Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 30, 2015

Today’s Unidentified Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

On September 1, 1894 a huge firestorm, fed by drought conditions and dry debris left behind by lumber companies, destroyed the town of Hinckley, Minnesota, killing over 418 people. After the fire, in outlying areas, the bodies found near railroad tracks were laid along side the tracks to await transportation on handcars or relief trains to the nearest towns. St. Paul mortician O’Halloran came to Hinckley on a work train Sunday evening with a load of 32 caskets. On the way he filled all of them with bodies found beside the tracks. O’Halloran kept descriptions of each of the deceased, saving fragments of clothing and items of jewelry for later identification. The coffins were brought back to Pine City to await burial.

On Sunday James Sargent of the Limited No. 3, which had been stopped at Pine City Saturday afternoon, organized a burial crew that went on handcars north on the St. Paul and Duluth tracks from Hinckley to Skunk Lake. Along the way they recovered thirty-one bodies which were wrapped in blankets and whatever available cloth could be found. They brought them to Hinckley and laid them beside the tracks for burial.

When rescue teams found bodies in remote areas, they buried them where they were found, marking the graves with plain wooden stakes bearing the names of the victims if they were known. Personal effects were collected and marked for later identification.

Culled from: From the Ashes: The Story of the Hinckley Fire of 1894

 

Morbid Trinkets Du Jour!

I’ve honestly never really seen the appeal of pearls.  Until now!  (Thanks to Erika H. for the link.)

Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 28, 2015

Today’s Leopard-like Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

When young Shozo Tominaga arrived in China as a new Japanese army lieutenant, he was introduced to the twenty soldiers he was to lead.  He was shocked by what he saw.

Tominaga was a gentle and studious boy. He had made his parents proud by graduating from prestigious Tokyo Imperial University – in Japan the equivalent of Harvard and Oxford rolled into one. Tominaga had planned for a peaceful civilian career but was drafted and soon found himself in China as a lieutenant in the emperor’s army. Fresh out of officers’ school, he had never seen battle. Decades later, he remembered what made his skin crawl that day.

“I’ll never forget meeting them,” Tominaga recalled. “When I looked at the men of my platoon I was stunned – they had evil eyes. They weren’t human eyes, but the eyes of leopards or tigers. They’d experienced many battles and I was completely green. I’d seen nothing. How could I give these guys orders, or even look into those faces? I lost all my confidence. Among the men were new conscripts, two-year men and three-year men. The longer the men had appeared on the front, the more evil their eyes appeared.”

Culled from: Flyboys

 

Urban Legend Du Jour: The Gate

As you know, generally speaking, I like facts; I like non-fiction. I don’t like fairytales or mythology. The only exception is when it comes to urban legends and ghostlore. I do find those things fascinating, even though my rational brain thinks they’re total nonsense. In the Chicago area there are a few great urban legends and ghost stories, and I thought I’d start sharing them occasionally, along with photos of my trips to the sites of the legends to accompany the text.  So here’s the first one – I hope you enjoy it!  And if you have any Midwest legends you’d like to share, please e-mail me!

“The Gate”  from Weird Illinois by Troy Taylor*

“If you are in the mood for a harrowing experience some summer evening, take a trip out to the Gate, a massive stone structure that is one of the most bone-chilling locations on the north side of Chicago.  [True, there isn’t a lot up here on the extreme north side…  except joggers and soccer moms. – DeSpair] Located near Libertyville, the Gate can be found off the desolate and secluded River Road, which borders the Independence Grove Forest Preserve. Even the trip to the Gate can be unnerving. Those seeking the spot must travel about two miles down River Road, with the dense trees of the forest preserve pressing close on either side. There are no streetlights here, so only your headlights illuminate the path ahead. On humid summer nights, fog rolls in from nearby ponds and obscures the lowest sections of the long and narrow River Road. Suddenly the road makes an abrupt turn, wends further into the darkness, and then offers up a menacing view of what locals refer to as simply the Gate.

“According to legend, the Gate marked the entrance to a girl’s finishing school back in the early 1950s.  It was a peaceful and refined place where young women from wealthy Chicago families went to receive a proper education. The stillness of the school was shattered one night when the principal suffered a nervous breakdown and killed four of his young students, placing their heads on the metal posts of the Gate after he severed them from their bodies.  [Oh, if only! – DeSpair]

“But this is just one version of the legend. In other versions, the Gate did not mark the entrance to a school, but to a summer camp or an asylum, and the killer is not always the person who was in charge. In some variations, he was a camp counselor or a madman who escaped from an asylum, found the summer camp, and slaughtered four children while they slept in their beds. Many who think that an asylum once stood here believe that the killer was a ward attendant who went insane and murdered four of his charges. All versions of this horrific tale of violence, bloodshed, and murder end with local residents and officials razing the school, camp, or asylum and trying to obliterate the remnants of the buildings.

“To this day it is said that the Gate is haunted by the souls of those who perished there. But few agree on exactly what kinds of ghostly happenings take place at the decaying structure. There are those who claim to have visited the Gate during the early hours of the morning and found blood dripping from the iron supports. Others say that at the stroke of midnight on the anniversary of the murders, phantom heads of the murdered girls appear on the fence posts, their mouths gaping in silent screams. There are also countless tales of apparitions, eerie screams, and mysterious sounds that cannot be explained.

“If any murders took place here, they have been erased from public record, and when officials are asked about it today, they deny that anything ever occurred.”

As usual, all of that is WAY more interesting than the truth about the location, which was uncovered in a comprehensive article by the Libertyville-Mundelein Historical Society.   It turns out the location was the site of Doddridge Farm – which was a summer “home” for orphans who lived in St. Mary’s orphanage at 2822 Jackson Blvd in Chicago.  There were cottages, a recreation hall, and swimming pools on the site.  After about 1931, it bounced around – for a time being a camp for destitute families during the Great Depression, for a time a Boy Scout camp,  for a time run by a Catholic group called “The Ladies of the Grail,”  before it found its longest life as a summer camp for boys from 1956-1973.  It was a girl’s camp from 1974-1979 and then it was closed and demolished.

The article on the historical society website shows the remnants of the pools and buildings still out there in the woods.  Now there’s a bike path that ends right at the gate, so it looks like it’s always been intended to be the entranceway to the trail.  At least that has ensured the Gate’s survival until the present time, and hopefully far into the future!

*  Take everything this guy writes with a Great Lake of Salt!

Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 27, 2015

Today’s Infectious Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

How lethal was the 1918 flu? It was twenty-five times more deadly than ordinary influenzas. The flu killed 2.5 percent of its victims. Normally, just one-tenth of 1 percent of people who get the flu die. And since a fifth of the world’s population got the flu that year, including 28 percent of Americans, the number of deaths was stunning. So many died, in fact, that the average life span in the United States fell by twelve years in 1918. If such a plague came today, killing a similar fraction of the U.S. population, 1.5 million Americans would die, which is more than the number felled in a single year by heart disease, cancers, strokes, chronic pulmonary disease, AIDS, and Alzheimer’s disease combined.

Culled from: Flu

 

Avoid At All Costs!

Between the gas masks of the World War I trenches and the face masks of the Influenza-infested cities, 1918 was a fantastic year for facial fashion!

Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 26, 2015

Today’s Dancing Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

Excerpt from The First Guidebook to Prisons and Concentration Camps of the Soviet Union by Avraham Shifrin (1980):

Viktor Borovskii, who was declared insane, was confined to the Psychiatric Hospital of Slavyansk, Donetsk Region (Ukrainian S.S.R.) for holding a lecture on the works of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. He described the maintenance system of the hospital as catastrophic and compared condition to those of a prison, despite the fact that this facility was rated as “ordinary”).  (Soviet penal institutions are placed into various categories of severity: ordinary, intensified, hard, and strict or special regime etc.). Borovskii wrote, “The hospital attendants are constantly drunk. They beat anyone that they happen to get a hold of. They rouse up the inmates in the middle of the night, taunt them, and make them dance.” The names of these jailer attendants are Yurii Slepets and Arkadii Zhuravskii.

Culled from: The First Guidebook to Prisons and Concentration Camps of the Soviet Union

Apparently this is what the hospital looks like now, alas:

 

Faces of Death Card Du Jour!

I have a set of Faces of Death cards that my friend The Mind Orbitor gave me.  As you can see, the quality is lacking.  I think that’s supposed to say “bon fire” not “bond fire”… but what do I know?

Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 25, 2015

Today’s Cagey Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

Arnold Rothstein was born in 1882 and was king of New York’s Jewish underworld in the early twentieth century. He transformed organized crime from its thuggish origins into something run very much like a corporation, with himself as CEO. He’s widely believed to have orchestrated the Black Sox scandal, in which the Chicago White Sox threw the 1919 World Series by deliberately losing to the Cincinnati Reds, enabling Rothstein to profit from bets against the heavily-favored Sox. Rothstein’s lucrative but illegal activities continued until November of 1928, when he lost $320K (over $4 million in today’s money) in a poker game with fellow racketeer George McManus. Rothstein refused to pay, claiming (with some justification) that the game had been rigged. On November 4, Rothstein went to New York’s Park Central Hotel to meet with McManus, and shortly thereafter was discovered in a hotel stairwell, shot in the abdomen. He died in the hospital a day later. The murder of Arnold Rothstein remained unsolved. When questioned on his deathbed, Rothstein would only tell the police detectives “You stick to your trade, I’ll stick to mine” and when asked if he knew who shot him, he cagily replied “Me mudder did it.”

Culled From: Wikipedia
Submitted by: Aimee

 

“Suicidal Melancholy”

In the Library Eclectica, I have a book entitled The Faces of Madness: Hugh W. Diamond and the Origin of Psychiatric Photography (edited by Sander L. Gilman), 1977.  It contains a wonderful collection of photographs of asylum inmates taken in the 1850’s by pioneering medical photographer and psychiatrist Dr. Hugh W. Diamond, along with engravings that were made of them and used in teaching.  There are also several case studies by Dr. John Conolly (the leading British psychiatrist of the mid-nineteenth century) for some of the patients.  The portraits are beautiful and sad and the text reveals the psychiatric thought processes of the mid-19th century.  Great stuff – so, of course, I must share!  Here’s a case study – I want to turn this engraving into a t-shirt with the “Suicidal Melancholy” title underneath it.

At first sight the portrait seems only that of a plain face, almost vulgar.  Examined more closely, it becomes affecting. It speaks not of despondency merely, but of some horrible vision that has arisen in the mind. The hands are not only joined, as in ordinary example of profound melancholy, but clasped, almost convulsively, the finger within finger, with a muscular energy the expression by which the engraver has most ably caught from the faithful photograph. By this wonderful art the muscles also of the right forearm are depicted as almost in immediate action; and the whole attitude of the patient shows the preponderating muscular strain existing on the same side of the body. The right shoulder is advanced; the right knee is drawn up and pressing on the left. The inclination of the head to the right, the staring muscles on the left side of the neck, the excessive corrugation of the integuments of the forehead, all tell the same story of intense and painful emotion. All this energetic contraction seems to be produced by some fearful feeling. A further perusal of the face tells more than is revealed to a careless glance. The features are unrefined; but the wide and high head indicates intellectual qualities that cultivation might have improved; so as to control, perhaps a now dominating ideality. The copious and disheveled hair, which we feel sure must be black mingled with grey, is parted with no care, but straggles in sympathy with the tortured brain. Those many and curved wrinkles in the brow are not wrinkles of ordinary trouble. The raised and equally curved eyebrows; the large, melancholy, and uplifted eyes, declare that the sense is fixed on some image of fear, which no other eye can detect; and the intensity of the prevalent emotion is forcibly expressed in all the other parts of the face. The upper eyelids disappear; the lower are strongly depressed; the muscles of the cheeks and the corners of the mouth are drawn down, the lower lip being, as it were, spasmodically acted upon, showing nearly all the front teeth of the lower jaw. The chin has been scratched and scarred by her own finger-nails. The very ears seem starting forward. Everything bespeaks terror. You see that the suffering woman moves not; and that she holds little communion with those about is, indeed, abstracted from the common world of sorrow and suffering, but lives in a world of dread alone.

A professed physiognomist, to which title I myself lay no claim, would say that in the face of this poor woman, a certain superiority of character was manifest, although subdued by disease. The long square jaw, the developed chin, the large nose, the compressed and long upper lip, would furnish a text for a pupil of Lavater; and a phrenologist would draw clear conclusions from the configuration of the head. There may be something of fancy, but there is much more of truth in both of these sciences or observation, some acquaintance with which every one desirous to be an accurate observer ought to possess.

The actual history of this patient too well illustrated the miscellaneous remarks which have been offered to the reader.  She was born of a mother on whom wretchedness had already done its work; and who was eccentric in mind, and eventually became paralysed. Her sole inheritance was poverty and labour, and a brain disposed to disease. In the portrait she looks old and worn, her real age being only 34. She was industrious, and led a correct life, and for a time managed to earn a living by straw-bonnet making. But this kind of labour is not very profitable, and, in order to ensure food and clothing, and the shelter of a roof, it was necessary for her to work fourteen hours a day. No pleasures, no healthful exercise, were part of her lot. Her mind was of an anxious cast; and she ever felt, no doubt, that the intermission of toil for a day or two would entail difficulty upon her, or the prospect of starvation. What other fears haunted the poor creature we cannot say; but after her mind had quite given away, her often-repeated expressions were, “Oh! don’t kill me, dear doctor!” “Don’t let any one kill me!” At other times she would say, “I am too wicked to live!” and then she would humbly say that she had not committed any wickedness; but had always been an industrious and good girl. The dread, however, of being murdered grew stronger and stronger. She still worked on, with no salutary variety of any kind, until, with the inconsistency of insanity, she began to think she might escape the danger by destroying her own life. She made many and desperate attempts to do this; attempts only frustrated by the watchfulness of those about her, and by the arrangements of a well-ordered asylum. She would conceal bits of window glass and try to cut her throat; or tear off a strip of sheeting, and throw it quickly over one of the gas-burners in the gallery in order to hang herself. But vigilance saved her again and again from the first danger, and she was preserved from the second by the slight fixing of the burners, made with a prospective regard to such possibilities. The longest experience of the success of these and other attentions to the condition and propensities of the melancholic and suicidal, can yet scarcely make it intelligible how so very large a majority of these cases in asylums are safely managed throughout. If life can be preserved, the wish to die may leave the mind. So long as it remains, so long must the anxious solicitude of the attendants and the Physician continue. And still sometimes, after days and nights of care, a catastrophe may ensue. So fixed does the resolve of self-destruction remain in the poor distracted mind, and so preternatural an ingenuity is exerted in discovering the means of accomplishing it.

Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 24, 2015

Today’s Poking Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

The Cocoanut Grove was a popular Boston night club in the 1940’s. On the evening of November 28, 1942 the club was packed with servicemen on holiday leave with their wives or girlfriends and out-of-town visitors who had been at a big college football game. At about 10 pm, a waiter accidentally caught a decorative palm tree on fire when he was using a match for light to change a burnt out light bulb. The fire quickly spread throughout the club. In the confusion and panic, the patrons tried to use the rotating doors at the front of the club for their escape route, ignoring the fact that there were several other, well-hidden, exits in the club. This resulted in the deaths of 474 people.

The following is an excerpt from the fascinating book Fire in the Grove: The Cocoanut Grove Tragedy and Its Aftermath:

The first thing Deputy Chief Louis C. Stickel saw through the thick smoke was a man’s head and arm poking through an impossibly small hole in the thick glass block that had weeks before replaced the store window of the Grove’s New Broadway Lounge. The firemen began smashing at the glass block to help the man, but the awful rush of smoke and heat pushed them back. Stickel ordered his men to play the hoses on the man, but it was too late. He could only watch as the water splashed ineffectually off the block onto the sidewalk. “And then a flame took him up,” Stickel said.

At the end of this long night, Stickel would learn that the fire had started nearly a city block away from where he watched that first death, at the farthest end of the jumble of buildings that made up the Cocoanut Grove nightclub.

He would also learn that by the time he had arrived at the scene – at 10:23 p.m. – that nameless man reaching out through the glass block was one of nearly five hundred people – one of every two persons on the premises – who were either already dead or doomed. Stickel was witness to the worst nightclub fire in American history.

It had all begun just eight minutes earlier, at 10:15.

Culled from: Fire in the Grove: The Cocoanut Grove Tragedy and Its Aftermath

Here are some photos of the devastating aftermath of the fire from The Fire That Changed Everything:

 

Ghastly! – Porthole Edition

I think I’ve shared this image before, but this fact reminds me of it so I’ll share it again.  I bet this guy was regretting having that second helping of ice cream the night before…

Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 23, 2015

Today’s Colliding Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

The earliest known collision between bird and aircraft came in 1908 (some sources say 1905), when flight pioneer Orville Wright collided with a bird over Dayton, Ohio; it died, while he survived. The first fatal crash happened in 1912 when Cal Rodgers, the first man to fly across the USA, hit a gull over Long Beach. His controls were jammed, and he hit the sea and drowned, pinned upside down in the wreckage of his Wright Flyer.

Culled from: Black Box: Inside the World’s Worst Air Crashes

And it’s only a matter of time before we have our first jet vs. drone accident.

 

Morbid Mirth Du Jour!

Yes, it’s true, we who laugh at such jokes are Truly Terrible People!  (And proud of it too.)

Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 21, 2015

Today’s Wobbly Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

Thirty-nine-year-old Wisconsinite Cheryl Schlitz took an antibiotic called gentamicin after a hysterectomy in 1997. Gentamicin fights infections well but has a nasty habit of destroying the tiny hairs in the inner ear that keep us balanced and upright. Although these hairs are located in different tubes than the hairs that help us hear, they work the same basic way. A gel inside the tubes sloshes back and forth like jiggled Jell-O as our heads tip this way and that. This causes the hairs embedded in the gel to bend to and fro and thereby trigger certain neurons.  From this data the brain determines whether we’re standing upright and then corrects for deviations. With those hairs destroyed, the balance center in Schlitz’s brain (the vestibular nuclei) went on the fritz and started shooting out signals at random to her muscles, forcing her to sway side to side, with little jerks. Worse, she always felt on the verge of toppling over, even while she was lying down, like a permanent case of the drunken spinnies. Schlitz and other gentamicin victims call themselves Wobblers. Most can barely navigate their own homes much less brave the outside world, where a simple zigzag on a carpet can send them reeling. Not a few Wobblers commit suicide.

Although skeptical, Schlitz let neuroscientist Paul Bach-y-Rita’s team rig her up in a green construction helmet with a tiny balance and some electronics mounted inside. Wires snaked down from the headpiece to an electrode in Schlitz’s mouth. When standing tall and true, she felt a kazoo buzz on the center of her tongue. When her head drooped or swayed, she felt the buzz slide forward, backward, or sideways. Her goal was to shift her posture to keep the buzz in the center at all times. The buzz felt bizarre to her, but she got the hang of it quickly. After sessions of just five minutes, she found she could stand on her own for a few precious seconds. One day she drilled for twenty straight minutes and found she could walk without staggering. Further practice improved her balance still more, and eventually Schlitz dispensed with the helmet altogether. She even learned to jump rope and ride a bike again.

More poignantly, she began training others on how to use the device, including Bach-y-Rita himself. After being diagnosed with cancer in 2004, Bach-y-Rita took a chemotherapy drug that damaged his own inner ear hairs and wiped out his sense of balance. So Schlitz walked him through how to use the green helmet – returning the favor to him, and ensuring that he would walk on his own right up until his death in 2006.

Culled from:  The Tale of the Dueling Neurosurgeons: The History of the Human Brain as Revealed by True Stories of Trauma, Madness, and Recovery

 

Ghastly! – Untraceable Edition

Luc Sante’s Evidence is a compelling collection of crime scene photographs taken by the New York City Police Department between 1914 and 1918. The images are always intriguing, often mysterious, sometimes artistic, occasionally shocking, and reliably graphic. The appendix contains a detailed explanation of all known facts regarding each image (include applicable newspaper clippings) and much reasonable speculation on those images where the facts are lost to history. I thought I’d start sharing images from this book occasionally, along with the text explanation.

“Homicide body of John Rogers 88 W. 134th St. Christensen 10/21/15 883.” In spite of this very complete caption, the case proved untraceable. In large part, that is because the victim was black, and white newspapers recorded the misfortunes of black people only in exceptionally rare circumstances. Three black newspapers were published in New York during this time, but copies from the period have survived for only one of those, theNew York Age, which printed sermons and social notes but seldom covered crime stories. The manner in which Rogers met death is impossible to say. There might be blood on the steps and near his head, but the stains might also be dirt.  Rogers has apparently been partly undressed and examined, by cops or coroners, and then his jacket draped shut by the same parties. He looks respectable, but a glance at his trousers is enough to show that he was far from prosperous. He is lying in the front hallway of a small apartment building, which looks well maintained (it no longer stands, the site falling roughly in the center of Lenox Terrace Plaza).”

Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 20, 2015

Today’s Crumbling Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

The massive concrete pyramid in Boston harbor looks as if it might have been built by one of the less ambitious pharaohs: this impression is fortified by the two-foot granite steps that form its base. In fact this is a beacon known as Nix’s Mate, and the tiny island on which it stands is the subject of a curious legend. Sometime in the late 1690s a certain Captain Nix was murdered; his first mate was accused of the crime and sentenced to be hanged. He was taken out to the island in Boston Bay which was then 12 acres in extent. On the scaffold the mate repeated his declaration of innocence, and prophesied that, as a proof of his innocence, the island on which he was hanged would be washed away from the sea.

From that time on, the island began to crumble under the attack of the waves and now it is a mere 20 yards long and 10 yards wide; only a stone wall prevents it from being washed away completely.

The portion of the island that is now under the waves was once known to all pirates of the Spanish Main, and its name was as terrible as the name of Tyburn to London footpads and burglars. The list of men who have been hanged there is long and no doubt there are many who will feel that the disappearance of this grim relic is no matter for regret. Yet no one who knows anything about the history of piracy and mutiny can entirely agree. There is a brutality and viciousness about many of the pirates that makes our own age of violence and political terrorism almost mild by comparison.

Culled from: Crimes and Punishment, the Illustrated Crime Encyclopedia, Volume 24

I think I need to make a trip to Boston to see this relic before it’s under the sea!

 

Tents!

Here’s a page from a 1920’s-era pamphlet for the J. Oliver Johnson company – your place for cemetery stuff!

Morbid Fact Du Jour for August 19, 2015

Today’s Lead Glazed Yet Truly Morbid Fact!

One of the earliest warnings about the dangers of lead-based glazes came in a letter to the editor of the Scot’s Magazine from a James Lind of Edinburgh, and published in its May issue of 1754. He warned of the dangers of putting lemon juice in earthenware vessels that were so coated, and mentioned an incident in which enough lead was extracted from the glaze that when the lemon juice was concentrated by boiling and then allowing to cool crystals of sugar of lead were deposited. Lind also warned against using such vessels for pickling vegetables, saying that if preserved food tasted sweet then it should be discarded. He noted that the popular Delft pottery was particularly prone to leach lead from its surface.

Those who worked in the pottery industry were badly affected by lead. In 1875 the UK Registrar General described this trade as one of the unhealthiest in the country. Every year in the north Staffordshire region, which is where the British pottery industry was based, there were 400 cases of lead poisoning in its advanced state where victims were paralyzed, having convulsions, and almost blind. That region was also noteworthy for the number of miscarriages, still births, and newly born babies dying within a few weeks, their short lives blighted by recurrent fits.

The fight to remove lead glazes from pottery was long and hard. The glazing of pottery with lead was already widespread in the 1600s and in the early days it was applied as a powder of galena (lead sulphide mineral, PbS) to the surface of the wet clay before firing. In the following century it was applied as a wet paste to already fired pots, known as biscuit ware, which were then given a second firing. The prejudicial effect of working on the glazing process was known even then and alternatives were sought, and found, but were either not as good or more expensive.

Those who did the dipping of pots into the glaze were noted for their cadaverous looks and were known to be prone to Picton colic. Despite Acts of Parliament to prevent children from working at such employment, little was done until the 1890s when a vigorous campaign led by Gertrude Tuckwell of the Women’s Trade Union League brought the issue into the spotlight. She alerted the public to the dangers of the industry and urged them to buy lead-free glazed pottery and earthenware. The laws passed in the 1890s reduced the number of lead poisoning cases which declined from 573, and 22 deaths, in the five years from 1899 to 1903, to only three cases 50 years later, and one death, in the five years from 1949 to 1953. There were no cases or deaths in the years thereafter.

Culled from: The Elements of Murder

Gertrude Tuckwell: Kicking Ass and Taking Names!

 

Morbid Music!

It’s been awhile since I’ve featured a morbid song and today on Google Music shuffle this understated beauty came up and I thought I’d share:

“John Wayne Gacy, Jr.” by Sufjan Stevens