(1870, Thuringia) 97 Bodies Lie Beneath the Brothel – The Uncanny Case of the Brandt Sisters

In the autumn of 1870, the small village of Schwarzburg in Thuringia exuded the tranquil peace often associated with rural Germany. Nestled among rolling hills and surrounded by dense forests, the community seemed sheltered from the world’s great tragedies. But beneath the surface of a dilapidated inn lay a hidden abyss that shattered the idyllic image forever and presented the authorities with a puzzle unparalleled in its cruelty and methodical coldness.

It was the carpenter Friedrich Weiß who was demolishing the building called “Zur Goldenen Rose” (At the Golden Rose) on the edge of the village when his tools encountered unusual resistance. Beneath the cellar floorboards, he discovered a second, hidden cellar room. The air that rushed out of the opening was permeated with a sweetish, putrid odor. What Friedrich Weiß discovered there in the damp and darkness was a nightmare of bones and decay: human remains arranged in a macabre order. In the end, the local gendarmerie counted 97 corpses in various stages of decomposition. It was no random mass grave, but a systematic collection of death, amassed over decades.

The Three Faces of Malice

The Golden Rose Inn had been run by the Brandt sisters—Martha, Elisabeth, and Johanna—since 1827. The three unmarried nieces had taken over the business from their aunt and managed it with iron discipline for over 40 years. In Schwarzburg, it was well known that the inn offered not only lodging and meals but also “discreet services.” Wealthy merchants and gentlemen from Erfurt or Weimar, seeking anonymity, were regular guests.

The sisters perfectly divided the roles in their deadly division of labor:

Martha, the eldest: She was the administrator and the public face of the operation. Martha kept the books, maintained contact with the authorities, and, with unwavering calm and sharp intellect, ensured a facade of respectability. She was also the one who made generous donations to the church to soothe the priest’s conscience and fuel the village’s ambivalence.

Elisabeth, the strong one: She was the cook and the executioner. Elisabeth was responsible for the kitchen, the provisions, and, as it would turn out, the horrific “processing” of the victims. She was often seen at the well, washing unusually large amounts of laundry, the water of which sometimes had a reddish tint.

Johanna, the youngest and most beautiful: She was the decoy. Her natural charm and seemingly innocent beauty were used to seduce and persuade the victims to stay overnight at the remote inn and drink the offered wine.

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The authorities’ long-standing ignorance

Rumors about guests disappearing at the Golden Rose and never being seen again were long dismissed as mere village gossip [02:31]. The victims were mostly wealthy men traveling alone and carrying considerable sums of money—but the evidence was professionally removed; there were no signs of robbery or violence [06:23].

The first official clue came in 1855 when the vagrant Paul Grim sought shelter in a shed behind the inn [06:42]. He saw the three sisters carrying a large, blanket-wrapped object, shaped like a human body, toward the cellar [07:06]. Elisabeth’s apron was bloodstained. But the village headman, Weber, dismissed the “drinker’s” account as pure fantasy [07:16].

In 1855, Gendarmerie Captain Karl Hoffmann from Rudolstadt conducted a cursory investigation. Martha Brand received him with unwavering composure [07:53]. She presented a meticulously kept guestbook in which every guest—including the missing cloth merchant Gustav Richter—was recorded with their correct departure time [08:53]. Impressed by the sisters’ orderliness and discretion, Hoffmann closed the case, wanting to avoid political complications with the Brand sisters’ influential regular guests [10:36]. The case was closed—20 years too soon.

After Hoffmann’s decision, a deceptive sense of normalcy returned. However, observant locals noticed inconsistencies:

The village blacksmith, Wilhelm Kessler, was repeatedly required to deliver heavy iron goods, chains, and padlocks for unknown purposes [11:58].

Pastor Gottschalk observed that Martha Brand left church early during sermons about the Last Judgment [13:23].

In the summer of 1858, the messenger, Jakob Weber, witnessed a disturbing detail [15:44]. Elisabeth Brand mistakenly led him through an otherwise locked cellar room, not located in the guest area. There, Jakob saw heavy iron chains, large zinc tubs, axes, curved knives, and wooden tables covered in deep notches [16:39]. Elisabeth claimed this was the room for the “new sausage production” [16:57]. However, hanging on one wall were the clothing and boots of the supposedly departing guests [17:23].

Martha’s notebooks contained cryptic entries such as “KV completed on August 12th” and “JB got too loud, Elisabeth must proceed more gently” [18:36], which suggested the processing of human remains.

The turning point came in 1859 when the suspicious journeyman Anton Busch stopped at the inn [23:46]. Busch noticed the bitter aftertaste in the wine and felt his limbs growing heavy. When he watched through the keyhole as the three sisters crept down the hallway with ropes, cloths, and a large kitchen knife [25:07], he jumped from the locked first-floor window and fled to the gendarmerie in Rudolstadt [25:41].

The Uncovering of the Horror and the Motive

Busch’s detailed testimony forced Captain Hoffmann to reopen the investigation. The raid took place on September 12, 1859. After hours of fruitless searching, a gendarme discovered a freshly plastered patch in the cellar wall, concealing a cavity [27:13].

What the officers found in the secret cellar behind it confirmed the worst rumors and surpassed Busch’s descriptions. The room was the sisters’ central killing and processing facility [27:37]. Remains of at least a dozen other victims lay there. Hanging along the walls were not only tools for “normal” meat processing, but also specialized, razor-sharp, curved knives and axes [28:32].

Most horrifying of all was the large, brick oven against the back wall, inside which traces of ash and charred bone fragments were found [28:40]. Martha and Elizabeth had indeed processed meat—only it hadn’t been the flesh of animals [28:50].

When the officers returned to the living room with their findings, the three arsonists were sitting silently and impassively on the sofa. Martha accepted the discovery with chilling composure: “I suppose you’ve found our workspace,” she said. “It was only a matter of time.” [31:09] She coldly confessed to killing 98 people (the initial number was later revised to account for older cases) since taking over the business.

The motive, the sisters explained, was not madness, but calculated necessity and survival. Aunt Berta had taught them that “some guests are worth more dead than alive.” [32:13] In court, Martha succinctly summarized the cynical motive: “Have you ever tried to survive in this world as an unmarried woman? Without a husband, without family, without protection? We did what was necessary.” [34:27] They viewed their victims as mere commodities and treated them accordingly.

Their motive, the sisters explained, was not madness, but calculated necessity and survival. Aunt Berta had taught them that “some guests are worth more dead than alive.” [32:13] The Legacy of Evil

The trial of the Brand Sisters in Erfurt in the spring of 1860 caused a sensation throughout Germany. Thousands of onlookers traveled to catch a glimpse of the “Devils of Schwarzburg” [34:55]. The sisters showed no remorse, but answered all questions with the precise objectivity of businesswomen [35:02].

The verdict of June 15, 1860, was death by the sword. At their execution on September 12, 1860, in the Erfurt marketplace, Martha and Elisabeth remained unmoved. Martha Brand’s last words echoed through the crowd: “We regret nothing. We have survived.” [36:43]

However, the story did not end with their deaths. The Brand Sisters were merely the tip of the iceberg. The authorities uncovered evidence of a network of similar businesses that supported each other with methods and poison recipes—from Thuringia to Bavaria [37:34].

The Golden Rose Inn was demolished in 1869 after a mysterious fire and replaced by a small park with a memorial plaque [43:14]. Martha Brand’s meticulous records, which neatly listed 97 names [43:54], remain as a silent testament to the coldness of the human heart. The Schwarzburg tragedy is an unforgettable reminder that evil does not always appear as raging madness, but sometimes as silent