50,000th army lost in the desert
Cambyses II, a ruler of the Achaemenid Persian empire, allegedly sent an expedition of 50,000 soldiers toward the oasis of Siwa in western Egypt in 524 BCE. The aim was to quell a prophecy surrounding the god Amun. The march never reached its destination; the force vanished in the western desert beyond Thebes. Local whispers spoke of a sandstorm swallowing the army, leaving no trace of a survivor. Yet the true cause remains debated in historical circles, with many experts treating the storm as a convenient myth rather than a literal truth.
Disappearance in battle is not unheard of, but an entire army vanishing is extraordinary. The Persians were known for organization and supply networks, and they employed guides. Sandstorms can be deadly, but most seasoned forces endure them rather than vanish entirely in such vast numbers. The episode invites comparison to modern sieges or large-scale operations impacted by weather, such as the 2003 Iraq invasion, where sand and dust slowed progress and affected equipment, but did not erase units from existence.
Herodotus, the ancient Greek historian, mentions the event, but later scholars question the conclusion that a sandstorm alone produced the disappearance. In the 20th century, archaeologists hunted the desert for signs of the lost army, sometimes reporting finds that later proved to be unrelated relics or fabrications. Modern historians, including Olaf Kaper of Leiden University, have analyzed a wide array of records and sites and concluded that treating the demise as a natural sandstorm may have been a constructed justification. Some theories even suggest the army fell in an ambush during Petubast III’s revolt against Persian rule, a forgery of a catastrophe designed to explain the loss and preserve Persian family memory. In short, the disappearance is often treated as a blend of propaganda, military misfortune, and contested archaeology rather than a single, unambiguous disaster.
The tale of this vanished force persists as a neutral point of reference in debates about ancient warfare, weather, and the politics of myth. It serves as a reminder that history sometimes relies on competing narratives, and what seems like a straightforward natural disaster can conceal a web of strategic concerns, diplomatic sensitivity, and deliberate cover stories crafted by rulers and their chroniclers.
The secrets of the Masons went to the grave
William Morgan, born in the 18th century in Virginia, is remembered as a controversial figure in American Freemasonry. Morgan, a stonemason by trade, led a life marked by personal ups and downs. He claimed military service in the War of 1812, though documentary evidence for his rank remains scant. His notoriety grew when he became linked with the Freemasons and sought to publish a book exposing lodge networks and inner workings. He even secured an advance from a publisher, only to encounter a cascade of misfortune that would derail his plan.
Morgan faced early attempts to disrupt the publication, followed by accusations that touched his finances and personal life. He was briefly imprisoned for debt and later entangled with a militia of local law and order figures. Escape attempts, rumors of hired help, and strange movements of people and ships fed public imagination. Some accounts claim he vanished while traveling, while others suggest different fates. The absence of conclusive evidence kept the question open for decades and fed sensational theories about Freemason influence and hidden agendas.
As time passed, several members of Masonic lodges faced legal actions related to the Morgan case. Public reaction helped spark a broader anti-Masonic sentiment in the United States. The broader claim of a world-spanning conspiracy is widely viewed by historians as overstated, even as Morgan’s disappearance remains a symbolic touchstone in conspiratorial discussions. Contemporary observers note that prominent figures of that era, including leaders who would become symbols of freedom or controversy, were sometimes associated with or opposed by Masonic circles, yet the evidence for a global plot is lacking. One historical voice, reflecting the era, even referenced distant figures with skepticism about centralized plots among secret societies.
Loss of two boats with Russian sailors in America
In 1741, a small research vessel named St. Paul carried a crew to map coastal layouts near the North American coast south of what is now Alaska. On July 17, a group of ten sailors and soldiers were sent ashore on a pack boat, with plans to return by the end of the day. The weather and fog soon complicated the mission, and supplies were allotted for a week to cover contingencies.
The landing did not go as expected. The small boat slipped behind a rocky promontory, and no signal events occurred to indicate successful contact with shore. As the day lengthened, visibility worsened. The ship eventually moved away from the bay as fog thickened. By July 23, dense fog hung over the coast, and later accounts described a lack of fires, buildings, or signs of shelter along the shore.
The vessel attempted to signal with cannon fire, but the attempts yielded little return. By July 24, a reconnaissance boat was deemed unable to reach the shore, and another small craft was sent to search for the missing crew. The signal protocol relied on a system of fires and visual cues, yet no consistent response came from the shore, leaving the expedition unable to confirm contact or rescue anyone.
In the days that followed, reports described erratic observations: fires seen briefly on shore without any accompanying signs of habitation, and later stories suggested the rescued looked for a path back to the ship but found none. By July 27, with dwindling fresh water, the St. Paul’s commanders decided to head to port. The fate of the fifteen missing sailors and soldiers remained unresolved, with various theories circulating about eddies, currents, or potential hostile interference. Some stories even claimed Native groups played a role, but reliable confirmation never emerged. Decades later, traders noted unusual artifacts among local populations, hinting at long-lived memories of contact and disappearance rather than a straightforward rescue.
Intrigue after returning
Not all disappearances stay unsolved for long. In the mid-20th century, the French lawyer Jacques Vergès became a notable figure due to his controversial political and legal work. Vergès fought in North Africa with Free France in World War II and later engaged in anti-colonial struggles. He represented a number of high-profile cases and controversial figures, a style that drew both support and criticism. Vergès vanished from public view in February 1970 during an anti-colonial rally in Paris, sparking speculation about his fate. He resurfaced in 1978, offering opaque explanations about his whereabouts and life, fueling rumors of shifts in allegiance and residence. Some suggested he had joined militant movements in the Middle East; others believed he had adopted a quieter life in Europe.
In later years, it became public that Vergès had connections with groups operating in the broader radical left, including controversial alliances that linked him to various international movements. By 2007, historical accounts confirmed that Vergès had associated with militant networks connected to broader regional struggles. The arc of Vergès’s life—marked by absence, reappearance, and contested loyalties—became a case study in how political disappearances can morph into enduring myth, especially when intertwined with violent or extremist narratives.
Bad experience with LSD
The story of Scottish singer Shelagh Macdonald offers one of the more intimate accounts of mystery and disappearance. A promising folk-rock artist in the late 1960s, Macdonald released two albums before vanishing from the public eye in 1971. She later spoke publicly, in 2005, about a difficult time that began during the recording of her third album. She described experimenting with LSD and experiencing severe hallucinations and paranoia that altered the course of her life.
Following that period, Macdonald lived with a family, later marrying and stepping away from music for many years. Her return to public life came only in parts during the 2010s. The phrase echoed by some readers, echoing author Stephen King, is that sometimes people do return after long absences, sometimes carrying new perspectives and unfinished stories.