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This episode is brought to you by Progressive Insurance. Do you ever find yourself playing the budgeting game? Well, with the name your price tool from Progressive, you can find options that fit your budget and potentially lower your bills. Try it@progressive.com progressive casualty insurance company and affiliates price and coverage match limited by state law. Not available in all states. Hi, I'm Kristen Bell, and if you know my husband Dax, then you also know he loves shopping for a car. Selling a car, not so much. We're really doing this, huh? Thankfully, Car Carvana makes it easy. Answer a few questions, put in your VIN or license and done. We sold ours in minutes this morning and they'll come pick it up and pay us this afternoon. Goodbye, Truckee. Of course, we kept the favorite hello, other truckee. Sell your car with Carvana today. Terms and conditions apply. Hello and welcome to my Victorian Nightmare. I'm your host, Genevieve Manion, and I'm here to talk about mysterious deaths, morbid fascinations, disturbing stories, and otherwise spooky events from the Victorian era. Because to me, there's just something especially intriguing, creepy, and oddly comforting about horror and mayhem from the 19th century. So listener discretion is advised. Foreign and welcome to this, my 58th episode. I hope that you had a restful week. Mine was very romantic. I took myself on a date this week. I treated myself to a fancy cocktail at a fancy cocktail bar while dreaming up some scenes for a spooky screenplay that I'm working on. And just like many dates that I have been on, I humiliated myself. I apparently don't know how to control my face when I'm thinking of very scary things. I really wear my brain on my face and I'm not always aware that I'm doing it. And I can only assume that I was looking scared out of my tiny little mind all by myself in a bar staring into a French gimlet because the bartender came up and asked if I was okay. What an apparition in public I am. Incidentally, as I said, humiliating myself on dates is a common occurrence, whether with someone else or by myself. One time I was so nervous when meeting this dude that as soon as I got there, he was like, hi, nice to meet you. And I shook his hand and I said, take care. He was like, what? And I was like, what? It's best I stay indoors in general. And now, a little Haunted housekeeping. Thank you, everyone who has joined the fan coven, which you too can join by going to myvictorianightmare.com you will receive the show ad free. You will receive witchy content and those of you both in the fan coven and those of you who only receive the show ad free may have noticed that you received the show a little early. This week I'm gonna start releasing the show early to both folks in the fan coven and those who subscribe to just the show on Sundays. I'm going to try to have it ready by 5am Eastern, but sometimes when I QC on Saturdays I catch things and I don't have time to fix them until Sunday. But regardless, you will be receiving the show at some point on Sundays, most likely 5:00am Eastern Standard Time. Oh, and guess what? If you join the fan coven or if you've already joined, you will now be receiving extras non witchcraft related extras as well as your witchy content. Every week I will be posting an extra wild, insane, creepy, gory over the top article with an extra deep dive into the whole story behind it so you'll have even more creepy content to listen to when you're done being creeped out by this creepy content ad free and a day early. You deserve it. Okay, for you today, dear listener, I have bullets right between the eyes, mysterious throat slittings, diabolical plots involving corn pipes, buffalo hunters frozen to death, mysterious suicides, mangled men caught in cow catchers, and Spanish men falling out of windows, cursing all the way down. But first we have our weekly segment With Their Own Eyes where I share with you the personal, haunting accounts of petrified Victorians. And today I have one that I find rather sweet. This one comes to us from the St. Louis Globe Democrat from 1879 and it reads I was about five years old. My mother died two years previously and my father had just brought home a second wife, a tall dark eyed woman, rather haughty in her manners, but of an affectionate disposition and very kind to me. But she was so different from my mother that I could not love her, although I tried hard to do so. I often vexed and pained her by my wayward conduct, but she never scolded me and always spoke kindly and admonished me without showing the least anger. Yet there was a coldness in the tones of her voice that made me more headstrong and heedless, and I disobeyed her often from mere wantonness business. We lived near a village on the bank of a small stream with a rocky bottom, and I used to spend many hours under a tall tree that bent over the little river, thinking of my mother and wondering if it was not possible that she might return. Well, one afternoon I stayed longer than usual under this tree, and twilight came on before I was aware that it had grown so late. I was lying at the foot of the the tree, gazing into the water that rippled along with the low murmuring sound, when I saw my mother standing on the opposite shore, beckoning me to come to her. I saw her as plainly as I see you now. She was dressed as I had seen her in life, and she had a small satchel in her hand and appeared to be starting on a journey. As she beckoned, I plunged into the stream and waded across, but before I reached the opposite shore, she disappeared. I ran along the bank and called to her, but no answer was returned. I searched for her a long time and at length became exhausted and fell asleep on the grass. When I awoke, my stepmother and my father were carrying me to the house in their arms. When we reached the door of the house, my mother, a corporation, appeared again and placed her hand on my forehead and kissed me and then vanished. I tried to follow her, but they forced me into the house and put me to bed. End quote. Oh, how sweet. And a little bit spooky, but I think it's actually more sweet. Incidentally, somewhat unrelated, I started following this guy on Instagram that brings spirit boxes to cemeteries at night. His name is Chris Netzel. I'll put the link to his account in the show. Notes are EVP devices that speak essentially say out loud what very tiny frequencies they're catching. Allegedly. And now I've never used one of these. I kinda want to. I think I'd turn it inside out with terror if I did. But let's say these things really can pick up the voices of the dead. It's kinda wild the things this spirit box says. Remember a couple of weeks back I read a spiritualist article that said some ghosts are just ragamuffins. That's what this guy picks up. Some ghosts are just messing with him. Some say they're demonic. Some are warning him that there are demons around. Some just want him to find their graves. They want to tell him how they died, and a lot of them ask him if they're dead now. I'm a very gullible person and I think all day sometimes about things I see on the Internet that could very well be hoaxes. But this all makes so much sense to me, all this clinging that we do in life. Maybe some just never want to let go. So we don't. I'm just waxing here, obviously, but all this stuff has really been on my mind lately. Speaking of ragam Muffin. Dead people. Won't you follow me into the seance room where I share with you the goings on in the Spiritualist society of the 1800s? This article, of course, comes to us from the 1869 volume of the Spiritualist newspaper, and it reads, nobody knows better than Mrs. Emma Hardinge, the eminent medium, how to narrate a good story with effect. In one of her anecdotes she tells how she was dining with friends in some American town, we forget where. And a messenger arrived in a breathless haste, inviting her immediate attendance at a new circle, then sitting in a neighboring street. Please come at once, said the excited messenger solemnly. Solomon wants to speak to you. Solomon, said Mrs. Hartinge. Solomon who? Solomon, King of Israel, was the reply. I suppose you obtained that name through the physical manifestations? Said Mrs. Hardinge. Yes, replied the bearer, who did not know the full force of the remark. Mrs. Hartinge continued, then tell Solomon, King of Israel, I am engaged at dinner with friends and can't come. The messenger seemed to be very much startled by the answer, which, however, he delivered to the circle, but soon returned saying that she really must come. Solomon wanted to speak to her very badly indeed. She accordingly went, and being a good seeing medium, at once knew more of the facts of the case than did the members of the circle. The table which before her entrance had been bouncing up and down and making a great clatter, then edged about very shyly and quietly. The members of the circle expressed their surprise at the falling of the vigor of the manifestations. Mrs. Hartinge said, Go on, Solomon, don't be afraid of me. Let's see what you can do. Accordingly, up and down went the table with a violence which placed its legs in danger, danger of breaking. Solomon, said Ms. Hardinge, how long ago is it since that you were buying up old hats on the streets of this city? Three months, was the reply. Solomon, now tell me, what do you mean by coming here to deceive these good people in this matter? She said. Well, said Solomon, who was not of a bad sort of fellow at bottom he said, they wouldn't have nothing else. So I give it to him a warning. This to spiritualists who have a weak reverence for great names. The supply is sure to meet the demand. End quote. I love how she was like, it's probably just Carl again. I'm not leaving this beautiful bowl of spaghetti. Tell Solomon I'm not leaving this bowl of spaghetti and my girls for a horse and pony show. You know how mediums always claim to hear from like Marilyn Monroe Or Napoleon or George Washington. You always think these mediums just must be phonies. Maybe they are. But also maybe some of them are just as gullible as I am. And some random dead people just think they won't be listened to unless they pretend to be like Liberace. God, being dead sounds either hilarious, terrifying, or like the waiting room in Beetlejuice was an accurate interpretation of what we all have to expect once shuffling off this mortal coil into an immortal slinky of consternation. Alright, I gotta get my head out of these black clouds for a bit. Those of you equally obsessed with death, how do you make sure you're not looking too deeply into the abyss? That it starts blowing you kisses? My first impulse is to go watch Silent Hill about it. I know it won't help, but I'll be back. I gotta go watch Silent Hill for a bit. It's Wednesday. Adams. I see you're trying to distract yourself from your own banal thoughts. Let me help. Here's a recording thing made of my latest Root Canal Wednesday Season 2 is now playing only on Netflix. Okay, I'm back and good God. This next article is dramatic, but when I dug into was even more dramatic than it sounds. This article is called One Dead, the Other Dying. A terrible tragedy reported from Floyd county. And it reads. One of the saddest tragedies that has happened in Floyd county for some time, and one which shocks the community, was the killing of CF Stevens and perhaps the fatal wounding of Frank Wilkerson. A courier on horseback brought the news to the city late this afternoon. The report given was meager. One report was that while at dinner Stevens and Wilkerson began shooting at each other across the table. Stevens fired five shots, one shot breaking Wilkerson's right arm and another entering his side near his right nipple. Stevens received a wound in his side and one in the face, the ball lodging between his ear. Instant death ensued. Another report is that Stevens and Wilkerson were not at a dinner table but were at Stevens residence and each man was wounded twice. Stevens dying and Wilkerson not expected to live. What caused the trouble? Nobody seems to know. Free Stevens, as he's generally known, is a very wealthy and prominent citizen of Livingston District. He runs a large store and lives in a beautiful home. He married Ms. Jessie Burnett a few years ago and three children. Blessed the Union. Frank Wilkerson is a young man about 23 years of age. He has been a clerk in Stephen's store for several years and lived at Mr. Stevens home. Young Wilkerson was a splendid young fellow and everybody liked him. Him. When the news of the terrible tragedy reached the city it shocked the community for both men are well known here and have many friends. End quote. Okay, let's discuss what was really going on here. As mentioned, Mr. Wilkerson worked for Mr. Stevens and boarded in a room in his house. Not long before this incident, Mr. Stevens was beginning to to suspect that Mr. Wilkerson was having an affair with his wife. He actually found naughty letters that belonged to them. So he hatched a plan. On the morning of July 12, 1892, he told his wife Jesse that he was going to roam a town in Georgia and would be back by 3 o' clock that afternoon. But he did not go to Rome. He just like hitched his horse about a half mile up the road. Probably went to a nearby bar to work up the nerve for what he assumed would be an explosive afternoon. Walked back, entered through the back door. He took his shoes off first so his tiptoes would be extra stealth. He crept up the stairs and found his and his wife's bedroom closed. He opened the door and found them in the sheets. He pulled out his gun and shot at Wilkerson twice. He only had two bullets in his gun. Wilkerson, who also had his gun nearby, grabbed it and shot Stevens between the eyes. He died instantly. Stevens had given the letters to a servant in the house and told him to bring them to his father. The morning of this whole incident. Both Wilkerson and Jesse were arrested that day. The article said that Wilkerson was fatally wounded, but that was not true. He was definitely wounded, but not fatally. The Stevens were, as the article mentioned, quite wealthy and social butterflies about town. So the court case was a sensation, packed with scandal. Both Jesse Stevens and Wilkerson denied having an affair and said that the letters were only regarding affection, not relations. Jesse did admit that she didn't love her husband though and that she did love Mr. Wilkerson in the end. Frank Wilkerson was convicted of voluntary manslaughter. Jesse Stevens was convicted for adultery and as an accessory to murder. Which is interesting because Wilkerson didn't even get a murder conviction anyway. She fled the city though, before the police could take her into custody. And she was never seen again. I was not expecting that little horrible article to be so explosive as it was. Goodness gracious. Okay, here's another horrible one. This one is called, a Beautiful Young Kentucky Girl Cuts Her Own Throat. And it reads, the city was startled on Saturday evening by the report of a Suicide in the as mysterious as melancholy, it was that of Ms. Louisa Gibbons, daughter of Mr. Benjamin Gibbons of this city. She resided with her parents at their home on Main street, and on Saturday morning appeared to be unusually careful and attentive in the discharge of some trifling household duties. Before dinner she retired to her room, apparently in good spirits. At dinner time her little brother was sent to call her, when, to his horror, he found her lying in a pool of blood. Her unhappy mother rushed to the room and discovered her daughter in a dying condition with her throat cut and a razor by her side. The wound was deep and ghastly. Dr. Do was called in immediately, to whom the girl said she had committed the deed herself, giving no reason for it whatsoever. All effort to staunch the life blood which was fast ebbing away were unavailing, and after recognizing her relatives, the unfortunate girl died. An inquest was held upon the body. When the jury returned a verdict in accordance with the above facts, Louisa Gibbons was not more than 16 years of age, of prepossessing appearance, intelligent, and of a nature extremely sensitive. Those who knew her best fail utterly in their attempts to ascribe any cause for her rash act. End quote. Oh darling, I didn't find any more information about this situation. There were no later articles about any reason that came to light. Maybe she was pregnant? Was she being abused by family? Things that she couldn't even tell her best friend? Who can say? So heartbreaking. I did do some digging into suicide rates in 1872, and it turns out that comprehensive and reliable national data on suicide statistics did not exist at the time. It wasn't until 1900 when statistics began to be collected nationally in the United States. But even still, the intense social and religious stigma around suicide likely led to mass under reporting even when the statistics were collected. Okay, let's pivot to an exploding pipe story that has a hilarious illustration on the Instagram. Oh, by the way, I have started putting the links to the Instagram posts in the show notes so you can more easily find them. People keep telling me that they have to scroll forever on Instagram to get to the memento mori of that little boy on the rocking horse with the most horrifying look on his face that I mentioned in like one of the first 10 episodes. I have no idea where that is, so images will be easier to find going forward. This article is called Effect of a Diabolical Plot to Burn a Man by Charging His Pipe with Gunpowder at Cincinnati. And it reads, the other night, John Falchier, a brewer who boards at the house in Cincinnati where he has somehow made himself extremely unpopular, took down his pipe to enjoy a quiet smoke. He filled it with tobacco, touched a light to it and commenced pulling at it when suddenly it was blown into a dozen pieces. With a sharp crack and a flash of light. The fire was blown into the smoker's face, burning him badly and seriously injuring his eyes. It was evident that some scoundrel had put a charge of powder in the bowl of the pipe with the intention of bringing about exactly what occurred. Falshire applied at the Bremen street station as soon as he could make his way thither for the assistance of the police police in the discovery of the perpetrator of the outrage. He was not able, however, to give them any clue beyond the fact that the keeper of the house was known to have some powder in a flask. Who transferred the powder from the flask to the pipe was not known. End quote. Very sadly, this particular mystery was not solved or at least not reported as such. I looked pretty darn hard for a follow up. What a dastardly plan. I'm glad the guy was okay. Maybe he never smoked again and the would be killer in a twist of fate saved that man's life. That sits right with me. I'm gonna nod my head approvingly at that prospect. There have been times in my life when I didn't feel that I needed weekly therapy. But there have been other times after breakups, losing people that I loved where I knew I just needed someone to help me work through the pain. But almost every time that I'd find myself there, I'd find the stress, the anxiety and hassle of trying to find a good therapist. I wish I had a healthcare company like Rula when looking for help. Rula makes the entire process of finding a great therapist easy who actually take ear insurance. Another huge headache in my own experience Experience. It's so rare to find a therapist that actually takes your insurance when you're looking on your own. Rula partners with over 100 insurance plans, making the average copay $15 per session. And it's not just like an endless list of random names to choose from. Rula considers your goals, your preferences and background to help provide you with a curated list of licensed in network therapists to best meet your needs and psychiatry if you require medication. Thousands of people are already using Rula to get affordable high quality therapy that's actually covered by Insurance. Visit rula.comvictorian to get started. After you sign up, you'll be asked how you heard about them. Please support my show and let them know that I sent you. That's R U L A.com Victorian. You deserve mental health care that works well with you, not against your budget. And now let us make our way to a simply horrific article called A Kansas Horror and it reads the Telegraph tells a terrible tale of suffering concerning Mr. Brower, the survivor of a party of buffalo hunters frozen to death in Phillips county in November last. Mr. Brower was badly frozen on the morning of Sunday, November 17. His four companions went for help and were all frozen to death. On The Wednesday following, Mr. Brower was found by two hunters, McMurrer and Payne. A fire was built and Payne remained with Brower and McMurrer went for help, arriving at the home of F.W. wagner on Cedar Creek, nine miles away. McMurror was so badly frozen that he could not return, but Wagner and two others started out Friday. They failed to find Brower till Saturday. He was found helpless, lying with his feet at a fire that Payne had succeeded in keeping up. Neither he nor Payne had had anything to eat since the storm came on more than a week before. He had taken to a house and soon after his feet were both amputated. He passed through Waterville the other day on his way to Fox Lake, Wisconsin, in charge of his brother. End quote. I wasn't able to find more details on this particular story, but I was curious to know when we were able to actually reliably predict weather patterns. It sounds like these gentlemen likely didn't expect to be caught in a terrible storm. I started with how they tried to predict the weather in the 1800s. Before the mid-1850s, weather forecasts relied entirely on farmers almanacs, the shapes of clouds, directions of winds, animal behavior signs, and for many ship captains they'd trust their bones. Having arthritis as a ship captain was actually a very useful thing to have. I myself can always feel storms a comin in my knees. In 1849, the Smithsonian Institute supplied weather and instruments across the nation to telegraph companies to enable communication specifically about weather events in hopes of predicting how they move by reporting all weather conditions daily and also simply to observe patterns. In 1861 the very first weather forecast was published by British Naval officer Robert Fitzroy that a storm was approaching to ports and his forecast for the day was correct based off the data that was being collected by telegraph. But want to know a wild fact? Not until 1980 were weather forecasts considered mostly accurate up to three days, and not until 2000 were they considered mostly accurate up to five days. Incidentally, my dad was the director of CBS News in the 70s and 80s, and one day he instructed the graphics person to create the visual for the five day forecast. Like little icons for weather events with the temperatures below. Up until then, they just read the weather. My dad invented the visual representation of weather forecasts that we still all use today. He also makes a great pancake. Okay, this next one also has a fabulous illustration, and it is called A Spaniard at Terre Haute, Indiana. Mountain mistakes the noise of a serenading party for an earthquake and jumps out of a window and it reads, a gentleman from the land of the olive and fig, also of the earthquake and volcano, was lodging near the rehearsal rooms of a brass band at Terre Haute, Indiana. The band had been dismissed and several of the members had assembled on the sidewalk and out of a sport all struck up shooting Shoo Fly. The Spaniard had retired for the night and was slumbering peacefully when suddenly a talented artist commenced an elaborate solo on the bass drum with a muscular accompaniment on the cymbals. Within a moment, there came a volley of carajos and carambas from a window, followed immediately by a dishevelled Spaniard dressed principally in a necktie and window. Sasha. He was about to take to the woods when he was persuasively collared and informed that he was mistaken that it was not an earthquake. And after considerable argument, he was convinced and subdued. End quote. Okay, I do not speak Spanish, so I looked up what carajos and caramas means. And. And caraos means damage, and caramas means jeez. Another translation said that carajos means the plural of the F word, which made me laugh really hard, because if you read. If you read the sentence in English, it would be within a moment there came a volley of FS and Jesus from a window, followed immediately by a disheveled Spaniard address principally in a necktie and window sash. You gotta see the illustration for that one. It's fabulous. Okay, this next one is pretty grisly. And it is called Ghastly Freight on a Camden and Amboy locomotive in Lawrence, New Jersey. And it reads, when the train from New York on the Camden and Amboy railroad arrived in Lawrence on Sunday morning, the station station master discovered lying across the cow catcher the mangled remains of a man. Both legs were broken and stripped of clothing and flesh. When the body was picked up is unknown. In the dead man's pockets were found a ticket from West Philadelphia to New York, $23 in money, a bottle of whiskey, and a letter directed to Thompson's Steel Works in New Jersey introduced introducing the bearer as a machinist. Nothing, however, was found that gave a clue to the dead man's name. From the conductor's punches in the ticket, it was evident that the man had left Philadelphia by the last train on Saturday night and had ridden as far as Princeton or New Brunswick. Subsequent inquiries confirmed this opinion. It was found that the man came from Philadelphia in company with two or three, three roughs, that they drank and quarreled on the cars and after leaving Princeton Junction, one of the party was missing. The men who had been in the missing man's company said they saw him jump off the train about a mile from Princeton Junction, that he staggered a little and then walked away. It is suspected that the man was pushed off by his companions and was afterward picked up by the locomotive. End quote. Sadly, I could not find who this man was. There were far too many cow catcher deaths in 1872. Without any names at all, I wasn't able to find this particular story cleared up. For those of you who are unaware, a cow catcher was a plow shaped frame on the front of trains that would sweep up obstacles like cows hanging out on tracks, logs, stones, essentially objects that could cause the train to derail. But if a human came in contact with one of those things, or a cow for that matter, it wouldn't be a painless situation. Hey, it's Ryan Reynolds here for Mint Mobile. Now I was looking for fun ways to tell you that Mint's offer of unlimited Premium Wireless for $15 a month is back. So I thought it would be fun if we made $15 bills, but it turns out that's very illegal, so there goes my big idea for the commercial. Give it a try@mintmobile.com Switch upfront payment of $45 for a three month plan equivalent to $15 per month required new customer offer for first three months only. Speed slow after 35 gigabytes of network's busy taxes and fees extra. See mintmobile.com okay, one more horrible mystery that I was able to solve. Unfortunately it is called A Bloody Mystery in Cincinnati and it reads many of your readers have no doubt read the horrible story of Edgar E. Poe of the Murder the Rue Morgue. It tells how the inmates of a tenement house in Paris were startled in broad daylight by fearful screams issuing from a room occupied by two ladies, one with her head nearly severed from her body, while the other was thrust into the chimney with such force that it required the united strength of three men to drag the body down. The door was locked on the inside and the window which opened upon a court in the rear was closed. Closed. The narrative described how by a most ingenious falling, out of the faintest clues, it was at length discovered that the murders had been committed by a tame orang outang, which gained an entrance to the room through the window by climbing the lightning rod which ran up the rear of the building. A deed of blood was perpetrated on Fifth street last Saturday, which, though less horrible and sickening in its details, involve some elements hardly less mysterious than those which envelop the murders in the Rue Morgue. A young man named Anton Bond, a Bavarian by birth, has for the last four years been employed a stock keeper in the store of J. Lohman and Brothers, northeast corner, Pearl and Race streets. For the last two years he has occupied a small room in the extreme, extreme rear of the building at number 117 West 5th. The front portion of the building is occupied by G. Lonsbach. Next to the alley was the room of Anton Bont. The room is supplied with light, admitted through several panes of glass in the door. Bond was a sober, industrious young man, well educated and with decided literary tastes, his evenings being usually spent in the public library. Like most of his class, however, he seemed to lack the practical sense to make his talents and acquirements available. Added to this defect was a slight deafness which rendered his promotion by his employers impractical. Recently he had seemed despondent and frequently signified his intention of returning to his native land. In fact, he notified the firm that he should leave leave them on the 1st of February, and a man was engaged to take his place. But he afterward repented of his resolution and was assured that he could remain if he chose. Mrs. Lonsback, who is president of a ladies Benevolent Society, thinking that perhaps his low spirits were caused by a lack of the means to return to Bavaria, asked him a few days ago how much money he had intending if that was the cause cause to raise the money for him. But he afterward repented his resolution and was assured that he could remain if he chose. He told her that he had $200 and five 20 bonds in Mr. Loman's hands on which $20 was yet due. She assured him that he could return home upon that sum and have $100 left, and then dismissed the matter from her mind. The kind hearted family, sympathizing with him in his lonely condition have treated him with the greatest consideration, often inviting him to sit with them in the evening and showing such attentions as they could to divert his mind and dispel his melancholy. But despite all their efforts, his morbid condition of mind continued. He would sit silent for an hour at a time with his head resting on his hand, apparently brooding over his troubles, reading real or imaginary. On several occasions the kitchen maid omitted to supply his room with water, and when she apologized for the neglect, he replied, oh, yes, you forgot me. Everybody forgets me. Last Friday evening he spent as usual in the public library and returned to his room. At 9:45 o'clock Mr. Lonsback called to him and invited him into the room where the family family was. He accepted the invitation and stayed there until 10:30 when he went to bed. The next morning the maid went to his room to put it in order, but found it locked. About one o' clock in the afternoon a messenger came from the store to inquire the reason of Bon's absence. The girl went back and looking through the glass in the door, she saw the bed empty, but besides smeared with blood. A locksmith was sent for and the door opened. When a ghastly spectacle was presented to the spectators, one of the pillows on the bed, which still bore the impress of his head, was clotted with gore. Three shirts were found on the bed, two of linen and one of woollen, which were also saturated with blood. Upon the back below the neckband. A new razor wrapper, also besmeared with blood, lay upon the floor, and a towel hung hung upon the rack, bearing marks of bloody hands. A long brown overcoat brought by bond from Germany. His vest and pants and a pair of new shoes were missing upon the floor, and on the snow outside were a few drops of blood. But there was no evidence of a struggle such as must have taken place had the man been murdered and carried away by assassins. He was a quiet, inoffensive man with few acquaintances and was known to be poor, so that no possible motive seemed to exist for his murder. The appearance of the room and all the circumstances connected with the affair seemed to indicate that he had laid down upon the bed and cut his throat with a razor, failing to produce a fatal wound. He had arisen either with the intention of seeking a physician to stanch his wounds or of completing the work of self destruction elsewhere. Taken off his blood stained shirts, dressed himself, wrapping himself in his overcoat and gone out, locking the door behind him and taking away the key. What became of him after that yet remains a mystery. It was the first conjecture of the detectives that he had sought a surgeon and had probably been sent to a hospital. But an examination of all Hospitals failed to reveal his presence, and thus far his whereabouts is wrapped in mystery. The case is certainly one of the most mysterious that have ever happened in our city and affords abundant scope for the skill of the detectives and the conjectures of the curious. Oh, darling. Okay, I found him. Poor Anton was found three months later floating in a river. The article that I found confirming this, the Cincinnati Inquirer, states the body was fully identified as being that of the young man who occupied the room at North117 West 5th street, where Bloody bedclothes and other evidences of a struggle were found on 3rd February last. The appearance of the body bore unmistakable evidences of his having drowned himself, and a verdict was rendered of suicide by drowning. $80 in money and a watch were found on the body of the unfortunate man. End quote. So maybe he tried to cut his throat, as they said, but either couldn't finish and he tried to go for help. Or because perhaps it was just so horrible to do, he may have chosen to jump from a bridge. Instead, he locked the door behind him. Him. That's such a sad detail to me, for some reason. Oh, bless him. So heartbreaking. Okay, this last one will make you smile. It made me smile. It is called the Brooklyn. What is it? And it reads, there is a passenger frequently seen upon the Brooklyn horse cars who has excited much curiosity and some suspicion. He, she or it dresses in masculine apparel, but professes a mien and bearing which are decidedly feminine. She may be a man or he may be a woman, but most of those who meet it are inclined to class her with the neuter gender. The individual has already become notorious in consequence of the peculiarities to which we have eluded and spin. Speculation is rife in the matter, but with what result we have been unable to ascertain. Yes, folks, non binary transgender people existed in the 1800s and always everywhere. This is nothing new. It's funny, though. There is an illustration of this person. Take a look. Honestly, they very well may have been non binary, but it's. It's funny to me because it just looks like a female that wasn't wearing a dress. It is possible that this was just a woman who enjoyed wearing pants and didn't give a damn what people thought of her. Women not adhering to social dress codes in this time would cause a nuclear bomb to go off in some people's minds. In fact, not until women like Marlena Dietrich and Katharine Hepburn in the 1930s started wearing trousers. Trousers was it at all really acceptable. And even still, they certainly got it with both barrels from society. It wasn't until after World War II that women began wearing socially acceptable trousers and like not just bloomers. So again, this may have been a non binary person or just a woman blowing minds to bits by just sitting comfortably somewhere in a pair of pants. Take a look on the Instagram and just judge for yourself. If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to hear more, please rate the show on Spotify and Apple Podcasts. Please leave me comments because I love them so much and join the fan coven to receive the show ad free along with witchy content and now extra creepy extras. Be kind kind to yourselves and I will see you in your nightmares. Martha listens to her favorite band all the time. In the car, gym, even sleeping. So when they finally went on tour, Martha bundled her flight and hotel on Expedia to see them live. She saved so much she got a seat close enough to actually see and hear them. Sort of. You were made to scream from the front row. We were made to quietly save you. More Expedia made to travel Savings vary and subject to availability. Flight inclusive packages are atoll protected.