Buzz
To make something go viral, it requires a perfect mix of luck, timing, and striking the right chord with the audience at just the right time. In the early 20th century, many stories went viral through newspapers and publications, but not all of them were factual.
10. Nazi-Inspired Crop Circles
During World War II, life on the American home front was filled with fear and uncertainty. The threat of German attacks was real, so when unusual symbols began appearing across the East Coast, it sparked widespread concern.
The newspapers only fueled the panic, particularly when they began publishing photos of the crop circles and other strange symbols cropping up in farmland. Hay bales were stacked in such a way that they seemed to point toward important cities and targets. Sacks of grain were arranged in odd patterns, as though marking the location of a nearby military base. Arrows and other directional symbols were plowed into fields and crops. One photo showed fertilizer bags forming the number '9,' and the accompanying story claimed the tail of the number pointed toward a nearby factory manufacturing planes for the war effort.
These stories did more than stir up fear; they also caused major tension among neighbors. One farmer’s field, where the mysterious '9' appeared, was clearly identifiable, and in a time of war, suspicion ran high. No one wanted a potential double agent in their midst.
Soon, the War Department got wind of the situation and intervened to prevent what could have escalated into a full-blown crisis. It turned out there were logical explanations for everything: the sacks of fertilizer were carelessly tossed off a truck and left to dry in the sun, forming an accidental pattern with no connection to any nearby military factory (which didn’t exist). The arrows were made by a Fish and Game warden working on creating bird feeding grounds.
A similar panic unfolded in England. MI5 launched an investigation and found the mysterious symbols there were also harmless coincidences, blown out of proportion by people on edge and looking for something unusual. However, these investigations didn’t spread as wildly as those in the US, and were kept largely under wraps.
9. Daisy Alexander’s Last Will
In 1949, a story emerged that sparked hope in many hearts: Jack Wurm, a man who lived from paycheck to paycheck, worked in a kitchen, and rented the house he shared with his wife, was strolling along a beach in San Francisco when he came across a bottle washed up on the shore. Inside was a piece of paper reading, 'To avoid all confusion, I leave my entire estate to the lucky person who finds this bottle and to my attorney, Barry Cohen, share and share alike. Daisy Alexander—June 20, 1937.'
Wurm thought little of it and set it aside, assuming it was a joke. A few months later, he attended a party with friends who had just returned from military service in Britain. One of them recognized the name. Daisy Alexander was the daughter of Isaac Singer, the founder of Singer Sewing Machine. She had recently died from injuries sustained in the London bombing, leaving behind a $12 million fortune, but the will she had written was nowhere to be found.
Wurm reached out to a lawyer, who confirmed the legitimacy of the claim. Wurm and Cohen were each set to inherit $6 million. The tale quickly went viral, spreading across newspapers nationwide and becoming a popular subject in religious sermons, serving as a cautionary tale about how one should never dismiss something, no matter how unbelievable or outlandish it might seem.
The true story might have been even more improbable: Singer did indeed have a daughter named Daisy, and according to The London Times, she passed away peacefully on September 20, 1939. Barry Cohen was her lawyer, and her will was genuinely missing. A thorough search of her estate turned up nothing, and Cohen even consulted a clairvoyant and tried to track down Daisy’s parrot in hopes that it might reveal some useful information. Sadly, no answers came.
Cohen examined the document that Wurm claimed to have discovered and ultimately concluded that it was a forgery. No one could determine who had faked it, as all involved parties insisted that Wurm himself was the last person who would have done such a thing. The most likely suspect was the military friend who had initially informed Wurm of Daisy’s true identity.
The estate was finally settled according to an earlier will from 1909, which left everything to Daisy’s niece and nephew. Wurm passed away in 1987, without ever receiving the fortune.
8. Fritz Kreisler’s Musical Compositions
Fritz Kreisler was a violinist who performed across Europe during the 1910s. At a concert in Vienna, he audaciously included some of his own compositions in his performance, which sparked outrage among critics who were offended by his daring comparison of his work to that of the classical masters. Kreisler didn’t directly argue with them.
Not long after, Kreisler revealed that while sifting through documents at a remote monastery, he discovered a collection of compositions written by famous masters like Vivaldi. He convinced the monks to sell him the entire collection, and then he arranged the long-forgotten pieces, putting them back on stage where they belonged. Critics, who had once condemned him, now praised him for rescuing these masterpieces of classical music from obscurity and possible destruction. Kreisler was credited as the editor and arranger of 25 pieces, which he claimed to have bought, and was hailed as a savior of classical music.
It wasn’t until his 60th birthday in 1935 that Kreisler confessed the truth, after someone finally asked him about the pieces. There had never been a hidden collection, no remote monastery, and the works adored by fans and critics alike were, in fact, composed by Kreisler himself.
In an interview later, Kreisler explained that part of the reason for his deception was his reluctance to be known as a composer. With a lack of music written specifically for the violin, he felt desperate. Unable to hire musicians to accompany him in his early career, Kreisler decided to 'discover' lost works by obscure composers from the 17th and 18th centuries. This would provide him with the music he wanted to play and lend him credibility, all without being branded as a composer.
7. The Old Librarian’s Almanack
Edmund Lester Pearson wrote a popular weekly column for The Boston Evening Transcript under the title “The Librarian.” The column became such a sensation that it ran from 1906 to 1920, filled with amusing anecdotes about libraries and librarians. Even today, it is regarded as an important reference for the history of libraries during that time period.
In 1908, Pearson mentioned a book titled The Old Librarian’s Almanack. A few months later, a friend who just happened to own Elm Tree Press suggested that it should become an actual published book. So they visited the Connecticut Historical Library, selected an almanac from 1773, and began writing. They updated the book’s astronomical information to “predict” events for 1774 and used material from Pearson’s own column to provide insights for the almanac. They also created a fictional author, Jared Bean, a lifelong bachelor who wrote anecdotes likely to be humorous to librarians of the 18th century.
When the almanac was finally printed, they ensured the presentation was perfect. Those in on the joke assumed readers would realize it was a playful take on a popular book format of the time. That assumption proved to be incorrect.
The first to report on the ‘discovery’ of the rare, old book was New York’s The Sun, and Pearson had to thank them for recognizing that he had republished his own witty remarks in a new guise. While The Sun eventually caught on to the joke and ran a lighthearted biographical piece on the fictional Jared Bean, newspapers across the nation picked up the story about the reprint of this rare book. One publication, The Hartford Daily Courant, even dubbed Bean the ‘father of almanac humorists.’ Literary circles soon took notice, and the almanac made its way into their journals.
The wide coverage of the almanac was remarkable, given that it contained such gems of wisdom as the entry for June 30, which advised librarians on which people should not be allowed into the library. Among those excluded were politicians, necromancers, the light-witted, the elderly, anyone with a contagious disease, and fanatical preachers. As for women, the almanac advised, ‘Be suspicious of Women. They are given to the Reading of frivolous Romances.’
The hoax remained largely undisclosed until 1910, when the journal America finally connected Pearson to the playful work, as well as an article written by the founder of Elm Tree Press, which mocked those who praised and reviewed books without actually reading them.
6. The Dissolving Bathing Suit
A tale that surfaced in the newspapers of 1920s France described a British millionaire on vacation at the French Riviera, who had discovered a brilliant application for a new fabric that dissolved in saltwater. He created bathing suits from the material and distributed them among the women at his party. Chaos erupted when he encouraged everyone to dive into the Mediterranean for a swim.
After the story was published, the editor of the newspaper requested a sample of the fabric. This prompted the reporter to do some real investigative work, and he uncovered the fact that the whole tale was fabricated. However, in an effort to keep up the ruse, he told his editor that they couldn’t ship the fabric because of the salty, humid air. The editor then instructed him to seal the sample in an airtight, waterproof tin box. The reporter filled a box with ground cereal, sent it off, and convinced everyone that the fabric couldn’t be exported.
This version of the events came from the memoir of Webb Miller, a U.S. war correspondent. While the truth remains elusive, many newspaper articles from that time claimed that the French had developed a dissolving bathing suit. The initial stories appeared in 1930, and even wire services fell for it again in 1935, now attributing the invention to a person named “Miss Cassie Moss.”
By the 1960s, the tale had taken on a new form. Now, it was said that a French designer had come up with a clever solution for women to preserve their modesty while making their way to the water for a late-night swim. Later, the story was picked up by Weekly World News, the same tabloid infamous for creating BatBoy, in both 1994 and 2004.
5. The Horn Papers
The Horn Papers are a set of fabricated genealogical documents and family relics that started their strange journey in 1932. It all began when a pair of newspaper editors received a letter from W.F. Horn of Topeka, Kansas. Horn claimed that he had unearthed several treasures buried within his family home, including documents from the earliest court hearings held west of the Alleghenies, as well as period maps. Among the items were diaries, journals, and artifacts that appeared to date back to the first settlements in Western Pennsylvania, with some key documents that weren’t recorded anywhere else.
Although Horn possessed the original documents, he stated that they were too delicate to share and could only distribute the handwritten copies he had made himself. This should have been the first indication that something wasn’t quite right. Despite this, newspapers began to feature his findings, one piece at a time, in a weekly column. The feature became so well-liked that when Horn visited Pennsylvania, he immediately embarked on speaking tours and lecture circuits throughout the East Coast.
Horn had perfected his tale, delivering it without a hitch, and skillfully evaded any questions regarding the authenticity of his papers. There were certainly some doubts, especially considering that Horn’s documents spoke not only of his family’s history but also about significant events like the Battle of Flint Top in 1748, which supposedly resulted in the massacre of 12,000 people. The absence of any other records about the battle, or the book Horn cited called Andrea’s History of Northwest Virginia, should have raised alarms. However, Horn’s papers pointed to two lead plates from the 18th century, making his claims seem legitimate, even though the dates on the plates didn’t match the dates in the documents.
When the University of Pennsylvania declined the opportunity to verify the materials, the Greene County Historical Society took on the task. In the end, they were so convinced of the papers’ authenticity that they raised $20,000 to purchase the entire collection.
The society proudly published the documents, aiming to correct or at least supplement the historical record of their region. That’s when Princeton scholars and the American Historical Association took notice, and the entire hoax began to unravel. The ink was dated to around 1930, and the coins Horn displayed during his tours bore the letters “COV”—a mark found on every other Dutch coin unrelated to the “Colony of Virginia.” The wrong calendar system had been used for the dates, and as for the lead plates, their high nickel content pointed to a source in Missouri.
Horn passed away in 1956. By then, he was reportedly “no longer interested” in the papers he had once claimed were so significant.
4. The Chesterfield Lepers
In 1934, Chesterfield's reputation was shattered by a rumor so damaging, unlikely, and horrifying that it had far-reaching consequences. It only takes one rumor to ruin a company’s standing, and this one was no exception.
The rumor suggested that the cigarette manufacturer’s factory in Richmond, Virginia, was employing lepers in their production line. Consumers quickly abandoned the brand, and even the official statement from Richmond’s mayor—who personally inspected the facility and found no lepers—couldn’t undo the damage. For the next decade, Chesterfield devoted its marketing efforts to reassuring the public that their factory was equipped with the latest, most advanced technology and, of course, was free from any lepers.
Despite offering a $25,000 reward, Chesterfield never uncovered the origin of the damaging rumor. The person who started the rumor wasn’t even the first to come up with it. Back in 1882, a Pennsylvania newspaper named The Chester Times warned that lepers were often employed in tobacco shops, including those that made cigars and cigarettes. The article even included a warning from doctors that anyone touching an object handled by a leper would contract the dreaded disease.
In the 1940s, the rumor expanded to include another cigarette brand, Spud. It’s still believed by some that this led to Spud’s downfall (though it was actually absorbed by Philip Morris). Later, soldiers serving in Vietnam were cautioned against smoking joints, as they might have been licked by lepers.
3. Ern Malley
Ern Malley was born in 1918, and after the death of his father, he moved to Australia to live with his sister, Ethel. His life was filled with hardship: his mother also passed away, prompting him to drop out of school, take various jobs, and drift from city to city. His life tragically ended in 1943. But Ern Malley was also a poet, a man with untapped genius, whose works were overlooked in his lifetime. His poetry spoke of a broken hero, a man confronting his own mortality, and it resonated with the deepest parts of people’s souls.
Malley’s poetry remained largely unknown until it was sent to a literary journal called Angry Penguins. Editor Max Harris dedicated an entire issue to this newfound literary genius, but the discovery soon led to trouble. The police got involved, claiming that Malley’s poems were obscene, and Harris found himself defending the poet in court. The trial didn’t go as the police had hoped, especially after the detective was unable to define certain supposed lewd words. This case thrust Malley into the international spotlight, but Harris would soon be humiliated when he learned that Malley wasn’t a real person at all.
Ern Malley was actually the fictional creation of Corporal Harold Stewart and Lieutenant James McAuley. Both men came from working-class backgrounds and had attended Sydney University, where they encountered Max Harris, a student determined to reshape modern poetry. McAuley and Stewart believed Harris was leading poetry astray, so they devised Malley and his extensive body of work. Using books for reference, one of Malley’s poems even borrowed its opening lines from a manual on draining mosquito breeding grounds.
Their goal was to produce something intentionally bad to showcase how far poetry had fallen. However, even after confessing to the hoax, praise for Malley’s work continued to pour in. Critics still study and admire the poems, and both Stewart and McAuley never claimed any of the money generated by Malley’s publications.
2. The Fake Baldness Epidemics
If you were a man in 1926 and even slightly concerned about the fate of your hair (particularly the possibility of going bald), the news reports circulating across the country would have made you rethink any visit to Pennsylvania.
Reports claimed that over 300 young men, aged between 19 and 30, were suddenly experiencing baldness in the town of Kittanning, Pennsylvania. These men flocked to doctors seeking answers for their hair loss, but the medical professionals were stumped. Their advice ranged from avoiding tight hats to a strangely specific recommendation of only getting haircuts during the first quarter phase of the Moon.
While the reports weren’t entirely fabricated, they were largely exaggerated. Only around a dozen men in Kittanning actually experienced sudden hair loss. The news spread so widely that town officials had to issue a statement clarifying that not every man in Kittanning was losing their hair. What caused particular concern was the flood of hair tonic salespeople and peddlers of questionable baldness remedies that descended upon the town, which the local leaders referred to as “hordes.”
This wasn’t the first time the media had reported large-scale baldness outbreaks. In 1901, The Spectator ran a story claiming that both men and women in Japan were suffering from sudden baldness. The alarmist headline read, “Japan must live in a state of constant dread, for, according to reports from that country, they may at any time lose that greatly valued possession, the hair.” The article detailed not only hair loss but also men who lost half their beards or parts of their mustaches. Fortunately, an investigation by the US Marine Hospital Service revealed that this was simply exaggerated journalism.
1. The Fake World War I Photos
If you’ve ever come across any photographs from World War I showing aerial dogfights, it’s likely they were attributed to an American RAF serviceman named Wesley David Archer. These images first appeared in a book titled Death in the Air: The War Diary and Photographs of a Flying Corps Pilot, published in 1933. The photos were initially hailed as rare and authentic depictions of aerial combat, and they were striking. The planes spewed smoke as they locked in fierce pursuit, while some images portrayed pilots spiraling to their deaths.
Archer claimed that he captured the photos by modifying a machine gun trigger to automatically take pictures of whatever the gun was aimed at. Initially, his name wasn’t even linked to the book or the photos because he had violated several military protocols to obtain them. After the war, the images came into the hands of a woman named Gladys Maud Cockburn-Lange, who eventually sold them for $20,000.
After their release, the photos became widely circulated, appearing in everything from textbooks to museum exhibits. According to the Smithsonian, requests for permission to use these images in various projects still occur today, even though their status as fakes has been known since the mid-1980s.
When the Society of World War I Aero Historians began their investigation, they discovered that although Archer did serve some time in the British military, he returned home in 1920. After leaving the military, he entered the film industry, working as a set and model maker. It was there that he honed his skills, later using them to stage the now-infamous dogfight photos.
As for Gladys Maud Cockburn-Lange? She was actually his wife.
