What Netflix’s Monster didn’t get right — 8 facts the series twisted about Ed Gein’s real story

When Monster: The Ed Gein Story premiered on Netflix, it became another dark hit for Ryan Murphy’s anthology, following Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story. This new chapter dives into the life of Ed Gein — the quiet Wisconsin farmer whose crimes inspired Psycho, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, and The Silence of the Lambs. But while the series is chilling and meticulously produced, it takes several creative liberties.

The series isn’t just retelling history; it’s repackaging it into a meditation on madness and media obsession. And in doing so, it blurs the line between fact and fiction in ways that reshape the true story of Ed Gein.

When fact becomes fiction: What Netflix’s Monster: The Ed Gein Story gets wrong

Over its eight episodes, Monster transforms Gein’s grim reality into something even more cinematic. Yet many of its most striking moments simply didn’t happen. For starters, the shocking “hospital nurse” murder is a hallucination. The real Ed Gein never harmed anyone after his arrest. In reality, he lived out his final years quietly at Mendota Mental Health Institute, where nurses described him as polite and compliant — hardly the violent figure Monster portrays in its final episodes.

The series also inflates the number of Gein’s victims, implying a far broader killing spree. Historically, only two confirmed murders were linked to Gein: Mary Hogan in 1954 and Bernice Worden in 1957. The rest of his gruesome trophies came from grave robbing. By exaggerating his death toll, the show leans more into horror mythology than psychological realism.

Another major inaccuracy is the fabricated subplot connecting Ed Gein to Ted Bundy. In Monster: The Ed Gein Story, FBI agents seek Gein’s help to understand another emerging killer — a clever meta-nod to Netflix’s Mindhunter. But no such exchange occurred. Bundy was captured independently in 1979, and there’s no record of the FBI consulting Gein about anything.

Then there’s the alleged fratricide. In the show, Gein murders his brother, Henry, after a heated argument about their mother. While Henry’s 1944 death in a marsh fire remains mysterious, police ruled it accidental. Gein was never charged, and no evidence ever proved foul play. 

The show also sensationalizes the disappearance of Evelyn Hartley, depicting Gein as her abductor and killer. In truth, the 15-year-old’s 1953 disappearance in La Crosse, Wisconsin — over two hours from Plainfield — was never linked to Gein. He even passed a lie detector test, clearing him of involvement.

Adding to the dramatization, Monster arms Gein with a chainsaw — a pop-culture nod to The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. But Gein never used one; his real tools were far less theatrical: small firearms and knives.

Murphy’s version also overplays Gein’s obsession with N*zi war criminal Ilse Koch, the so-called “B*tch of Buchenwald.” While Koch’s crimes horrified the world and might have influenced Gein’s fascination with skin, there’s no proof he studied her or mimicked her actions. The connection is a symbolic flourish rather than a factual one.

Finally, the show envisions a romantic relationship between Gein and Bernice Worden, the owner of a hardware store, casting her murder as a tragic love story gone wrong. In reality, Gein was socially isolated and sexually repressed. He admitted to admiring Worden because she reminded him of his mother, not because of any romantic or sexual attraction.

The ending explained: Who’s the real monster?

The final act of Monster: The Ed Gein Story trades fact for philosophy, blurring fantasy and reality to explore who — or what — the real “monster” is. As Gein’s mental state deteriorates, he imagines communicating via ham radio with infamous figures like N*zi war criminals and transgender activist Christine Jorgensen. Through these hallucinations, Murphy and co-creator Ian Brennan raise complex questions about identity, isolation, and the corrosive power of imagery — both for Gein and for society.

In the finale, Ed’s fantasies reach their breaking point. He imagines himself helping the FBI capture Ted Bundy, a grotesque delusion that speaks to his desperate need for relevance and redemption. When he later envisions Adeline, his supposed partner in grave robbing, she vows to continue his dark legacy — but he refuses. It’s one of the few moments in Monster where Gein displays a flicker of conscience, suggesting he’s finally aware of the destruction he’s caused.

Murphy frames these scenes as a twisted self-eulogy. On his deathbed, Gein walks through a surreal dreamscape where the killers he inspired — Norman Bates, Leatherface, Buffalo Bill — appear like disciples. They hail him as their “father,” and Gein smiles, satisfied to have “made his mark.” The sequence culminates in a haunting visual echo of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre: a group of teens tries to steal Gein’s gravestone, only to flee as the ghosts of his cinematic successors chase them off.

As co-creator Ian Brennan told Tudum:

“This whole series turns the camera right on us.” 

Gein’s story becomes a mirror for our morbid fascination with violence — the same fascination that keeps true-crime content thriving on streaming platforms. Hunnam’s portrayal captures this contradiction perfectly. His Ed Gein is both pitiable and terrifying — a lonely, mentally ill man consumed by the media he devoured and the trauma his mother inflicted.

“Are monsters born or are they made?” Murphy asks in the show’s final moments.

The answer, in Gein’s case, seems to be both.

The real Ed Gein didn’t need embellishment — his crimes were already the blueprint for half a century of cinematic nightmares. Monster: The Ed Gein Story proves that sometimes, the scariest part of the tale isn’t the killer at all — it’s our obsession with watching him.