Wilhelm Wulff: The Devil's Astrologer

Wilhelm Wulff

Wilhelm Wulff's name may be unfamiliar to most people, yet he played an important role during the Second World War-- a role that indirectly altered the course of world history. Born in 1892, Wulff is best-remembered as a member of the court of Heinrich Himmler, Hitler's notorious head of the S.S. and chief of the Gestapo, where he served as Himmler's personal astrologer.

Wulff claimed to have accepted this position against his will; it was either take the job or be sent back to the concentration camp where he had been interred for several months. As a result, he maintained his freedom by casting daily horoscopes for one of the most reviled men in the history of mankind. Wulff's horoscopes were so accurate that Himmler himself rarely made a decision without consulting Wulff.

In his 1973 book Zodiac and Swastika Wilhelm Wulff details his life as a Nazi astrologer, offering a bizarre glimpse into the minds of men like Hitler, Himmler and Rudolph Hess, all of whom were obsessed with astrology and the occult. Hitler, for instance, suspended work on the German V1 and V2 rocket program for two years because of a prophetic dream he had one night. It was a decision that could have decisively influenced the outcome of the war. Hess, who served as Hitler's deputy-feuhrer, maintained an entire team of astrologers for his personal use.

Wulff was recruited from the concentration camps and sent to the Nazi's Institute for Occult Warfare in Berlin, where various occult practitioners were paid to find, well... unconventional ways for Germany to win the war. "I felt as though I were in a madhouse," said Wulff of the experience.

In 1943, Wulff attracted the attention of Himmler and was assigned to work under Arthur Nebe, who was the head of the Gestapo's criminal investigation unit. Nebe gave the astrologer birthdates of unidentified individuals and asked Wulff to rate them as security risks. Himmler was so impressed that he hired Wulff as a personal astrologer and advisor.

It was an unenviable job, and one that could have grave consequences for Wulff if he was wrong. Wulff was tasked with preparing daily horoscopes indicating what Himmler should or shouldn't do and with discovering any plots against Himmler that might be brewing. At one point Himmler said to Wulff: "It's strange, isn't it, that you warned me about a possible accident on December 9, and on that date I was driving at night, and 130 feet above the Black Forest railway I ran off the road and onto the track just as the train was approaching. The accuracy of your horoscopes, Herr Wulff, is phenomenal."

Himmler also explained why Germany's occult practitioners, including Wulff, had to be sent to concentration camps: “In the Third Reich we have had to forbid astrology. Those who contravene the regulations can expect to be locked up in a concentration camp until the war is over. We cannot permit any astrologists to follow their calling except those who are working for us. In the National Socialist state, astrology must remain privileged. It is not for the masses.”

By May of 1944 the war was going very badly for Germany and Himmler turned to his astrologer in desperation. Wulff urged Himmler to stage a rebellion, overthow Hitler, and then negotiate a treaty with the Allies. Himmler, fearing he would be executed for war crimes, was too afraid to take Wulff's advice. Wulff went on to inform Himmler that Hitler would die in late April of 1945 (Hitler committed suicide on April 30).

During their final meeting, Wulff recalled encountering a whimpering, sobbing Himmler who reeked of alcohol. Himmler begged Wulff for some final instructions. However, instead of offering a prediction or a horoscope, Wulff calmly answered that he was going to go home and wait for the Allies to arrive. Wulff died in June of 1979.

The Hunt for the Osage River Monster

It's spring of 1844 in St. Clair County, Missouri. A mile or so from the banks of the muddy Osage River a pioneer settler named Matthew Arbuckle is plowing his field when he hears a banshee-like wail in the distance, coming from the direction of the river. Shrill and unearthly, the demonic howl fills the farmer with terror. Wasting no time, he unhitches his plow, jumps on the back of his horse and heads for the hills.

One hour later Arbuckle arrives in Papinville, a town fifteen miles from his farm. The exhausted horse is white with foam; its rider white with terror. In a gasping voice he tells of making an escape from an awful monster. Although he had not seen the beast, he had heard its voice, from which he could tell that it was a monster of immense proportions.

Those who heard Arbuckle's story were bewildered, and those who did not know the pioneer personally could tell, just by the bloodless pallor of his trembling skin, that the man was not telling a lie. Whatever terrify…

The Ticking Tombstone of Landenberg

If you look closely at a map of Pennsylvania, you'll see an anomalous semi-circular border at the extreme southeastern part of the state. This circle, known officially as the "Twelve Mile Circle", serves as the border between the Keystone State and Delaware. Much of the strange circle is surrounded by Chester County, one of the three original Pennsylvania counties created by William Penn in 1682. While there are many historical points of interest in Chester County, few are strange or as steeped in legend as the Ticking Tombstone.

Near the London Tract Meeting House in Landenberg is an old graveyard which contains a tombstone which is said to make eerie ticking noises, much like the ticking of a pocketwatch. Landenberg locals claim that the ticking is the result of two very famous surveyors who arrived in town during the 1760s- Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon. A young child supposedly swallowed a valuable pocketwatch owned by Mason and later died, and the boy's head…

The Incest Capital of the World?

At the far eastern edge of Kentucky, nestled in Appalachia, resides Letcher County. In spite of its isolation and poverty (approximately 30% of the county's population lives below the poverty line), Letcher County has managed to grow at an impressive rate, from a population of just 9,172 in 1900 to a present-day population of nearly 25,000. However, even if Letcher County tripled or quadrupled its present population, there's still a pretty good chance that virtually all of the county's inhabitants would be related to each other-- thanks to one particularly fertile family whose astounding rate of reproduction can put even the friskiest rabbit to shame.

Around the year 1900, Letcher County was the home of a man by the name of Jason L. Webb, who made national headlines for having the one of the largest families in the world. According to newspaper reports of the era, Jason had 19 children, 175 grandchildren, and 100 great-grandchildren. Perhaps even more impressive was his b…

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