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Even the simplest hoax demands careful planning. When such schemes involve inventing a completely fictional individual that must be convincingly portrayed as a real, living person, the complexity reaches an entirely new level.
10. ‘Furvin Kryakutnoy’
Monty Python enthusiasts are aware that the Montgolfier brothers revolutionized aviation by launching their hot-air balloon in 1783, demonstrating that living beings could safely ascend into the vast skies.
For many years, Russians were convinced they had surpassed the French by almost half a century. In the 19th century, a Russian forger named A. Sulukadzev chronicled the adventures of Furvin Kryakutnoy from Nerekhta. This fictional figure was claimed to be the true pioneer of the hot-air balloon, having allegedly invented his method of air travel in the early 1700s.
The tale became deeply ingrained in Russian history, leading to the government issuing a commemorative stamp in 1956 to mark the 225th anniversary of Kryakutnoy’s supposed flight. This occurred during a period of heightened nationalism and pride in Russia, and the fictional inventor even earned a place in the Great Soviet Encyclopedia.
The legend persisted until 1981, when the truth was finally revealed in a publication titled Voprosy literatury.
9. ‘Lucy Lightfoot’
Gatcombe, a quaint village and parish on the Isle of Wight, houses a church constructed in 1292. Funded by the Estur family, the church commemorates one of their own—Edward, a knight who departed for the Crusades. For centuries, the church displayed a wooden effigy of Edward.
In the early 1800s, the village was also the residence of a young girl named Lucy Lightfoot. She often spent hours in the church, and when questioned by her family, she confessed her love for the effigy of the knight, dreaming of accompanying him on grand adventures across the globe. On June 13, 1831, Lucy vanished without a trace. A fierce thunderstorm and a total solar eclipse had just occurred. Once the storm passed and the eclipse ended, her horse was discovered waiting at the church gates, but Lucy was nowhere to be found.
Decades later, in 1865, Reverend Samuel Trelawney, while researching the Crusades, uncovered a 1365 manuscript written by the chancellor to the king of Cyprus. The document recounted the tale of a brave knight named Edward Estur, who journeyed with his beloved, Lucy Lightfoot. Tragically, they were separated in battle, and Edward sustained a head injury that erased his memory of his deep affection for her.
Did Lucy’s unwavering love create a gateway through time, allowing her to reunite with her beloved? Or was this entire narrative fabricated by a 20th-century rector aiming to craft an engaging tale and raise funds for the church? The creator of Lucy’s story, James Evans, eventually admitted to inventing the entire account.
8. ‘H. Rochester Sneath’
In 1948, prominent individuals, especially school headmasters, started receiving strange letters in the mail. These were from H. Rochester Sneath, who claimed to be the headmaster of a school named Selhurst. None of the recipients had ever heard of the school or the man, but many still responded to the letters’ absurd claims and allegations.
A Northamptonshire school headmaster was asked for advice on handling a rat infestation, while Sneath inquired of the Marlborough College headmaster how he had “arranged” a recent visit from the King and Queen. This was followed by a letter cautioning against hiring a (fictional) applicant for Marlborough, citing his history of causing three matrons to have nervous breakdowns and being caught climbing trees naked.
Numerous letters circulated, including one to the new headmaster of Rugby, expressing Sneath’s hope that he would avoid the tragic fate of a Selhurst headmaster who had taken his own life after eloping with a matron. George Bernard Shaw received a request to speak at Selhurst’s 300th anniversary (which he declined), while an artist approached to design a statue of the school’s founder, Ebenezer Okeshot, was more receptive.
The mastermind behind Sneath was a Cambridge University undergraduate named Humphrey Berkeley. Berkeley, who was exposed after writing to The Daily Worker to complain that Selhurst didn’t offer Russian classes, later became a Conservative MP just 11 years after receiving a formal reprimand from the school.
7. ‘Johann Dieter Wassmann’
Visit the Wassmann Foundation’s website, and everything appears perfectly normal. The director’s message explains that the foundation was established to showcase the works of Johann Dieter Wassmann to a global audience.
According to the site, Wassmann was born in 1841 in Leipzig, Germany. A sewer engineer and the son of a carpenter, he used the skills inherited from his father to craft an extensive collection of uniquely peculiar artworks. His creations, displayed in wooden crates, were meant to mirror the anxieties and reflections sparked by the rapidly evolving world around him. Wassmann met an untimely end in 1898 after slipping while boarding a train, resulting in a severe leg injury. He succumbed to his wounds a few months later.
The concept of this outsider artist was the brainchild of another artist, Jeff Wassmann. Jeff initially planned to write short stories chronicling Johann Wassmann’s life in the 19th century but soon realized the character and the artist were inseparable. This led to the creation of the foundation, the website, and various exhibitions. While the creators initially remained anonymous, an exhibition at the Melbourne Festival insisted on revealing the truth to its audience.
6. ‘The Honorable J. Fortescue’
J. Fortescue led a remarkable career that many would envy. Born in 1868, he held multiple degrees and authored an extensive collection of medical articles covering topics from polio to the sexual behaviors of American men and even the hygiene standards of various Mexican restaurants. He also established the International Board of Hygiene, which gained widespread recognition and support from the League of Nations.
Fortescue, however, was not a real individual.
He was the invention of Dr. Rawson Pickard, a pathologist from San Diego. Pickard, along with his colleagues—mostly medical experts—aimed to form an organization that would unify global efforts in public health. While this goal was noble, it’s worth noting that the initial (and later) meetings of this society took place at a venue called the Turf Bar in Tijuana.
The assembled professionals agreed to join the board but required a president. Pickard proposed using the name of a deceased English jurist from 1476, and the Honorable J. Fortescue was overwhelmingly elected. Since their meetings were consistently held outside the US (still in Tijuana), they needed an international charter to legitimize their organization. Letters sent to the San Diego Department of Public Health and later to the League of Nations were approved, placing J. Fortescue at the helm of an international body.
To maintain the facade, Pickard authored numerous articles as Fortescue, crafting a 30-year career for him. Anyone wishing to contact Fortescue was directed through Pickard, who provided elaborate updates on Fortescue’s activities and future plans. Fortescue even caught the attention of the National Research Council, which included him in their directory of child psychologists after fact-checking. He later won a $10,000 prize in a letter-writing contest titled “Why I Eat Fleischmann’s Yeast,” which claimed the yeast was beneficial for acne.
Fortescue’s name appeared in numerous scientific and medical journals until 1963, when both Pickard and Fortescue passed away.
5. ‘Josiah Carberry’
In 1929, an unusual announcement appeared on a bulletin board at Brown University. It promoted a lecture by J.S. Carberry, who would discuss archaic Greek architectural Revetments in relation to Ionian philology. The topic seemed improbable, and those seeking further details were instructed to contact Professor John Spaeth.
Spaeth shared colorful details about Carberry with anyone who inquired, including his “ungrammatical” wife, his “poetical” daughter, and another daughter who hunted puffins. Carberry also had an assistant who frequently suffered bites from creatures whose names began with the letter “A.”
Over time, Carberry’s name began appearing in local press releases and eventually in academic journals. His book, Psychoceramics (a study on cracked pots), was referenced in American Scientist. The New York Times hailed him as the world’s greatest traveler, and his work on cracked pots even earned him an Ig Noble Prize.
In 1955, the university received a $101.01 donation from Carberry to establish the Josiah S. Carberry Fund, which remains active today. The fund’s guidelines specify that on every Friday the 13th, students and alumni contribute their spare change to purchase books that Carberry might (or might not) appreciate.
The fund has acquired numerous books, such as Michael Cardew’s The Last Sane Man: Modern Pots, Colonialism and the Counterculture.
4. ‘Edward Owens’
In 2008, a new blog emerged online, one among countless others. The blog focused on a man named Edward Owens, researched by its owner, Jane Browning, for a college project. Over several months, Jane documented her quest to uncover more about the so-called “Last American Pirate,” presenting substantial evidence that he was more than just a local myth. She interviewed experts, shared YouTube videos of abandoned sites linked to Owens, and even secured a Wikipedia entry for him. Jane also claimed to have discovered his last will and testament, uploading photos of the document to her blog.
The stories of the pirate who once roamed the Chesapeake Bay area were widely believed. A mention of the recently “discovered” Owens even appeared in USA Today . . . until it was revealed that Owens was fictional. He was the invention of students in a George Mason University course titled Lying About the Past, designed to explore how easily truth can be distorted online. Despite its academic purpose, Wikipedia founder Jimmy Wales criticized the project, comparing it to digital vandalism.
When subsequent classes attempted to create their own fabricated historical tales, they couldn’t replicate the success of the Edward Owens story.
3. ‘Andreas Karavis’
Andreas Karavis was first introduced to the world in a 1999 article in Books in Canada, where he was hailed as the “modern-day Homer.” This enigmatic, reclusive poet had formed a friendship with David Solway, a more outgoing individual who served as his translator. Karavis, a Greek fisherman born in 1932, was said to have reached the heights of modern Greek literature with his debut book. It was only after years of friendship that Karavis allegedly permitted Solway to translate his poetry for an English-speaking audience.
The initial article about Karavis was written with such conviction that it left no room for doubt. However, Solway’s meticulous crafting of the poet’s backstory eventually revealed not just inconsistencies but glaring flaws. A Hellenist translator scrutinized the claims and suggested that Karavis might be more than he seemed. He alleged that Karavis was a smuggler who had forged documents to publish his work, while another researcher discovered that some of the early poems were plagiarized from other sources. One of the victims of this plagiarism? David Solway himself.
Solway eventually confessed the hoax to some critics but continued to publish around 80 pages of poetry and 20 pages of commentary. Fans of Karavis believed he deserved a Nobel Prize. The poet even made a brief appearance at his own book launch, though Solway later admitted the man was actually his dentist.
Solway later defended his actions, stating that the hoax was meant to challenge and inspire Canadians, whom he described as unexciting. In a rather blunt statement, he said, “Canadians are not a very exciting people. Like rubes at a carnival, they need to be poked, challenged, gulled, bedazzled, so that the collective jaw drops in something other than an insufficiently stifled yawn.”
2. ‘Ernst Bettler’
Ernst Bettler serves as a cautionary tale for both designers and their employers. The story recounts how, in the 1950s, a Swiss pharmaceutical firm named Pfafferli+Huber hired Bettler to create new advertising. Bettler publicly acknowledged the company’s questionable human rights record, including their involvement in medical experiments on prisoners in Nazi concentration camps. He believed they shouldn’t be allowed to forget their past—and neither should anyone else.
He designed a series of four posters that, when viewed individually, appeared to be typical advertisements of the time. However, when displayed together in a specific sequence, the black-and-white, nearly abstract images spelled out “N-A-Z-I.” The public was outraged, the company’s war crimes were exposed, and they went bankrupt within six weeks.
The art community fully embraced the story when it was published in a 2000 issue of Dot Dot Dot, but it was, of course, fictional. Created by designer and writer Christopher Wilson, Bettler’s heroic narrative even found its way into an art and design textbook. He was celebrated as a pioneer who used design not only to convey a message but also to ensure justice was served.
1. ‘Sidd Finch’
On April 1, 1985, Sports Illustrated featured a cover story by George Plimpton, who was given complete creative freedom to celebrate the date. The result was a 14-page article about a baseball prodigy named Sidd Finch, whose story was so fantastical that many readers believed it to be true.
Sidd Finch, an orphan from England, had traveled to Tibet to pursue monastic life. There, he mastered meditation, which supposedly enabled him to throw a baseball at an astonishing 270 kilometers per hour (168 mph)! The Mets signed him and brought him to the United States under a veil of secrecy.
Extensive preparation went into the story, with Joe Berton chosen to portray the enigmatic pitcher. He was provided with an official uniform and unrestricted access to the Mets’ training facility. Only a few individuals were privy to the scheme. Berton carried his French horn everywhere and pitched with one bare foot and the other in a work boot.
The story’s release sparked immediate reactions. New York newspapers were furious about being outdone. Commissioners raised concerns about the safety of players facing a ball traveling at such incredible speeds.
Meanwhile, Berton returned to his job as a high school art teacher. Eventually, someone noticed that the first letters of a subheading in the Finch article spelled out “Happy April Fools’.” Decades later, baseball enthusiasts still hope for a real Sidd Finch, while Berton fondly remembers the time his baseball fantasies became a reality.
