandon it, and she passed it on to her niece.

Louise Dupin: The Enlightenment Salons

In the 18th century, Claude Dupin purchased the château for 130,000 livres. His wife, Louise Dupin, was a beacon of Enlightenment thought. Born to a Comédie-Française actress and a banker, she hosted salons at Chenonceau, welcoming figures like Voltaire, Montesquieu, and Rousseau.

When the French Revolution unfolded, it was Louise Dupin courageously protected the château from destruction by arguing its utility, as the bridge was essential to cross the river, as it was one of the only bridges in the zone.

War and Restoration

In 1913, the château was acquired by the Menier family, known for their chocolate empire.

During World War I, the gallery became a hospital and one of the first radiological offices in France, and in World War II, it served as a secret passage to the Free Zone. While the Nazis occupied the main part of the château, the Menier family smuggled refugees through the Renaissance bridge.

Bombed in both world wars, Chenonceau was restored in 1951. Now it rests in the banks of the Cher river as a touristic spot, and at times, as a center for the arts, as in 2020, it hosted a Chanel fashion show—proof of its enduring allure.

Haunted vs Enchanted Castle

Despite its Renaissance charm, Chenonceau fits snugly into the folklore of haunted castles. I would argue that Chenonceau is not full on a gothic haunted castle. Instead it’s bright appearance and lack of malevolent curses approach it more into an Enchanted Castle, where, as folkorist Max Lüthi stated, “ephemeral creatures and apparitions drift through the spaces”.

In fact, visitors report fleeting apparitions—most famously, Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici—still drifting through the galleries they helped create. Shadows in silk, forever watching over their legacy.

Shaped by Women

Chenonceau is more than a monument—it's a living manuscript of women’s resilience, creativity, and power. Without Katherine Briçonnet, there would be no château. Without Diane, no bridge. Without Catherine, no gallery. Without Louise Dupin, it might not have survived the French Revolution. And without the Meniers, countless lives might not have been saved during World War II.

As philosopher John Dewey once said, “Architecture represents the memories, hopes, fears, purposes, and sacred values of those who build it.” Chenonceau embodies that truth—etched not just in stone, but in the enduring legacy of the women who shaped it.

If you're interested in Chenonceau or the Loire Valley in general:

• Check out Agnès Varda’s short film “Ô saisons, ô châteaux!” for a general glimpse at the main castles.

If you're more into the love triangle between Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici:

• Watch the TV show “The Serpent Queen”.

Feel free to drop more recommendations in the comments!

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Talk to you next week.

This week, we’re heading to a city that feels like a mirage from another era. A city known as the Queen of the Adriatic, the Floating City, and the Bride of the Sea—names that already sound like ghost stories. Yes, we’re talking about Venice (Venezia). And more specifically, about one of its most haunted buildings: Palazzo Dario.

VENICE AND MYSTERY

Located in northern Italy, Venice is the capital of the Veneto region and sits in the heart of the Venetian Lagoon. The city and its surrounding islands are recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

In the medieval era, Venice rose to prominence as one of the world’s main economic centers, serving as a gateway to the Eastern Roman (Byzantine) Empire and the silk trade. It was ruled “autonomously” by a Doge (or Dux), and functioned as a republic in a time when monarchies dominated Europe. The Venetian Republic lasted over a thousand years and was built on secrecy—its canals and hidden alleys were often used for espionage, intrigue, and betrayal.

Many are drawn to the city’s haunted past: its prisons like the infamous Piombi in the Doge’s Palace, and its historical connections to secret societies, mysticism, and the occult.

In the 18th century, Venice experienced another cultural boom, becoming a center for art, architecture, and literature. Even today, the city retains a deep connection to the arts—the Venice Biennale remains one of the world’s most important art and film festivals. Walking through Venice can feel like stepping into another era. Its preservation of medieval and Renaissance architecture creates an atmosphere where time feels suspended—trapped between past and future—which adds to its ghostly mystique.

CA’ DARIO

Today, we’re focusing on one of the most cursed buildings in all of Venice: Palazzo Dario, more commonly known as Ca’ Dario.

Commissioned in 1479 by Giovanni Dario, a wealthy merchant and diplomat who held several powerful positions within the Venetian Republic, the palace was intended as a gift—a nuptial dowry for his daughter, Marietta. That same year, Giovanni had just achieved widespread acclaim for successfully negotiating peace with the Ottoman Empire, earning him the status of a local hero.

The building’s design was entrusted to Pietro Lombardo, one of the key figures of the Italian Renaissance. Lombardo was not only an architect but also a renowned sculptor, responsible for designing several Venetian churches, including the Church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. Despite this celebratory beginings over the centuries, Ca’ Dario has built a reputation as “the house that kills” (la casa che uccide), leaving a long trail of misfortune and tragedy among its many owners and residents.

Ca’ Dario’s Architecture

Ca’ Dario sits along the Grand Canal in the Dorsoduro district, right next to the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute. Built in the Venetian Gothic style with later Renaissance touches, the building radiates mystery. Its expressive façade features alternating polychrome marbles and Istrian stone, decorated with around eighty circular medallions, and crowned by one of the few remaining original Venetian chimneys.

Over time, the palace has visibly tilted due to structural weakening from the water—a haunting reminder of Venice’s slow decay. It’s insides present Moorish influences inside, including a Mudejar-style atrium with a marble well.

Intriguingly, the building seems to have an obsession with the number eight: eight rooms, eight bathrooms. The back façade, painted in red, unifies its architectural features—chimneys, loggias, and bay windows—into one striking view.

The Curse of Ca’ Dario

But architecture isn't the only remarkable thing about this building. Over the centuries, many of Ca’ Dario’s owners and residents have suffered tragic fates. These dark tales have fed the belief that the palace is haunted, not just by ghosts, but by something much worse: a curse.

The origin of the legend traces back to a rumor that the palazzo was built on top of an ancient Templar cemetery. According to Venetians, this desecration doomed the building from the start. A curse was set in motion: anyone who owns Ca’ Dario is fated to either go bankrupt or die a violent death.

Even the building’s façade holds a cryptic warning. An inscription reads:
"VRBIS GENIO JOANNES DARVIS" ("Giovanni Dario, genius of the city").
But with a subtle rearrangement, it can also be read as:
"SUB RUINA INSIDIOSA GENERO" – “I bring insidious ruin,” ominously understood as “for those who live under this roof.”

That legend already plays out in its earliest chapter. As I mentioned, Giovanni Dario gifted the home to his daughter, Marietta, as part of her wedding dowry. But her husband, Vincenzo Barbaro, lost all his fortune and later died by stabbing. Marietta, overcome with despair, took her own life. Their son, trying to distance himself from the family legacy, was unable to escape the curse as he died in an ambush in Crete.

The tragedies didn’t stop there.

In the 1800s, the palace passed to Arbit Abdoll, an Armenian gemstone merchant, who soon went bankrupt. He sold it at a loss to Rawdon Brown, a British historian, who also had to sell it shortly after due to financial troubles. Later, Countess Isabelle de la Baume-Pluvinel restored the building but had to abandon it after falling gravely ill.

After WWII, Charles Briggs, a wealthy American, moved in—but fled Venice amid rising scandal over his homosexuality. He escaped to Mexico with his lover, who soon after committed suicide.

In 1964, famed tenor Mario Del Monaco expressed interest in buying Ca’ Dario. But on his way to sign the deal, he was in a serious car accident and backed out of the purchase.

Eventually, the building was sold to Count Filippo Giordano delle Lanze, who in 1970 was murdered inside the palazzo by his lover, a Croatian sailor named Raul Blasich. Blasich fled to London—only to be murdered there, too.

Still think it’s all coincidence?

In 1972, Kit Lambert, manager of the band The Who, bought Ca’ Dario, drawn to its "romantic melancholy." While living there, his drug addiction worsened, leading him to leave the band in 1974. He was arrested for possession and later faced bankruptcy. Though he denied believing in the curse, he confessed to friends that he slept in a gondolier’s shelter near Hotel Gritti—to escape the ghosts that haunted him inside the house.

In 1978, Lambert sold the palazzo to Fabrizio Ferrari, a Venetian businessman who moved in with his sister Nicoletta. Soon after, Nicoletta died in a mysterious car crash with no witnesses. Ferrari later went bankrupt and was arrested for assault.

By the late 1980s, Raul Gardini, an Italian chemical and agribusiness tycoon, acquired the palace to give to his daughter. But in 1993, he was implicated in the massive Tangentopoli (Clean Hands) corruption scandal. That same year, he committed suicide in Milan.

Even the band The Who wasn’t finished with Ca’ Dario. In 2002, bassist John Entwistle died of a heart attack—just a week after renting the palazzo for a vacation.

Today, Ca’ Dario has been acquired by an American company and is reportedly undergoing renovations. But whether the curse has been lifted—or simply lies in wait—remains to be seen.

The Palazzo as Inspiration

Beyond its curse, Ca’ Dario has inspired countless artists and writers. Claude Monet painted its façade; John Ruskin and Henry James wrote about its eerie beauty—James even called it "a house of cards, ready to collapse." Woody Allen once considered buying it, and films like A Haunting in Venice echo its ghostly legacy.

MEDITATION ON THE SPACE — HOUSE + HAUNTINGS

Palazzo Dario is a prime example of the traditional haunted house—its walls hold a cascade of tragedies that seem to influence and echo one another. The legend traces back to its supposed foundation on an old Templar cemetery, marking the site as cursed ground. Cemeteries have long carried the reputation of being haunted, and throughout history, the disruption of final resting places has been believed to bring misfortune upon the living. These are “holy places,” and many ghost stories begin with forgotten graves, improper burials, or worse—desecration of the dead.

It’s a common belief that spirits linger in places where they were mistreated, and in this case, even their final resting place was disturbed. Cemeteries represent a kind of final non-place—the last stop before crossing into the afterlife.

From a more scientific perspective, land used for burials can become physically altered by the decomposition process, sometimes leading to environmental issues. Over time, this may have contributed to the perception of cemeteries as dangerous or contaminated spaces. The combination of this and the immediate misfortunes of the palazzo’s first inhabitants created the perfect conditions for a legend like this to take hold.

As for the rest of the tragedies, bankruptcy can often be rationalized—especially when it involves the upkeep of massive historic buildings. In Venice, this is even more complicated, given the city's lagoon foundation and the damage from ongoing water erosion. The violent deaths, however, are harder to explain. Maybe there’s something about the palazzo—maybe its very walls attract danger. Who knows?

This underlying sense of decay contributes to the haunted feeling of the building. Venice itself feels like a city on the edge, slowly vanishing, taking its long history with it. In a way, the entire city exists in a permanent liminal space. Once a crucial hub connecting Europe to the Silk Road, Venice was a place of constant movement—merchants, travelers, change. That kind of liminality has faded, but another has taken its place. Walking through Venice now feels like stepping into a preserved past, until the cracks in the façades remind you: that past is gone. Almost all of its buildings show the marks of time and water erosion—a constant reminder of memento mori. It’s not just romantic; it’s unsettling.

The idea of impermanence—of knowing the future of the city is uncertain—breeds a kind of melancholia, coined as the Venetian Syndrome, that describes the sadness or nostalgia experienced by visitors who feel overwhelmed by the beauty and fragility of the city. And often, when an entire space feels soaked in nostalgia and erosion, it doesn’t just feel historic. It feels haunted.