When Skeleton Rocking Chairs and ‘Vampire Killing Kits’ Fooled People Into Thinking They Were Rare Historical Artifacts

A vampire killing kit at Ripley's Believe It or Not! in San Francisco
A vampire killing kit at Ripley's Believe It or Not! in San Francisco
Glen Bowman, Flickr // CC BY 2.0

In 2012, bizarre rocking chairs—usually dark brown, with various kinds of ornate flourishes, always in the shape of a skeleton—began popping up on sites across the internet. Gothic.org and io9 ran stories about them, and Facebook pages like Steampunk Tendencies soon followed. The chairs were sometimes described as modeled on 19th-century Russian examples—and other times described as 19th-century Russian items themselves.

The grotesque chairs were funny, but got even funnier in 2013 when someone appropriated a photo from an auction house and meme-ified it. They added a blurred effect and magnified the skeleton’s anguished, open-mouthed expression, making it seem as if it were screaming into the void—perhaps upon realizing that it must spend the rest of eternity as a rocking chair in some eccentric collector’s parlor. By early 2014, someone on 4chan had associated the meme with the words “Wake Me Up Inside (Can't Wake Up)” after lyrics from the 2003 song "Bring Me to Life" by rock band Evanescence. Then, in true internet fashion, people started adding their own text.

By then, another story had attached itself to the chairs. In 2009, the Lawrence Journal-World discussed the macabre furniture item in a column titled "Ghoulish pieces attract collectors," and suggested that the chair had something to do with a Masonic ritual.

So—aside from the joy of a good meme—what’s the deal? Was this chair used in some secret society's ceremony, or is it just a strange artifact made by some long-forgotten Russian woodworker?

A Macabre Fantasy

According to James Jackson, the answer is neither. Jackson—the president and CEO of Jackson’s Auctions in Cedar Falls, Iowa, and a specialist in Russian art—sold the chair that was featured in several of the early news stories.

He says most of these chairs were probably made in the '90s, but were designed to look older to fool buyers into forking over more money. “These are the type of things that are created in various markets to appeal to the eclectic, exotic tastes of a wannabe fine art consumer,” Jackson tells Mental Floss. “So the person making this chair—and the guy buying it and reselling it—they understand this brain very well.”

The precise origins of the chairs Jackson's sold are murky. A couple of the chairs were sold to a third-party seller called a consignor, who then resold them to Jackson’s Auctions. Jackson suspects they were probably made somewhere in Europe—probably at a workshop where the primary goal is to “make a buck.” That would explain why no artist or craftsman's name is ever attached to the chairs.

These “fantasy chairs” were initially thought to be rare, and some sellers may have benefited from the myths and stories surrounding their origin. Over the years, people started to see more and more of these chairs at auction, which contributed to their diminishing value. Jackson said his auction house sold one of the chairs for $2600 in 2008, but in 2012, the price dropped to $1500. At its lowest price point, a skeleton chair sold for $900 in Detroit, according to Jackson's database of different auction houses.

Artifacts of the Hyperreal

Jackson says the skeleton chairs remind him of the vampire slayer kits that were popular in the '90s, and continued to be sold throughout the 2000s (they still pop up on eBay and other online auctions from time to time). Wooden trunks—purportedly full of vampire-repelling tools from the 1800s such as wooden stakes, garlic, a crucifix, and sometimes pistols—used to command high prices at auction. Sotheby’s even sold one for $25,000 in 2011.

“It was BS,” Jackson says of the trunks, explaining that while they may have contained old tools, the pieces were assembled later for commercial purposes and given a phony backstory. “Whenever we see anything weird like that, it’s an automatic red flag. To the consumer, though, they want it to be some rare and unusual thing—and that’s not true.”

Jackson said one obvious sign that the slaying kits were inauthentic was that "they don’t show up in any literature prior to the 1990s, [and] something like that would have been written about somewhere.” In hindsight, Jackson thinks the whole scam was pretty comical. He said you had experts on TV doing careful analyses of the paper labels inside these kits, when in reality, all they had to do was use a magnifying glass to see that the letters were printed by a dot matrix.

"It’s like doing a metallurgic study on a brand new Mercedes-Benz," he said. “I didn’t have to get a microscope out and a black light and spend an hour fondling it. It’s common sense.”

Jonathan Ferguson, a curator at the UK-based National Museum of Arms and Armour, also debunked these hunting trunks. He wrote in a blog post, “Nowhere was there evidence to support real vampire slayers carting about one of these kits.”

Still, he wrote that they were somewhat valuable as “genuine artifacts of the Gothic fiction,” and rather than being seen as fakes (since there never was a Victorian original), should be seen as "'hyperreal' or invented artifacts somewhat akin to stage, screen or magician's props."

As for the Sotheby's kit that was snatched up for $25,000, its creation was also probably inspired by the popularity of Dracula (1897) and other late 19th century vampire lore, according to Dennis Harrington, head of Sotheby's European furniture department in New York City. Harrington notes that some of the pieces inside the kit are valuable in their own right.

"[The kit] was complete and did contain individual elements that have some intrinsic value themselves, like silver bullets and an ivory figure of Christ on the Cross (though we can no longer sell ivory items today) ..." Harrington tells Mental Floss. "The curiosity value would also have helped, and of course the golden rule of auctions is that any one lot is worth whatever someone is willing to pay for it on a particular day."

Likewise, the skeleton rocking chairs—despite not being antiques—certainly have their own unique appeal. “They’re cool, they’re neat. These are ‘man cave’ type things for the most part,” Jackson says. However, “They’re obviously not functional. You can’t sit in it comfortably.”

And what of the skeleton meme? Do the makers of these chairs know that their creation has been turned into an absurd internetism? Jackson, for his part, hadn’t heard anything about it. “I’m glad they made a joke out of [the chairs],” he said, “but I don’t know what meme means.”

Kodak’s New Cameras Don't Just Take Photos—They Also Print Them

Your Instagram account wishes it had this clout.
Your Instagram account wishes it had this clout.
Kodak

Snapping a photo and immediately sharing it on social media is definitely convenient, but there’s still something so satisfying about having the printed photo—like you’re actually holding the memory in your hands. Kodak’s new STEP cameras now offer the best of both worlds.

As its name implies, the Kodak STEP Instant Print Digital Camera, available for $70 on Amazon, lets you take a picture and print it out on that very same device. Not only do you get to skip the irksome process of uploading photos to your computer and printing them on your bulky, non-portable printer (or worse yet, having to wait for your local pharmacy to print them for you), but you never need to bother with ink cartridges or toner, either. The Kodak STEP comes with special 2-inch-by-3-inch printing paper inlaid with color crystals that bring your image to life. There’s also an adhesive layer on the back, so you can easily stick your photos to laptop covers, scrapbooks, or whatever else could use a little adornment.

There's a 10-second self-timer, so you don't have to ask strangers to take your group photos.Kodak

For those of you who want to give your photos some added flair, you might like the Kodak STEP Touch, available for $130 from Amazon. It’s similar to the regular Kodak STEP, but the LCD touch screen allows you to edit your photos before you print them; you can also shoot short videos and even share your content straight to social media.

If you want to print photos from your smartphone gallery, there's the Kodak STEP Instant Mobile Photo Printer. This portable $80 printer connects to any iOS or Android device with Bluetooth capabilities and can print whatever photos you send to it.

The Kodak STEP Instant Mobile Photo Printer connects to an app that allows you to add filters and other effects to your photos. Kodak

All three Kodak STEP devices come with some of that magical printer paper, but you can order additional refills, too—a 20-sheet set costs $8 on Amazon.

This article contains affiliate links to products selected by our editors. Mental Floss may receive a commission for purchases made through these links.

In 1906, the Bronx Zoo Put a Black Man on Display in the Primates' House

1906 photograph of Ota Benga, described as being taken at Bronx Zoo.
1906 photograph of Ota Benga, described as being taken at Bronx Zoo.
Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

When the New York Zoological Park (now the Bronx Zoo) opened in September 1906, people visiting the Primates’ House encountered a startling sight. There, amid the cages full of exotic animals, they found a human: Ota Benga, a member of the Mbuti pygmy tribe from what was then known as the Congo Free State. Though he was just 23 years old, this was not the first time Benga had been publicly displayed as a curiosity.

Benga was brought to America by explorer and missionary Samuel Phillips Verner, who first exhibited him at the notorious “human zoos” of the 1904 World’s Fair. His life before the fair is largely a mystery—as Pamela Newkirk writes in Spectacle: The Astonishing Life of Ota Benga, “Given the various conflicting accounts offered by Verner as to how he acquired Benga, the true story will probably never be known.”

The Man With a Five-Cent Smile

A 1904 St. Louis Post-Dispatch article claimed a tribe had held Benga captive as a slave until Verner purchased him at a slave market. A 1916 New York Times article said Verner met Benga at a Belgian Army station, where soldiers had saved Benga from a cannibalistic tribe. And there were more variations in-between. Beyond that, it’s also thought that Benga had a wife and two children, who were killed either by Belgian forces looking for ivory or a hostile tribe.

In 1904, Verner brought Benga to the U.S., where he displayed him at the St. Louis World Fair (officially called the Louisiana Purchase Exposition). The main draw was his sharpened teeth, which he showed for five cents. Though newspapers at the time said they were shaped to facilitate cannibalism, tooth sharpening was a common form of body modification within Benga’s tribe, and did not indicate someone who noshed on human flesh.

After the fair, Benga returned to Africa with Verner, then later accompanied the missionary back to the United States. According to Henry Louis Gates Jr.’s African American Lives, “Otabenga married a second wife, a Batwa woman who died from snakebite soon afterward. The Batwa blamed Otabenga for her death and shunned him. That decision appears to have strengthened his relationship with Verner.” Though again, Newkirk points out that Verner gave differing versions of events over the years.

By the time Verner brought Benga to New York City, the explorer was broke. Eventually, he contacted William Temple Hornaday, the then-director of what is now the Bronx Zoo, who agreed to temporarily loan Benga an apartment on the grounds. Whether Hornaday had ulterior motives from the start is unclear, but before long, he was displaying Benga as another exhibit.

"Is that a man?"

According to New York Magazine, in his first few weeks, Benga wandered around the grounds of the zoo freely. But soon, Hornaday had his zookeepers urge Benga to play with the orangutan in its enclosure. Crowds gathered to watch. Next, the zookeepers convinced Benga to use his bow and arrow to shoot targets, along with the occasional squirrel or rat. They also scattered some stray bones around the enclosure to suggest the idea of Benga being a savage. Finally, they cajoled Benga into rushing the bars of the cage and baring his whittled teeth at the patrons. Kids were terrified. Some adults were, too—though more of them were just plain curious about Benga. “Is that a man?” one visitor asked.

Hornaday posted a sign in the Primates’ House listing Benga’s height and weight—4 feet, 11 inches tall and 103 pounds—and how he had ended up at the zoo. “Exhibited each afternoon during September,” it read. If Hornaday’s attitude toward his new "acquisition" needed further elaboration, it was summed up in the tone of an article he wrote for the zoological society’s bulletin:

"Ota Benga is a well-developed little man, with a good head, bright eyes, and a pleasing countenance. He is not hairy, and is not covered by the ‘downy fell’ described by some explorers ... He is happiest when at work, making something with his hands."

Following a piece in the New York Times, word of the exhibit spread. "We send our missionaries to Africa to Christianize the people," the Times quoted Reverend Dr. R. S. MacArthur as saying, "and then we bring one here to brutalize him." In an editorial, the Times conceded that “the show is not exactly a pleasant one,” but that Benga "is probably enjoying himself as well as he could anywhere in this country, and it is absurd to make moan over the imagined humiliation and degradation he is suffering" and concluded that the best place for him was likely the forests of his homeland.

“He Refuses To Be Looked At”

Soon, a group of Black clergymen was leading protests around the city. After a threat of legal action, Benga was let out of the cage, and once again allowed to roam the grounds of the zoo. But by then, he was a celebrity. The zoo was attracting up to 40,000 visitors a day, many of whom followed Benga wherever he went, jeering and laughing at him. Benga spoke little English, so couldn’t express his frustration. Instead he lashed out, wounding a visitor with his bow and arrow and threatening a zookeeper with a knife.

Calls for Benga’s freedom increased. Hornaday wrote to Verner, suggesting he come take him away or place him in an orphanage. Verner, who had gone south in search of work, wrote back and suggested giving Benga “a dose of some sedative” temper his outbursts. In another letter, along with a message to Benga, Verner promised to come get the young man, and instructed Hornaday to send him to North Carolina.

On September 28, 1906, Benga left the zoo and was taken in by the Howard Colored Orphan Asylum. A 1907 newspaper article noted, “Many persons who visit the orphanage to get a glimpse of Ota wrestling with dog, cat, cow, and other preliminaries of the English language are disappointed. He refuses to be looked at since his experience in the monkey cages.” Benga moved to Lynchburg, Virginia, and went on to learn some English and found work at a tobacco factory, alongside other odd jobs, but grew depressed and homesick. In 1916, he died by suicide.

The Wildlife Conservation Society, which runs the Bronx Zoo, had long been under pressure to acknowledge the issues surrounding Benga’s display. On July 29, 2020, in the wake of the U.S.’s recent, ongoing reckoning with systemic racism, the organization published a statement from WCS President and CEO Cristián Samper condemning and apologizing for how the institution treated Benga. As part of the statement, the organization revealed that it had made all of its archival material related to Benga available to the public.