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The Immortal Leonard Jones

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The grave of "Live-Forever" Jones in Fisherville, Kentucky


Memento mori is a Latin phrase meaning, "remember that you have to die". It is more than just a phrase, of course; it is a reminder-- a warning-- that from the moment we are born, we are careening toward our inevitable demise.

Death is a universal truth-- at least it is a universal truth in the minds of most people. Yet, for as long as mankind has buried its dead, there have been many who devoted their lives to finding the key to everlasting life. And there are also those who claimed to have found it.

We decided to check in with some of these self-proclaimed discoverers of eternal life to see how they're doing. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that they were all dead.

Of all the people who claimed to be immortal, few were as interesting as Leonard "Live-Forever" Jones, an eccentric politician who once ran for President of the United States and who genuinely believed that immortality could be achieved by adhering to a strict regimen of prayer and fasting.

Born in Virginia in 1797, Jones moved to Kentucky with his family as a child and had amassed a sizeable fortune as a young man in land speculation. After his fiancée broke off their engagement, Jones turned to religion and renounced his "wordly ways", eventually giving away 5,000 acres of land to the Shakers. Jones dabbled in several different religions throughout his life, but found disappointment in each one. At various times in his life he was a Methodist, Mormon and a member of the Church of the United Brethren. He renounced Mormonism after failing to receive the "gift of tongues" that he believed he had been promised.

While involved in land speculation in Clark County, Indiana, Jones became fascinated with the Shakers, an extreme Christian sect which promotes celibacy and simple living in a communal setting. In the time of Leonard Jones, there were some 6,000 practicing Shakers in America; today only one Shaker community remains in the entire United States (as it turns out, it's really hard to grow a religion that is based upon celibacy). For one reason or another Jones abandoned the Shakers and returned to Kentucky.

It was around this time Jones attended a revival meeting put on by an elderly traveling preacher named McDaniel. McDaniel, apparently, was something of a nut. Although he claimed to know the secret to immortality, he never drew much of a crowd, but Leonard Jones liked what he heard and became McDaniel's most loyal disciple. They traveled together preaching the doctrine of immortality-through-fasting and things were going well, but they hit a bit of a snag when McDaniel got sick and died.

When someone asked Jones if his faith had been shaken by McDaniel's death he replied, "No. But I was very much embarrassed to preach his funeral!"

During the 1856 presidential election, which was eventually won by James Buchanan, Leonard Jones announced himself the opposition candidate but received very few votes because the clerks had failed to put his name on the ballot. Jones claimed that the election was illegal and went to court, where he obtained a written injunction against Buchanan, but nothing ever came of it. He also ran against Abraham Lincoln and contested the results of the 1860 election after losing. After Lincoln's assassination, Jones-- who claimed to be the morally superior candidate-- stated that the president's untimely death was "retributive justice". 

In 1867, Jones claimed to be the "morally elected" Governor of Kentucky, and viewed the death of Gov. John Helm as proof of his claim (Helm died five days after his inauguration). Jones fervently believed that since he was God's official representative on earth, he was entitled to fill every political vacancy if he so desired. Throughout his life he filed dozens of lawsuits against elected officials, claiming that he was the rightful office-holder, whether he had actually run for the office or not.

Even though very few people took Jones seriously, there was something charming about the eccentric zealot who claimed to be immortal. He practiced what he preached and was said to have no vices whatsoever. He never consumed food in the presence of others and, until the day of his death, he preached his doctrine of physical immortality through prayer, starvation and poverty.

After his death from pneumonia in August of 1868, one obituary (from the Louisville Daily Courier) stated:

No political meeting ever passed off within a hundred miles of Louisville that did not hear from Live-Forever Jones. Though a warm sympathizer with the South, he believed himself the only man who could save the country, and though his speech was usually the last, it was always there. The antics he would cut in emphasizing his remarks were grotesque in the extreme, and we have seen him jumping straight up and down for several minutes at a time, whacking the table with his cane and drowning his own voice in the racket he made. Sometimes a band of music would undertake to play him down, [but] he always waited and had his say to the rollicking, shouting crowd that was ever ready to applaud and extol him. His speeches never got into print, however, and he was always at loggerheads with the reporters for leaving him out.

Doctor Strope and the House of the Green Shutters

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During the early 20th century in Topeka, Kansas, many fantastic tales were told about the infamous "House of the Green Shutters", which stood on 10th Avenue near the site of the long-defunct Bethany College (later known as Vail College). Strange tales of ghosts, hidden tunnels and secret passages are connected with this house, which was also known to Topeka locals as "The Crazy House".

The house, a dark colored stucco structure built close to the sidewalk, was said to have been built during the time of Civil War by a woman who was a Confederate sympathizer, and its unusual architecture was designed to aid in the escape of fugitives. At the time of the war, the windows were surrounded by iron bars, and the interior featured several secret passageways, hidden compartments and well-concealed peep-holes. One popular rumor was that the woman who built the house lived in constant terror of an unseen enemy, and constructed the tunnels and hidden passages so that she would never be trapped inside her own home without a means of escape.

In reality, the peculiar House of the Green Shutters was not built by a female Southern sympathizer during the Civil War, but in the 1890s by an eccentric female physician, Doctor Strope. As it turns out, the real-life story of Doctor Strope is every bit as bizarre as the mysterious house itself.
Strope planned and oversaw every aspect of the house's construction, and, according to some sources, paid the workers daily by making them stand in line while she distributed coins from a china bowl.

Strope, apparently, also demanded that she have the ability to look into each room through a peep-hole. According to one story, she became irate during construction when she discovered that she couldn't peek into one of the rooms. Although construction was nearly complete, the furious physician ordered the floor torn up and every wall torn down-- the workers had to start all over again.




Because Doctor Strope was so eccentric, it didn't take long for stories of her bizarre behavior to spread throughout Topeka. The peep-holes, it was said, were put there so that Strope could keep an eye on her servants, making sure they were doing their jobs and not stealing anything. 

Strope was also a religious and self-righteous woman, and she said her prayers before sunrise each morning in a loud voice with the windows open. She was later arrested for disturbing the peace, after shouting a prayer that went something like, "John Jones is an awful liar. Please help him to overcome this grievous fault." During her trial she quoted Bible verses to the judge and she was released. She then demanded that the same police officers who brought her to court transport her back home (it is unclear whether or not the judge catered to her demand).

Another interesting feature of the property was a well that had been dug 250 feet into the earth. Doctor Strope claimed that the waters from this well held miraculous healing powers and for many years a large sign was displayed at the well, reading, "Free Medicine for God's Poor". There is also credible evidence indicating that a tunnel once ran from the house's cellar to a barn that once stood on the property. The barn, at one time, had been used as a sanitorium to house Doctor Strope's patients.





For one reason or another Doctor Strope moved away, never to be heard from again, and the House of the Green Shutters was occupied by a seemingly endless stream of tenants, none of which stayed around too long. One of these occupants gave rise to the legend of the "Woman in the Black Veil".

This mysterious woman was brought to the house by an elderly, feeble man who used to live there alone. She showed up suddenly one day and was seen constantly around town, on the streets selling scarves and embroideries that she had made. She always wore a dark veil so impenetrable that it concealed all of her features. She would never remove the veil, reveal her name, or reveal what her relationship was to the old man. Some said that she wore the veil because she had been horribly disfigured in some sort of accident. Then, one day, she disappeared as suddenly as she had arrived.

After the old man died in the early 1900s, the house fell into disrepair and ruin, and tales about the ghost of the "Woman in the Black Veil" persisted for decades. One newspaper article from 1916 relates the story of two boys who explored the vacant house, only to be scared away when the windows began to open and close all by themselves.

It is unclear when the "Crazy House" on 10th Avenue was finally torn down, but the city of Topeka lost one of its strangest landmarks with the razing of Doctor Strope's unusual home.


Haunted Cabooses

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"Did you ever notice that you really don't see too many cabooses anymore?" a friend said to me a few years ago. Truthfully, it was something I had never noticed, at least not until my recent move to a railroad town, where I can sit on my deck and watch freight trains roll by at all hours of the morning, afternoon and evening. And after watching countless trains I concluded that my friend was right-- you really don't see too many cabooses these days.

There's a certain sadness about this, I guess, because the caboose holds a special place in many of our hearts. With its cupola, toolshed shape and tiny back porch, it is undeniably the most charming of all railcars (which probably explains why so many old cabooses have been reborn as gift shops, motel rooms and vacation cottages). Even the name is charming, though it is derived from the Low German word "kabhuse", referring to a wooden cabin on a ship's deck.

The decline of the caboose began in the 1980s when new technologies, such as electronic EOT (end-of-train) devices, rendered cabooses obsolete. Today, CSX is the only major railroad that still uses cabooses on a regular basis.

However, since the caboose played an important role in railroading history for more than a century, it is no surprise that there are so many interesting stories that have been written about them, and some of these stories are downright spooky. Here are some fascinating "haunted caboose" stories I've been able to uncover.



The Caboose That Ran Away

In 1898 the Topeka State Journal reported that "1908", the number of a caboose owned by the Louisville & Nashville Railroad, rolled uphill, went over an embankment and into a field... all by itself... even though the brakes had been set!



But the story of "Old 1908" doesn't stop there; its mysterious antics continued for well over a decade. According to L&N employees, the caboose had once been in a wreck. Although no one suffered any injuries, "1908" was badly damaged. After being repaired it was put back into service, and that's when it began to do strange things. One report from Kentucky in March of 1910 describes this bizarre incident near Lexington:




Spooked by Phantom Rappings

In 1903, conductor Frank Correl and brakeman Tome Rowe of the Santa Fe Railroad heard someone rapping on the outside of the caboose as their train passed through Garnett, Kansas... right at the spot on the tracks where a fellow railroader had recently been killed.




Caboose Haunted by Ghost of Woman

In 1888, conductor J.H. Riley of the O.C. & S.W. Railroad of Kentucky claimed that his train's caboose was haunted frequently by the apparition of a young, slender woman in a broad-brimmed hat. The ghost, which would remain visible for hours until someone made an attempt to approach it, was reportedly seen by every railroad employee and several residents of Rockford.




Dead Brakeman on Top of Caboose

On August 12, 1888, H. Gilmore was conductor of the No. 2 train of the Sonoma Railroad in Mexico when a sudden jolt near Imuris caused brakeman Frank Urquidez to fall between the cars. He was cut to pieces. After gathering up what was left of his remains and turning them over to Mexican authorities, the train proceeded to Santa Ana. And that's when things really began to get weird.




After more than a century, photo of 'Fish Creek Ghost' still defies explanation

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In March of 1915, Montana outdoorsman Burt Duckworth set out to prove the existence of the Fish Creek Ghost once and for all. Accompanied by several witnesses and an amateur photographer, Duckworth's party traveled to an abandoned cabin approximately forty-seven miles west of Missoula, near the village of Rivulet. The cabin, said to be haunted by the apparition of a weeping woman, had already been the talk of Missoula for several years, but after Duckworth published a photo of the alleged apparition, the legend of the Fish Creek Ghost spread to every corner of the state. However, to this day, no satisfactory explanation for the strange photograph has ever been given.

Was Duckworth's ghost picture a hoax or the real thing? Here is the complete history of the haunting, so that you may decide for yourself.


The Rendleman Expedition

For several years, workers on the Northern Pacific Railroad had been telling stories about the ghost. Two such witnesses, Ed Healy and N.E. Haskins, claimed that they first encountered the apparition one night in August of 1913 while on the tracks between Cyr ad the Fish Creek bridge, in the form of a weeping woman roaming the hillside in a white dress. The same men encountered the ghost again during a camping trip in September, near the abandoned cabin.

By early 1915, rumors of the haunted cabin in the mountain wilderness between Rock Creek and Fish Creek had reached the city of Missoula, and on the Sunday morning of January 17 a group of sturdy railroading men, consisting of Ed Rendleman, W.E. Fuge and "Red" Alberts, met at Louis Kennedy's clothing emporium to discuss an expedition to the site. Rendleman, described by local papers as "six foot one and burly as a prizefighter" was chosen to lead the ghost-hunting expedition.

On Saturday, January 23, the three men got off the train at the Rivulet station of the Northern Pacific Railroad and interrogated the operator of the station, Miss Bertha Luckey. Miss Luckey informed the men that she-- and everyone else in the vicinity-- was well acquainted with the ghost story and gave them directions to the cabin if they dared to visit. Miss Luckey warned the group that, two weeks earlier, she had given the same directions to two rugged hunters from Wallace, who visited the cabin in broad daylight. Later that afternoon, the two hunters boarded the train at Rivulet with such haste that they left their guns and supplies behind. "I'm not sure what the world record for two and a half miles is," said Miss Luckey, "but those hunters from Wallace set it, and it will hold for centuries."

Undaunted, the Rendleman party set out for the cabin, but not before placing a copy of their wills in a safe deposit box at the Rivulet post office. Based upon the information they had gleaned from Bertha Luckey, the cabin had been built decades earlier by a timber claimant named Gossage. How or why he left nobody remembered, but the cabin had stood deserted ever since.

When the party reached a small stream about ten yards from the cabin, Red Alberts refilled his canteen. "There were no tracks in the snow," Alberts said after the expedition. "The snow was deep and soft. I bent over the stream with my can, and to my amazement, saw 12 or 15 clots of fresh blood on the snow on the bank. I thought my nose was bleeding... I wiped my face, but there was no blood." Alberts said that he called his companions to come over and take a look, but when they arrived at the scene, the blood had mysteriously vanished.

After the men entered the cabin they cooked supper in the kitchen and settled themselves in a corner of the living room, waiting with their loaded rifles. Hours passed and darkness came; Fuge and Alberts dozed off. "I was awakened by Rendleman pinching my knee," recalled Alberts. "He said nothing, but pointed. All I saw was a human face with tearful, staring eyes. If the face had a body, I did not get it. The face was in the doorway leading from the bedroom. I saw it distinctly. It was a woman's face."

Ed Rendleman gave his account of what he saw. "I plainly saw a woman," he stated. "She was dressed in a bridal gown, new, of light silk. She was crying. She came out of the bedroom and stood in the door... The woman stood there about 30 seconds, then crossed the room to the window at our left and disappeared. She was no more than eight or nine feet from us... We made no effort to seize the apparition." W.E. Fuge, who had slept through the ghost's appearance, said that he believed Rendleman and Alberts had dreamed the whole thing.


A 1915 poem inspired by the famous Fish Creek haunting




Montana's First Ever Paranormal Conference?


Back in Missoula, the story of the Rendleman expedition captured the interest of Burt Duckworth, a well-known citizen and amateur photographer. He believed that, if the ghost bride really did exist, he could capture her on film. "The camera will go about this business without fear or favor," Duckworth told a local reporter. "A photographic machine cannot hypnotize itself, it cannot be influenced by ghostly surroundings. It tells the truth, no matter the circumstances."

The story also caught the attention of Dr. Thaddeus Bolton of the University of Montana, who challenged members of the Rendleman party and other witnesses to a debate of sorts, to be held at Louis Kennedy's store on Saturday, January 30. As head of the university's psychology department, he was confident that science could explain the spooky phenomena at Fish Creek. Although the store was packed for what very well could have been the first paranormal conference in Montana history, Rendleman, Alberts and Fuge refused to attend.

Burt Duckworth, however, was incensed that he had not been invited to the symposium. He was so angry about being snubbed that he actually wrote a letter to the editor of The Missoulian blasting the paper and calling Dr. Bolton's credentials into question. He had also been bothered by the newspaper's intimation that the only people who claimed to have seen the Fish Creek ghost were men who had been fired by the Northern Pacific Railroad. Some of the more "rational" citizens of Missoula believed that the whole story was nothing more than a ploy by disgruntled former employees intended to scare away would-be passengers.

On Wednesday morning, January 27, Duckworth set out for the cabin with four other men: Ray Hall, Harry Byrd, Ellis Rathburn and a landscape photographer named Ralph Cuplin. They reached the cabin around 3:30 and explored the outbuildings. At around 10:30 in the evening, the party made their beds on the floor of the shack and went to sleep.




At 3:15 in the morning the group was jolted from their sleep by Ellis Rathburn, who, scared out of his mind, jumped over Byrd and Hall, knocking over and breaking the group's best camera as he fled from the cabin. Duckworth looked up and saw the weeping woman for a brief moment before it disappeared. Cuplin, according to Duckworth's report, had enough presence of mind to snap a quick photo, which seems to show the faint outline of a female figure in a long gown, with a hood concealing the features.

Cuplin's photograph of the Fish Creek ghost created a huge sensation throughout Montana, though some suspected that it was a hoax. The following day, the staff photographer of The Missoulian attempted to re-create the Cuplin photograph, and claimed that the trickery had been achieved through double exposure. However, the fake ghost pictures taken by the newspaper photographer seem to possess the trademark qualities of "spirit photography" of the day, whereas Cuplin's picture does not.

Staff photographer's attempt to recreate Cuplin's photo


At any rate, the professional photographers who attempted to prove hoaxery by re-creating the Cuplin photo seem to have overshot their intended goal; their re-creations look, well, too good to be true, like the works of famous spirit photographer William Mumler. The outlines are too crisp, the folds in the clothing too detailed. Of course, they were not amateur landscape photographers stuck with a cheap, inferior backup camera like Cuplin. Until the day they died, however, Duckworth and Cuplin maintained that their photo was the genuine article.




As for Dr. Thaddeus Bolton, even he came around on the matter of the existence of ghosts-- eventually going overboard on the subject. During the famous 1922 "Night of 38 Fires" episode at the farm of Alexander MacDonald in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, Bolton (who was now at Temple University) went so far as to claim that the 16-year-old girl at the heart of the story, Mary Ellen MacDonald (who was adopted by the MacDonald family in 1910), had actually been born and raised at the cabin near Fish Creek, and that the Fire-Spook of Antigonish and the Weeping Woman of Fish Creek were one and the same. This claim was so outlandish that it practically ruined Dr. Bolton's career.

While it is uncertain when the cabin near Fish Creek finally rotted away and the last sighting of the apparition took place, the haunting made an indelible mark in Rivulet history; maps of the area where the cabin once stood still identify the spot as Weeping Woman Gulch.

The snake-woman of Jamestown, Virginia

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When one thinks of a snake woman, one usually conjures up images of a carnival sideshow attraction (or a really awful low-budget British monster movie from 1961). However, in September of 1907, residents of Jamestown, Virginia, formed a search party to track down a supposed real-life snake woman, who was said to live in the swamp, slither on the ground, eat chipmunks, and shed her skin every year. Actually, kinda sounds like a girl I met off Plenty of Fish once...


The Paranormal Experiences of Jesse James

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Born in Missouri in 1847, Jesse James earned his reputation as the quintessential American outlaw in the years following the Civil War. Jesse, along with his brother Frank, robbed banks and trains across the Midwest until their exploits turned them into national icons; Hollywood has produced more than twenty feature films portraying Jesse James, and countless books have been written about Jesse, Frank, and other members of the infamous James-Younger Gang.

Few people, however, are aware of the paranormal experiences of Jesse James, such as the apparition of a phantom horseman who stalked Jesse for several years during his fabled campaign of crime.
The story of the phantom horseman was first related by Frank James in 1882, while in jail at Independence, Missouri, awaiting trial for the gang's robbery of the Rock Island Line train. During his three-week-long stay in the Independence jail, Frank shared a cell with Orth Harper Stein, a journalist-turned-train robber, con man and murderer whose own life story is every bit as remarkable as that of the James brothers.

Frank James


Like many cellmates, Stein and James passed the time by telling stories of their illustrious criminal careers. During one of these jail cell conversations, Frank-- who was perhaps the least superstitious member of the James family-- reluctantly told Stein about the ghost that had been haunting his brother Jesse. Stein, having once been a brilliant newspaper columnist, knew a good story when he heard one and jotted down his cellmate's story as follows:

"One night we were riding along a lonely road in Tennessee. It doesn't matter just when it was, or where. Jesse and I were riding along ahead, a little in advance of the remainder of the party. There were five or six in the party. Suddenly we came to a broad open space where two roads met and branched off in three opposite directions. We emerged from under a heavy cloud of overtopping foliage into a broad flood of moonlight. It had been very dark in the woods under the heavy trees and the bright moonlight, lying thick and golden, fairly dazzled us for a moment.

"There, standing directly in front of us, as if to dispute our passage, clearly defined in the bright moonlight, was the figure of a horseman on a white horse. We drew rein and stood for a moment stock still. The figure in the road did not move. The moonlight shone directly on his dark coat, with bright, shiny buttons of some kind, and glimmered on the silver trappings of the horse's bridle. Jesse was the first to recover himself and, with lightning-like rapidity, he drew his gun with an oath.
"'What do you want there?' he said. The figure did not more or speak. 'My God, don't shoot!' cried one of our party. 'It's a ghost.'

"Jesse's revolver went off at the same moment. The figure raised one of its hands, pointing the index finger at Jesse, while at the same time the horse turned and rider galloped off up the road. 'I have seen him before,' muttered Jesse, as he turned his horse in the other direction."

It is said that the member of the gang who warned Jesse not to shoot was Bill Ryan, a prominent figure in many of Jesse's nefarious exploits. Ryan would often to refer to the apparition, which the gang saw on several different occasions, as "Jesse's Ghost". According to both Bill Ryan and Frank James, Jesse would become furious whenever anyone asked him about the ghost.

Zerelda Mimms


Zerelda Mimms, who became Mrs. Jesse James in 1875, died in St. Louis in 1900 at the age of 55. In the years leading up to her death she would often talk about the phantom horseman, which the superstitious outlaw viewed as an omen. According to Mrs. James, the apearance of the apparition was seen by the gang as a premonition of bad luck.

Jesse James, Jr., who eventually became one of Kansas City's leading attorneys, spoke often of his father's encounters with the supernatural, and his version of the story is slightly different than that of Frank James.

"Dad first saw that horse in Kentucky, not Tennessee. I've heard my mother tell about it, and I've heard dad tell about it," said Jesse, Jr., when he was a teenager working for Thomas Crittenden, the governor who had signed his father's death warrant. After the outlaw was shot from behind and killed by his own bodyguard, Bob Ford, Jesse's children were adopted by the Crittendens. Jesse James had once plotted to kill Governor Crittenden, and the governor returned the favor by offering Ford a $5,000 reward for killing Jesse. As a result of this secret agreement, Bob Ford-- who had been found guilty of first-degree murder and sentenced to death by hanging for killing James, received a full pardon from Governor Crittenden.

"One night the man on the phantom horse jumped up behind dad. The ghost left his horse and jumped up on dad's. Dad was with another man riding along in Kentucky. Dad rode as hard as he could and fired his pistol behind him, but he couldn't shake the ghost off until he had gone half a mile. The thing then dropped off.

"Another time, when we was all over at Kearney, dad saw the ghost come in the yard on horseback and shot at it seven or eight times, but could not hit it."

Considering that Jesse was an expert shot who, as a young man, had fought Union soldiers as a Confederate guerilla fighter under the command of Bloody Bill Anderson and Archie Clement, it's hard to believe that he could miss a stationary target at close range with eight shots. However, it seems clear that Jesse eventually stopped trying to blast away at the phantom at some point, and resigned himself to the phantom's intermittent appearances.


It's fascinating to speculate whether or not Jesse saw his horsebound banshee on the day he was shot from behind, and equally fascinating to wonder about the spectre's mortal identity. Was the ghost rider one of the Union cavalrymen Jesse had ambushed as a young rebel bushwhacker, a victim of one of his bank shootouts, or something else entirely?

Turpinite: The Deadliest Fictional Weapon of WWI

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While the famous saying "all is fair in love and war" can be traced back to the 16th century English poet John Lyly, the purest expression of this sentiment came during the First World War, when belligerent nations attempted to gain a strategic advantage by any means necessary-- even if it meant using propaganda to tout the devastating effects of frightening super-weapons that did not exist.
It's easy to understand why the Allied Powers and Central Powers alike claimed to be in possession of weapons that were wholly fictitious-- it is an effective form of psychological warfare that dates back to ancient times. If you happened to be a Roman sailor during the invasion of Syracuse, for instance, few things would be as demoralizing as the prospect of spontaneous combustion at the hands of Archimedes'"death ray".

During World War I, one of the most horrible weapons imaginable was said to be in the hands of the French military-- a deadly gas known as "Turpinite". According to French, British and American newspapers, turpinite had the ability to kill the enemy so suddenly that they didn't even have a chance to collapse. Instead, they would freeze in place, with their weapons still clenched in their hands.

The first reported use of turpinite on the field of battle comes from September of 1914 during the earliest days of trench warfare on the Western Front. In August, German forces invaded Belgium and Luxembourg and pushed toward Paris. By early September the Germans had come within 45 miles of Paris, but were repulsed by French and British troops at the First Battle of the Marne (Sept. 6-12). As the German First Army and Second Army retreated, the French and British gave chase, clashing at the Aisne (Sept. 13-28) and then trading frontal assaults during a three-week period known as the "Race to the Sea". During this period, over 400 miles of trenches were dug on the Western Front.

On September 17, while the Battle of the Aisne was raging, British war correspondents on the Western Front sent reports back to London claiming that the French army, during its unexpected and seemingly miraculous victory over the Germans along the Marne, had successfully employed a new type of gun that fired artillery shells containing a substance known as turpinite, which was said to produce "instantaneous and painless death for every living thing within its reach."




One newspaper wrote:

"English correspondents have reported that entire lines of German soldiers stood dead in their trenches as a result of the fumes from the mysterious turpinite discharged by the French in engagements along the Marne. The dead Germans are reported to have maintained a standing posture and retained their rifles in their hands, so sudden and unusual was the effect of the new weapon."



The report also claimed that turpinite was so deadly and mysterious that it could only be handled by highly-trained experts, and that the process of manufacturing it was so complex that there was no possibility that the Germans could ever duplicate it. After the Associated Press got wind of the stories circulating around London, the legend of turpinite was born.




The legend of turpinite got a big boost on September 19, when Lord Beaverbrook's highly-esteemed London newspaper, The Daily Express, published a lengthy article detailing the development of France's miraculous chemical weapon.

According to this report a close friend of Lord Beaverbrook, described as being "well informed", confided to The Daily Express that the new weapon had been invented in 1912 by famed French chemist Eugène Turpin. Turpin, who had been patenting explosives since 1881, was the chemist credited for perfecting picric acid blasting charges, which were used in the Melinite and Lyddite explosives of the Second Boer War and the Russo-Japanese War.




Lord Beaverbrook's "source" also claimed that he had witnessed one of the early trials of the new explosive, which was fired at an enclosure containing a dozen sheep and a handful of horses:

"From a ridge some 2,500 yards away there came a sharp, loud thud and the shrieking sound of a small shell, just as though somebody had taken a piece of silk and rapidly torn it in two. There was an explosion in the open space in the middle of the improvised sheep pen. The sheep were still huddled in the corner, one of the old horses was apparently leaning up against the railing. The one that had been munching hay lay on his side.

"When 10 minutes later I reached the pen, the sheep looked for all the world as if they had been petrified. They were mostly standing up, one against the other. Three or four were lying down, but all were dead, with their eyes open and lips hanging. It was absolutely ghastly.


"There was a faint odor in the air, which I can only describe as that given off by methylated spirit, yet mixed with a pungent smell of menthol. Later the experiments were repeated on a much larger scale at the French permanent camps at Chalons and Mailly."


Remarkably, even as the terrible tales of turpinite became more ludicrous, few Americans-- or anyone else, for that matter-- questioned the veracity of these reports, such as the following report from September 26, 1914:




Even more remarkably, chemists from all over England yawned at these reports and claimed that turpinite was old news-- they had known about it for years. One newspaper published on October 2, 1914, quoted A.A. Roberts, a man described as being a well-known English chemist:

"We have known for some time of the experiments made with it. When turpinite explodes the gases for yards around do their work as surely as though in a lethal chamber. They do not kill in the ordinary sense-- they take life away. To breath the fumes means instant death... Undoubtedly turpinite guns had much to do with the German retreat from Paris... In a first experiment a turpinite bomb was exploded in a flock of 400 sheep. The smoke cleared away. Of the 400 sheep, 400 were dead."

By this time it should have been evident to anyone with a brain that the bullshit was getting pretty deep; Lord Beaverbrook's secret source claimed that only a dozen sheep were involved in the experiment, and made no mention of smoke. Roberts, on the other hand, claimed that there were 400 dead sheep, and made no mention of the peculiar odor of menthol. Furthermore, nobody seemed to question the rather significant claim that 1,600 Germans had been killed by the French with this new chemical weapon, even though the 1899 Hague Declaration and the 1907 Hague Convention forbade the use of poison and chemical weapons.

Reports from war correspondents continued to flood London, however. An October 5 report from a Reuter's correspondent claimed:





Perhaps the Germans had gotten wise to the hoax, or perhaps the claims about turpinite had gotten a little too far-fetched, but it seems that at around this time the decision was made to pull the plug  on turpinite. On October 3, French Minister of War Alexandre Millerand admitted to journalist Mary Boyle O'Reilly that turpinite was real... it just wasn't very deadly.




According to Millerand, Eugène Turpin did invent a new explosive called turpinite in 1912, which he presented to the government of France on the eve of the war. However, when it was tested on a flock of sheep, it succeeded in producing nothing more than a menthol-scented cloud. "But the sheep were quite as before," admitted Millerand, "only, perhaps, a little more gay."

Somewhere in Time: A Tribute to Art Bell

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This blog would not exist had it not been for Art Bell. And, if you have a website, blog, podcast or YouTube channel devoted to the paranormal, psychic phenomena, UFOs, conspiracy theory or cryptozoology, there's a pretty good chance that your digital footprint, like mine, falls inside a much larger footprint first laid by Mr. Bell in 1984.


I guess what I'm trying to say is that nobody can ever fill Art's shoes.


From the earliest days of my youth I have been a fan of AM radio. For as long and I can remember, I have always needed some kind of noise to help me sleep. Each and every night I fell asleep to the radio, tuned in to some AM station from an exotic faraway place, like Toledo. Sometimes I could even pull in Sandusky, if the skies were clear and the moon was just right. I especially liked that Sandusky station because in the wee hours of night they would replay old variety shows from the Golden Age of Radio, with performers like Jimmy Durante, Judy Garland, Milton Berle and Kate Smith. The announcer would mention how many of the stars got their start in vaudeville, which, in my adolescent mind, seemed to be a crazy little town somewhere on the banks of the Ohio River. Even back then, when I listened to the old-time comics and song-and-dance masters, I wondered how much of the audience's laughter was coming from people who were now dead and buried. I guess I was a tad bit morbid as a child. Some people fell asleep to music; I fell asleep to the laughter of ghosts.


Then, one day, my beloved radio broke and was replaced by an inferior model with terrible AM reception. I believe I was in eight grade at the time, because my new radio was actually an old boombox that my older brother left behind after he turned 18 and moved away. After cleaning up the dusty boombox and removing six miles of chewed-up magnetic tape from a Def Leppard cassette that was wrapped around the innards of the cassette player, the boombox was ready to go. Much to my disappointment, I could only pull in three stations, and each station had the same deep-voiced guy who had a fondness for using Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood's "Some Velvet Morning" as bumper music. Usually by the time they got to the part where they were singing about dragonflies and daffodils, I'd switch over to FM and listen to the Dr. Demento Show instead.


But then, one day, they took off the good doctor's show and, having no more Stan Freberg and Ogden Edsl ditties to listen to, I gave Coast to Coast AM a chance. And from that night forward, I was an addict.


Actually, I was more than an addict; I was like an apostle, talking about the show to all of my friends and getting them to tune in. Of course, since I was the only high school freshman with insomnia and bags under his eyes, I'm not sure how many of my friends ever became converts. But, as for me, I listened religiously.


After high school I moved to upstate New York, which was an eight hour drive from my hometown in the coal region of Pennsylvania. I had a 1992 Pontiac Firebird at the time, cherry red, which was a great car for getting laid as a teenager, but a horrible car for moving. So it took me several back and forth trips between Pennsylvania and New York to get all of my belongings moved. And when I mean upstate New York, I don't mean Binghamton or Elmira. I moved to Massena, which is right across the St. Lawrence from Cornwall, Ontario. It is impossible to go any further upstate than Massena. I lived so close to Canada that the smell of poutine and maple syrup carried across the river if the breeze was just right.


Anyway, Art Bell was my co-pilot on every one of these eight-hour trips. And if you've ever made that witching hour drive through upstate New York along Route 11, through that vast, forlorn, interminable stretch of nothingness from Fort Drum to DeKalb Junction, where your nearest neighbor is still a long-distance phone call away and the gnarled, ancient trees look like the dead rising from their graves, you know how spooky it can be. And, as luck would have it, that's where Coast to Coast AM came in at its loudest and clearest (I'm no expert on radio, but I think it has something to do with the lack of hills and mountains, or maybe just the general lack of humans).


There were many times while driving and listening to Art when I had to make a conscientious effort not to look in my rearview mirror, lest I see a demon in the backseat grinning at me. And there were times I refused to slacken my pace, lest I get abducted by aliens (believe me, most of St. Lawrence County looks like prime alien abduction territory) or ambushed by Sasquatch, or possibly even stalked by a chupacabra. Many, many miles were driven with the hairs of the back of my neck standing on end. And I absolutely loved each and every second of it.


It was during one of these lonesome drives when the famous episode about Mel's Hole first aired. Art's guest, Mel Waters, claimed to have a bottomless pit on his property in Washington State. Not only was the hole bottomless, but it was apparently miraculous-- dead animals lowered into it would come back to life. Mel's Hole became something of an urban legend (actually, I guess it was more of a rural legend, considering its locale), and several follow-up shows were devoted to Mel and his marvelous, mysterious hole-- which nobody ever got to the bottom of (sorry, couldn't resist).


I believe this episode to be the definitive Coast to Coast AM episode, in the same way that the "Job Switching" episode, in which Lucy and Ethel take jobs in a chocolate factory, is the definitive episode of I Love Lucy, or how the "Festivus" episode of Seinfeld is considered by many to be the definitive Seinfeld episode. Not the necessarily the "best", mind you-- just the one that's quintessential, the one that captures, bottles, and corks the very essence of the show, sealing it in time for future generations to savor like a fine wine. And I always shine a little on the inside when I hear somebody talk about Mel's Hole because I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I listened to it, all those years ago.

I moved back to Pennsylvania in the spring of 2000, right when Mike Siegel had taken over hosting duties. Even though Siegel's style was different, I thought he was an exceptional host and it was bittersweet to see him go when Art returned. There have been several guest hosts of Coast to Coast AM, but I fervently believe that Siegel was the best of Art's pinch hitters, and it's a shame he never got the credit he deserved, and a bigger shame that he got much of the blame when the show's ratings began to decline. Many people don't know this, but, out of all the guest hosts, Siegel was Art Bell's handpicked first choice to take over as his full-time replacement.

In 2003 I purchased a vintage 1970s Realistik stereo receiver at a yard sale because of its phenomenal AM reception, and tuned into the show on Harrisburg's WHP-580 regularly (which I still do). It was around this time George Noory became the full-time host. Now, I've got nothing against Noory (in fact, he saw it fitting to feature Journal of the Bizarre not once, but twice, on the Coast to Coast AM website), and even though he has done an exceptional job, it's just not the same. It's kind of like going back to your hometown and finding that a new owner has taken over your favorite pizza joint, and even though the name on the sign is the same and the pizza is still good, it's not exactly the same as it was, like maybe they switched to a different brand of flour or started putting more oregano in the sauce. It's still delicious... just different.

Art Bell passed away, perhaps fittingly, on Friday the 13th at his home in Pahrump, Nevada, at the age of 72. He was inducted into the Nevada Broadcasters Association Hall of Fame in 2006, the National Radio Hall of Fame in 2008, and he once held a Guinness World Record for continuous on-air broadcasting-- a career he had been honing and perfecting since the age of 13. As I sit here reflecting upon his death, I'm struggling to find the reason why he possessed some sort of quality that George Noory lacks, or, in other words, what secret ingredient he put in the pizza sauce.

Maybe it was his insatiable, almost childlike, curiosity of the unknown-- the vague yet perceptible timbre in his voice that let us know that he really, truly, deeply, passionately wanted to know the answers to mankind's great mysteries. What happens after we die? Are we alone in this universe? Is it possible to communicate with loved ones who have crossed over to the other side? Sure, most of us think about these things from time to time, but Art was desperate to find out, even if it meant patiently listening to the rambling theories of some crackpot caller. Art was the type of guy who would willingly crack open a million oysters just to find a pearl; he would entertain all points of view and explanations, no matter how bizarre or off-the-wall they sounded.

You could just tell that his soul would never rest until he stumbled upon the answers to mankind's most pressing questions.

And know he finally has.

Godspeed, Mr. Bell, and thank you for being my co-pilot on the dark highways, and my partner in insomnia.





The Morgue-Keeper's Tale

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Few institutions in 19th century America were as fascinating as the city morgue. In virtually every major city, the morgue was thronged with visitors on weekends, and the crowds were comprised of people from all walks of life. Some were there to identify the remains of loved ones, but most were there merely for entertainment. For instance, in one article from an 1897 newspaper, a reporter vividly describes the scene at Chicago's city morgue on a Sunday:

"While the deputy coroner was speaking, a bevy of damsels not to exceed 14 years of age, neatly dressed and bright looking, stole quietly into the room. They trod on tiptoe and spoke in whispers, yet they made the round and looked in turn on the face of every body in the boxes."

According to this particular reporter, the Chicago morgue entertained over 1,000 guests on the day of his visit, and the spectators ranged from mothers with young children to couples on their first date. While this may seem like a rather morbid way to pass the time today, it is a well-known fact that people of the Victorian Era had a deep and peculiar fascination with death; therefore, a weekend visit to the city morgue was no stranger than going to the movies or a museum.




The men employed as morgue-keepers during this era were often happy to chat with visitors and journalists alike, and were always quick to share stories about the strange experiences they have had while working in the City of the Dead. In 1898 the morgue-keeper of the Chicago morgue, Bill Clark, related the following strange story about the headless corpse of a young woman named Marie Grignovitz. The following is an excerpt from the original newspaper article.


The other night he told a strange tale about the headless peregrinations of the body of Marie Grignovitz, which the police found floating in a box in the Chicago River just north of the forks. The corpse was that of a girl of 18 or thereabouts and, though it was maimed and hacked with knives, traces of its unusual beauty remained perceptible to the most unobservant of the hundreds who were attracted by the curiosity or duty to view the body.

It was nude when found and the absence of the head seemed to add an insuperable obstacle to the difficulties of identification. Officials despaired andeventhe most ardent of new-fledged reporters butted their heads in vain against this stone wall of mystery. Everyone had given up hope and it had been determined to inter the poor headless corpse the next day when, strangely enough, out of nowhere, unheralded and by a route unknown, the head appeared at the morgue, exciting the wonder of all and the superstitious fears of thousands.


"I never did know how that head came to rejoin its body, and I don't suppose I ever will," said Clark, "but what I do know is just this-- I was on guard at the old morgue that night. There might have been three or four bodies on the slabs, I can't exactly say, one of them being, of course, this headless girl Grignovitz. There had been a good many visitors early, but after awhile things got quiet. Midnight came on and I sort of made myself comfortable in a tilted chair and, with a bit of a pipe, leaned back thinking.


"It may be my eyes closed for just a second or so, but, anyway, a quick rush of fresh air and the shutting of the door sent me on to my feet with a start. I glanced around quickly and ran to the door and looked out. No one was in sight except that I heard a bell tolling midnight. Then I stepped back indoors, feeling a bit queer somehow. I turned up the lights and the first thing I saw was that the body of the headless girl was gone. The naked slab lay there before me, but its late occupant had vanished as entirely as if she had become a spirit of air.


"Well, now, I needn't assure you this took my breath away completely. All the time I knew the body hadn't been stolen or hadn't disappeared by natural means. There wasn't any telephones in those days and I could do nothing by leaving the morgue, so I sat down in my chair again, feeling a little shivery. I'd been there about a minute, I guess, when I felt the same peculiar rush of damp air over my legs and I knew the door was open again. Soft footsteps came toward me. I didn't dare raise my eyes, but the tail of my glance fell on the floor and I saw stalk past me the wet, naked feet of a woman. Then I sank down in my chair and closed my eyes with my hands."


The old man stopped and with great deliberation filled his pipe from a canvas sack.


"Well," said Clark, slowly, "just then the sergeant came in and together we went over to where the bodies lay. Lying on the breast of the headless girl, with her two hands holding it, was the stony, staring-eyed head she had lost, with its long yellow hair all dabbled in blood. The lips were parted and the white teeth were clenched upon a bit of parchment. It had red letters printed on it, printed in English capitals, which said:


'This Is the Head of Marie Grignovitz, Traitor.'


"And we never found out a single thing more about the matter," concluded Clark. Nor could we persuade him to add a word more to what he had said.

Yahoo's monumental plot to invade your privacy

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Yahoo was the first email service I have ever used and (up until today) continued to be my primary email provider. Since creating my account in 1997 I have begrudgingly consented to the occasional forced upgrade and updated terms of service, not because I wanted to, but because, like millions of Yahoo users, I had grown too complacent to be bothered with the inconvenience of creating a new email account.

With all of the recent scandals surrounding the misuse of personal data and private information by the likes of Facebook, Cambridge Analytica and others, the last thing I expected to see today, when I logged into my Yahoo account, was an updated TOS that, in essence, grants Yahoo and its host of corporate cronies more access to your personal information than you'd feel comfortable giving to your own spouse or children.

Needless to say, I will not consent to such an agreement, and since I have used Yahoo to communicate with many of you, as well as Journal of the Bizarre's sponsors and advertisers, I apologize for any inconvenience this may have. JOTB will be creating a new email account with a different email provider in the near future, and we will update the contact section of our site as soon as we are able.

I have been loyal to Yahoo from the start, even through the massive October 2017 security breach that resulted in more than 3 billion user accounts being compromised. I consider this new TOS to be even worse.

As for the new TOS, in case you haven't already familiarized yourself with it, here's what you need to know if you wish to keep your private data safe.

The new TOS is a blanket agreement that applies to all of Oath, Inc. affiliated brands. This includes AOL, Yahoo!, Verizon, Huffington Post, Flickr, Tumblr, TechCrunch, MapQuest and others. The new agreement states, in part:

How we collect and use data.

We’ve updated some of the ways we collect and analyze user data in order to deliver services, content, relevant advertising and abuse protection.


This includes: analyzing content and information when you use our services (including emails, instant messages, posts, photos, attachments, and other communications), linking your activity on other sites and apps with information we have about you, and providing anonymized and/or aggregated reports to other parties regarding user trends.


Notice how they cushion the blow... by making it sound as if this new user agreement is in your best interest!



By consenting to this ridiculous agreement, you give Yahoo the right to not only "read" your email, but to view the pictures and attachments in your emails as well. Sure, the agreement says "analyze", but how the hell do you think they "analyze" your pictures? Being peeped on by a computer or a robot is no less disturbing than being peeped on by a living, breathing human being. In some ways, it may even be worse.



But there's more. The new TOS also grants Yahoo permission to share this information with Verizon. Pluse, there is now an indemnity cause, which states:

If you are using our Services on behalf of a company, business or other entity, or if you are using our Services for commercial purposes, we’ve added an indemnity provision, which requires you and the entity to protect us against certain legal actions.

WTF? Protect you from legal action? What, you're too broke to hire a lawyer? What the hell does this even mean?

On the surface, this does not sound any better or worse than the Gmail user agreement (Google also analyzes your email, although their TOS says nothing about Google checking out your pics and attachments... or requiring you to protect them against legal actions), but the thing about Google is, well, they seem to know what they're doing when it comes to security. Unlike Yahoo, Google actually knows how to stop hackers.

It's like giving a spare house key to your boyfriend or girlfriend. Google is like the girlfriend who holds down a steady job, pays her bills on time, and adopts stray cats from shelters. Yahoo, on the other hand, is like a mentally unstable boyfriend who can't hold down a job for more than a week and hangs out with a bunch of shady-looking characters who may or may not be drug dealers. Seriously, Yahoo goes through CEOs faster than Don Trump, Jr., goes through hair gel. And, as far as security goes, I'd rather entrust my personal data to a Pony Express rider armed with a rusty blunderbuss who has to deliver the mail through hostile Indian territory.

To put it in other terms, think of your personal data as your virginity. Do you want to give your virginity to the sharp-dressed gentleman next door, or would you rather give it up to the meth-head across the street who is going to take pictures of you naked and share them with all of his scumbag buddies?

As for me, I am not eager to give anyone unfettered access to my emails, pictures and attachments, not Google, and certainly not the bumbling stooges at Yahoo. And if that means not using email or social media at all, then so be it. So maybe, in the end, if you want to get into contact with us, you'll have to do it the old-fashioned way-- by writing a letter and dropping it into the mailbox.


The Midget Boy With the 50-Inch Head

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The accompanying newspaper article, from the May 19, 1895 edition of the Galveston Daily News, describes a young man from Florida whose head measured 50 inches in circumference (by comparison, the average circumference for an adult head is somewhere in the vicinity of 22.5 inches). What makes the story even more remarkable is that the young man, who was 21 at the time, wasonly 3 feet tall.


Bertrand graveyard haunted by murdered young lovers

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St. Joseph's Mission, Bertrand Twp., circa 1908

Established in 1836 and named for early settler Joseph Bertrand, the rural township of Bertrand in Berrien County, Michigan, is home to many people of French Canadian and Native American ancestry. Undoubtedly, there are those living in Bertrand Township who, if they trace their family trees back far enough, may be surprised to discover that they share common ancestors with Pierre and Rose, two young lovers whose spirits are said to haunt the local graveyard.

According to local folklore, shortly before the St. Joseph Mission was abandoned in 1855 (built on the site of an earlier Jesuit mission established by a priest named Father Allouezin in 1690) there was a young French Canadian settler named Pierre Snydam who divorced his wife, Rose, after three unhappy years of marriage. Rose found her husband to be something of an insensitive brute, while Pierre was jealous of his wife's friendliness toward the local Indians, and toward a Potawatomi brave in particular named Gray Eagle.

On their way back from the courthouse, after having agreed to the terms of the divorce, Pierre and his former flame decided to take a shortcut by walking through the St. Joseph Mission graveyard. They began examining the ancient gravestones, many of which had epitaphs written in French, and were delighted to discover the grave marker belonging to Madeleine Mona Mouta Nona, the daughter of a Potawatomi chief and wife of Joseph Bertrand. Although she died in 1846, Madeleine's grave marker has been lovingly maintained and its inscriptions can still be read clearly today (an interesting side note: the reason why the name 'Ellen' appears on Madeleine Bertand's grave is the result of a miscommunication between Joseph Betrand, whose native language was French, and the monument maker, who, presumably, only spoke English).

Madeleine Betrand's grave


As the story goes, Rose and Pierre were so engrossed with reading the epitaphs that, before they knew it, twilight had descended upon them. The moon came up as the divorced couple carefully and slowly walked among the graves. Pierre looked up at the stained glass windows of the adjacent church and the way that the moonlight gleamed against the colorful glass made him nostalgic for happier times; before he knew it, he and his wife were holding hands. But then, as they drew closer to the old church, something strange caught their attention-- they saw a large congregation of dark human figures entering the church. This struck them as bizarre, as it seemed to them impossible that such a large number of people could fit into such a tiny building. They were curious to find out what sort of ceremony was taking place at such an odd hour, so they went inside.

The Snydams were taken aback at what they saw. Numerous candles were burning, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the congregation, comprised of Indians and whites alike worshiping together in perfect harmony. At the altar stood a Jesuit priest, flanked by Indian acolytes, leading the congregation in song. The scene was so touching that Rose and Pierre fell to their knees and prayed with closed eyes to God for forgiveness of their sins, and for the strength to rebuild and restore their crumbling marriage.

When they opened their eyes, they were startled to discover that the congregation had vanished completely. All that was left was the old Jesuit priest, who passed them in the aisle, whispering pax vobiscum-- "peace be with you"-- as he touched them gently on the shoulder. Like the others, he, too, disappeared into thin air.

Pierre and Rose stood up and kissed each other passionately, vowing to never again extinguish the love that burned in their hearts. But, unbeknownst to the young lovers, there had been an unseen witness to the phantom mass, the jealous Potawatomi named Gray Eagle, who had been secretly in love with Rose since the first day he laid eyes upon her. Gray Eagle had bided his time for months, waiting for Rose and Pierre's marriage to fall apart. Then, when he was certain that she was over Pierre, he would swoop in and whisk Rose off of her lovely feet. From his perch high upon the bluff overlooking the St. Joseph River, concealed in the groves of oak, he had watched the couple strolling through the graveyard. When he saw them leaving the church holding hands, and still very much in love, he seethed in rage.

A few weeks later the bloodied bodies of Rose and Pierre were were found on the high bluff above the graveyard. The cold, lifeless body of Gray Eagle was discovered a few yards away, with the handle of a knife protruding from his heart. It seemed that the jealous Indian had murdered the couple before taking his own life. All three were buried in the cemetery in adjoining graves, destined to spend eternity as neighbors. From that time forward residents of Bertrand refused to walk past the graveyard at night, claiming that they had seen their ghosts hovering above the mists. Some even claimed to have been chased by them. Still others claimed to have seen the phantom congregation entering the dilapidated, abandoned mission to the strains of ethereal music.




Although the church was eventually torn down in 1911, a historical marker near the graveyard denotes the site where it had once stood. Unfortunately, time and the elements have rendered the grave markers of Pierre, Rose and Gray Eagle illegible. Perhaps now, with the passage of time, their troubled spirits are finally at peace.

Drowned by the Ghosts of Johnstown

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Editor's Note: The following was sent to us recently by a reader named Barry Noles, and has been slightly edited for formatting. You can submit your own story of the paranormal by sending it to zendog64@gmail.com



My grandfather's brother, Nicholas Esterhazy, was quite young when he died in 1925. Although he was born and raised in Latrobe (Westmoreland County), he and my grandfather went to Johnstown each summer when they were young and stayed with a relative living on Prospect Hill, about a quarter mile north of downtown. Nicholas was obsessed with all things aeronautical-- he loved blimps, zeppelins and airplanes equally. He especially loved to fly kites, and had amassed quite a collection before he died at the age of 12.

It was a breezy day in middle of June, and, as family legend states, Nicholas took his aunt's dog and left the house on Prospect Hill to fly his kite in a clearing on the hills above Johnstown, not far from where the William Penn Avenue runs. Back in those days I believe it was known as the Old Ebensburg Road. My grandfather, Harold Esterhazy, had accompanied Nicholas, but he wasn't much for kite flying, so he soon lost interest and returned to his aunt's house (I believe her last name might have been Namath, or possibly Nemeth. She had come over from Hungary in the 1910s with her husband, who died in a coal mine less than a year later. They did not speak fluent English and, as a result, their last name was spelled a variety of different ways in family records).

When night came and neither Nicholas nor the dog had returned to the house, Mrs. Namath implored Harold to go out and look for them. He set off for the clearing with a lantern, and returned less than thirty minutes later, white as a sheet and crying uncontrollably, accompanied by an old man. The old man was the night caretaker at the St. Petka Serbian cemetery, which was located down the street from the house, and Mrs. Namath assumed that the young boy was crying because he had been yelled at by the caretaker for trespassing. But this was not the case.

The old caretaker, whose name escapes me, explained to Mrs. Namath that he had seen a young boy carrying a lantern through the woods above the cemetery and, concerned for his safety, went to investigate. When he reached the boy, he encountered a ghastly sight-- lying in a clearing in the woods was a little boy and a tiny dog. They both appeared to be dead. Harold was hysterical, and so the caretaker brought him back to Mrs. Namath's house and went downtown to notify the police.
An autopsy was performed on Nicholas, and it revealed that the boy had drowned-- on dry land! Surely this must be some kind of mistake, everyone reasoned-- for the weather was gorgeous and it had not rained in days-- and so the chief of police ordered the coroner to perform an autopsy on the dog as well. Once again, it was revealed that death had been caused by drowning.

It was certainly strange, the coroner agreed, but not impossible. He told Mrs. Namath about a rare phenomenon called "dry drowning", which can occur days after a victim has gone swimming and has gotten water in the lungs. After a few days the fluid buildup causes spasms and the airway constricts. Harold confessed that he had gone swimming with Nicholas the previous afternoon in the creek behind Prospect Hill, but declared that the dog had not accompanied them.

Even though the dry drowning theory did not explain how the dog had died, my family accepted the explanation. Nicholas' body was prepared for burial by a Johnstown undertaker, and the tiny coffin was put on a train and sent back to Westmoreland County, and buried in a churchyard a few miles west of Latrobe. My grandfather died many years later in France during the war. Sometime in the early 1950s, Mrs. Namath died and her house on Prospect Hill was sold to another family. I wasn't born until 1955, so I never had a chance to meet any of them.

My parents and I didn't give much thought to Nicholas' strange death until many years later, when my mother was reading a book about the Johnstown Flood of 1889, in which 2,208 people died. I was still a young boy at the time, and so I figure that what I'm about to tell you must have happened around 1969 or 1970.

"Barry!" cried my mother from the living room. She was waving her book in the air as if the pages were on fire. "Read this!"

According to the book, 777 of the unidentified victims of the flood were buried in the "Plot of the Unknown" at Grandview Cemetery in Westmont, just west of Johnstown.
"So what?" I asked. She told me to keep reading.

Well, according to the book, before the unknown victims were finally laid to rest at Grandview Cemetery, they had been dug up from shallow makeshift graves on Prospect Hill, which had been known as Camp Hastings after the flood. It was here, in the days and weeks immediately following the grim disaster, where Clara Barton and thousands of volunteers had treated the wounded and buried the unidentified victims. But that wasn't the part of the story that had caused my mother to scream, it was the following passage, which I was able to locate years later on a website devoted to the Johnstown flood:

"The guards at Camp Hastings, near the Prospect Hill burying ground, reported today that they are having great trouble with the dogs that are constantly disturbing the dead interred at that burying ground. Over 100 dogs were driven from the place last night, and several of them were killed. The graves so hastily dug there are very shallow, and the dogs have been uncovering and devouring the dead."

The date of that original article? June 18, 1889. The day Nicholas died? June 14. Not identical, but close enough to change my mind about the "dry drowning" theory.

Here's what I now believe; that the spirits of Johnstown were still angry about having their corpses destroyed by dogs, and when a young boy and his dog trod the sacred ground, the nameless dead reached out from beyond the grave and exacted their revenge.

The Travisite Whigs and the Downfall of Linoleumville

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When the city of Topeka unofficially changed its name to Google for a month in 2010, it was a publicity stunt that made headlines all across the world. Though most people view this sort of affair as a cheap gimmick intended to boost retail sales or tourism, it hasn't prevented other towns and cities across America from following suit. But while the majority of these name changes are temporary, unofficial measures, there are some towns whose names reflected the influence of corporate overlords for decades.

Linoleumville, New York, is one such example.

Located on the western shore of Staten Island, the town known as Travisville was selected in 1872 to be the site of the American Linoleum Manufacturing Company factory and headquarters. As this was the nation's first linoleum factory, many jumped at the chance to get in on the ground floor of what was then a high-tech industry. Although linoleum had been invented by Frederick Walton in England in 1855, the process for its manufacture was largely experimental and unrefined, which made the quality of the product inconsistent. It wasn't until 1871 that William Parnacott developed the process that would allow manufacturers the ability to mass produce large quantities of linoleum.

But competition in the mass-produced floor covering game was stiff; in addition to linoleum there was Kamptulicon (made from powdered cork and rubber), Corticine, Congoleum and a host of other rivals. Walton, the inventor of linoleum, had been exporting his floor covering to the United States since 1869 from his factory in Staines, England. Because of Parnacott's advances in manufacturing, linoleum factories were springing up all over England and Scotland. The Scottish town of Kirkcaldy alone boasted at least six manufacturers of floor covering. All of these companies were exporting their products to the United States, so Walton decided to come to America, and thus, in 1872, the American Linoleum Manufacturing Company was born -- and the Staten Island neighborhood of Travisville was officially renamed Linoleumville.


State in Staines, England, paying tribute to the linoleum industry


The name could have been worse; had Elijah Galloway decided to move his cork-and-rubber plant to New York, Staten Islanders might have been stuck with Kamptuliconville. By comparison, Linoleumville sounds pretty nice.

It is unclear when the name Linoleumville first began appearing on maps and legal documents, but newspaper clippings from the era indicate that, by 1882, the place name Travisville had fallen out of favor and was seldom used. Approximately half of Linoleumville's population was employed by the American Linoleum Manufacturing Company by the early 20th century.



The factory closed sometime around 1930 and residents clamored for a new name, since there was no longer any linoleum being produced in Linoleumville. Contrary to what has been written elsewhere on this matter, records indicate that there was a high level of support for keeping the unique name. On November 18, 1930, the Associated Press reported from a town hall meeting that the older residents were staunchly opposed to adopting a new name:

"When the votes were counted last night, the elders were found to be solidly massed against a change while more than a hundred names were suggested by the radicals."[1]

Other proposed names included Travis, Scotstown, Long Neck, Cartaret, Melvin and Austin. However, most newspapers reported that the name Linoleumville was likely to stay, and older residents scoffed at the notion that the town's youth would have any impact on the outcome of the election, which was to be held on November 29.

When the ballots were tallied from a firehouse on Victory Boulevard that served as the voting place, it was an upset of blowout proportions. A total of 405 votes were cast, with only four cast for Linoleumville. Only one vote was cast for Long Neck, and the rest went for Travis-- the name that endures to this day.

One interesting aspect of this election of which little has been written was the grass-roots effort of the town's young "radical" element. The great name change debate of 1930 was one of the most effective get-out-the-vote efforts in American electoral history, as evidenced by the outcome. While the old-timers who favored the name Linoleumville stayed home, refusing to believe that the young "radicals" would be able to agree upon one name out of the many suggested, a group calling themselves the Travisite Whigs were pounding the pavement and drumming up support in the name of Travis.

Linoleum factory employees at work


"This is a victory of youth," declared Edward Leonard, shopkeeper and leader of the Travisite Whigs, after the votes were counted. Leonard threw a victory party at his store, where his guerilla campaign workers feasted upon "sardine sandwiches, strawberry pop and ginger ale". [2]

At the victory party Leonard gave a speech in which he claimed that the name Linoleumville had given the town's young people an inferiority complex. "Many a bashful maid has stayed at home rather than go away to school or entertainments where she would have to confess that she came from a town with such a name," he declared.

The media, however, felt differently about the matter and believed that the election might set the stage for widespread anarchy across the country at the hands of unruly youngsters. H. Allen Smith, a correspondent for the United Press, wrote on Dec. 2:

"It is obvious that the electors of Travis, nee Linoleumville, have established a dangerous precedent. The nation may well be prepared, some disgruntled observers say, to see an outburst of youthful revolt against existing town titles."[3]

The young voters of Staten Island, in reality, had not set a dangerous precedent; a similar squabble over changing the name of a town had taken place in Blair County, Pennsylvania, just two years earlier and had also attracted national attention. In 1928, state government had to step in and settle a dispute over whether or not the residents of Puzzletown had the right to change the name of their village to Marionsville, after it was revealed that the village had been named after 'Puzzle' Stiffler, a corpulent innkeeper from the early 19th century who, in spite of his short stature, weighed over 300 pounds and was said to have had a fondness for womanizing, gambling, liquor and general rowdiness. [4] Old-timers who resented the name change reacted by filling the town's "Welcome to Marionsville" signs with bullet holes. The State Geographic Board eventually ruled that the name had to be changed back to Puzzletown, on the grounds that there were already too many places named after Gen. Francis Marion and that, to the best of their knowledge, Gen. Marion had never once set foot in Pennsylvania. In that particular battle the young radicals, who preferred to live in a place named after a more suitable hero, had been defeated.

While the Linoleumville vs. Travis debacle has been largely forgotten outside of Staten Island, the incident did make its mark on popular culture for a little while. For several weeks after the November election the top joke around the country was:

Q: Why did the residents of Linoleumville change the name of their town to Travis?
A: Because they felt they had been walked on long enough.


Not exactly a side-splitter, but, then again, this was the era when folks celebrated with sardine sandwiches and ginger ale.




1. Wilkes-Barre Times Leader, Nov. 18, 1930. Page 26.
2, 3. San Bernardino County Sun, Dec. 2, 1930. Page 4.
4. Pennsylvania Oddities

The Untold Story of Cannibalism in Haiti

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U.S. occupation of Haiti, circa 1915

From voodoo to zombies, Haiti is a land steeped in mystery and superstition. The outside world knew very little about this island nation until the days of the Second Empire, which began in 1849 after the Haitian military, led by former slave Faustin Soulouque, launched an attack against the neighboring Dominican Republic, which was being bolstered by the French. By the end of the century, Great Britain, Germany and the United States would all stick their noses into the affairs of the Haitian people, and it was the soldiers from these countries who brought back hair-raising tales of human sacrifice, occult rituals and cannibalism.

In July of 1891 a Hungarian mechanic, Maurice Feldmann, was working in the machine shops at a settlement called O'Gorman, about eight miles from Port-au-Prince. At the time, the Austro-Hungarian Empire was a world leader in machine manufacturing, thanks in part to Haitian slave labor. He learned that there was to be a child sacrifice near his home, scheduled at 3:30 by the Papapoi, or voodoo priest, of the settlement.

Accompanied by an assistant named Schmidt, Feldmann cautiously went to witness the spectacle. Armed with revolvers and hiding in the brush, they had to keep out of sight because the natives knew that their butchering of children was seen as a taboo to the white inhabitants of the island. Feldmann reported that the ceremony began with the burning of aromatic herbs in order to lull an 3-year-old child to sleep. The Papaloi approached the infant and severed its head with a single stroke of a knife. He then cut up the body and put the pieces into a large iron pot and while the meat was cooking, the natives broke into a ceremonial dance known as the bamboula. Feldmann described the dance as being quite revolting, consisting of wild gyrations of the hips that continued until the dancers fell over from exhaustion. At this point they got up and feasted on the child and then burned and buried the bones.

Faustin Soulouque


Feldmann and Schmidt weren't the first white men to observe this gruesome ritual, and they wouldn't be the last. Another account comes from March 18, 1890, by the acting French Consul, Emile Huttinot. On that day, Huttinot stopped at a restaurant outside of Port-au-Prince and ordered a bowl of soup. To his horror he discovered the severed hand of a child at the bottom of his bowl. He immediately notified the police, who searched the restaurant and found the rest of the body simmering in a pot. The woman who ran the restaurant was arrested and imprisoned for three days.

The Haitian government did their best to put an end to these rituals, but to little effect. Official Notice No. 2202, written in 1891, reads:




Perhaps the first claims of cannibalism that reached the United States were from Christian missionaries who visited the island during the reign of Faustin Soulouque. However, many secularists disregarded these claims as sensationalized accounts created by religious zealots. It wasn't until 1864 when the long-murmured allegations of cannibalism were proven true, when Soulouque's successor, Fabre Geffrard, had eight convicted cannibals executed after a six-year-old girl was killed and eaten by Voodoo practitioners.

Fabre Geffrard


Geffrard, who was a Catholic, took office in 1859 and immediately went to work stamping out the occult practices that had been allowed to flourish under Soulouque. He ordered the destruction of Voodoo temples and altars and the arrest of those suspected of cannibalism.

On March 18, 1864, eight women and men were shot to death in the public square of Port-au-Prince, after having been convicted of "stealing, killing, cooking and eating children". One correspondent from the New York News named described the scene:

One of the negroes being questioned in prison, said with a leer that children 'were good, tender, fingers best part.' They went to the place of execution shouting, laughing and dancing, and defying the soldiers to shoot them; for they insisted that the Obeah priests would protect them against the balls. They fell, however, at the second round, and, according to the custom, the soldiers walked up to the bodies and fired a third round with the muzzles almost touching the quivering flesh.

In spite of numerous attempted coups by Soulouque loyalists, Geffrard held on to the presidency until 1867, when a general named Sylvain Salnave finally wrested away power. He proved to be a weak leader; he was court-martialed and executed in 1870. Another general, Jean-Nicolas Nissage Saget, became president. Michel Domingue, another military commander, assumed power in 1874. Like the other generals, Domingue proved to be a feckless and ineffective leader. All of this political turmoil and instability allowed cannibalism to make a comeback.

On January 26, 1875, the Philadelphia Inquirer reported:

A black who was brought to Jacmel from the interior, on the charge of cannibalism, has been tried and convicted, and will be executed in a few days. When arrested he had in a basket the head of a victim, who seemed to have been recently killed.

Modern cannibalism in Haiti flourished during the presidency of Lysius Salomon (1879-1888). While historical revisionists portray Saloman as a progressive hero who built schools and hospitals and instituted Haiti's first postal system, the historical record indicates that Saloman was a tyrant who quashed individual freedoms. He was also, by many accounts, reluctant to take a stand against the practice of human sacrifice.




During one visit in 1881, a newspaper correspondent described the voodoo practices of the Haitians, claiming that the children selected for sacrifice must be of pure African descent and no older than ten years of age. The children are sold to the Voodoo priests by women who make a career out of it. As for consuming the children, the reporter stated:

So strong is the taste for human flesh that midwives have been known to devour the children they have just brought into the world. The part preferred are the knuckles and hands.

But when it came to eating children, records show that the cannibals did not stick to just consuming the flesh of black children. In March of 1879, the white child of an Englishman was kidnapped in Aux Cayes. The voodoo kidnappers threw the child's body down a well and escaped.


Lysius Salomon


In May of 1879, two women were caught eating a female child. It was proven in a court of law at Port-au-Prince that the child had been drugged first, so as to make the parents believe that the child had died of natural causes. The body was buried by the parents, and dug up later by the two cannibal women. Both women were convicted-- one received a 30-day jail sentence, the other a six-week sentence.

In January of 1881, eight people were arrested and fined for "disinterring and eating corpses", and in the same month the neck and shoulders of a human male were discovered for sale at a market; they had been purchased and identified by a British physician. In February, a cask of pork was sold to a ship harbored at St. Mark's; the ship's crew became suspicious when they found human fingernails attached to the meat. A doctor inspected the "pork" and found it to be human flesh. Four Haitians were also arrested later that same month for disinterring and consuming corpses.

Official sources, naturally, denied the existence of cannibalism on the island. Ebenezer Bassett-- the first African-American diplomat-- was appointed U.S. Ambassador to Haiti in 1869, a post he held until 1877. He spent an additional ten years as the Consul General for Haiti in New York. Shortly before leaving office, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch asked him about cannibalism.

"I have lived in Haiti as United States Minister for nine years, and there is just about as much cannibalism there as in New Haven," stated Bassett. "I knew that there was such a thing as voodoo worship there, but I never heard that there was any such thing as human sacrifice connected with it, and I certainly do not believe that any such thing exists."

Of course, since Bassett's job was to improve relations between the U.S. and Haiti, it doesn't seem likely that he would have admitted to the existence of cannibalism, especially since the U.S. government considered Haiti of prime strategic importance at the time because of its shipping lanes and because the Navy had a coaling station there.

A private letter from Port-au-Prince written on Feb. 18, 1888, by an unnamed missionary to a relative back in the U.S. contains the following:

"Recently the body of a child was found near this city. An arm and leg had been eaten by the voodoos. During Christmas week a man was caught in the streets here with a child cut up in quarters for sale. Cannibalism still prevails, despite all the forced statements to the contrary. President Salomon, to the please the masses-- the negro element-- allows them to dance a voodoo dance, formerly prohibited."



Cannibalism in the 20th Century




In 1910, the United States began to assert its influence in Haiti in hopes of minimizing the influence of Germany. At the time, Germany controlled about 80% of all economic activity in Haiti. This eventually led to the U.S. occupation of Haiti, which lasted from 1915 to 1934. There are many notable accounts of cannibalism taking place during this period. One such account was published on July 15, 1910, by Lisin Diario, a newspaper from Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic:

A Haitian woman named Estels Liberis, accused by the inspector of Cambronal (Neiba) of having committed repeated acts of cannibalism, has been captured and sent to justice. The said woman confesses to have eaten parts of three male children, and adult, and one female child. The accused was brought to this town and interrogated. The impression of horror and indignation which this savagery has caused is indescribable.

In 1920 a Haitian voodoo priest named Cadus Belgarde was arrested by U.S. authorities and tried in a military court for killing and eating a young native girl as part of a voodoo sacrifice. During his trial, Belgarde joked that if he was executed for his crimes, he would come back as a mosquito and "make it merry for the Americans." He was turned over to Haitian officials after it was decided that the U.S. did not have any jurisdiction in the matter. President Dartiguenave, however, refused to have the cannibal prosecuted.

American occupation was not seen as a good thing by the Haitians, who eventually began killing and eating U.S. soldiers-- a documented fact that history books conveniently neglect to mention.
On January 2, 1921, the Naval Board of Inquiry in Washington began hearing testimony regarding the deaths of two Marines who were killed and eaten by Haitian voodoo practitioners during the event which later came to be known as the Second Caco War (the Cacos were armed peasants from the mountains of Haiti).

One of the victims known to have been eaten was Private Clarence E. Morris, a Marine aviator of Squadron E, First Division. After making a crash landing in the northern mountains, Morris set off on foot, taking with him the plane's machine gun and three drums of ammunition. He located three natives and hired them as guides, giving one of them the machine gun to carry. When he stopped to take a rest, one of the guides killed him with a machete. Another guide, afraid of the consequences of his comrade's actions, ran away and later turned himself in to American authorities. Patrols were at once sent out, and only Morris' bones and leather helmet were recovered; the rest of Private Morris had been consumed.

A few months after Morris' death, Marine Sergeant Lawrence Muth was leading a small force of Marines and Haitian soldiers against the rebel Cacos when his party was ambushed and Muth was carried away alive. A patrol found his partial remains a short time later. The official military report of his death reads:

All the clothing had been removed from the body. The body had been badly mutilated and the head cut off. The head and heart had been taken away and the latter probably eaten.

A rebel who was later taken prisoner confessed that the Marine had been killed by a voodoo chief named Benoit, who killed Muth as part of a religious ceremony in accordance to the "Grand Montore"-- the voodoo Black Bible--  and consumed his brains and heart.

Reports of cannibalism continued right up to the end of the U.S. occupation of Haiti. In 1932, John H. Craige, who served as the Chief of Police at Port-au-Prince during the period of occupation, wrote:

"I met a number of cases of cannibalism of the ritual variety. In one of these cases, an aged voodoo priestess was murdered, her heart, liver, and about five pounds of her flesh were eaten after savage religious rites by a younger priest and priestess, with the idea that they would thus acquire the old woman's control over the spirits and her proficiency in voodoo magic."




Sources:

Daily Ohio Statesman, March 23, 1864. Page 1.
Pittsburgh Daily Post, March 29, 1864. Page 1.
Buffalo Morning Express, April 26, 1873. Page 2.
Philadelphia Inquirer, Jan. 26, 1875. Page 1.
Shelbina Democrat, Sept. 14, 1881. Page 2.
St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Dec. 6, 1886. Page 8.
Philadelphia Times, Feb. 26, 1888. Page 1.
Pittsburgh Dispatch, July 9, 1891. Page 1.
Lebanon Evening Report, July 22, 1910. Page 6.
New-York Tribune, Dec. 3, 1920. Page 4.
Marshalltown Times-Republican, Dec. 20, 1920. Page 1.
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Jan. 3, 1921. Page 8.
Seattle Star, Nov. 16, 1921. Page 1.
Nebraska State Journal, May 30, 1933. Page 6.

The Playboy's Folly: The Unexplained Death of John R. Fell

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When it was reported that John R. Fell had died on the evening of February 22, 1933, inside his hotel room on the island of Java at the age of 43, the news sent shockwaves throughout Philadelphia. Fell was one of the best known jet-setters of the day, a noted sportsman, clubman, playboy and son of the obscenely wealthy Alexander Van Rensselaer and his equally wealthy wife Sarah Drexel Fell.

Because Fell's parents never had to work a day in their lives, neither did John. As a young man he devoted his life to the pursuit of leisure and the "sporting life". He was an excellent polo player, golfer, yachtsman and horseman, and in 1913 entered a horse in the Grand National Steeplechase at Liverpool. He sold his horses in 1916 at the height of the First World War and enlisted in the quartermaster corps.

After the war he ventured into the world of finance, and became a banker in Paris. This foray into the world of banking must have been done purely out of boredom; John had already inherited $1,000,000 from his grandmother and stood to gain a substantial part of the family fortune-- he held life interests in the $20,000,000 Drexel estate and stood to inherit two million dollars from his mother.

His romantic life was also of great interest to the society columnists of the day. He had married three times; his first wife, Dorothy Randolph, eventually went on to wed treasury secretary Ogden L. Mills. Dorothy divorced John in 1923, but not before bearing him three children. Still young and spoiled and stricken with an addiction to excitement, John and his playboy friends were known to set off fire alarms for the sheer thrill of it. In August of 1923, he was arrested in Narragansett for assaulting his former butler, John Morvischek, who had threatened to report Fell for his prankster behavior.

His second wife, Mildred Santry, divorced him in 1925, on grounds of desertion. After several years of playing the field, John decided to settle down once more, and in January of 1932, in the darkest days of the Great Depression, he married Martha Ederton, a young Ziegfeld Follies showgirl who had been "discovered" working in a tiny dress shop on Fifth Avenue.

John R. Fell


Fell immediately amended his will to provide for his new wife in the event of his demise; his will gave Martha the income from his personal estate, which included a $600,000 trust fund. No small chunk of change, considering that 25% of the American population was unemployed at the time, and millions of men, women and children were starving in the streets and standing in bread lines. As for his stake in the Drexel family fortune, his life interests would go to his children, Dorothy, Philip, and John, Jr.

After amending his will, John and his new wife celebrated their marriage by going on a cruise around the world. In February of 1933 the newlyweds found themselves in a luxury hotel in Surakarta in central Java. John Fell would not leave the island alive.

The truth behind John Fell's untimely death remains shrouded in mystery, as Martha Ederton Fell and others gave conflicting stories to authorities. According one report, as published in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle newspaper, on Tuesday evening Mrs. Fell was standing near a washstand with her back to her husband, who was finishing dinner. She heard a strange sound and turned around to see John rise from the table and stumble towards her with a table knife protruding from his chest. Martha claims that she seized the knife and threw it away before giving the alarm. One of the hotel guests arrived just before Fell expired, and both witnesses claim to have heard John's last words: "It's my fault. I did it."

Mrs. Fell told the police that her husband had no business or domestic worries, and she could not provide a reason why John would have wanted to commit suicide.

Martha Ederton Fell


Another report of Fell's death provides a different story. On Tuesday evening, after finishing a glass of beer, the Fells went into the bedroom. At some point during the night, John must have gotten out of bed and went into the kitchen. His body was discovered by his Javanese guide, who had intended to pay John a visit. In this version of the story, Martha was asleep the entire time.

The following day, the Hearst-owned International News Service provided additional details. According to the INS, authorities in Java were "mystified" over the indicident, and local police refused to state whether or not Fell's death was suicide or murder. However, it was reported that they had some reason to believe that Fell was upset when the tragedy occurred, having declared, "I shall remain here until I die!"

The Hearst version of the story also states that Mrs. Fell, overcome with exhaustion and depression, was unable to provide any details to the police, and had been given "a strong hypodermic injection" by her physician. This report claims that Mrs. Fell was the sole witness of her husband's death (the Javanese guide seems to have disappeared completely in the Hearst version of the story). It was also reported by the INS that an examination of the body showed that the knife had penetrated through his clothes and breastbone and severed the muscles of his heart.

The Hearst-owned papers also reported the reaction of Fell's closest friends, none of whom were willing to believe that John had committed suicide. "He wasn't that kind of a man," one stated. Another insisted that John "was not a quitter". A brother-in-law, Radcliffe Cheston, told reporters that "Fell was too happy to commit suicide." John's father, Alexander Van Rensselaer, decried the state of affairs in Java, bemoaning the fact that all of the official reports from the island have been "vague and garbled". An uncle, Col. Anthony Drexel, set off for Java at once to launch his own investigation into the mystery. An investigation was also being made by the U.S. consul at Batavia, about 300 miles from Surakarta.

Ultimately, the authorities in Java concluded that John R. Fell's death had not been a case of suicide or murder, but that his death had been accidental. This was the best of all possible scenarios for anyone looking for a slice of the Van Rensselaer-Drexel pie, and the race was on.

Martha Ederton, absolved of any wrongdoing, returned to America and immediately went to work in claiming her share of the fortune. She was devastated to learn, however, that she was not entitled to any part of the $20,000,000 estate. Although her husband had left her a trust fund worth $600,000, a judge awarded her a "mere" $110,000-- while the rest of the estate, valued at $3 million, went to John's three children.

As rich folks are wont to do, the three wealthy-but-furious wives of John R. Fell launched a bitter legal battle over the estate. Even though they had more money than the average Depression Era worker would see in ten lifetimes, they were nauseated at the thought of John's estate going to his children.

Martha Ederton hired famed attorney Joseph Sharfsin to represent her, and filed a lawsuit claiming that she was entitled to $50,000 worth of jewelry and furniture belonging to her late husband. Meanwhile, Mildred Santry filed her own lawsuit, claiming that John had promised her $1,250 a month for life. Fell's first wife, now married to multi-millionaire Ogden L. Mills, also hired an army of lawyers.

This stomach-turning display of unbridled greed in the age of the Great Depression is remarkable in its obscenity; it proved that the rich are never satisfied and will always hunger for greater wealth-- even if it means stealing it from under the noses of a dead man's grieving children.

Take the case of Dorothy Randolph, who married Ogden L. Mills after her divorce from John R. Fell. Mills, who was serving as President Hoover's treasury secretary at the time of Fell's death, unarguably played a greater role in the collapse of the American economy than any of the out-of-work laborers who were throwing themselves in front of trains, throwing themselves off buildings, or strapping dynamite to their heads and blowing themselves up on a daily basis. Yet, he was also the owner of Wheatley Stable, which bred the likes of Seabiscuit and Secretariat. After the Depression, as millions of workers struggled to put their lives back together, Mills-- one of the men who caused the Depression-- went on own parts of several railroads, steel companies, and served on the board of the Shredded Wheat Company.

I sincerely hope that there is a special place in hell reserved for people like John Fell's ex-wives and the Ogden Millses of the world, but I digress; this article is about the "accidental" death of John Fell who, truth be told, probably isn't winning any Citizen of Month awards in Heaven right now, or wherever he may be.

As pointed out earlier, an examination of Fell's body showed that the knife-- an ordinary kitchen knife-- had penetrated through his clothes and breastbone and severed the muscles of his heart. While this might have led authorities to suspect "accidental" death in 1933, it would not pass the smell test today.

Thanks to studies done by the SAE ( Society of Automotive Engineers), we now know that it takes 960 pounds of force to break the human breastbone. Researchers at Wayne State University in Michigan, meanwhile, have determined that professional boxers hit with an average force of 765 lbs. How, then, is it humanly possible for a 43-year-old man to cause this sort of injury to himself-- "accidentally" or otherwise? I'm not a mathematician, but I'd say that the only way this could be possible would be if Fell had either fallen from a considerable height or ran from considerable distance into a knife that was in a fixed position. It would be rather difficult to achieve this in a Javanese hotel room, especially without alarming every other guest in the whole building.

Fell's widow also reported to authorities that her husband had cried out, "It's my fault. I did it." This is almost certainly an impossibility, as any fracture of the chest cavity would have undoubtedly caused a collapse of the lungs due to the collection of air in the pleural space between the lung and the chest wall. Any pressure change would cause a full or partial collapse of the lungs, either when Fell's breastbone was pierced, or when the knife was pulled out by Mrs. Fell (as she originally told the police). At any rate, John Fell would not have been able to talk.

No, It is far more likely that Fell was stabbed, and stabbed viciously by a hand other than his own.

Ultimately, the death of John Fell was forgotten as the shifting sands of time redistributed the fortunes of the wealthy and covered the traces of murder. We all know that loose lips sink ships, and that the best way to get away with a crime is to never talk about it. While it cannot be proven that the Playboy of Philadelphia was killed by a Follies girl with a taste for the finer things in life, Martha Ederton went to her grave without uttering a word.




Further reading:

Brooklyn Daily Eagle, Feb. 23, 1933. Page 1.
Longview News-Journal, Feb. 23, 1933. Page 1.
Bradford Evening Star, Feb. 23, 1933. Page 1.
Indiana Gazette, Feb. 24, 1933. Page 2.
Bradford Evening Star, Feb. 25, 1933. Page 1.
Wilkes-Barre Record, July 19, 1933. Page 16.
Canonsburg Daily Notes, Aug. 7, 1933. Page 2.

The Ghost of Matthew Vassar

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The namesake of Poughkeepsie's Vassar College is Matthew Vassar, who made regular ghostly appearances to several different families occupying his farmhouse in New York in the years following his death. The following story appeared in the Washington Post on Jan. 31, 1914.


Update: Summer Break?

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I have reluctantly made the decision to take a hiatus from posting new content on JOTB. As some of you may know, I am recovering from a messy fracture in my left wrist (of course, I also happen to be left-handed).

This, coupled with heavy-duty painkillers, has made it very difficult to keep Journal of the Bizarre updated. Those who know me are aware of how much I despise technology; every post you read on this site has been created the old-fashioned way-- by pecking at the keyboard on a 1990's era Dell desktop computer. This, much like masturbation or picking your nose, really isn't whole hell of a lot of fun when your favorite hand is in a cast.

Therefore, I am putting this site on hold until the broken bone heals.

Yes, I'm sure you're all devastated. But keep in mind that there are over 500 archived posts on JOTB, so I am confident that if you look around, you will find something that will keep you entertained, whether you're interested in astral projection, ancient aliens, angels, Biblical prophecy, black-eyed children, cannibalism, conspiracies, demons, evil Nazi astrologers, folklore, ghosts, giants, hellhounds, hollow earth theory, hypnosis, Illuminati, Jack the Ripper, karma, lost civilizations, mummies, numerology, occultists, palmistry, poltergeists, reincarnation, sea serpents, spontaneous human combustion, telepathy, UFOs, vampires, werewolves or zombies.


Arizona Hauntings: The Ghost of Wilson Canyon

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The following story comes from the March 28, 1914 edition of the Madison Journal:

 
Williams, Ariz.--  In Wilson Canyon, southeast of Williams, is an uncanny spot wherein horses shy and bolt from terrors heretofore invisible to the human eye. At least three wagons have been wrecked there by runaways that started without apparent cause. But at last a veritable ghost has been materialized on the unshaken testimony of two young residents of the locality, Wright Clark and "Tex" Ownby.

They say that on a recent Sunday evening about dusk they were riding down the Wilson canyon trail when their horses became frightened, snorting and prancing in terror. The boys looked to the right and saw, emerging from behind a juniper tree, the form of a man at least six feet in height, with long gray hair and beard, clad in buckskin and dragging an old-fashioned gun about as long as himself.


Boys and horses stood as though enchanted, while the apparition circled them noiselessly. The circle about complete, the figure stopped and  still without sound dropped the butt of the gun to the ground. Then it was the boys departed without delay, to pull up their foaming and trembling steeds a couple miles away and determine it had not been a dream.

Pioneer residents declare the description of the ghost exactly fits that of an old trapper named Wilson, after whom the canyon was named. Eighteen years ago one summer day he wounded a bear and chased it into the canyon. The beast turned back upon him and as he had no charge in his muzzle-loading rifle he climbed into a juniper tree, but not to safety, for the bear followed, dragged him by the foot to the ground and killed him.

Annapolis Shooting: False Flag or Bizarre Coincidence?

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Since many important details remain to be released, it would be foolish for anyone to declare that this afternoon's shooting at the offices of the Annapolis Capital Gazette in Maryland is a false flag event, devoid of any real injuries or fatalities.

However, it is quite interesting that on June 22-- a mere six days ago-- the city of Annapolis announced several street closures as part of an active shooter drill.

On June 21, Deb Pelt of Patch.com reported that police departments would be holding an active assailant drill the following morning at the St.Mary's School campus on Duke of Gloucester Street. The article informed residents that Duke of Gloucester Street, from Green to Compromise Streets, will be shut down and all traffic detoured.

The report also stated:

Residents should be aware that real-life sights and sounds may be seen and heard along the periphery of the campus and a variety of emergency response vehicles will be in the area, authorities said.

Of course, it is worth pointing out that today's shooting occurred not at a school, but at a newspaper office 2 miles west of the site where last week's active shooter drill was held. Yet, it is is still uncanny (or perhaps fortuitous) that the Annapolis Police Department received training on handling this very same situation.

Luck? Fate? Coincidence? Or some sort of deep, dark conspiracy?

Our money is on coincidence... but still, it does make you wonder.
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