In December of 1946, Atlanta woke to a nightmare unfolding in the heart of downtown. The Winecoff Hotel—once celebrated as a modern marvel and boldly advertised as “absolutely fireproof”—was swallowed by flames before sunrise, trapping hundreds of guests inside a building that was never supposed to burn. By morning, it would become the deadliest hotel fire in American history.

For decades the Winecoff stood as one of the city’s premier destinations, a towering landmark on Peachtree Street with elegant interiors, high-rise views, and a reputation for safety that bordered on myth. But behind the glamour was a hidden truth: narrow corridors, combustible finishes, a single open staircase, and no exterior fire escapes. When the fire finally came, the entire structure became a vertical chimney.

The horror that followed spread across the country—people at windows with no way out, firefighters struggling to reach them, and a tragedy so severe it caught the attention of President Harry Truman himself. In the months that followed, the Winecoff fire would help drive a nationwide overhaul of building codes and modern fire safety standards.

Yet for all the reports, investigations, and reforms that came after, the question at the heart of this disaster still lingers: how did a hotel said to be “fireproof” ignite so fast, and what truly sparked the blaze that changed American fire safety forever?

This is the story of a luxury hotel built on confidence, undone by a predawn spark—and the legacy of a tragedy that reshaped the country.

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At the turn of the twentieth century, the American railroad was more than transportation — it was a symbol of speed, modernity, and danger, giving rise to some of the country’s most enduring folk legends. Among songs like “The Wreck of the Old 97” and “John Henry,” one ballad rose above the rest to become railroad folklore’s defining tale: “The Ballad of Casey Jones.”

In this episode of Southern Gothic, we trace the true story behind the song — from John Luther “Casey” Jones’ humble beginnings in Cayce, Kentucky, to his rise through the ranks of the Illinois Central Railroad as one of the most respected engineers on the line. Known for his punctuality, signature whistle, and devotion to the rails, Casey took on one of the fastest passenger runs in the South… a job that would place him in the path of disaster near Vaughan, Mississippi, in the early hours of April 30, 1900.

But the wreck itself is only part of the legend. This episode explores how Casey Jones’ final run turned into myth: the disputed investigations, the arguments over who was truly at fault, and how a shop worker’s tribute song — “The Ballad of Casey Jones” — spread up and down the line, into vaudeville, folk music, and eventually recordings by artists like Johnny Cash and the Grateful Dead.

A deadly collision on a rain-slick track. A stubborn engineer at the throttle. And a railroad ballad that turned one man’s final decision into American folklore.

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Along a sharp bend in the Tallapoosa River in eastern Alabama sits one of the most important — and most haunting — battlefields in American history. In 1814, this quiet stretch of water became the site of a brutal clash between Red Stick Muscogee warriors and the forces of Major General Andrew Jackson, a fight that would reshape the future of the Southeast and forever alter the Muscogee Nation.

But Horseshoe Bend is remembered for more than strategy and loss. For some who visit today, the battlefield carries a heaviness that’s hard to explain — strange sensations along the riverbank, voices carried on the wind, and a lingering presence near the site of the old barricade where the fighting was fiercest.

In this episode, we explore the history that led the Creek War to this decisive moment, the stand made by the Red Sticks inside the bend, and the legacy the battle left behind — both on the land and in the stories of those who say the past has never fully settled here.

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On August 23, 1912, four-year-old Bobby Dunbar went missing while his family was on a fishing trip at Swayze Lake in Louisiana. An eight-month search ensued, but the boy was eventually found in Mississippi– at least that’s what the Dunbars believed. Join us as we dive into one of the most well-known missing person cases in the history of the American South.

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The Cold War, Prohibition, the Gold Rush, the Space Race. Every part of your life - the words you speak, the ideas you share - can be traced to our history, but how well do you really know the stories that made America? We'll take you to the events, the times and the people that shaped our nation. And we'll show you how our history affected them, their families and affects you today. Hosted by Lindsay Graham (not the Senator).

Listen to American History Tellers: Wondery.fm/AHT_SG

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In a city famed for its grand antebellum mansions, Natchez’s oldest building feels like it belongs to another world entirely. Rough-hewn timbers, crooked shutters, and centuries of whispers cling to the walls of King’s Tavern, where legend says a young woman named Madeline met a grim fate at the hands of jealousy—and where, decades later, workers unearthed something chilling behind a fireplace: bones and a jeweled dagger.

Whether the story is truth or just another layer of Natchez folklore, one thing’s certain—something in those walls refuses to rest.

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Tucked deep in the hills between Cookeville and Monterey, Tennessee, there’s a narrow, graffiti-covered bridge locals say you shouldn’t cross after dark. It’s called Crazy George’s Bridge, and according to legend, the spirit of an old railroad worker still wanders there—lantern swinging, searching for his missing head.

They say if you whisper his name three times, you might just see him. Some claim their cars won’t start when parked on the bridge at midnight. Others say it isn’t George haunting the place at all, but a young man named Narmon—killed on the tracks below after a night gone wrong back in 1931.

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Head east out of Washington, Georgia, and you’ll find a lonely little grave surrounded by a moss-covered stone wall — the final resting place of Captain Abram Simons, a Revolutionary War veteran, tavern keeper, and horseman known for living life on his own terms.

Local legend says that when the Captain died in 1824, he was buried standing upright, musket at his side, so he could “meet the Devil face to face.” Some say that’s just how a man like Simons would’ve wanted it — proud, defiant, and ready for a fight.

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Just outside Fayetteville, Arkansas, there’s a dip in the land the locals call Ghost Hollow — a quiet patch of woods where fog clings low and the wind carries a sound you’ll never forget.

They say a young bride died here long ago, her wedding gown catching fire before she could reach the creek below. On still nights, her screams are said to echo through the hollow — a cry for help that never comes.

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On the corner of Sixth and Park in Old Louisville stands a tree like no other — its gnarled trunk twisting back over itself, its branches draped with beads, ribbons, and charms left by visitors who whisper their wishes into the wind.

Locals call it the Witches’ Tree, and legend says it grew from a curse. More than a century ago, the city cut down a sacred maple that once stood on that same spot — and when a storm leveled Louisville soon after, folks swore it was revenge.

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