State of the Unknown | True Paranormal Stories, Haunted History, and American Folklore

Possessed Dolls, Haunted Houses, and the True Paranormal Legacy of Ed and Lorraine Warren

Season 1 Episode 11

Few names in paranormal history are as well known — or as debated — as Ed and Lorraine Warren. From the case of Annabelle to the hauntings that inspired The Conjuring films, their investigations shaped how the world sees the supernatural.

In this episode of State of the Unknown, Robert Barber examines the true stories behind the Warrens’ most famous cases — from cursed objects and possessed dolls to haunted houses and demonic encounters. Were they uncovering proof of the afterlife… or creating modern folklore in real time?

🎧 True paranormal stories. Haunted history. The legacy that still haunts us.


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A girl hears scratching beneath her bed, a boy speaks in tongues. No one taught him. A doll moves without strings. A house bleeds from the walls. Different towns, different years, but always the same knock at the door A man with a crucifix, a woman with second sight and a promise. We've seen this before. They said evil left marks, that demons had rules, that proof could fit on magnetic tape and for decades the world believed them. But look closer. The stories don't line up. The witnesses disappear and the evidence what little there was always slipped just out of reach. This isn't just a tale of hauntings. It's a story about belief, performance and the power of a well-timed exorcism.

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The Warrens left behind a trail of headlines, horror films and unanswered questions. This is the shadow they cast. I'm your host, robert Barber, and today, on State of the Unknown, we follow the twisted trail of America's most famous ghost hunters, from Amityville to Annabelle, from basement seances to courtroom testimony. We'll examine what the Warrens claimed, what they saw and why the truth might be harder to find than the demons they chased. This is the mystery of Ed and Lorraine Warren and this is State of the Unknown. They didn't start with headlines. They started with neighbors, a knock on the door, a family in fear, a priest who wouldn't return their calls.

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Ed and Lorraine Warren came with crucifixes and conviction. He called himself a demonologist. She said she was a clairvoyant. No licenses, no formal training, just belief. And that for some was enough. They began in the 1950s, long before horror went Hollywood. Ed had served in World War II, painted houses, studied demonology through books and correspondence courses. Lorraine claimed she had seen Auras since childhood, that she could walk into a room and know if something had gone wrong.

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Together they found their purpose in fear. They weren't ghost hunters, not yet. They were spiritual troubleshooters, problem solvers for the faithful. Most of their early cases never made the papers A creaking farmhouse, a whisper in the attic, a child afraid to sleep. They offered comfort, prayer, sometimes just a sympathetic ear. But they kept records, photos, notes, audio tapes. Little by little they built an archive and in time a reputation. To the families they helped they were heroes. To the church they were occasionally useful. And to skeptics they were something else entirely Unverified, unqualified, uninvited. But Ed and Lorraine knew the power of story and in every haunted hallway they found one worth telling. They said the devil was real, that demons had rules. They said the devil was real, that demons had rules, that possession could be diagnosed if you knew what signs to look for. Their confidence was part of the performance and the fear that did the rest. Over time, their cases grew stranger, darker, more cinematic. The scratches turned to growls, the shadows grew eyes and the Warrens weren't just witnesses anymore. They were the center of the storm.

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In their later years, long after the case files had turned yellow and the headlines had faded. After the case files had turned yellow and the headlines had faded, the Warrens found a new kind of audience. They took their stories on the road, speaking at colleges, community centers and auditoriums packed with believers and skeptics alike. In 1998, I had the chance to see them on one of their speaking engagements at Kent State University in Ohio Ed in his suit, lorraine in a high-neck blouse holding a rosary. They told their tales with the cadence of confession and the timing of showman. They warned the audience never to taunt a spirit, never to invite darkness in, and they spoke of Annabelle of Amityville, of the things that they said had followed them home. They showed videos of an exorcism that had performed.

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To many it felt like theater, to others it felt like truth. In fact, my girlfriend at the time became so frightened that we had to leave early. But behind the crucifixes and cassette tapes there was a pattern of contradictions, of stories that changed, of evidence that disappeared. And that's where our story begins. It started with a birthday gift, a Raggedy Ann doll, hand-stitched and smiling, given to a nursing student named Donna in 1970. At first she sat quietly, then moved, not just shifted, but appeared in different rooms. Donna and roommate Angie claimed notes, emerged a child's pleading help us, help Lou Lou. Angie's boyfriend slept restlessly. Then he was scratched. One night the doll surfaced on his chest, fabric arms tight around his throat.

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A medium said the spirit of Annabelle Higgins had attached itself, lonely, seeking love. Sympathy allowed it in and then the Warrens appeared. They labeled it a demon, masquerading, manipulating, poised for possession. They took the doll, blessed it, locked it behind glass in their occult museum. The sign beneath reads warning positively do not open.

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Annabelle became famous, a totem of terror, the centerpiece of their museum, the inspiration for films. But beneath the myth, the facts are harder to pin down. No hospital records, no police reports, no independent witnesses, just the Warrens' word. And yet the story spread Because it had all the right elements An innocent vessel, a demonic deception, a household turned hostile and a warning that even a toy could become dangerous if you let the wrong thing in.

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Whether you believe the doll was cursed or not, the Annabelle case reveals something else that the Warrens were storytellers as much as investigators. They didn't just document the fear, they gave it a face, a name and a case number for their archive. And the story didn't stop at the glass. Over the years, annabelle became more than a relic. She became a test. Ed would tell audiences about the man who mocked the doll during a tour of the museum. He tapped the glass, laughed, told his girlfriend it was all fake. On the way home they crashed their motorcycle. The man died on impact. She survived. Lorraine said it wasn't coincidence, it was a warning. The museum is closed now the doll reportedly still housed under lock and key, but online her story lives on, Even when she doesn't move.

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Annabelle is no longer just a doll. She's folklore with button eyes and, like all good folklore, she asks just one thing that you tell someone else the story. But that's not where the story ends. In 2025, the Warrens Museum sent Annabelle on tour. Part of a traveling exhibit called Devils on the Run. She was displayed in cities across the country San Antonio, gettysburg, kentucky.

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And then tragedy Dan Rivera, a longtime paranormal investigator and tour host, died suddenly in a Gettysburg hotel while the doll was on display. He wasn't alone, but he wasn't found in the same room as the doll either. There was no sign of trauma, no forced entry, no foul play, just silence and a mystery. Some say it's coincidence, others aren't so sure. And online theories surfaced. Sure, and online theories surfaced. Did Annabelle carry a curse? Could this be validation or hysteria? Sources and fellow investigators, including Ghost Hunters, alum Jason Hawes, urged restraint, saying, quote his family shouldn't have to read that kind of nonsense. Let's focus on remembering Dan for who he was, not turning his death into some sort of made-up story to get clicks. Here's the truth we can hold.

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Annabelle is touring again as a spectacle, a moneymaker, an obsession. A tragic death occurred, but officials saw no supernatural cause. Public fascination and myth-making swirled around every event. So ask yourself is Annabelle cursed or is tragedy packaged as folklore and profit? Look past the display case, past the headlines, past the Hollywood glow, and that's all you have left is a story. And for Ed and Lorraine Warren that was always enough.

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A house, a murder, a haunting In 1974, ronald DeFeo Jr killed six members of his family in their sleep Father, mother, brothers, sisters. One by one. He was convicted and died in prison decades later. In 2021. The next year, george and Kathy Lutz bought that house. They lasted 28 days. They said the house changed them, that George woke up at 3.15 every night, the supposed time of the murders. That green slime oozed from the walls, that window shattered on their own, that a cold, oppressive presence moved from room to room. One night, they said, kathy levitated. George saw a shadowy figure in the fireplace. Their dog nearly hung itself on its leash.

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The Warrens weren't part of the original haunting. They came after the Lutzes had fled, but their arrival turned the lingering fear into a media event. They brought a team of psychics, held a seance, invited television crews held a seance, invited television crews. Photographs were taken, equipment set up, cold spots recorded. One now famous photo captured what looked like a ghostly child in a doorway. Lorraine said she felt overwhelming darkness in the basement. Ed said the house was a psychic slum crawling with demonic entities, but cracks formed quickly in the story. Neighbors reported no disturbances. The slime and shattered glass left no trace and DeFeo's own attorney, william Weber, later claimed he and the Lutzes invented the haunting over wine to secure a book deal. And the deal came fast.

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Jay Anson's 1977 book, the Amityville Horror, became a bestseller. The Lutzes sold their rights and profited. So did Weber, so did Anson. Hollywood followed. The 1979 film turned the tale into a pop culture canon. The 1979 film turned the tale into a pop culture canon. Sequels, remakes, merchandise all born from that one month in Long Island.

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Despite doubts, the Warrens stood by their experience. They claimed they never made money from the story. But they gained something more valuable Credibility, visibility, a national platform. Amityville wasn't just a haunting. It was a phenomenon, a prototype for every media-savvy ghost story that came after. The house still stands, new owners report nothing unusual. But for millions it will always be that house, the one where the walls bled, where a family ran screaming into the night and where the Warrens became legends.

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1977, north London. A council house at 284 Green Street becomes the epicenter of Britain's most famous haunting. Furniture, moves, knockings, echo. A girl, janet Hodgson, speaks in voices not her own. She levitates, she growls. She becomes the center of something inexplicable. She growls, she becomes the center of something inexplicable.

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Investigators from the Society for Psychical Research, Maurice Gross and Guy Lyon. Playfair spend over a year inside. They document hours of audio reels of photographs and dozens of interviews. Then the Warrens arrive briefly, uninvited. They speak to Playfair, offer to help stay less than a day. Playfair later claims Ed suggested a book deal. He declines.

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Lorraine says she felt something evil. Ed claims evidence but the official record shows no contribution, no analysis, no role. And yet the film version tells a different story. In the Conjuring 2, the Warrens are central figures, saviors, investigators, protectors. Lorraine insisted she sensed a malevolent spirit. Ed claimed photographic proof and spiritual corruption. But others, including Playfair, contended they turned up once and were asked to leave, never formally part of the investigation.

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The skeptics had their say. Janet later admitted some events were staged, though she maintained the core haunting was real. Spr psychologist Anita Gregory noted clear signs of ventriloquism and trickery by the Hodgson sisters. Joe Nickel and others argued that many phenomena levitation, moving objects had simpler natural explanations. The Warrens, their presence was marginal, maybe opportunistic, yet through film their brand overtook the case. But Enfield left this legacy A haunting captured in thousands of photos, hours of audio and hefty media coverage. Hours of audio and hefty media coverage. A myth inflated by Hollywood, where docs become heroes, regardless of the on-ground reality. A pattern presence to story to legend. Five decades later, the Enfield case remains one of the best documented poltergeists and the Warrens, a blink in the timeline, became central figures in the public memory. In Enfield, as in Amityville and Annabelle, the same pattern unfolds An event, a narrative, a branding and, in the absence of evidence, a performance may be all that persists.

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1971, harrisville, rhode Island. A farmhouse with a dark past and a family on the edge. Roger and Carolyn Perrin, along with their five daughters, moved into the Arnold Estate, an 18th century home surrounded by acres of quiet fields and a long bloody history. The hauntings began slowly Sweeping, brooms vanished, furniture shifted. Then came the whispers Slamming doors, cold spots, shadows moving just beyond reach. Carolyn Perrin said she felt watched. Her daughter saw spirits in the corners of their rooms. And then the seances, the oppression, the name Bathsheba.

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The Warrens entered the picture after Carolyn reached out. They claimed the land was cursed, that Bathsheba Sherman, a suspected witch, had lived and died there, that she had sacrificed her infant to the devil and cursed the property before hanging herself. The evidence Spotty Historical records confirm a woman named Bathsheba lived nearby, but there's no proof of witchcraft or infanticide. Ed and Lorraine conducted an investigation, held a seance in the basement. Carolyn reportedly became possessed, speaking in tongues, levitating, and thrown across the room. Roger Perrin furious asked them to leave. They did, but the house remained marked. The family lived there for nearly a decade. Despite the horror, they stayed. The activity faded but never disappeared.

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Years later, Andrea Perrin, the eldest daughter, wrote a trilogy about the haunting House of Darkness, house of Light. Her account is vivid, emotional and sprawling. She praises the Warrens but also warns not all spirits are demons and not all investigators are saviors. When the Conjuring hit the theaters in 2013, it painted the Warrens as brave, compassionate heroes. It sanitized the parents' suffering, condensed the terror, turned folklore into formula. The real story is messier, more human, more terrifying, because in Harrisville it wasn't just about proving the supernatural, it was about surviving it, and not every scar shows up on camera. If you want the full story behind the Harrisville farmhouse, the one Hollywood called the Conjuring, check out our previous episode, the House that Remembers Uncovering the Conjuring House's Hidden Origins. We'll link it for you in the show notes.

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1986, southington, connecticut, a family moves into a colonial-style home on Meriden Avenue, seeking proximity to the hospital where their eldest son, philip, is receiving cancer treatment. What they didn't know until it was too late was that the house had once been a funeral parlor. They said the signs began almost immediately. Philip's behavior changed. He claimed to see shadowy figures. Objects moved, cold spots lingered, voices whispered from vents. His mother, carmen, said she discovered strange tools in the basement Metal tables, embalming instruments, photos of the dead. The Warrens were called in. They claimed the house was infested with demonic energy, a residual evil tied to necromantic rituals and spirit conjuring. That allegedly took place when it was a mortuary. Ed described it as one of the most disturbing investigations of their career. Lorraine said she refused to enter the basement. After her first encounter, an exorcism was arranged. The family said things improved afterwards.

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Years later, the case resurfaced through horror, first in a 1992 book by Ray Garten, in a Dark Place, co-authored by the Warrens. Then in the 2009 film the Haunting in Connecticut, which amped the terror, distorted the timeline and scrubbed the Warrens almost entirely. But even Garton, the author, cast doubt. He later said the Warrens pushed for drama. When the family's accounts didn't line up, there was nothing to go on. He said no solid story. The Snedeker family stuck by their claims. The Warrens stood by theirs. No official records confirm an exorcism, no public verification of the rituals, but the house remains infamous.

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The Connecticut case echoes many others A family in crisis, a strange house and a story that grew more vivid with every retelling. For the Warrens it was another chapter, for Hollywood, another blueprint, and for those who lived it, whatever the truth, it was a nightmare they still remember. Because even when the evidence is thin, the fear never is. The evidence is thin, the fear never is. And sometimes the scariest thing of all is a story you can't escape. February 16th 1981.

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Brookfield, connecticut, a young man named Arnie Cheyenne Johnson stabs his landlord to death during an altercation. It's the first murder in the town's history. His defense Possession. The Warrens were already involved. Sort of Months earlier. They'd investigated the alleged possession of 11-year-old David Glatzel, the younger brother of Arnie's girlfriend. The family claimed David had been plagued by terrifying visions growling voices, scratches, night terrors. They said he saw a man with hooves and a face twisted in torment. The Warrens declared David possessed. They claimed to have witnessed multiple demons speaking through him. A priest was brought in. An exorcism attempted During one of the rituals. The Warrens said Arnie confronted the entity, challenged it to leave the boy and enter him instead. Then came the murder. Arnie claimed no memory of the stabbing. The Warrens stepped in Press conferences, interviews, a book deal.

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The trial made national headlines. It was dubbed the devil made me do it case. The judge, however, wasn't interested in the supernatural. The possession defense was thrown out. Arnie was convicted of manslaughter and served five years. The media frenzy was huge. Gerald Brittle wrote the Devil in Connecticut with the Warrens, not to be confused with the Haunting in Connecticut, a separate case. Critics called it exploitative, others believed it exposed something dark beneath the surface.

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The 2021 film the Conjuring the Devil Made Me Do it retold the story, but with creative liberties. In the movie, arnie's possession is part of a wider occult conspiracy. In real life, the explanations were far more human and far less clear. The Glatzel family itself became divided. Some supported the Warrens' version. Others, like David's older brother, carl, sued for defamation.

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As with other Warren cases, the facts blur. What's left is narrative legend, profit and a question that still haunts the courtroom decades later Can evil make you kill, or is that just the story we tell when we're afraid to face the truth? Across dozens of cases, from modest homes to murder scenes, the pattern never quite changes A family in crisis. A haunting, a claim, a story. Then come the Warrens Ed the demonologist, lorraine the clairvoyant, neither licensed in any clinical sense, but both certain of their calling. They spoke with unwavering conviction. Whether you believed them or not, that confidence had weight. But with each case questions lingered. Why did the physical evidence so often vanish? Why did eyewitnesses disappear from the narrative? Why did their stories always escalate just before a book or film followed?

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Critics say they preyed on the vulnerable, that they shaped trauma into marketable myths, that they were performers selling fear dressed in faith. Supporters argued the opposite, that they brought hope to the haunted, that they chased evil where others wouldn't, that their presence was comfort not spectacle. The truth, as ever, is somewhere in between. They were early architects of a genre, not just paranormal investigators, but myth-makers, turning whispers into headlines, houses into legends, families into lore. And when Hollywood came, calling their legacy, expanded Films, franchises, con conventions, collectibles, all from stories whose truth was always complicated. Today, their archive still travels, their museum still inspires and their cases, no matter how embellished, still terrify.

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A career built on fear, maybe, but fear, when packaged well, becomes something else, a brand, a belief, a legacy. And in the world that Warren's left behind. That might be the most haunting thing of all. There are theories that the Warrens were true believers, people of faith who walked willingly into darkness to protect others, that they confronted what others couldn't or wouldn't. That they confronted what others couldn't or wouldn't. That the demonic exists not always with horns and sulfur, but has something more insidious, invisible, psychological malevolent. Then there's the performance theory that the Warrens were savvy entertainers, that their cases followed a pattern because the pattern worked Fear, conflict resolution, a story that sells, and somewhere between belief and theater there's myth, because once a story is told often enough, it becomes folklore, and folklore is hard to undo.

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As for me, I mentioned in the beginning of the episode that I actually got to see them once, in 1998, kent State University. They were older then traveling from campus to campus, museum slides and VHS clips in tow. The room was packed, dark, electric. They had a slideshow of photographs, video, of an exorcism that, as they stated, showed the physical transformation of a man while the exorcism took place. Ed talked about demons with the ease of a mechanic describing an engine. Lorraine spoke softly, more emotional, more haunting, no pun intended. More emotional, more haunting, no pun intended. Were they telling the truth? I don't know, but I remember what I felt that strange pull between curiosity and dread. In a word, scary.

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The Warrens didn't need to prove anything. They just needed you to listen and once you did, the story stayed with you. Whether they chased shadows or crafted them, the impact remains. The cases may be closed, the house doors may be locked, the tapes may have stopped spinning, but the fear it lingers, and maybe, in the end, that's what the Warrens understood better than anyone else. This has been State of the Unknown, where we follow the stories that haunt us long after the lights go out. If this episode unsettled something in you, follow the show on your favorite podcast platform. Join us on social media at State of the Unknown Podcast, and visit our website at wwwstateoftheunknowncom, and for deeper discussions, behind-the-scenes theories and listener-submitted tales, join our Facebook group at State of the Unknown Listeners. This is State of the Unknown, where we don't chase ghosts. We let them find us.

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