For six terror-filled years, women across Upper Silesia and the Zagłębie Dąbrowskie region in southern Poland lived in constant fear. A string of brutal attacks—later attributed to a figure dubbed “the Vampire of Zagłębie”—had cast a dark shadow over the area. With every new victim, the panic only grew. All eyes were on the authorities, who were racing against time to bring the perpetrator to justice.
That day arrived on January 6, 1972, in Dąbrowa Górnicza. Police arrested Zdzisław Marchwicki, a local man who would later stand trial for the murders of 14 women and the attempted murder of seven more. On July 28, 1975, he was sentenced to death, and his execution by hanging was carried out in April 1977 at a detention center in Katowice.
But from the start, suspicions swirled that justice might have taken a tragic wrong turn. Some questioned whether the evidence against Marchwicki was too thin. Others claimed political pressure had driven investigators to settle on a scapegoat. And as time would show, the chilling saga of the “Vampire of Zagłębie” was far from straightforward.
A Trail of Terror
The nightmare began on November 7, 1964. Fifty-eight-year-old Anna Mycek was on her way home from work in Siemianowice Śląskie when she was attacked near a railway embankment. Blows from a blunt instrument ended her life. Though murders were not unheard of in the sprawling industrial region, it was only after two more women were killed under similar circumstances that authorities realized they were dealing with a serial murderer.
The special police task force formed to track down the killer was code-named “Anna.” Investigators soon discovered a macabre pattern: the attacker, who would become known as “the Vampire,” typically crept up behind his victims and struck them on the head with a blunt weapon. Six women managed to escape with their lives; the others were not so fortunate. Despite popular belief, the killer did not sexually assault his victims—his motive seemed to be purely homicidal.
The fact that all the victims were women living in the Upper Silesia and Zagłębie regions—and that the blows were delivered from the left side—led investigators to suspect a left-handed killer. Each time, he used the same weapon, except in the final attack. But further logic or motive remained elusive, fueling a collective dread that spread through local communities.
Fear and Silence
Terror took hold. Women avoided going out after dark, and fathers met their daughters on their way home. Even the official media, despite state censorship, could not entirely conceal the story. Local newspapers gave regular updates; radio coverage was scarce, as the authorities tried to maintain that such psychopathic criminals did not exist in communist Poland. But as the body count rose, it became impossible to quash public alarm.
The most high-profile murder occurred when 18-year-old Jolanta Gierek, the niece of local Communist Party leader Edward Gierek, fell victim. The ripple effect of this tragedy was immediate. Under intense political and social pressure to stop the killings, police dramatically increased their patrols and set traps using undercover policewomen as bait. Still, the murderer evaded capture, and the panic continued to grip the region.
An Arrest and Lingering Doubt
Eventually, a reward of one million złotys was offered for information leading to the capture of the “Vampire.” Even an American specialist, Dr. James Brussel, was called in to create a psychological profile of the elusive killer. Yet, after two years without new leads, the case was stalling.
Then, in 1972, the wife of Zdzisław Marchwicki came forward to accuse her husband of being the man behind the murders. Marchwicki was well-known to the local police for his drinking and domestic violence. He also happened to live near the area where the first victim, Anna Mycek, had once argued with Marchwicki’s mother-in-law. Investigators locked onto these connections as circumstantial evidence and arrested him.
Marchwicki was held in custody for two years, during which he underwent relentless interrogation. While at first he denied any involvement, he eventually confessed—leading some observers to claim he was coerced under immense pressure.
A Controversial Trial
During the sensational trial, prosecutors painted Marchwicki as the lone psychopath behind the murders. Yet from the very beginning, skeptics pointed to inconsistencies: he was right-handed, whereas the killer was believed to be left-handed; fingerprints found at the crime scenes did not match his.
Some analysts proposed an alternate theory involving Marchwicki’s brother, Jan, who allegedly had connections to the Security Service and was involved in corrupt dealings at the University of Silesia. They maintained that framing Zdzisław as “the Vampire” might have been a convenient way to eliminate a problematic family member as well.
Another suspect also surfaced: Piotr Olszowy, a schizophrenic who murdered his wife and two children before setting his home ablaze and taking his own life. This shocking crime occurred days after one of the “Vampire’s” murders. Olszowy’s corpse was too badly burned for fingerprint comparisons, leaving a critical piece of evidence forever outside reach.
A Lasting Mystery
For authorities and locals alike, the arrest of Zdzisław Marchwicki brought a sense of relief. After he was sentenced, the killings ceased, and daily life in Upper Silesia and Zagłębie returned to normal. Captain Jerzy Gruba, who led the investigation, quickly rose through the ranks, eventually becoming a high-ranking official in the national police force.
Yet questions linger to this day. Did the authorities condemn the right man, or was Marchwicki merely the scapegoat in a politically charged climate desperate for a conclusion? Could someone else have been responsible for those 14 murders?
Despite the official narrative, the “Vampire of Zagłębie” case remains one of the most haunting chapters in Polish criminal history—a cautionary tale of how fear, pressure, and flawed investigations can cast long shadows. Marchwicki’s trial paved the way for future investigations of serial killers in Poland, from Joachim Knychała in Bytom to Robert Warecki in Warsaw’s Ochota district. Yet no case has ever unsettled the nation quite like the one that first introduced the “Vampire” moniker and continues to intrigue and unnerve those who look deeper into its many unanswered questions.