The Natives of the Red Dragon

A journal dedicated to stamp-collecting seems like an unlikely place to find a prime slice of The Weird, but that just goes to show that life is full of surprises.  In 1928, “The Stamp Lover” carried an article by one C.H.R. Andrews titled “The Red Dragon Stamps” that is, frankly, not quite like anything I’ve ever heard of.  I’m a bit surprised that Andrews’ story seemed to languish in total obscurity until it was revisited in a 1987 issue of “Fortean Times.”

According to Andrews, for some months past, stamp aficionados had been puzzled by the unexplained appearance of some small-denomination British stamps that were overprinted with red dragons.  They appeared on at least 20 letters and postcards which had pairs of stamps, with only the one on the left side sporting the overprint.  The stamps began to appear soon after a noted Welsh book collector named Rhys Evans inexplicably disappeared.

On April 4, 1928, Evans left his home to show a friend named Jenkins, who was a professor at nearby University College, an ancient book of Welsh stories and folklore.  The book spoke of a secret society tasked with guarding five sacred dragons, and included some sort of coded map which Evans hoped Jenkins could interpret.

Evans never made it to the College.  In fact, he seemed to vanish completely.  Two days after his disappearance, his wife received a letter postmarked from Cardiff.  It bore two stamps, one of which was the dragon overprint.  The letter--written in Welsh--was clearly in Rhys’ handwriting.  It stated that her husband was doing well, and she should not worry about him.  The note ended with the words “Trigolion y ddraig Goch.” (Natives of the Red Dragon.)

Other people subsequently received letters purporting to be from the “Natives of the Red Dragon,” all bearing the strange dragon stamps.  The letters all discussed old Welsh legends.  They were sent from various places around Wales, largely from towns on the sites of ancient Roman camps.

Five days after Evans disappeared, he was found sitting by a lake in Brynmill Park, Swansea.  He seemed in good health and spirits, but he refused to give any explanation of why he had vanished, or where he had been during his absence.  He no longer had the book he wished to show Professor Jenkins, and seemed rather relieved to be rid of the thing.  All he would ever say about his mysterious experience was “There were dragons in Wales today.”

There is a footnote which may--or may not--be connected to our little tale.  Around the time Evans vanished, three children from the Welsh village of Llandegley saw a strange beast in nearby Radnor Forest.  One of the children was brave--or foolhardy--enough to try to follow the creature, but his path was blocked by two men.  These men were dressed in white, with depictions of red dragons on their chests.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

Just don't forget to smile for the Strange Company HQ's security camera!

The Great Candy Panic.

The mystery of the babies in the church cellar.

The comfort of a nice tombstone.

A cave is challenging theories about the history of farming.

Africa's oldest known mummy.

The history behind "Little Miss Muffet."

The changing image of George Washington's mother.

The mysteries of the medieval Moon.

The first official report of a yeti.

The Great Tea Race.

How WWI spurred a rise in spiritualism.

How a blind man and his guide dog survived 9/11.

This week in Russian Weird:  Nothing to see here, just their Doomsday Radio kicking into high gear.

The enigma of Zelda Fitzgerald's slipper.

Eyewitness accounts from the gallows.

A would-be priest turned professional gambler.

We now know what caused the Plague of Justinian.

A Georgian-era poet and travel writer.

When a woman gets her son-in-law to murder her husband, you know you are not seeing the happiest of families.

A BOOGLE OF WEASELS.

The life of Anna of Kyiv, Queen of France.

The SS Chimborazo's narrow escape.

The author who created the modern vampire.

The more we look at 31/Atlas, the weirder the damned thing looks.

Why we call psychiatrists "shrinks."

The origins of the phrase, "spick and span."

British parliamentary reporting in the 19th century.

More clues about how the Maya kingdom collapsed.

The 1925 "Special Restrictions Order."

The beauty of knife rests.

The man who blinded Bach.

New York's "boy Mayor."

How Boston baked beans got their name.

It may not surprise you that Australia is said to have man-eating trees.

And, finally, RIP Maru, one of the internet's most beloved cats.

That's it for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at an odd little story involving a disappearance...and dragons!  In the meantime, here's some Bach.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

Out: Spontaneous Human Combustion.  In: Spontaneous Shirt Combustion.  The “Western Daily Press,” April 22, 1996:

Can anybody solve the mystery of the frazzled shirt, the melted clothes pegs, and the bang from the sky?

A tale of the paranormal, perhaps?

Father-of-three Alan Fairless has been left a bemused man by the sudden destruction of his favorite green-and-white striped polo shirt.

His Sunday lie-in was interrupted at about 6 a.m. by an explosive-like noise in his back garden. 

But there was no sign of lightning or anything strangely untoward around Howes Close in Warmley, near Bristol.

But later as he sipped his morning coffee, Mr. Fairless noticed the smouldering remains of his Lacoste shirt beneath the washing line.

"All that remains of the shirt is a few bits of green cloth around the shoulders.  It was barely recognizable,” said Mr. Fairless.

“I’ve no idea how this happened.  None of the other clothes on the washing line were touched.”

“It was a fine night.  I even phoned the weather centre and they said there had been no reports of lightning.”

The engineer added, “It couldn’t have been a practical joke either.  My neighbors are very quiet.”

“It couldn’t have been the children either since the eldest is only four.”

His wife Marcia said, “We had just had a quiet night in and we were woken up by this bang.  It’s a real mystery.”

Bristol Weather Centre said they had no reports of lightning early on Sunday morning.

There was a sequel to this story in the “Bristol Observer” on July 5:

Washing lines in Warmley were the subject of a series of bizarre arson attacks last weekend. Clothes and property were damaged at seven homes following a two-hour blitz on Saturday morning (June 29), from 4am to 6am. The attacks happened in Quantock Close, Chiltern Close, Malvern Drive and Meadow Court. The fire in Chiltern Close spread to the side of the house and damaged a conservatory.

A playpen of toys was also destroyed in the first blaze in Quantock Close. The attacks follow the destruction of a man's shirt while it was hanging on a washing line in Warmley at the end of April this year.

Alan Fairless, of Howes Close, heard a loud explosion in his back yard at 6am and later discovered the remains of his shirt under the washing line.

Fire Brigade spokesman John Dando said he felt there was a link between that incident and the current ones.

“It’s extraordinary.  I think the incidents have got to be related.  There is no logical explanation.

“But on a serious note, it’s obviously worrying that someone is stalking around at that time of night setting fire to washing lines. 

"I cannot understand what motivation anyone would have for doing that. It's not much of a progression from setting fire to garden sheds, cars and homes. We want this person caught as soon as possible." 

Police have appealed for witnesses to the attacks. Phone Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111 if you can help.

I couldn’t find out if the mystery was ever solved.

The Glidewell Ghost

"Louisville Courier-Journal," March 30, 1887, via Newspapers.com

Ghosts always have a way of popping up when you least expect them.  One of the most baffling aspects of poltergeist activity is its usual lack of any obvious "trigger" or underlying cause.  Life for its victims is perfectly normal one minute, awash in The Weird the next.  One prime example took place in Bucksville, Kentucky, in 1887.

The household of farmer Samuel H. Glidewell was utterly ordinary until one day early in March.  The first intimation that something was very, very out-of-the-ordinary came when the Glidewell daughters noticed that all the sheets and blankets had been removed from the beds and packed in a box upstairs.  This happened so repeatedly that for several days, the family was forced to keep a continuous watch on the upper rooms.  No one was seen, but the mysterious stripping of the beds somehow continued.  The minute the bedrooms were left unguarded, the bedclothing  would be removed and folded away.  Then, inexplicable streams of water would occasionally run across the rafters.  The family could only conclude that a monkey had escaped from some circus and could find nothing better to do than pack bedding and throw water about.  However, a minute search of the upstairs failed to uncover a monkey, or anyone else for that matter.

Their invisible visitor began to show more blatant hostility.  A plank was removed from the upstairs floor, and old boots and shoes were hurled at the occupants of the lower rooms.  Again, no person or animal could be found.  At night, the Glidewells could hear eerie sounds coming from upstairs, which sounded like the labored breathing of someone who was dying.  If anyone went up to investigate, on their return they would hear a sound of something heavy falling on the steps just behind them.  Furniture would somehow appear and disappear inside of locked rooms.  Perhaps most unsettlingly, one morning Glidewell's son noticed that his gun was missing from his bedroom.  It was eventually found in the adjoining room, with the hammer pulled back.

Not knowing what else to do, Glidewell called in the neighbors to see if any of them could get to the bottom of all this.  Two of them, described as "reliable men as can be found," went upstairs.  They too failed to see anything, but others waiting below suddenly found themselves drenched with water--water that came from no evident source.  These mysterious showers continued.  Without warning, people inside the house would have water fall on them, and others in the room could never see it fall.  A boy who came to see the now locally famed "ghost" ran into a closet to avoid getting drenched.  As anyone who knows the ways of spooks could have predicted, a stream of water cascaded down, soaking him to the skin.

The poltergeist continued to expand its repertoire.  It tore up carpets.  It continued to move furniture around.  On one occasion, a roaring fire was discovered in a securely locked room that had not been opened for years.  One night, the family was awakened by the sounds of violin music and dancing coming from that same locked room.  When the Glidewells finally worked up the courage to enter the room, nothing was found except a candle, which had just nearly burned to the bottom.  The next night, at the stroke of twelve, loud peals of laughter were heard coming from a closet under the staircase.  When one onlooker nervously opened the closet door and peeked inside, he was nearly drowned with a deluge of icy cold water, which was accompanied by more bursts of ghostly laughter.  The following morning when the family entered the dining room, they were greeted by a skull and crossbones at the head of the table.  At each plate was a small sprig of cedar.  [Note: Cedars, known as "burial trees," have a long folkloric connection to cemeteries and various death-related superstitions.  It's an easy guess that these sprigs were not intended to convey anything cheery to the Glidewells.]

This was the last straw for the beleaguered family.  They immediately abandoned the house, taking refuge with a neighbor.  While they were moving out their household goods, the table and chairs suddenly began dancing around the room.  When one of the Glidewells tried grabbing a chair, he received a shock as if from an electric battery.  This was followed by another peal of the sinister laughter.  

The local marshal, accompanied by a posse of armed men, did a prolonged search of the house.  They heard many strange noises, all interspersed with the bursts of mocking laughter, but could find no "rational" explanation for the phenomena.  They left puzzled, exhausted, and not a little unnerved.  

Unfortunately for the Glidewells, their ghost had no wish to be left behind.  It was obviously enjoying their company.  When they moved, so did the spirit, along with its usual bag of tricks.  In their new abode, the family heard the now-familiar demonic laughter and endured the now-familiar drenchings of cold water. One morning, they found that their milk supply had been replaced with a foul-smelling fluid.  On another occasion, the oil was removed from the lamps and replaced with this same repulsive liquid. Doors that had been left securely locked were found wide open.  The mysterious moving of furniture was so frequent as to become practically commonplace.

The strangest event of all took place in the new house.  One night, Mr. Glidewell was just dropping off to sleep when he was suddenly jerked wide awake by...something.  He had not heard or seen anything, but he realized there was some other presence in the room.  In a moment, a pale, bluish light became visible.   It seemed to radiate from outside the house.  When he cautiously crept to the window, he saw, about ten steps away, a ball of pale blue flame about three inches in diameter hovering several feet off the ground.  As he stared at the object, it began to wave to and fro, emitting a strange, flute-like music.  Then, the air around him was filled with an odd perfume, one so overpowering it caused him to collapse on the bed unconscious.  When Glidewell came to the next morning, he found that a wet, blood-red handkerchief of fine fabric, with the initial "U" embroidered in black silk, had been placed upon his forehead.  Although the handkerchief was exhibited to hundreds of curious onlookers, no one could identify it.

Poor Mr. Glidewell was psychologically destroyed by this experience.  It was reported that his "nervous system is shattered and it is feared that total derangement of the mind will speedily follow."  He was desperate to sell his property and move out of state--taking care not to leave the ghost his forwarding address--but he could find no one willing to take the "ghoul-disturbed" place at any price.  After this item, the story seems to have dropped out of the newspapers, so I cannot say when--or if--the Glidewells were finally rid of their persecution.

A man who had drowned many years previously was buried in what eventually became Glidewell's garden.  It was speculated that this man's spirit resented having his eternal rest disturbed, and so was taking a supernatural revenge against the interloping family.  Others suggested it was the spirit of a young girl who had committed suicide in the house in 1869, a short time before the Glidewells moved in.  Those remained only theories, of course.

It is notoriously difficult to get a straight answer out of a poltergeist.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump, where it's up, up, and away!

Try to sell a house that features art stolen by the Nazis, and watch the fun begin!

A brief history of pomegranates.

Some remote viewers took a gander at 31/Atlas, and I can't say they came up with cheery stuff.

A serial poisoner in Ohio.

The princess who chose painting over palaces.

The horrors of 19th century merchant service.

The (possibly) sinister story behind the Bean Puzzle Tombstone.

The well-preserved home of an 18th century textile designer.

The U.S. Army's cancer-causing fog.

When tennis was the Sport of Kings.

If you're in the mood to sail across the Indian Ocean, here's a how-to guide.

The world's most dangerous tree.

The start of the school lunch program.

Some talking poltergeists and a ventriloquist.

Why the world mourned the murder of a tree.

The ghosts of an Arizona resort.

How King James I was responsible for the Macbeth Witches.

A Prussian military officer at Valley Forge.

The too-short career of a female bookbinder.

A very special fossil.

For some reason, we're enamored of myths about frogs living in stones.

Two father-daughter poets.

The WWII bomber that influenced modern airplanes.

A brief history of the Louvre.

The disappearance of SS Vaitarna.

A Vanderbilt black sheep.

A Civil War sketchbook.

The controversial Younger Dryas Impact Theory.

In other news, badgers have turned to grave-robbing.

The pig who had a social security number.

A noble revenge.

The stories behind some popular funeral foods.

A Neolithic site that could rewrite history.

We're sorta clueless about how anesthesia works.

The colorful life of a 19th century British MP.

The colorful life of a Founding Father.

Some strange burial mounds in Kazakhstan.

An ancient Egyptian mathematical papyrus.

A murder on a crowded train.

A Pennsylvania haunting.

The life and art of Evelyn De Morgan.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll meet a 19th century poltergeist.  In the meantime, here's Emmylou.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

It’s not every day that you come across an episode of a reality show titled, “Who Gets the Grave?”  The “Wilmington News,” August 6, 1881:

A singular affair comes to light in the old town of Glasgow, this State. Mrs. Thomas B. Ellison's baby died in 1878, and in due time was laid to rest in the Pencader church yard. He was a bright little baby, and in respect to its memory it was determined by the bereaved parents to have a sufficient monument over the little grave as soon as money could be saved.

In the meantime the mother attended faithfully to the mound and kept it in good repair. The bright sun and the refreshing rain brought green grass and flowers, and no grave in the cemetery looked brighter. On Sabbath morning, as was her wont, she went after service to the grave. To her surprise she saw at the head of the mound a beautiful tombstone, with lots of white-winged angels and nice little verses all over it.

Approaching nearer she saw, not the name of her own little darling, sculptured by an unknown friend, but, instead, the name of Brown. Hurrying back to the church, Mrs. Ellison met Jacob Cazier, an influential man of the town, and to him she related what she saw and then proceeded forthwith to interview the father of baby Brown, an infant that had some nine years before died of cholera infantum, and of him demand an explanation. He gave the mother to understand in a very forcible way that he was not a man to go around pirating among the graveyards for other people's offspring. He guessed he knew his baby, and as he was a poor man, it was not to be supposed that he was traveling around the country putting fancy grave stones upon the graves of other people's babies.

Beneath that mound he insisted were baby Brown's bones, and by its blessed memory he didn't propose to have vandal hands laid on his property. As Mr. Brown and Mrs. Ellison were each positive, there was a big dilemma. The people became interested, and became so interested in the controversy that they took sides.

The baby Brown party was somewhat the weaker from the fact that the baby Ellisonites were led by a woman and the flame of chivalry extant made it so. As Brown threatened prosecution the other side wisely left matters in the hands of the trustees of the church. It was a momentous question, the ownership of the baby. They discussed and adjourned, adjourned to discuss, until they settled upon an evening for the decision. Both families, with other witnesses, were cited to appear.

Mrs. Ellison, confident and hopeful, came promptly. Brown was so positive that to appear he thought would compromise his dignity. In the meantime Mrs. Ellison had consulted Mr. Ray, justice at Newark, who, in looking at the case in all its bearing, suggested that as a crisis had come, perhaps it would be well to look at the coffins. Mrs. Ellison was willing. The trustees, hearing the threat of Brown, refused to touch the grave claimed by Brown, but consented to have opened a little neglected grave near by. The digging was done with dispatch, and in the stillness the interested townspeople that crowded could hear their own hearts beat.

At last the coffin was reached. There was suppressed excitement about the grave. A little more scraping; a few tosses of the spade, the last shovelsfull were thrown, when lo! the coffin of the little baby Brown was brought to light and recognized by the undertaker. The mother had won. The strange tombstone was taken down, and in order to more fully convince the doubters the little grave was opened and the coffin of baby Ellison was uncovered.

I’m guessing it took years for Mr. Brown to live that one down.

The Mysterious Fires at Bladenboro

"Philadelphia Inquirer," March 13, 1932, via Newspapers.com

This blog has featured several stories involving mysterious fires.  However, the most famous, and probably the most well-investigated, case of this sort took place in the town of Bladenboro, North Carolina, in 1932.

One afternoon in February the family of Charles H. Williamson was sitting quietly in their parlor, the picture of Norman Rockwell harmony.  The calm was suddenly broken by a neighbor rushing into their midst, shouting, "Your house is burning up!"  The startled family followed him into their dining room, where, sure enough, a window-shade and some curtains were ablaze.

Fortunately, the group was able to quickly tear them down and smother the flames.  Then, their shock turned to sheer puzzlement.  The wood around the burned items was completely untouched.  And how did the fire start at all?  No one had lit a fire in the room for weeks.  No one had smoked there.  There were no inflammable chemicals in the house.  The neighbor who had alerted them had had a clear view of the dining room all afternoon, and had not seen any stranger in the vicinity of the house.

All the Williamsons could do was shrug and walk back to the parlor.  No sooner had they returned that another fire broke out in another window of the dining room.  It was the same story:  there were no signs of anything that could have set off the fire, and the window sash appeared untouched by the flames.

Things were clearly getting weird.  The family summoned friends and neighbors to help them find a solution to the mystery.  They all inspected every inch of the house, hoping to find something--anything--that might explain these baffling bonfires.  Nothing at all suspicious was found.

That night was without incident, which left the Williamsons with a great feeling of relief.  The next morning, they went off to church with the cheery assumption that the previous day's event was a one-off--peculiar, yes, but nothing they would ever see again.

They returned home from the service happily anticipating their Sunday lunch.  While the others began to assemble in the dining room, Mrs. Williamson went upstairs to her bedroom.  And immediately began screaming.

An understandable action, considering that she had found her bed on fire.

The family rushed into the room, grabbed the blazing bedspread, and beat out the flames.  They were stunned to see that--like the window sashes on the previous day--the rest of the bed was completely untouched by the fire.

A few minutes after this incident, one of the Williamson daughters, Katie, opened a closet door, and found that a pile of paper dress patterns was ablaze.  The flames were quickly extinguished--the family was getting a lot of practice at putting out fires--and they saw that nothing else in the closet had been touched by the fire.  Shortly after that, Katie went into the dining room, where she saw smoke coming from a cardboard box containing a fruit cake..  She opened it, and saw that the paper wrapping around the cake was on fire.  However--I think you know by now what's coming--neither the cake nor the box was so much as singed.

Naturally, word of the strange goings-on at the Williamson home swiftly spread through Bladenboro.  Naturally, the house drew a crowd of curiosity seekers and amateur sleuths eager to find a solution to the mystery.  Naturally, none of these people were any help whatsoever.

The Williamsons' uninvited audience was not disappointed, however.  A group of some fifteen people were treated to the sight of a second closet fire.  A pair of pants hanging inside was on fire.  Nothing else in the closet was at all damaged.  On one occasion, while some of the Williamsons and a few out-of-town guests were sitting in one of the bedrooms, they all saw the bed suddenly burst into flames right in front of their eyes.

Local firemen, electricians, and other experts in such matters struggled to come up with an explanation for all this.  A local doctor suggested that "a combination of certain gases in the air" might be responsible.  However, tests of the air in various parts of the house showed nothing abnormal.  The electricity to the house was cut off, on the chance that the fires were set by some short in the wiring.  A theory that the fires were being deliberately set for insurance purposes fizzled out when it was discovered that the house was not insured.  Could bolts of lightning have entered the house and set off the fires?  (The area had not had any lighting strikes for months.)  Perhaps dried phosphorus, that was then commonly used in rat and mouse traps, was responsible?  (It turned out that nothing of the sort had ever been used in the house.)  Were the Williamsons staging this for publicity?  If so, why?

While everyone was still debating the matter, the phantom firebug upped its game in an alarming way.  Katie Williamson was standing in one of the rooms with some of her friends, when--seemingly out of nowhere--her skirt burst into flames.  She was able to immediately tear it off and stamp out the fire.  It was found that the skirt had no damage to it, other than one small hole.

After this incident, the Williamsons sensibly ran for the exits.  They removed all their possessions out of the house and took lodgings in the home of a friend.  After an uneventful night, Mr. Williamson decided the family had to take the chance and move back into the house.  It seemed ridiculous to be chased out of their own residence by an intangible mystery.

The family had scarcely resettled in their home when--as if to taunt them--another bedspread suddenly exploded into flame.  Then the dining room tablecloth followed suit.  As usual, nothing around these articles was so much as singed.

All told, nearly thirty separate fires were recorded in the home.  Thankfully for the Williamsons, after a few days the outbreaks ceased as suddenly and inexplicably as they had started, but leaving their cause forever a puzzle.