The Cursed Chest of Cornwall

"Western Morning News," January 8, 1949, via Newspapers.com

In late 1948, Trevor Ley of Stanbury Manor, Morwenstow, bought an old hand-carved, cedarwood chest from a Cornwall antique shop.  The woman who owned the shop let him have the chest for a low price, explaining that since she had acquired it, anything placed on the walls kept falling to the ground.  She thought that “some sort of ghost seemed to be attached to it.”

This purchase soon led Trevor to question his life choices.  As the shop owner had warned, wherever the chest was placed, the most damnable--literally--things began happening.  Six antique shotguns that were securely fastened to the wall suddenly smashed to the floor, even though the nails and wires that had held them were still intact.  A heavy painting leaped two feet from the wall, hitting Trevor on the head.  Two other large pictures which had been “hanging safely for generations” also propelled themselves into the center of the room.  In another bedroom, a painting did something even weirder--it somehow was pushed backwards through the paneling.  An electric light bulb which had been placed on a window sill hurled against the wall on the opposite side of the room.  

And so on.  The Leys were naturally curious why their ghost--which they had nicknamed “Old George”--had attached itself to the chest, but Trevor had a healthy distrust for self-proclaimed “mediums” and declined most of their offers to contact their “spirit.”

In January 1949, Trevor brought in the local vicar, the Rev. K. Rees, to try to exorcise “George.”  When Rees examined the chest, the men were bemused to find what appeared to be bloodstains on the object.  The red stains  were on carved figures on the outside of the chest.  One was on the arm of a woman holding a corpse. The other, three feet away, was on the body of a headless man.  Rees made the cheery remark that "The chest would make an ideal hiding-place for a body.”  When asked about conducting an exorcism, Rees demurred.  "I'm not well versed in exorcising,” he explained.  “I must look it up."

Finally, the Leys brought in a spiritualist from London to rid them of their poltergeist.  These efforts were apparently successful, as “George” subsequently ceased to bother them.  However, just to be on the safe side, the Leys put the now-famous chest up for auction.  This failed to find a buyer, and the chest was withdrawn from sale.  I have been unable to learn of its subsequent history.

Despite his efforts to trace the chest’s history, Trevor never learned for sure why the chest came to be haunted, but he did uncover one wonderfully M.R. James-ish clue.  He wrote to a psychic researcher named William H, Gilroy that he had received a letter from a Cornish curate who had recognized the chest from its photos in the newspapers.  

This curate told Trevor that “many years ago there were two sisters living in the Manor House, Newlyn, (he gave their names but I cannot find his letter at the moment, but will look it up if it is of interest to you). They had in their house quite a collection of antiques and among them was this chest which they kept in their bedroom. One time, after having been away for a few days, they returned late one night and being rather tired, placed their heavy baggage on the chest rather than unpack at such a late hour. Early the next morning their attention was drawn to the chest and as they went over to it the lid, although weighted down by the heavy baggage, slowly opened and they looked inside. What they saw they would never reveal, but it was so horrible that they were both struck stone deaf; and although they lived to an old age they never got their hearing back.

“When they died the house and furniture were sold at auction and all trace of the chest was lost until it turned up in the antique shop where I purchased it.”

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to the Link Dump!

And we tip our hats to our hosts for this week!

Who the hell was Christopher Columbus?

Henry I's most "notorious" daughter.

The world's second-tallest man.

The loneliness of being a French POW in Britain.

Heads up, Egypt's prehistory is getting rewritten again.

Aboriginals and a dingo's well-tended grave.

A man's rant against floral funerals.

The woman who saved 13th century England.

A newly-discovered document dealing with victims of the Black Death.

Przybylski’s Star, weird stellar object and epic tongue-twister.

Science may be able to "erase" bad memories, but you might not want to.

Since the world has been longing for a scientific analysis of how geologists are portrayed by the film industry, here ya go.

The puzzle of Turkey's ancient underground city.

A very mysterious and very creepy disease.

Bermuda turns out to be a very strange island.

The man who was on the Royal Navy list for nearly 100 years.

A talented counterfeiter.

A canine hero of WWI.

A mysterious murder in Mutton Town.

British volunteers in WWI Italy.

Some 13th century plates and bowls.

A popular Georgian-era medicine.

Beluga whales are smarter than we thought.  I suspect that holds true for all animals.

People in the Andes are aces when it comes to digesting potatoes.

An unsolved murder in the Tenderloin.

A "solution" to the "Mary Celeste" mystery.  (Not that it's a new idea; I remember reading about this theory years ago.)

The mummified cat of Chetham's Library.

That's it for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at the dangers of buying an antique chest.  In the meantime, here's a remarkable video which explains why I will never never never never never ever even think about going anywhere near Mount Everest.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

I put this missing-persons story into the “mini mysteries” file, due to the unsettling lack of information surrounding the case.  The “Miami Herald,” October 6, 1985:

You could set your clock by Irene Matheson.

Since Perrine Elementary School opened six years ago, Matheson was always the first person to arrive. She unlocked the cafeteria door at 5:45 a.m., let in the cook at 5:50 a.m. and began baking the rolls, breads, cakes and pies that feed students and faculty at five South Dade schools.

"She was never late--not once," cafeteria manager Michelle Perkins said Friday. "That's why we know something is terribly, terribly wrong."

After hearing the concern of co-workers, Metro-Dade Sgt. Carl Baaske agreed and began an immediate search when Matheson, 69, did not show up for work Tuesday morning.

Police usually will not take missing persons reports until the person missing has been gone for 48 hours. This seemed different, Baaske said. 

"It's as though she dropped off the earth," Baaske said Thursday night. "With two million people in Dade County, someone should have seen her or her car by now."

Police initiated a statewide hospital search for Matheson and her 1977 tan Honda station wagon. Officers in police helicopters looked in the many South Dade canals. They were joined by Matheson's son-in-law Tony Klopp.

Klopp, an Eastern Air Lines pilot, rented two light planes for two days so he and a friend could check out the coastline, junk yards, dumps and fields. Her daughter, Cindy Klopp, spends her days driving around looking for her mother's car or sitting by the telephone, waiting for a call.

"I pray she's had a stroke or just driving around," Klopp said. Her mother is in good health with no history of mental illness.

Matheson was last seen at 11 p.m. Monday. Klopp thinks whatever happened to her mother occurred after she left for work Tuesday. The condominium near The Falls where Matheson lives was in perfect order.

"Her coffee cup and a spoon were in the sink," Klopp said, sorting through snapshots of her mother taken at family parties. "Throw pillows were put up so the puppy wouldn't get them and the door was double-locked," she said.

Police have pieced together the hours before Matheson was reported missing from information gathered from family, friends and neighbors. Grandson Scott Klopp was the last family member to see Matheson. She drove the 12-year-old from his Redland home to the Perrine Khoury League baseball field at Franjo and Old Cutler roads.

A follow-up story appeared in the “Miami News” on December 5:

The discovery--almost by coincidence--last night of the car owned by a Kendall woman who has been missing more than two months is the first significant clue police have had in weeks, but may not be helpful if the woman does not want to be found, Metro police said.

"She's an older woman, and it could be a case that she might have gone senile for some reason and doesn't want to come home," said Metro Sgt. Ernest Pruitt, of the department's missing persons unit. "I've seen cases like that before."

Irene Matheson's 1977 tan Honda was found backed into a parking space in an apartment complex at 7941 S.W. 104th St. Police learned the car belonged to Matheson, a 69-year-old baker for the Dade County school system, while running a license plate check on the car and another nearby, Pruitt said.

The two parked cars were struck by a driver who then quickly fled the scene, he said. A resident of the complex reported the hit-and-run accident--in which no one was injured--and it was only while police were investigating the accident that they learned the slightly damaged Honda belonged to the missing woman, Pruitt said.

Pruitt said residents told police that the car had been parked in the space for about a week and had been seen parked in other spaces for about a month.

Police dusted the car for fingerprints and searched it before towing it to the station where it will be vacuumed and examined by laboratory technicians, Pruitt said.  A sticker in a panel of the car's door indicated the vehicle was serviced at a station on Oct. 1, the day she was reported missing.  The sticker also indicated how many miles the car had been driven since the time of servicing.  Since then, the car had been driven about 99 miles, Pruitt said.

Apparently the last driver of the car backed the vehicle into the parking space and against a fence in order to make it more difficult to read the license tag, Pruitt said.

Matheson was last seen on the night of Sept. 30. Her relatives believe she dressed for work at Perrine Elementary School the next morning, and left in her Honda from her home at Heatherwalk Condominium complex--a few miles from where her car was found.

The discovery last night was the first break in the case. "We worked this case continuously for the first two weeks," Pruitt said. "We searched the area around the canal, had the Water and Sewer Authority people search the canals around the house in case she may have accidentally driven into one, conducted surveillances of the area around her house, conducted aerial searches of the area using heat-sensitive equipment in case we could find a body. And we came up with nothing.”

The discovery of Matheson’s car seems to have done exactly nothing to indicate the whereabouts of Irene herself.  To date, the mystery of her disappearance remains unsolved.

The Ghost Sausage of Devon

This brief, but delightfully offbeat “ghost story” (for lack of a better term) was related by author, paranormal researcher, and photographer J.P.J. Chapman:

Many years ago my late father-in-law rented a large farm near Bampton in North Devon.  The farm buildings and the dwelling house were situated half way up a steep hill overlooking the River Exe.  During a warm summer it was quite nice but with a lingering threat of bitter winds and snow in winter.

There was a lane going from the farm to a large moor which was quite 300 feet higher than the tillage.  Now, it is well known that large open spaces, devoid of any useful vegetation and situated atop a high hill, frequently possess a bad reputation.  Of a summer evening my wife and I frequently took a walk to the moor.  It commanded a wonderful view, while the sunsets were a sight to behold.

The lane ended at a gate which led into this moor.  Quite a while before the events to be related my wife and I frequently remarked that it was an eerie spot and the sooner passed the better.  Personally, I never gave it much thought for, being a “country lad,” I knew of many such places which were not nice--and that was all that could be said.

However, things proved otherwise.  My wife and her sisters rode a lot and took turns exercising the horses.  Sometimes they went out together.  I can still see them up on the moor, putting the horses into a gallop and thoroughly enjoying the wild ride.

On one occasion one of the girls was asked by her father to go on the moor to see if some cattle had strayed.  It was in the autumn and, the sun having set, it would soon be dark.  My wife’s sister decided to ride up.  Having seen that all was well she was just about to leave the moor, through the gate which she had left open, when the horse suddenly shied.  Nothing would induce it to pass through the gate.  There was no alternative route except by a long detour, so go through they must.

After several attempts she decided to dismount and lead the horse through.  This time as they reached the gate a curious luminous shape could be seen drifting nearby.  It was like an elongated sausage, with baleful eyes.  The whole thing seemed to be pulsating, from dim to bright.  It was in a vertical position except for a sideways, wavering movement.  To say the least, the girl was frightened but made up her mind to face it.

Placing herself between what-ever-it-was and the horse she coaxed the animal through.  When the horse was half way it broke loose and galloped down the lane for about 50 yards where it stopped and waited.

There were several curious facts concerning this particular haunting.  It took place only at dusk--no other time.  No other animals, except horses--any horse--were affected.  But here again was a most remarkable fact.  It had to be a horse and a human.  If there was not this combination nothing happened.  The “Ghost Sausage” as I dubbed it, seemed anchored to one spot, its movements restricted as related.  Several times I visited the place but, while noticing there was something there, never could decide what.  The ghost seemed quite harmless.  I got the impression that it was neither good nor bad.  It was just some form of a ghost--nothing more.

There was a big disused quarry nearby; possibly some earth spirit had been released.  My sister-in-law stated it was a greenish colour, about a foot across and five feet high.

This is the end of my story.  If the present residents of the farm ever see it, I don’t know, as we have not been near the place for the last 35 years or more.

What it was, how it originated, I do not know.  I never could find out.  Your answer will be as good as mine!

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to the latest Link Dump!

This week, we are honored to be visited by some genuine royalty.

That time someone stole 80,000 pounds of butter.

The complicated medieval legal term, "raptus."

The Roman Woman of Spitalfields.

How medieval Europeans ate before contact with the Americas.

You never know what you'll find in medieval latrines.  Other than the obvious, of course.

You never know what you'll find in a field.

You never know what you'll find in your kitchen.

You never know what you'll find in a Luftwaffe bathroom.

The Surgeons' Hall Riot.

Neanderthal dentistry.

The Prohibition-era "medicine" that left people paralyzed.

A Philadelphia Loyalist during the American Revolution.

The sinking of the Empress of Ireland.

The man who gate-crashed his own wake, which seems a bit impolite.

The newest research about Mary Boleyn.

Why is 3/I Atlas weird?  Because it came from a weird neighborhood.

Speaking of weird, God only knows what's lurking in our oceans.

By the way, lightning's pretty weird, too.

The CIA and the Sphinx.

Ted Turner and the Tasmanian Tiger.

Inventions that were behind their time.

90 years ago, a weird creature was found off the west coast of Canada.  We still don't know what it was.

The man who went from making razors to making a metropolis.  (Spoiler: He had more luck with the razors.)

The mystery of the "copper scroll."

The (probable) murder of "Diamond Flossie."

If you've been longing to know what outer space smells like--and who hasn't?--read on.

What might be the world's oldest arrowheads.

The "lost years" of Samuel Johnson.

A particularly grim murder case.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll meet a ghostly sausage.  No, really.  In the meantime, here's some Vivaldi.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

Here is yet another example of that popular supernatural staple, “a vision of murder.”  The “New Orleans States,” February 19, 1911:

SYDNEY, Feb. 18. — A most mysterious story comes from Perth, West Australia. The mysterious disappearance of a girl named Ethel Harris led a representative of a Perth newspaper to make an investigation, which had sensational results.

He communicated his discoveries to the police and the developments became still more remarkable. The story is briefly as follows: Some four or five years previously a man who called himself Wilson went through some kind of official ceremony with Ethel Harris, whereby she thought she was married to him. A little time ago, however, she disappeared, and some suspicion was aroused. Her father made inquiries of Wilson, who was now working at a foundry under the name of Smart, and was told by the "husband" that his daughter had gone to Adelaide on a holiday, and was well and happy. Then followed investigations which found that Wilson, alias Smart, had not really married Ethel Harris at all.

It was found also that under the name of Smythe he had shortly before married a girl named Mary Jane Pemberthy, and that he had a wife living in Victoria, and an adult son in Perth. He was arrested on a charge of bigamy, and inquiries into the fate of Ethel Harris were pursued. The strangest circumstance in the whole strange story, however, is that Miss Pemberthy told of a vision she had of an apparition in the bathroom of the house in which she was living with Wilson, or Smart. She declared that she saw the form of a woman struggling in the bath, and gave a minute description of the vision, which appeared to her on two occasions. But the police obtained several more tangible clews to the fate of the vanished girl, with the help of the marvelously clever black trackers, and eventually excavations were made under an old disused smithy in the neighborhood.

The result of the exploration was the discovery of a human body, which was strongly presumed to be that of the unfortunate girl.

At the time the message was sent Arthur William Smart had been sentenced to two years for bigamy. Further developments in the case will be awaited with great interest.

Wilson--or Smart, or Smythe, or whatever you care to call the creep--was eventually found guilty of Harris’ murder, and was accordingly executed.

The Fatal Honeymoon

Our story began like a fairy tale:  At a New York City social gathering, a handsome, suave young Chinese lawyer meets the pretty, cultured daughter of a wealthy merchant prince from Macao, and the pair fall in love virtually at first sight.  Seven months later, in May 1928, the two are married, and go off on a romantic honeymoon trip, after which they live happily ever after…

Well, scratch that last part.

After they were wed, Chung Yi Miao and his bride, Wai Sheung Siu, traveled to Montreal, where they took an ocean liner to Glasgow.  After seeing the sights in Scotland, they headed for London, prefaced by a side trip to the Lake District.

The newlyweds checked into the Borrowdale Gates hotel at Grange-in-Borrowdale, in Cumbria, on June 18, 1928.  Chinese tourists were at the time a rarity in the area, so the young couple attracted a good deal of attention, especially since the new Mrs. Miao was fond of bedecking herself with striking and extremely costly jewelry of pearls, jade, and gold.  The pair seemed to be as happy and affectionate as you would hope to see from any honeymooners.

The day after their arrival at the hotel, the couple had lunch, and then went out arm-in-arm for a walk to enjoy the beauty of their surroundings.  Around 4 p.m., Chung returned to the hotel alone.  When a staffer asked if he wanted to wait for his wife before having tea, he said “no.”  Chung explained that she had gone shopping, and wouldn’t return until six.

6 p.m. came and went.  No Wai.  At 7 p.m., Chung dined alone, seemingly completely unconcerned about his bride’s absence.  Two hours later, the hotel’s manager, a Miss Crossley, asked him about Wai’s non-arrival.  He said calmly that he had a slight cold, and so Wai had gone to Keswick to buy him some medicine and warmer clothes for herself.  At 10:30, Chung casually asked a maid, “What do you think we ought to do?  Should we inform the police?”  Instead, he went to bed.  

Meanwhile, around 7:30 that evening, a farmer named Thomas Wilson was walking near a river about a mile outside of Grange.  He saw a woman wearing a fur coat sleeping--at least, that’s what he thought she was doing--under an open umbrella.  Odd, that.  When he mentioned this to friends, one of them, a police detective who was vacationing in Grange, decided to turn his leisure time into a busman’s holiday, and went to see the woman for himself.

The “sleeping” woman proved to be the missing Mrs. Miao, quite dead.  She had been strangled with a piece of string and two lengths of cord from a window blind.  (The cord was established to be identical to those used at the Borrowdale.)  She had also been badly beaten around the head and face.  The expensive jewelry she had been wearing was gone, and the murderer had arranged her legs and clothing in a way to suggest that she had been raped, but the autopsy found no sign of sexual assault.

Despite these attempts to make Wai look like a victim of some random footpad, investigators had no trouble focusing on one particular suspect.  By 11 p.m., the dead woman’s husband received a visit from the police.  When told only that his wife was dead--without anyone relating the circumstances of her death--Chung immediately exclaimed, “It’s terrible--my wife assaulted, robbed, murdered!”  He continued to behave in a strange manner while being questioned by detectives--for some reason, he was anxious to know whether his wife was still wearing “knickers” when she was found.

Chung’s trial, which was held at Carlisle Assizes, was relatively brief and lacking in drama.  The young lawyer insisted he was innocent--that his wife was the victim of Chinese jewel thieves.  (This argument was considerably weakened after the jewels Wai had been wearing were found hidden in Chung’s luggage.  However, Chung claimed that Wai herself had put the jewelry there, for safety.)  The defense pointed to the fact that shortly before the murder, locals had observed two unknown Chinese men around Grange. These men were seen getting on a train for parts unknown the morning after the murder.  Chung claimed that these men had been following him and his bride ever since they were in Glasgow.  He also stated that under Chinese law, Wai’s considerable property reverted to her family, leaving him with no financial reason to want her dead.  His seemingly incriminating remarks to police were, he said, a misinterpretation of his imperfect English.

The prosecution did not bother to offer a motive for the murder--their case was essentially, “We don’t know why he did it, but we know he did it.”  The case against him was largely circumstantial, but such evidence can be remarkably convincing.  The jury had little difficulty delivering a guilty verdict, and Chung was accordingly hanged at Strangeways, Manchester, on December 6, 1928.  He maintained his innocence to the end, bitterly complaining about the police “not trying to trace the real murderer.”

Crime historians generally agree that the jury made the right decision.  What makes this case unique is that no one has ever been able to find a reason why this educated, sophisticated young man, who appeared to have a golden future ahead of him, threw it all away by committing the cold-blooded murder of his new wife.  (And in a remarkably bungling fashion, at that.)  This gaping hole at the center of the story has led to a number of possible theories, each more baroque than the last.  It has been pointed out that soon after the wedding, Wai went to a female doctor with a very intimate problem: she was physically unable to consummate her marriage.  Did this lead Chung to kill his bride in a burst of sexual frustration?  Alas for this proposal, it is also known that on May 25, Wai had minor surgery which presumably resolved the issue.

A newspaper article of questionable validity claimed that after discovering that his wife would never be able to bear children, Chung felt he had no choice but to murder Wai so he could marry someone who could perpetuate his bloodline.  It seems most likely that this story emerged from some reporter’s over-imaginative fancy.

Did the Chinese tongs have something to do with the murder?  At the time of Chung’s trial, there was a rumor afloat that he had belonged to the Chapa tong, which led to the suggestion that the tong had ordered him to marry and then murder Wai, in order to gain her wealth for the secret society’s benefit.

Or did the tong instruct Chung to kill Wai out of some revenge plot against her rich and powerful family?  Or perhaps--just perhaps--did some Chinese tong murder Wai themselves, meaning that Chung was guilty of nothing more than possible prior knowledge of the deed?  After all, no one has ever been able to explain the presence of those two unknown Chinese men in Grange…

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to the Link Dump!  Our host for this week is the very handsome mascot of HMS Barham!

The herbalist of Spitalfields.

The "Exposition Universelle" of Paris.

The King of Switzerland.

Cleopatra's mysterious death.

A shipwreck from WWI has just been discovered.

The real "Lord of the Flies" was nothing like the novel.  Thankfully.

The laughter epidemic of 1962.

Ancient Roman nanotechnology.

The life of the "American Dwarf."

Private jets and the apocalypse.

French POWs in Britain.

A disappearing cat in 1894.

The Southampton Plot of 1415.

A Victorian tale of a mother's grave.

China's Cold Food Festival.

The still-mysterious Great Pearl Robbery.

The still-mysterious Min Min Lights.

A murder and a questionable "guilty" verdict.

The madcap theory that "ghosts" are just infrasound.  Look, kids, my house is haunted, and I can assure you, it ain't infrasound.

A 19th century murder investigation.

That's it for this week!  See you next week, when we'll look at the tragic--and mysterious--end to a honeymoon.  In the meantime, here's Bob Seger:

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

This brief, but particularly unsettling UFO account was given by John Keel in the “Staten Island Advance,” June 29, 1967:

One rainy night in early March, Beau Shertzer of Huntington, W. Va., and a young nurse, were riding in a Red Cross Bloodmobile along Route 2 in the Ohio Valley. Suddenly, according to their story, a bright glare fell over the night-shrouded road. Looking out of his window on the driver's side, Shertzer was astounded to see a huge luminous machine hovering directly overhead and keeping pace with his vehicle.

Two long arm-like projections seemed to come from the object, one on either side of the Bloodmobile, he said later. The nurse became hysterical as Shertzer stepped on the gas, certain that the object was trying to pick up his truck. 

Fortunately for the horrified pair, another truck appeared from the other direction and its approaching headlights seemed to scare the "thing" away. 

Today Beau Shertzer refuses to drive along Route 2, even in the daytime.

I for one don’t blame him.  You have to wonder what would have happened if that other truck hadn't interrupted the proceedings.

"A Sort of Limbo": A Visit to the Hangover Mining Company

"Tulsa World," September 9, 1976, via Newspapers.com

In the 1970s, Kenneth D. Bacon was the presiding judge of the Oklahoma State Court of Appeals.  He was also a skilled amateur pilot.  In short, he was an intelligent, competent, and extremely level-headed sort, one of the last people you would expect to provide Strange Company material.  However, Bacon claimed that on a late-summer day in 1976, he went through an experience that is one of the most peculiar things that I’ve ever read--and if you’ve visited this blog for any length of time, you know that is really going some.  I’m not even sure how to characterize his story:  A time slip? A ghost tale?  A glitch in the matrix?  Some secret CIA shenanigans?  Or just yet another example of how little we really understand the world around us?

Bacon’s account is so replete with curious little details that I will not attempt to paraphrase.  I shall just present his own words, and let you try to figure out what in hell happened here.

I planned a flight from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to Hays, Kansas.  I planned to fly west of Wichita to avoid the heavy air traffic in that area, and this would make my journey about a three-hour flight.Although it was early morning with not a cloud in the sky, I phoned Tulsa flight service for a weather briefing, as is my usual practice. Great news; I was told I'd have clear sailing all the way, and the sky would remain cloudless.

I did preflight on my little Starduster II and had wheels up out of Tulsa about nine-thirty A.M. The temperature was already in the upper eighties and going higher when I took off. It was perfect for flying without a shirt on, and this kind of weather was an experience of great pleasure in my little open-cockpit airplane.

I'd been flying for about an hour or so. It was marvelous. I hadn't seen even a wisp of a cloud or another airplane. The whole world was mine. I cruised at an altitude of sixty-five hundred feet, and the Starduster ran like a fine Swiss watch. The variable-pitch propeller I'd installed on the ship was doing its job as intended; higher speed and less vibration. It was pure flying at its best. The little bird trimmed out well, and all I had to do was sit there and enjoy the flight.

I had my head down in the cockpit looking at a flight chart. It apparently had been some time since I glanced up or looked at the sky, because suddenly I felt what appeared to be cold air on my bare back and shoulders. That didn't make any sense. What I saw as I looked around...well, let me explain the temperature. It had dropped instantly at least fifteen or twenty degrees.

That kind of temperature change, where I was flying, and the weather forecast I'd had from flight service, simply does not compute. I looked around in disbelief. A short time before I'd been in a cloudless sky. It was that old 'you could see forever' drill. Now I was surrounded by black clouds that seemed to be churning with great energy and mixing with off-white colors. I was actually shocked at how the weather had changed so quickly, so drastically. I looked down at the ground, and my disbelief mounted, because I saw strong winds hurling up clouds of dust across the fields below and all about me.

Even faster than I can relate what was happening, the clouds were closing around me as swiftly as they had formed, seemingly out of nowhere. No question but that this was more than ‘just clouds.' I was in the midst of a huge thunderstorm, perhaps an entire line or area of such storms, and I didn't cherish the idea at all of finding myself in a hailstorm in my little fabric-covered bird. That can really mess up the airplane, me, and my whole day, and I didn't waste another second in searching for someplace to land, to get on the ground safely.

The clouds came at me from all sides. They were enormous and becoming more violent with every passing minute; I could feel the Starduster taking strong blows from sudden turbulence. Landing as quickly as I could now became my entire world. I looked to the left of the cowling.

Talk about a break! I saw a clear, bright opening in the wall of blackness rushing closer and closer against me. And in the center of that hole, like a miracle, was one of the largest airports and, I might add, one of the most welcome airports I had ever seen. There were very long runways and no obstacles. I was already in my descent, one eye on the boiling clouds and the other on my flight chart, circling down in that hole and at the same time trying to locate that airport on the chart.

Finally, I found something. On the chart I saw an airport layout that resembled the long runways toward which I was flying, still coming down in that tight hole, always keeping the ground in sight. Getting wrapped in boiling clouds was something I could well do without.

The chart read Habit Field. I'd never heard of it, and I was even more surprised to discover the chart didn't indicate any listed radio frequencies for the field. The place was huge. Still circling, I came around in the descending turn and caught sight of a control tower looming high above other buildings. I thought, for Christ's sake, I've got a chart and they've forgotten to print the radio frequencies. Okay; if there isn't a primary freq, I'll go to Unicom. I called to the tower on one twenty-two point eight megahertz. Nothing. I went through the frequencies we use for oddball airports and out-of-the-way places. Still nothing.

The storm--and it was a full-fledged boomer by now--kept getting worse; the clouds were darker and thicker and the winds really gusting. I went down low and buzzed the tower, flying directly alongside so they couldn't possibly miss me. Well, I guess they did miss me the first time so I came around--by now I should have had half that field hopping with my low pass--and buzzed the tower again. Still nothing! I scanned the field for any planes that might be taxiing or on the runways. More nothing. I couldn't see anyone in the tower, I failed to get any light signals, and this was getting pretty stupid with that storm dropping on me, so I decided to land, no matter what, and argue with the FAA later.

I didn't bother checking the wind sock. I didn't need to. The winds were so strong now that dust and tumbleweeds scoured the ground. All I had to do was fly into that mess, and the Starduster settled easily.

When I sat the little bird down, holding the stick full back and taxiing slowly because of the increasing winds, I noticed immediately tall weeds growing out of cracks in the runway. That was tough to understand; I wondered why the people who ran this place were so neglectful in maintaining such a large airport. As I rolled to a stop, I pointed the nose of my bird directly toward the tower, making every exaggerated movement of control surfaces the wind allowed. Still no light! This was really crazy.

I added power to taxi up to the front of the tower and killed the switches. I'd nosed the plane into the wind, and as soon as the propeller stopped turning, I scrambled out, bringing my own chocks with me, and secured the plane. Now I could find out what was going on and get the Starduster tied down.

I looked up at the huge tower again, and the sense of 'something wrong' really hit me. One large pane of glass in the tower was broken out. The place had to be filled with dust and debris. Then I saw a door, banging open and shut in the wind, slamming back and forth with a great racket.

Not a soul stirred. I began to wonder if all this was real. Nothing was right and everything was wrong. And the feeling became stronger and stronger. Not because of any imagination, but because of what I kept running into.

I noticed a riding lawn mower sitting up on some blocks. Alongside the mower was an open box of tools where someone had obviously been working on that mower. Alongside the toolbox was a thermos bottle and a cup half-filled with dust-covered coffee.

Everything looked as if the entire place had been busy and then, suddenly, absolutely abruptly, everything stopped right in the middle of whatever was going on at the field.

I kept walking, looking about me. I whistled shrilly several times, and all I got back was the wind gusting and roaring. So I shouted. I did this for several minutes as I walked along. No answer, and still I couldn't see a soul moving. Or not moving, for that matter. I walked by several large hangars. I remember shaking my head in wonder; the hangar doors were either fully or partly open.

Everything was covered with dirt as if this field had been abandoned--as close to instantly as you can get--several years ago.

I continued to yell and whistle as I approached each building. Still nothing! I couldn't find a human being, a dog, a cat; nothing. Ever get the feeling you're somewhere between Here and There? A sort of limbo. Well, I sure had it now. The hair on the back of my neck felt as if it were standing straight up, and the sense of wrongness kept increasing steadily.

I walked along a row of airplanes and vehicles, everything covered heavily with dust. I looked everywhere for signs, something that would identify this place out of nowhere. Nothing. I went back to my airplane and started the other way, and finally I saw an abandoned pickup truck with the name 'Hangover Mining Company' painted on the side. The windows were down in the truck. I walked up to a row of other vehicles, all with windows down, and all filled with dust. I heard a banging sound; it was the open door of an airplane slamming back and forth. The sense of eeriness grew stronger as I went along.

Although now, when I look back on it and review the feelings I was going through, it seems kind of funny. You can laugh at yourself when it's all over. But it certainly wasn't funny at that time. Everything I was used to in an airport was foreign. It was alien. A strange airport, strange weather, strange feelings, and the large tumbleweeds bouncing and rolling along didn't help any. I remember thinking of a movie I'd seen as a child. In that film a pilot was flying cross-country and for some reason was forced onto a strange airport where no one could be found. Dishes were still on tables and windows were open. The movie ended when an atomic bomb was dropped on the town immediately nearby, which had actually been set up to test the effects of a nuclear explosion on an average town.

By now I was headed back to the Starduster, and I recall I was wondering, 'Surely, I haven't landed in some place, in Kansas, where they're going to drop a damn bomb!' Sure, it's humorous now, but at the time it was mighty heavy on my mind.

And then, just as crazy as was this crazy storm that came boiling into this area, it never did rain! The clouds rushed low overhead, and the wind howled, and it should have been pouring, but everything remained bone dry.

That was it. I didn't want to stay any longer at that airport. No way!  Every instinct I had was telling me to leave and to leave immediately.  I looked up, and the weather was just as crazy as it was before. That rolling sky wasn't getting any worse, and if I judged my weather correctly, it also wasn't getting any better. It was as if the weather situation was ‘locked in.’

To the devil with this place; I pulled the chocks, stowed them in the airplane, and fired up. As I taxied out, I went through strong emotions about taking off. No matter how weird this place was, I was on the ground. If I took off, it could be into some pretty nasty weather. I weighed both choices; the alternative to flight was to remain here in this airfield of incredible improbabilities.

I took off.

I stayed beneath the thick cloud cover; the storm above me remained constant, clouds swirling and boiling about as though from a heavy oil fire. It was a short flight to the town of Lyons, Kansas, and I wasted no time in getting down to the airport runway. As I blew in from the terrible-looking sky, an attendant ran out from the operations shack to chock and secure my plane.

He had a look of complete astonishment on his face. A little Starduster II doesn't often come whizzing in through boiling clouds and a terrible sky. 'Where'd you come from?' he asked, disbelief still showing on his face.

I told him what I'd been through, and that I'd landed at this crazy airport that showed on my chart as Habit Field.

The man actually recoiled. I mean, physically recoiled. 'You really didn't land there, did you?' he asked, his mouth agape.

I told him that was exactly what I'd done. 'But so what?' I finished, and again I thought, Christ, I've broken some terrible federal rule.

He looked at me, shaking his head. 'Mister,' he said slowly, his face reflecting all sorts of terrible inner thoughts, 'no one lands there. There are some mighty strange goings-on there.'

This was getting downright ridiculous. 'You're not making much sense,' I said to him, as easily as I could, because the man was acting real spooked. 'Why doesn't anyone land there?' He stared at me and then just started walking away. Never asked if I needed fuel or anything. Just started walking. 'No one lands there,' he repeated, and he was gone.

I waited in the local operator's office for several hours. Slowly but steadily the sky cleared. Other pilots showed up at the office, and I refueled the Starduster to continue my trip. As I usually do, I walked around my airplane for a thorough preflight check. Everything appeared normal. That was to be expected. The little ship hadn't really been out of my sight for more than a few minutes at a time. But the appearance of normal did not set right with me. I had a strong feeling, an eerie sensation, that something was not right. I completed the preflight, and then started it all over again. This time I went by the book, giving the Starduster every detail of the strict military preflight I had been taught.

I stopped when I got to the tail wheel. I stared at it in complete disbelief. I noticed immediately, on this second go-round, a wire sticking all the way through the tire. Bear in mind that the six-inch tire of the Starduster is two inches thick and made of solid, very hard rubber. I doubt that you could drive a nail through it, or even shoot a bullet all the way through. It's that hard and tough.

But somehow a very thin piece of soft, flexible wire had been driven completely through the tire. And it was driven through the tire sideways.

Now I checked out this thing from every possible angle and with the people most experienced with this type of equipment. They brought in a tire expert, a top mechanic and aircraft inspector, to examine the tire. He turned it this way and that, examined it as closely as he could, held up the tire to me and said, 'This, sir, is flatly impossible.'

Impossible or not, I told him, there it is. 'You're holding it right in your hand. You're looking at it. It's happened. Now what?’

He shook his head. 'I don't care what I'm seeing or you're seeing, and I'm touching it, and I've examined it from every angle possible, and I tell you again, sir, it is impossible.'

A number of other mechanics and pilots examined the tire, shaking their heads in disbelief. They took pictures of the tire and that soft wire was driven completely through the hard rubber. To this day, years later, following every lead I could to discover how it happened, everyone agrees on only one thing. It's a physical impossibility. But the photographs speak for themselves.

Anyway, impossible or not, I was stranded in Lyons, Kansas, overnight. The next morning someone flew in a replacement tail wheel, and I went on my way without any further problems.

I could have let the entire affair go, but curiosity's a powerful thing, and I don't like loose ends lying around. I called a pilot friend who worked at the Tulsa newspaper, the World, and discovered he already knew, generally, that something strange had happened regarding my flight. He sent some reporters to my office to take photographs of the tail wheel and get down the details of that airport-that-shouldn't-be. When they completed their interview, they got hot on the story. After a lot of futile attempts, they finally got a telephone call through to Habit Field. The reporter called me back to relate his conversation with the person to whom he'd spoken. The reporter had asked what sort of place Habit Field was.

'Wal, it's a tumbleweed,' was the answer.

‘What's that? What do you mean by tumbleweed?

‘Tumbleweeds,' was the strange reply. 'This here's an old military base.’

‘But--’

‘It's in private hands. That's all you needs to know' and the 'tumbleweed' hung up, and they never could get him back on the phone.

Several times I started to return to that field, to that Hangover Mining Company, or whatever it was on an 'old military base,' and I was going to take cameras and friends with me. But each time, for various reasons, something stopped me, and we never did get to go back there.

From what I understand now it's as if that place I visited never existed. I've heard it's called Sunflower Field. Everything I saw there is supposed to be gone. Some say it wasn't ever there! But now according to what other pilots have told me, Sunflower Field is used as a glider airport and for parachute instruction and skydiving. That is one very big damn airport for gliding and jumping! But it's a bit comforting to hear the airport is functional and being used, if--and this is still a very big if--it was the same airport where I landed.

However, no matter what happens at that field, or doesn't happen, I guess I'll never know when and how that flexible wire was driven through that solid tail wheel of my airplane. I guess I'll never know. The hair on the back of my neck still rises when I think about that day and how the impossible did happen.

How--and why. 

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?

Why you wouldn't want to be punished by a pirate.

Why you wouldn't want to see a supervolcano erupt.

The mystery of the 115,000 year old human footprints.

The mystery of the undersea "Bloop."  Related:  The ocean contains all sorts of creepy stuff.

A chair that may have belonged to Anne Boleyn.

How nuns helped create a fertility drug.

The "Neolithic revolution" is about to be rewritten.

You never know where you might find a copy of the "Iliad."

A new discovery at the "world's first village."

Well, get set to rewrite ancient history.  Again.

An 1831 disaster at sea.

Let's face it, Picasso was a very unpleasant human being.

Fairies and raising the dead in 19th century Ireland.

Are birds more afraid of women than men?

A still-unsolved cipher.

Things are weird on Mars, Exhibit A.

Things are weird on Mars, Exhibit B.

The orcas who helped humans hunt whales.

A restaurant where you can get a vegan lunch and adopt a cat.  That's what I call one-stop shopping.

Queen Mary Tudor's map collection.

America's animal mayors.

Why some rises are "meteoric."

Before Etsy witches, there was mail-order magic.

An English gentleman on the make in Constantinople.

What Julius Caesar really said just before his death.

The latest weather report from Jupiter is a doozy.

Storytelling from 100,000 years ago?

The phrenology fad.

The city that danced itself to death.

A woman's unsolved murder.

The good old days, when giant octopuses ate dinosaurs.

A glimpse of medieval Scottish dentistry.

The business of 19th century post-mortem hair dressing.

The "Stonehenge of the Amazon."

Don't underestimate ancient medicine.

An aristocratic sex scandal.

Some recipes from 1715.

The 1864 Battle of Heligoland.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll land at a very, very strange airport.  In the meantime, here's Custer LaRue.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

One is continually reminded that Life likes to play little pranks on us.  The “Idaho Statesman,” November 12, 1947:

BOSTON (UP)-Being alive on his 65th birthday Tuesday meant that Allan Sharpe of Boston had lost a $10 bet--a wager he was very pleased to have lost. 

Ten years ago he learned he was suffering from heart disease. The doctor told Sharpe he needed rest--a lot of rest. But Sharpe also needed his job--he told the doctor he would go on working until he reached retirement age. 

"Of course, I'll never live that long,” he said. "I'd have to live until I was 65 to retire and I'll never make it. I'll bet you $10 I'm dead before I'm 65." 

The doctor tried to encourage him: 

"I have a hunch you'll be all right," he told Sharpe, "I'll take that bet." 

So, Tuesday Sharpe was up early. It was a great day. It marked the beginning of his retirement from the Boston Edison Co. 

"First thing I'm going to do is mail the doctor the $10," Sharpe told his wife.  "I'm going right out to do it now."

On the way to the mailbox he dropped in the neighborhood drug store to see his old friend Christopher Cirullo. 

"This is my birthday and I'm still alive," he told the druggist jubilantly. "The doctor won. I'm on my way to pay the debt." 

Sharpe went to the mailbox in front of the drug store and mailed the letter. Then he hurried home, dashed up the three flights of stairs to his apartment and dropped dead.

I wonder if the doctor felt he had won or lost the bet.

A Dog's Life

In the not-so-good old days, it was not rare for animals to be put on trial for crimes, usually witchcraft or murder, and summarily executed.  As dreadful as these events were, one at least has the comfort of knowing that in modern times, we have rejected such barbarism.

That assumption, unfortunately, is not entirely correct.  In 1930s America, newspapers eagerly covered the grim story of a dog who faced a death sentence for first-degree murder.

On July 4, 1936, 14-year-old Maxwell Breeze and some friends were celebrating Independence Day by going for a swim in the Erie Canal in Brockport, New York.  A nine-month-old part-Airdale, part German Shepherd dog named Idaho decided to join in the fun.  The animal leaped into the canal and swam over to Maxwell, clinging to the boy’s back.  Tragically, the dog’s weight was too much for the boy.  Before anyone could come to his assistance, Maxwell, unable to free himself, drowned.

Maxwell’s parents, in their shock and grief, refused to see their son’s death as a horrible accident, but as a homicide.  They insisted that Idaho was a dangerous animal who had to immediately be shot.  The dog’s owner, Victor Fortune, indignantly refused.  He stated that there was nothing vicious about his pet.  Idaho had certainly not meant harm to young Maxwell, or anyone else for that matter.  The Breezes responded by bringing a civil suit against Fortune.

On July 20, all interested parties met to give testimony before Police Justice Homer Benedict.  Donald Duff, one of the boys who was swimming with Maxwell that fatal day, told Justice Benedict that the dog had “Just tried to climb on Max’s back.”  When asked if Maxwell had been playing with Idaho before going into the canal, Donald replied, “No.”  

Donald went on to say that when Idaho climbed on top of Maxwell, the boy became frightened and yelled, “The dog’s after me.  Help.”  Another boy named Paul Hamlin swam out to rescue Maxwell, but Idaho began trying to climb on him.  By the time Paul had extricated himself from the dog, it was too late for the Breeze boy.

A young man named Daniel Houghton testified that on two separate occasions while he was swimming in the canal, Idaho had assaulted him as well.

Victor Fortune, acting as his dog’s informal lead defense attorney, countered by saying that Idaho was just a mischievous, but well-meaning dog.  Victor’s father George asserted that Idaho had not even been the dog in the canal with Maxwell.  He asserted that at the time of the drowning, he and Idaho had been sitting on the Fortune front porch.

Since the tragedy, Idaho, in accordance with New York state law, had been boarded at the Rochester Dog Protective Association, in order for veterinarians to judge for themselves whether or not the dog was violent.  Mary Foubister, the Association’s secretary, asked Justice Benedict for a two-week postponement of the legal proceedings so that they would have time to fully evaluate the animal.  He agreed.

By this time, the fight over Idaho’s life had generated nationwide newspaper headlines.  Editorials were published arguing the pros and cons of the case.  One paper described the dispute as “the most spectacular case involving a dog in the history of criminal law.”  Local entrepreneurs began selling copies of the dog’s paw prints at $100 a set.  Idaho became so famous, the shelter that was serving as his temporary prison had to hire a bodyguard for him.  It was feared that someone would try to steal the four-legged celebrity.  When a Moscow, Idaho resident named Carl Hoisington heard of the story, he became convinced that Idaho was the same dog who had been stolen from his brother-in-law in Idaho Falls.  Victor Fortune, however, insisted that Idaho had been one of a litter of puppies that he had cared for while working at a Civilian Conservation Corps camp in Salmon, Idaho.  Since we hear nothing more of Mr. Hoisington and his dognapping claims, it is presumed that he was proved to have been mistaken.  Another side issue arose when it was speculated that another local dog, a three-year-old named Rex, was actually the canine who had been responsible for Maxwell’s death.  However, this effort to provide Idaho with an alibi does not appear to have been taken very seriously.

Dog lovers across the country had sent Fortune unsolicited cash donations, which were used to hire the services of a real lawyer, one Harry A. Sessions.  In the meantime, dog experts at the shelter subjected Idaho to a series of tests to determine his potential for viciousness.  They concluded that he was just a friendly, playful puppy who didn’t know his own strength.  Under a veterinarian’s supervision, a local newspaper reporter named Martin Gagie joined Idaho in the canal for an experimental swim.  Afterwards, Gagie stated, “Idaho enjoys the water immensely.  I am convinced he meant no harm when he played tag with me in the murky waters of the canal.  However, he weighs fifty pounds and, even in play, is rough.  I got several scratches, but there was no hint of viciousness as he pawed me.  He was just a big, rough puppy enjoying a swim to the utmost.”  It was pointed out that Maxwell’s body bore no scratches or claw marks from the dog.  This suggested that Idaho did not force the boy under water.  It was theorized that perhaps Maxwell drowned because he became panic-stricken, or simply developed a cramp.

Maxwell Breeze’s mother Anne was not convinced.  She wrote to a newspaper, “My boy Maxie is dead, the victim of a dangerous mongrel dog.  I believe that dog was Idaho, and I demand that he be killed.” she wrote.  She added angrily, “If the people of this country who are not parents continue, as they have in this case, to place the life of a mongrel dog above the life of a happy, healthy child, then it is time that all mothers give up the task of bringing up children.”

Both sides in the dispute met again before Justice Benedict on August 5.  Over three hundred journalists and curious spectators joined them.  Idaho himself--thankfully unaware that his life was on the line--seemed bored with the proceedings.  He napped through most of the hearing.

After listening to all the testimony, Benedict did his best to mix justice with mercy.  Instead of the death penalty requested by the Breezes, he decreed that Idaho should be returned to his owner to serve a sentence of twenty-six months of house arrest.  He warned Fortune that if the dog was not confined, Idaho would be killed by a peace officer.

"Palm Beach Post," August 16, 1936, via Newspapers.com

The crowd was overjoyed by the verdict, with the notable exception of Anne Breeze.  Maxwell’s mother snapped to reporters, “They’re going to let that dog around loose and it’ll kill someone else.  That dog killed my poor son, the only thing that I had.  If I had a gun, I’d shoot it myself.”

In accordance with the court’s order, Idaho spent the next two years chained up in Fortune’s yard.  During this period, he made two brief escapes, but both times he returned home on his own before Victor and his mother even had a chance to run after him.  

Idaho may have been a dangerous swimming buddy, but he was at heart a Good Boy.

As a result of a petition filed by the Rochester Dog Protective Association, on September 19, 1938, New York Supreme Court Justice William Love signed a court order giving Idaho a full and unconditional pardon, 12 days before his sentence ended.  Sadly, the dog did not enjoy his freedom for long.  On January 12, 1939, Victor’s brother Jack took Idaho with him for a hike near Route 31.  While doing so, Idaho began chasing after a cat.  He ran into the highway, where he was fatally struck by a car.  The hit-and-run driver was never identified.

Anne Breeze probably celebrated the news.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this Friday's Link Dump!

Our host for this week is the one-and-only Goody Two-Shoes!

The power of pregnant medieval queens.

A possible serial killer in 1890s New York.

Decoding some political gossip from medieval Britain.

The latest research on the Antikythera Mechanism.

Is Shakespeare's grave missing his skull?

Solving the mystery of Antarctica's ice.

Possible evidence of Noah's Ark.

A benevolent werewolf.

A medieval earl's "unfortunate career."

Cremation in 1890s San Francisco.

A set of kitchen knives from 1,500 years ago.

That time when the Americans saved Hideki Tojo's life.  And then hanged him.

Fake news is old news.

A Gateway to Hell in the Czech Republic.

A significant literary editor.

Wooden tools from 430,000 years ago.

The myths surrounding Nicholas II.

The origins of the expression "making the cut."

The latest information about Neanderthal babies.

The science of near-death experiences.

How 1920s Hollywood went around the world without leaving California.

A look at Maya dentistry.

That's it for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at the time a dog stood trial for murder.  In the meantime, here's a traditional Irish song.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

 

Here is just one of those minor little oddities that help keep life on this earth from getting too dull.  The “Boston Globe,” December 17, 1928:

SANTA BARBARA, Calif, Dec 16 (A.P.) -There may be sermons in stones and books in the running brooks, but it was left for a Santa Barbara woman to reveal today that there is a Schubert melody in a pan of boiling vegetables. 

As the hoarse voice of a radio announcer burst through the kitchen steam of a quiet home here, and the strains of "Ave Maria" filtered from a pan of beans simmering on the electric range, the housewife might have been excused had she exhibited a touch of nervousness, because there wasn't a radio set anywhere in the house. 

But she didn't. She approached the range in a scientific spirit and stirred the beans vigorously.  In answer a whole chorus burst into a hunting song, followed by a crooning plantation melody. 

Radio experts admitted they were baffled by the phenomenon, but pointed out that music has been heard in hot air shafts connected with electric furnaces. The bottom of the pan might have acted as a diaphragm and reproduced a radio program picked up inductively by the electric power line, they added.

Believe it or not, on December 30 the “Red Bluff Sentinel” carried a sequel of sorts:

SAN FRANCISCO, Dec. 29.-And a radio program came right out of the lamp! 

Mrs. Wilmot Williams, San Francisco housewife. reported yesterday that she received a radio program from the parchment shade of her bedside lamp when she turned the switch.

An authenticated instance of radio music received from the element of an electric stove was reported in Santa Barbara this month when a housewife there heard a program through a pan of simmering beans.

There was just music in the air in late-1928 California, I guess.

The Groaning Tree of Baddesley

Eugène Bléry, "The Elm Tree"

I always enjoy when someone manages to gain fame through unconventional and imaginative methods, so if an elm tree manages to put itself into the history books by moaning and wailing like a maniac, I say, “Congratulations!” and invite the voluble hunk of wood into the hallowed halls of Strange Company.

Our story takes place in the English village of Baddesley.  One day around 1750, a cottager living near the center of the village began frequently hearing an alarming noise behind his house, like that of someone screaming in agony.  The man’s wife, who was then bedridden, was so frightened by the sounds that he tried to persuade her that they were just hearing stags bellowing in the nearby New Forest.  However, eventually all his neighbors began hearing the cries, and all agreed that something extremely odd was going on.  The sounds were soon traced to an elm growing at the end of the man’s garden.  It was a young, healthy tree, seemingly normal in every way.  It really had no business wailing like a banshee, but there you are.

Within a few weeks, the mysteriously mournful tree had become a celebrity.  It attracted visitors from all across England, including the then-Prince and Princess of Wales.  The villagers were convinced that something supernatural was going on--perhaps the Devil had decided to take up residence in the elm--but this theory was, naturally, scoffed at by naturalists and other “experts.”  However, the men of science couldn’t come up with a better explanation for what was going on.  Any possible cause they thought of--water that had collected in the tree, or friction between the roots, or trapped air bubbles--seemed ridiculously inadequate.  All anyone could determine was that the elm seemed to groan the most when the weather was clear and frosty, and the least when it was wet.  The sounds seemed to originate from the roots.

The tree kept up its moans and groans for nearly two years, until the owner of the property where the elm was growing, a man named Forbes, decided to take the direct approach.  In an effort to determine the cause of the sounds, he bored a hole in the elm’s trunk.  Although this act of willful arborcide failed to solve the mystery, it did manage to shut the tree up.  It never made those uncanny wails again.

Eventually the tree was uprooted, in the hope that this would reveal the cause of the unsettling sounds, but this too was a failure.  The famed Groaning Tree of Baddesley, to all appearances, was a perfectly ordinary elm…except it demonstrably was not.