You’re strapped to a chair. Cold metal presses against your bare skin. Iron restraints lock around your wrists, your ankles, your throat. You can’t move. You can’t scream. Within minutes, you’ll be dead. But we’re not talking about death row in 1890. We are in 1450 somewhere in the Holy Roman Empire. And the torture is just beginning.
Now, here’s where this gets disturbing. That medieval torture chair, it directly inspired the electric chair used in American prisons. And I’m not talking about a vague connection. I’m talking about the same design philosophy, the same promises of humane execution, and the same catastrophic failures that authorities covered up for centuries. By the end of this video, you’re going to discover three things that historians rarely discuss. First, how a medieval torture device became the blueprint for America’s most controversial execution method, and why the connection was deliberately hidden. Second, the inventor who ended up in a chair himself, but it’s not who you think, and his final words will haunt you. And third, why both chairs failed at their one job, killing people quickly, yet authorities kept using them anyway. And when you understand the reason, you’ll never look at execution methods the same way.
Before you scroll to something lighter, I need to warn you. This gets dark in ways most documentaries won’t touch. We’re going into autopsy reports, witness testimonies, and medieval torture manuals that describe things in graphic detail. But if you want to understand how humanity has justified killing people for half a millennium, this is the video.
Let me take you back 575 years. Here’s something you’ve probably never thought about. Why a chair? When humans design methods of execution, they choose positions deliberately. Hanging, you dangle powerless. Guillotine, you kneel submissive. Firing squad, you stand at least with some dignity. But a chair, that’s different. See, throughout history, chairs, especially elaborate ones, represented power. Kings sat on thrones. Judges sat above the accused. When you sit, you command, you rule. So when executioners strapped condemned people into chairs, they were doing something psychologically twisted. They were giving them a mockery of power. “Here, sit on your throne as we kill you.” It was humiliation disguised as ceremony.
And this obsession with execution chairs spans 500 years. From the 1450s in the Holy Roman Empire to the 1890s in America, humans kept coming back to the same idea. Strap them down, make them sit, and end their life while they’re locked in a position of fake authority. Now, here’s the pattern that connects both eras, the efficiency obsession. Both the iron chair and the electric chair were invented to be more humane than what came before. Medieval Europe wanted something less brutal than the breaking wheel, where executioners shattered every bone in your body. 1890s America wanted something more civilized than hanging where people sometimes took 20 minutes to strangle. Both times authorities promised swift, painless death. Both times they delivered something far worse. Both times they kept using them anyway.
Two chairs, two eras. One horrifying pattern of failure that starts in the torture chambers of medieval Germany. Imagine you’re in Nuremberg 1490. The crowd has gathered. The executioner is heating the brazier and you’re about to discover what sitting comfortably really means in the medieval mind. Let me describe the iron chair because most people picture it wrong. It wasn’t just a metal chair that got hot. That would almost be merciful. The iron chair had between 500 and 1,500 iron spikes. Historians have counted 23 different spike variations in surviving examples, covering every surface: the back, the seat, the armrests, the leg rests, even the headrest. Some spikes were 2 in long, some were four. They were arranged so that no matter how you shifted your weight, something sharp pressed into your flesh.
Now, picture this. You’re stripped naked. Guards force you down onto those spikes, they don’t pierce deep yet, just enough to draw blood. Then come the iron restraints, wrist shackles locked to the armrests, ankle shackles to the legs, a throat collar that makes it almost impossible to move your head. You can’t escape the spikes. You can’t even minimize the pain. And then they light the brazier underneath. See, the entire chair was metal, usually iron or brass, which conducted heat perfectly. As the brazier burned, the metal gradually heated up, not quickly, slowly. Over 30 minutes, sometimes an hour, the chair became an oven. Your skin blistered. The spikes now hot cauterized wounds as they pressed deeper from your own body weight. The smell—witnesses described it as roasting pork mixed with burning hair—filled the square.
Here’s what makes this absolutely brutal. The iron chair wasn’t designed to kill quickly. It was designed to extract confessions. You were tortured until you either confessed to heresy, witchcraft, or whatever crime they accused you of, or until you died from shock, blood loss, or organ failure. And this is where the propaganda starts. In a 1502 executioner’s manual, yes, they actually wrote manuals for this, the iron chair is described as more humane than the breaking wheel or drawing and quartering. The actual quote translated from German: “The accused sits comfortably and need not suffer the indignity of dismemberment. The heat provides a swifter end than the wheel’s prolonged breaking.”
“Comfortably,” they called it sitting comfortably. This is the same language you’ll see 388 years later in New York when officials described the electric chair as humane and instantaneous. Medieval records from Nuremberg, Rothenberg, and the Hapsburg territories show the iron chair was used for roughly 250 years. From the mid-1400s through the early 1700s, thousands of people died in these chairs. Their names are mostly lost to history, dismissed as heretics and criminals not worth remembering. But here’s what’s haunting. The iron chair had one fundamental design flaw that would echo through the centuries. It didn’t kill consistently. Some victims died within 20 minutes. Others lasted over an hour. The variables—body weight, fat distribution, tolerance to shock, even the weather affecting the brazier—meant that executioners never knew how long it would take.
Sound familiar? Because 440 years later in Auburn Prison, New York, authorities were about to make the exact same mistake. They were about to build a chair that promised consistency and delivered chaos. But first, they needed a weapon in a corporate war. Don’t click away yet, because what happens next connects medieval torture chambers to Thomas Edison’s laboratory in a way that will genuinely shock you. And yes, that pun is about to make terrible sense. The electric chair wasn’t invented to execute criminals. It was invented to murder a business rival’s reputation. 1880s America: The Current War. Thomas Edison has invested everything in direct current (DC) electricity. But George Westinghouse is winning the market with alternating current (AC). AC is cheaper, travels farther, and powers cities better than DC ever could. Edison is losing badly. So he launches a propaganda campaign to prove that AC current is deadly, too dangerous for homes, too risky for society, and he needs a demonstration that the public will never forget.
Enter Harold P. Brown, an electrical engineer who shared Edison’s hatred of AC. In 1888, Brown began publicly electrocuting animals, dozens of dogs and cats to show AC’s killing power. But he needed something big, something that would make headlines. January 4, 1903, Coney Island, New York. A crowd gathers to watch the electrocution of Topsy, a circus elephant deemed dangerous after killing three handlers. Edison’s film company is there, cameras rolling. They feed Topsy carrots laced with cyanide just to be sure. Then they attach electrodes to her feet and send 6,600 volts of Westinghouse’s AC current through her body. Topsy dies in 10 seconds. Smoke rises from her feet. Edison distributes the film nationwide. The message: “This is what Westinghouse wants in your home.”
But here’s the truly dark genius. Edison and Brown had already pitched the electric chair to New York State 3 years earlier in 1889, specifically using AC current, the goal. Every execution would be a public demonstration that Westinghouse’s electricity kills people. They even tried to make “Westinghouse” the official term for execution, as in “the criminal will be Westinghoused at dawn.” New York authorized the first execution by electricity on January 1, 1889. The first victim—sorry, the first subject—would be William Kemmler, convicted of murdering his wife with a hatchet. August 6, 1890, Auburn Prison. Kemmler walks into the execution chamber and sees the chair, a simple oak chair with leather straps and two electrodes. The executioner places a metal cap on Kemmler’s head. Another electrode attaches to the base of his spine. The prison doctor nods. They throw the switch. 1,000 volts course through Kemmler’s body for 17 seconds. His body convulses. His fists clench so hard his fingernails pierce his palms. Then they cut the current. He’s still breathing. Witnesses panic. Someone yells, “Turn it back on.”
They scramble to recharge the generator. Kemmler gasps for air, partially conscious, while the executioner frantically prepares a second jolt. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they electrocute him again, 2,000 volts this time. For over a minute, the smell hits first, burning flesh and singed hair. Then witnesses see smoke rising from Kemmler’s head. His body catches fire. Blood vessels rupture. Witnesses vomit. One faints. The entire execution takes 8 minutes. The next day, the New York Times runs the headline: “Far worse than hanging. Kemmler’s death proves an awful spectacle.” George Westinghouse, Edison’s rival, releases a statement: “They would have done better using an axe.”
But here’s what nobody tells you about the electric chair’s failure. They knew it would fail. The doctors who designed it, Frederick Peterson and Carlos Macdonald, had run experiments on animals with wildly inconsistent results. Dogs died instantly at certain voltages. Others survived the first shock and had to be electrocuted again. The variables—body resistance, electrode placement, moisture levels—were impossible to control. Just like the iron chair’s unpredictable heat distribution, the electric chair’s unpredictable current flow meant that every execution was a gamble. And just like the medieval executioners who blamed damp wood when the brazier didn’t burn hot enough, American officials would later blame dry sponges when the electrodes didn’t conduct properly. The excuses changed. The failures didn’t. But authorities kept using the electric chair because there was something more important than a quick death.
And it’s the same reason medieval authorities kept using the iron chair despite its failures. I know this is getting dark, but if you’re still watching, you’re clearly as fascinated by history’s brutal truths as I am. But first, the bodies that refused to die. Here’s the nightmare scenario that connects both chairs across five centuries. What happens when instant death takes 17 minutes? Medieval records are incomplete. Most torture documentation was deliberately destroyed, but historians have confirmed at least three cases where iron chair victims survived the initial torture session. One case from Rothenberg in 1531 describes a woman accused of witchcraft who endured 40 minutes in the iron chair, passed out from shock, was revived and interrogated again. She survived that session. They executed her differently the next day.
The electric chair, we have exact numbers. Nine documented cases of people surviving their first electrocution. Nine. Let me tell you about Willie Francis because his case went all the way to the Supreme Court and reveals something deeply disturbing about American justice. May 3, 1946, Louisiana. Willie Francis, a 17-year-old black teenager convicted of murder, sits in Louisiana’s portable electric chair. Yes, they had a traveling chair they drove from prison to prison. The executioner throws the switch. Francis screams, “Take it off. Let me breathe.” The chair malfunctions. Current flows, but not enough to kill. Francis convulses, but remains conscious. Witnesses later testify they saw his lips turn blue, his body strain against the straps, and heard him beg for his life. They stopped the execution.
Guards take Francis back to his cell. His lawyers immediately appeal. “You can’t execute him twice. That’s cruel and unusual punishment.” The Supreme Court disagrees. In a 5-4 decision, they rule that the failed execution was an accident and therefore trying again isn’t unconstitutional. One year later, May 9, 1947, they execute Willie Francis successfully this time.
But here’s the pattern that should terrify you. The excuses. When the iron chair failed to kill quickly, medieval executioners blamed external factors. “The wood was damp, so the fire didn’t burn hot enough. The accused had eaten recently, which delayed the effects. The weather was cold, affecting the metal’s heat retention.” Never the design, always variables. Fast forward to 1997, Florida. Pedro Medina sits in Old Sparky, Florida’s electric chair. The executioner throws the switch. Flames shoot from Medina’s head. 6-in flames. The execution chamber fills with smoke. His face mask catches fire. Witnesses smell burning flesh. The medical examiner later finds that Medina’s brain was cooked to 130-140° Fahrenheit. Florida’s attorney general’s response? “A dry sponge. The executioner had failed to properly wet the sponge placed between Medina’s head and the metal cap.” Dry sponge, poor conductivity, prolonged suffering. Not the chair’s design, not the method itself. A damp sponge, different century, same excuses.
Here’s what makes this pattern genuinely sinister. In both eras, authorities had the autopsy reports. They had the witness testimonies. They knew these methods didn’t kill cleanly or consistently. Medieval torture manuals include detailed sections on revival techniques. What to do if the subject survives the iron chair—cold water immersion, bloodletting. They had protocols because it happened regularly enough to need protocols. Modern electric chair procedures include multiple application protocols. Official instructions for what to do when the first shock doesn’t kill: “Wait 30 seconds for the body to cool. Check for heartbeat. Apply current again if necessary.” They had backup plans for failure. But here’s what nobody tells you about why they kept failing, why they kept using them anyway, and why the failures might have been intentional. The answer isn’t about bad engineering or unfortunate accidents. It’s about money and it’s about control. Because both chairs, separated by 440 years, shared one secret purpose that had nothing to do with humane execution and everything to do with who profited from prolonged public death.
Let me show you the connection that historians avoid discussing. The iron chair and the electric chair both failed at killing people quickly. But they succeeded perfectly at something else: Making money and controlling populations through spectacle. Medieval Europe. Public executions aren’t just about punishment. They’re events. The church and local authorities charge admission to torture sessions. Vendors set up stalls. It’s a market day built around someone’s death. The iron chair’s slow torture wasn’t a design flaw. It was the product. The longer the torture lasted, the longer crowds stayed. The longer crowds stayed, the more they spent. And the more horrifically someone died, the more powerfully the message landed. “This is what happens when you challenge authority.” Quick death? That’s bad business. Prolonged visible suffering? That’s social control with a revenue stream. Records from Nuremberg’s torture museum show the city collected taxes on execution attendance. The iron chair sessions generated significantly more revenue than quick hanging or beheading because crowds stayed for hours.
Now jump to 1890s America. Thomas Edison isn’t designing a humane execution method. He’s designing a propaganda tool. Every botched electric chair execution makes news. Every article mentions alternating current. Every gruesome detail reinforces his message: “AC electricity is dangerous.” George Westinghouse loses contracts. Cities hesitate to adopt AC power. Edison’s smear campaign powered by the electric chair’s failures nearly works. But there’s a deeper profit motive that extends for a century. Between 1890 and 1977, when Oklahoma introduced lethal injection, the electric chair remained the dominant execution method in America. Multiple states bought chairs, built execution chambers, trained personnel, and maintained the equipment. Who profited? Equipment manufacturers, electrical companies that supplied the generators, medical suppliers who provided electrodes and conductive materials. And here’s the truly dark part. Pharmaceutical companies actively lobbied against lethal injection throughout the 1960s and early 1970s. Why? Because lethal injection would require drugs, which meant pharmaceutical companies would be implicated in executions. They preferred the electric chair. Equipment suppliers could operate in relative anonymity. The chair wasn’t failing despite efforts to fix it. The chair was succeeding at exactly what it was designed to do, profit and spectacle, dressed up as justice.
Now, let me tell you about Frederick Peterson because his story reveals the human cost of this deception. Peterson was one of the doctors who certified the electric chair as humane in 1889. He assured New York officials it would cause instant painless death. He was wrong and he knew it after the first execution, but he couldn’t admit it. His reputation was at stake, so he continued to certify the method as humane. Over his career, Dr. Peterson witnessed more than 30 electric chair executions. Former colleagues described him as increasingly disturbed, drinking heavily, suffering from what we’d now call PTSD. He died in 1938 from stress-related heart failure at age 79. In private letters discovered decades later, Peterson wrote: “I have seen things no physician should witness. The chair was my greatest contribution to science and my deepest regret. We promised mercy and delivered prolonged agony, but by then too many reputations, my own included, depended on the lie.”
He never publicly recanted. The chair continued operating. Harold P. Brown, Edison’s engineer, who designed the execution protocol, lived to 1944. He never expressed regret. He died wealthy from his electrical patents. Meanwhile, the electric chair spread. By 1949, 26 states used it. The iron chair was officially banned in most of Europe by the early 1700s, though Spanish Inquisition records show replicas being used as late as 1834, over 300 years after its invention. The electric chair is still legal in states as of 2024: Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, Oklahoma, and South Carolina. It was last used in February 2020. Tennessee. Nicholas Sutton chose the chair over lethal injection. The execution took 13 minutes from first shock to declared death.
Here’s the parallel that should haunt you. Both chairs were never about humane death. Medieval authorities wanted public torture to control populations through fear. They got it. Modern authorities wanted civilized vengeance that looked scientific and painless. They marketed it that way while knowing the reality. Both eras prioritized the appearance of progress over actual humanity. We didn’t evolve past the iron chair. We just gave it a plug and called it justice. 500 years, two chairs, one unbroken pattern. Humans keep designing execution methods, promising each new version will be more humane than the last, watching them fail and then keeping them anyway because the failure serves a purpose. The iron chair taught medieval crowds that challenging the church meant unthinkable suffering. The electric chair taught modern citizens that justice was scientific, controlled, and inevitable, even when it clearly wasn’t. Both relied on the same deception, that ritual seating somehow made killing more legitimate. That ceremony could disguise brutality.
And here’s why this matters today. Right now, in 2024, several states are facing lethal injection drug shortages because pharmaceutical companies refuse to supply execution medications. Some states are responding by bringing back firing squads. Others are discussing bringing back the electric chair as a primary method, not a backup option. We’re watching the cycle repeat in real time. The humane method fails. Authorities reach backward for older methods. They promise this time it’ll be different. History suggests it won’t be. Every generation believes it has found the moral way to kill people. Every generation is wrong. And perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps we need the horror to be visible to force ourselves to ask the question nobody wants to answer. If we can’t figure out how to kill people humanely after 500 years of trying, what does that tell us about execution itself?
