A Hogmanay Mystery: The Vanishing of Alex Cleghorn

On this blog, I have covered a few missing-persons cases where the victim appeared to instantly vanish into oblivion, never to be seen again.  One minute they’re going about their normal business, the next…gone.  And nobody can ever figure out why.  As peculiar and disturbing as these disappearances may be, the following mystery is startling enough that it not only made the local newspapers, but the pages of that journal devoted to all forms of High Strangeness, the “Fortean Times.”

A few hours into the first day of 1966, 19 year old Alex Cleghorn and his two older brothers, David and William, left their Glasgow home to “first foot” some friends.  (“First foot” is a Scottish New Year tradition where the first people to cross a home’s threshold on January 1 bring symbolic gifts such as coal or whisky to ensure good luck for the year.)  As they walked down Govan Road, the brothers reached a crossroads.  David and William turned to ask Alex which way they should go.  Except that Alex suddenly wasn’t there.  David and William, assuming their brother had fallen behind, retraced their steps and searched side-streets to see if Alex had taken a shortcut.  No Alex.  They called his name repeatedly.  No response.

Not knowing what else to do, David and William returned home, but Alex wasn’t there, either.  When daylight came with no sign of him, the family called around to friends and relatives, but no one had seen him.  They checked with police stations and hospitals, only to hit the same brick wall.  The following day, Alex’s father called the factory where his son worked, but they hadn’t seen him, either.  Alex’s insurance card and a week’s salary had not been picked up.

And…that’s all, folks.  From that day to this, the whereabouts of Alex Cleghorn have remained a complete mystery.  A few years after he vanished, his brothers reenacted that fateful walk, hoping it would give them some clue about what had happened, but they were still left completely baffled.

If ever a disappearance could literally be called “into thin air,” this one is it.

Newspaper Clipping of the New Year's Day

Via Newspapers.com

Let’s kick off 2025 with a New Year’s ghost story from Tennessee.  The “Knoxville Journal,” January 1, 1935:

TULLAHOMA Jan 1 (Tuesday)—As the new year winged through Tullahoma at midnight townsmen gathered quietly in the main streets to see the Ghost of Tullahoma walk. 

For the past 62 years there have been those who have sworn that at midnight the apparition of a beautiful woman appears walking along the edge of high buildings.

The legend stretches back through the years to 1872 when two circus performers, man and wife, came to Tullahoma on their way South. They arrived on the last day of the year.

A rope was stretched across the street between two buildings, and the woman balanced her way over the road while her husband accepted contributions to pay their expenses. 

But there was an accident that fateful day in ‘72, and the woman pitched headlong to the ground. 

Townsmen buried her in the city cemetery and erected at the head of the grave a cedar board bearing this inscription: “Nina, aerial artist wife of Peter Conway 1872.”

And each New Year’s eve at midnight the legend says that Nina comes again airily walking along above the heads of revelers. 

Did Nina walk last night? 

There were many who said she did. They say that as the whistles and bells heralded the new year, she came dressed in circus clothes tripping along the tops of buildings. 

But most thought this sheer fantasy and were certain that Nina still rests in her small cemetery with the headboard.

As far as I can tell, this legend appears to have been forgotten, so perhaps poor Nina’s ghost is finally resting in peace.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

The following New Year's Eve disappearance was covered in the "South Bend Tribune," February 9, 2008.  It appears to be one of those crimes where the police "knew" who did it, but were unable to find enough evidence to make an arrest.  To date, the case is still unsolved, and Pullen has never been found.

What happened to Shirley Pullen, a 70-year-old Niles Township woman who was last seen on New Year’s Eve 1986, is still a mystery. 

But police said they believe answers are out there and are turning to the public for help. 

Authorities consider the former Windward Village Mobile Home Park resident’s disappearance suspicious and said they believe Pullen was possibly a victim of foul play.  However, they have come up short in their attempts to find her body or the person responsible for her disappearance. 

On Friday, the Michigan State Police post in Niles announced that it will reopen the investigation. 

Pullen was last seen by her hairdresser at the Save Mart store near her mobile home park Dec.31, 1986. That night she was reportedly planning to attend a New Year’s Eve party. 

Twelve days later her mobile home park manager reported her missing after Pullen, who always paid her rent on time, failed to do so.

Inside her residence police found indications that Pullen likely left abruptly. Her television was still on, a plate of food was out and a cigarette butt had burned down to the filter, said MSP Detective Sgt. Fabian Suarez, who is heading up the inquiry.  Her vehicle was still at the home. 

“Preliminary indications don’t show she left willingly,” he said. 

Suarez is no stranger to cold cases.  In 2006, he and another trooper turned up new witnesses and evidence that led to a conviction in a 16-year-old Cass County murder case. 

Suarez began reviewing the Pullen case in October 2005.  Four investigators from the Michigan State Police and Berrien County Sheriff’s Department will be interviewing about 50 people over the next few months, and Suarez is hopeful their inquiries will turn up some new leads. 

“By next week we hope to start knocking on doors,” he said. 

Noting that names, addresses and phone numbers have likely changed, Suarez is asking that anyone who was interviewed during the original investigation contact police rather than wait for authorities to track them down. Investigators also are looking for names of people who should have been interviewed originally. 

“Time changes a lot of things,” Suarez said. 

Information from the public could very well provide the answers police are looking for.  Back in 2000, a tipster called after the case was featured on Crime Stoppers and indicated Pullen was dead and that he knew where her body might be.  But the caller,who was instructed to contact the now-defunct Niles Township Police Department, was never heard from again. 

At the time she vanished, Pullen owned two mobile homes in the park, one of which she rented out. 

“She had been having trouble with those tenants,” Suarez said. 

Years after Pullen disappeared, a neighbor came forward and told police she heard “yelling” outside the missing woman’s residence that New Year’s Eve, former Niles Township Police Chief John Street said in a 2000 Tribune interview. 

The neighbor apparently saw Pullen talking with two men, one of whom was the tenant living in Pullen’s other mobile home.  After several minutes of arguing, Pullen went into her residence and the two men drove away. 

The renter, according to Street, denied seeing Pullen that day but told police she had given him several checks after he did some work for her.

Her last check to him,made out for $500, was dated Dec. 30, 1986, and the man claimed it was a Christmas gift for his family. 

Street also said the man indicated that Pullen had granted him use of her Discover credit card to buy more than $1,000 in household items. The card was used twice, on Jan. 11 and 16, 1987, at the former Highland Appliance store in Mishawaka.

Weekend Link Dump

 

"The Witches' Cove," Follower of Jan Mandijn

Everyone here at Strange Company HQ wishes you all a Happy New Year!

Where the hell was Queen Elizabeth born?

Who the hell was this man who fell from the sky?

Some Christmas criminals.

A Christmas party turns into a brawl.

Digitally unwrapping a Pharaoh's mummy.

Scientists are having a lot of fun with ancient head lice.

Speaking of Creepy Science, they've just found a previously unknown 15,000 year old virus.  I'm sure this will end well.

A notable sea serpent encounter.

A Victorian scrapbook wishes you a happy new year.

There's a Louis Wain exhibition that can be seen online.

Next time you go bar-hopping, take along a hamster.  They can drive you home.

Some possible new clues relating to the "Princes in the Tower."

To me, this story has an uncomfortable "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream" vibe to it.

The graves of the "amber elites."

A warrior Duchess.

Why we count down to the New Year.

An aristocratic pug's Christmas tree.

So maybe Elizabeth Bathory wasn't that bad after all.

A recently discovered birch bark letter from the 12th century.

Why people kiss on New Year's Eve.

New Year's resolutions from 1914.

A murder where--rather late in the day--they discovered they had hanged the wrong man.

Photos of the relics of Old London.

How to dine like an undertaker.

How to dine like an 18th century gourmet.

An unsolved--officially, at least--Pennsylvania murder.

A forgotten Indian dynasty.

And that's the final Link Dump for the year!  I'll be back tomorrow, with my annual look at the top ten posts from the past twelve months.  So long, 2021.  Be sure to let the door hit you on your way out.

Newspaper Clipping of the New Year's Day

Via Newspapers.com

Some people have mysterious lives.  Some have mysterious deaths.  One young man had the misfortune to have them both.  The “Pittsburgh Dispatch,” January 2, 1892:

"James Foster, age 32 years, place of birth unknown, name of parents unknown, nationality unknown; to be buried by the county in the Potters' field." 

This was the first entry on the journal of vital statistics in the Bureau of Health of Pittsburg for 1892. It was the only entry made on New Year's Day. A peculiar story, tinged with pathos, attaches to Foster's killing. He was intimately known to many, yet he was unknown to all. He had many friends who have been associated with him since childhood, yet no one ever knew his parents or where he was born. If he knew himself he never told. From boyhood he refused to talk on the subject. He would never bear a reference to it in manhood, and with him will be carried to-day to a grave in the county's burying lot his life's secret.

James Foster lived with Mr. and Mrs. J. W. Hall, near Homestead. He had lived with this couple since he was seven years old. Foster came to their house then. They had never been able to find out anything whatever of his life prior to his coming to their house. They have known his every movement since. On New Year's eve, Foster with a number of his associates came to Pittsburg, where they joined with many merry makers in celebrating the death and birth of the old and new years. 

The party missed the last train for home. They continued their revelry long into the night. The group scattered toward morning and just as the day was breaking Foster started alone to walk to his home. He was sober. His night's pleasure had wearied him, however, and when near Hazelwood, on the Baltimore and Ohio road, he was run down by a train and instantly killed. He was carried by the train that killed him to Braddock. 

Coroner McDowell was notified. He went to Braddock yesterday morning. He had just taken charge of the mangled body when Mr. and Mrs. Hall arrived at the undertaking rooms. They had heard of Foster's ending and they had come to identify the body. Mrs. Hall was much affected. 

At the inquest the Halls were the only witnesses outside of the railroad men who had seen him killed. Mr. Hall told how Foster had come to them when a boy 7 years old. How he had held as sacred the story of his life up to that time. How he had been faithful, industrious and sober, and how he had left them the evening previous, saying he would return that night. That was the substance of their testimony. Accidental death was the verdict of the Coroner's jury. 

At the time of the killing Foster was well dressed. He looked a thrifty, careful man. After the inquest the Coroner attempted to have the body turned over to the Halls for burial. They, however, refused to receive their dead friend, and the undertaker was instructed to bury the body at the county's expense. The burial will occur today. His grave will be marked by his name, but to those who knew him best he will still be unknown.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

New Year's: a time for drinking champagne, festive midnight gatherings, nostalgic renditions of "Auld Lang Syne," planting homemade spooks on your neighbors...

...Wait, what? The "Louisville Courier-Journal," January 4, 1897:

Mrs. Joseph Haungs, wife of the well-known saloon-keeper at Seventeenth and Market streets, is lying in a serious condition at her home as the result of a joke perpetrated by some unknown person. Mr. Haungs is very indignant, and declares if he finds the person he will make it warm for him. Mrs. Haungs is suffering from nervous prostration.

Mr. and Mrs. Haungs have been married only about five months, and during that time it has been the wife's custom to remain with her husband until he balances his accounts for the day, and this usually takes him until 11 o'clock or after. Friday night she remained with him until about 10:30 o'clock, when she became sleepy and told him she was going to her room. Haungs and his wife live over the saloon. Feeling secure because of the knowledge that her husband was within sound of her voice, she opened a rear door and started up the steps. The rear hallway is usually dark and she hurried up the back stairway. Haungs proceeded with his figuring for several minutes, when he was startled by hearing a piercing scream. A moment later he heard his wife stumbling down the back steps. He ran to the door and threw it open. Haungs was shocked to see his wife deathly pale.

"What is the matter?" he asked excitedly.

"Great heavens!" exclaimed the wife, "there is a strange woman up-stairs. Oh, she is so pale and so frightful looking." And then the woman almost lost consciousness. When she had recovered sufficiently she said the woman was tall, wore ordinary clothes and was very pale. She appeared very unnatural, she said, and her features were set like one dead. Haungs was mystified. He knew full well that he had taken the precaution to lock all the rear doors, and he was sure that no one had entered the house through the bar-room. But he decided to investigate the matter and ran up-stairs.

As he reached the top of the steps he was confronted by a woman staring at him and standing motionless. He stood still for a moment, and then summoning all his courage he rushed into the room. But the woman did not stir, and this caused him some fright. On reaching the side of the figure he recognized a false face, and then began to suspect that some one was either playing a joke on him and his wife, or else the person was disguised so she or he could not be recognized. With a sudden resolution he grabbed hold of the figure and the supposed woman tottered and fell heavily to the floor. Then it was that he saw the whole affair was a joke. Haungs searched the house to find the perpetrator. It would not have been well with him had he been found, for Haungs was determined to teach him a lesson he would not forget in a life-time.

On examining the object of his wife's fright Haungs found that some one had stuffed an old calico dress and had put a false face on the figure. They had also tied a hood over the head, and stuffed gloves answered the purpose of hands. A pair of shoes sticking out from under the dress completed the hideous looking object. On one arm was pinned a piece of paper with the words, "A Happy New Year."

Mrs. Haungs was compelled to take to her bed, and the least noise causes her to start with fright. Haungs says he intends to investigate the matter, and he expects to have the guilty person duly punished. He says he has a clew and that he believes he has the right party under surveillance.

You may recall that one of my annual roundups of Christmas clippings contained a "Courier-Journal" story dealing with a "joke" gift of a shroud.

Louisvilleans in the good old days had interesting ways of celebrating the holidays.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

via Newspapers.com

Many people celebrate the holiday season by going on a bender, but there aren't many who have done so with the dedication and originality of one otherwise forgotten Englishman. From the "Boston Globe," January 10, 1879:

John Wren, a middle-aged Englishman of Cleveland, left that city several months ago, says the Cleveland Voice, to visit his son in England. He met many old friends, who gave him a warm welcome, and after a time a wine party was gotten up especially for him. John, who had not taken anything since two years ago, when he had an attack of tremens, partook freely of the wine and got very drunk. About three weeks ago he arrived home, and when he got into the Union depot was stupidly intoxicated. A friend who recognized him took him in charge and had him conveyed to his home near the Central market. Here he lay drunk for some time, and when he began recovering consciousness he asked for whiskey. On being refused this, Wren set up a screaming, and began breaking the furniture. In order to quiet him they were compelled to give more whiskey, and after a time he was rendered drunk enough to remove to Charity hospital. Here he was treated by a physician, and, after being unconscious four days, came to his senses. Seeing Sister Peter in the room he asked for some whiskey, which she refused.

"If you don't give it to me," said Wren, "I shall holler or break the furniture."

"It won't hurt us," replied the Sister; "to have you 'holler,' and if you break the furniture, you are able to pay for it."

Wren then asked for his English friends, being evidently under the impression that be was still in England. The sister said they were not there, when Wren became very angry, saying that they were very mean to leave him that way among strangers and away from home. He then told the sister to get a sheet of writing paper, and write to his family in Cleveland, Ohio, in America, and tell them to send him money to get home with. The sister, much amused, asked him if there was a hospital In Cleveland, and he replied that there was, naming and describing the location of Charity hospital. She then enlightened him as to his whereabouts, when he exclaimed:

"My God, have I crossed the Atlantic ocean drunk?"

Wren says that he has no recollection of anything from the time he was drinking wine at the party until when he woke up in Charity Hospital. He thought the hospital was one that was near the town where he was visiting. His friends must have put him on board the steamer at Liverpool, and they must have provided him with tickets and money to pass him through. When found at the Union depot he had two large whiskey bottles in his pocket. The case is a remarkable one, and we are certain that there have not been many instances where a man has travelled over 4000 miles safely while completely impeded with liquor.

Let's hope Mr. Wren went back on the wagon after his adventure. He either couldn't handle liquor at all or handled it far too well, I'm not sure which.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day, Bonus New Year's Edition

As a bonus entry for this New Year's Eve, here's a little something that just now came to my attention:  Benjamin Franklin's "Drinker's Dictionary," as it originally appeared in the "Pennsylvania Gazette," January 6, 1737.

Or as it's known around Strange Company HQ, "Words to live by."

Happy New Year!

A Strange Company 2017

Welcome to our annual look back at the past year in Strange Company, where I list the Top Ten posts of the past twelve months!

Without any further ado, here is the best--or, at least, most popular--moments from my blog, ranked from top to bottom.  It's an eclectic mix, with something weird for everyone.

1. The Case of the Vanishing Lieutenant.

A Cold War-era mystery that sounds like something from a particularly wacky spy novel.

2. The Wynekoop Mystery.

Did Dr. Alice Wynekoop murder her daughter-in-law?

3. Never Bored:  The Many Wars of Alfred Wintle.

One of the great English eccentrics.

4. The Haunted Mill.

A once-famed early 19th century ghost story.

5. A Revolting and Horrible Affair: The West Twenty-Third Street Murder

The brutal and seemingly senseless killing of financier Benjamin Nathan; one of New York's classic unsolved crimes.

6. In Deep Water: The Last Dive of the Lonergans

A missing-persons case with some unusual elements.

7. Weekend Link Dump, September 8, 2017

I'm not sure why this particular WLD made the cut, but I suppose it's not surprising, as a number of people have told me the Friday link roundup is the only reason they read my blog.  (Maybe not the most tactful way of putting it, guys.)

8. . Book Clipping of the Day, August 30, 2017

In which Robert Kirk learns it's not very wise to dish the dirt on fairies.

9. Magazine Clipping of the Day, September 20, 2017

The mystery of Alice Phillip's unusual epitaph.

10. Newspaper Clipping of the Day, September 6, 2017

The end of an era: the final installment of "Famous Cats of New England."

And thus ends our look back at 2017.  I plan to keep this blog going for at least one more year, so I hope you'll join me for more murders, disappearances, ghosts, and general assorted oddities.

And if the spirits are kind to me, maybe even more talking cats.  See you in 2018!

Book Clipping of the Day

Photo via Yahoo News

In his 1894 book "Sights and Shadows," Frederick George Lee included a story told to him by a friend, the Rev. William C. Vaughan:

Some years ago I was accustomed to go on saints’ days to the early morning service at a parish church three miles distant; I used to breakfast afterwards with the clergyman, and then returned home in time for the late morning service. He lives in my memory as a man scrupulously careful to keep to the exact truth in all he said.

On two All Saints’ Days I attended service, but, on the third, circumstances had changed, and at the church where I then ministered we had a special preacher on the eve whom I had not met before, but who was to be my guest. My first thought on seeing him was, "How like dear G." My pleasure was much increased at discovering he was a cousin, and I feel inclined to give him credit for unexaggerating truthfulness. We sat up late talking, and here is a true story :— 

"In one of our manufacturing districts a zealous clergyman laboured, who made it his rule to hold a midnight service on every New Year’s Eve. After the New Year had begun, and the congregation dispersed, he still waited in church interceding for his flock. This had been his custom for some years; when one New Year’s morning, after turning the gas off and shutting the church door, he went across to the vicarage close by. On his way upstairs he passed a window which overlooked the church—the whole building was lit up, and he ran down and out again, afraid of fire. It occurred to him, however, to look through a window of the church before reopening the door, and to his amazement he beheld his whole congregation assembled, with himself in the pulpit preaching. As he gazed in astonishment, he perceived upon the countenances of a certain number, one here, and one there, that peculiar hue which comes on the face so often before death: and he drew away. But as the year went on, he made it his special care to prepare for their last earthly hour all those on whom he had seen the mark; and lo! they all died before the year was out ! 

"Again the next New Year’s night he saw the church filled in like manner, himself there, and the hue of death laid upon other faces; these he cared for and prepared for their latter end, till one by one they dropped off and were buried, their number made complete ere the twelve months had all passed. 

"So it happened another year, and another, and more, nor said he anything of it to anyone, but kept it to himself; till a New Year Day he summoned to him his curate, and declared, 'My people were there last night too, but I did not see which of them should die, only on my own face appeared the hue of death, and you I wish to prepare me for that hour.'

"His death occurred shortly afterwards."

Book Clipping of the Day, New Year's Eve Edition

Christmas ghost stories are justifiably popular, but New Year's Eve spook tales seem far less common. If the truth be told, I find that a bit odd, as the passing of one year and the birth of another seems like a ripe time to speak of the dead among the living.

One instance of a "New Year's ghost" was related by Elliott O'Donnell in his 1916 book "Twenty Years' Experience as a Ghost Hunter." Whether the incident is strictly true or not is anyone's guess--O'Donnell was famed for never letting facts spoil his fun--but it is a welcome twist on that tired old ghost story cliche, "Spirit visits old friend to tell of his/her death."

Whilst I was still writing for "The Weekly Despatch," I happened to visit an old friend of mine, a Captain Rupert Tennison, who was staying with an aged relative in the Hagley Road, Birmingham. 

"This is hardly the house you would expect to see a ghost in, is it ?" he remarked to me after luncheon. "And yet I can assure you I had a very remarkable psychic experience here, in this very room. I've often wanted to tell you about it. It happened one New Year's Eve three and a half years ago. My aunt had a nephew, on her husband's side, called Jack Wilmot, and he and I used to meet here regularly at the commencement of every New Year. On this occasion, however, my aunt informed me that Wilmot was unable to be present, as he was detained in Mexico, where he had a very good post as a mining engineer. 

"I was much disappointed, for Wilmot and I were great pals, and the prospect of staying here alone with the old lady struck me as perfectly appalling. I resolved to make the best of it, however, for I was genuinely sorry for my aunt, whom I could see was quite as disappointed as I was. I arrived late in the afternoon of December 31st. We dined at seven, and at nine my aunt went off to bed and left me in this room by myself. 

"For some time I read—no, not one of your books, O'Donnell—a Guy Maupassant; but the light being rather bad, and my eyes tired, for I had been travelling all the previous night, I was at last obliged to desist and devote myself entirely to a pipe. 

"The servants went to bed at about ten. I heard them tap respectfully at my aunt's door on their way, and wish her good-night. After that the house was absolutely silent, so silent, indeed, that the hush began to get on my nerves, and I was contemplating retiring also, when heavy footsteps suddenly crossed the hall and the door of this room was flung wide open. I looked round in amazement. Standing on the threshold was Wilmot. 

'Why, Jack!' I cried. 'I am glad to see you, old fellow. Your aunt told me you could not come. How did you manage it?' 

'Quite easily,' he said in the light, careless manner which was one of his characteristics. 'Where there's a will, there's a way, you know. I've taken French leave.' 

"'Taken French leave!' I ejaculated. 'Then there'll be the deuce to pay when you get back. Anyhow, that's your affair, not mine. You'll have some supper?' 

"'No,' he said; 'I had a very good meal a short time ago, and I'm not the least bit hungry. We will chat instead.' 

"He pulled his chair up to the table, and, leaning his elbows on it, stared right into my face. 

"'You don't look very well, Jack,' I said. 'Maybe this strong light has something to do with it, but you are as pale as a sheet. Is it the voyage?' 

"'Not altogether,' he replied. 'I've had a lot of trouble lately.' 

"'Tell me,' I said. 

"'Won't it bore you ?' he replied. 'After all, why should I bother other people with my woes. Oh, all right, I will if you like.

"'Some months ago there came to the town where I am working a wealthy Spaniard and his wife. Their name was Hervada. He was a tall, lean, sour-faced old curmudgeon, and she one of the most beautiful young creatures you can imagine. You can guess what happened?' "' You fell in love with her, of course,' I cried. "' From the moment I saw her,' Jack replied. You got introduced,' I said. Trust me,' he laughed. 'I found out where she lived, and the rest was so easy that before the end of the week I had dined with them, and also had had one clandestine meeting in the Park. At first her old villain of a husband suspected nothing. But it is infernally hard to keep up a pretense for long, when one is really madly consumed with passion. Eyes are sure indicators of what the heart feels, at least mine » are, and when Hervada suddenly looked up and caught me gazing at his wife as if I could devour her, the cat was completely out of the bag. I give him credit for one thing, however: he took it very calmly. Despite his unprepossessing exterior he could at times be extremely courteous and dignified. 

"'You will oblige me by settling this matter in the way customary to gentlemen in this country,' he said. 'You must remember you are not in England now; you are in Mexico. Have you a revolver?' "'I am never without one,' I replied. "'Then,' he observed, ignoring the intervention of his wife, whose apprehensions were only too plainly more on my account than on his, 'we will step on to the verandah.' 

"'What!' I said. 'You don't mean to say you actually fought a duel?' 

"Jack nodded. 'Yes!' he said. 'We measured off twenty paces, and then, turning round, fired.' "' And you killed him?' "' That would be your natural surmise,' was the reply.
'But you are mistaken. It was I who was killed.' 

"The moment he had said these words, he seemed to fade away, and before I could recover from my astonishment, he had completely disappeared, and I found myself staring not at him but the blank wall. And now comes the oddest part of it. I naturally expected to hear Jack was dead. I said nothing to my aunt, but I wrote off to his address at once. 

"Judge, then, of my relief when I received a letter from him by return of post to say he was absolutely fit and well, and getting on splendidly. That was in February. In the following August my aunt wrote to me saying a very tragic occurrence had taken place. Jack was dead. He had been found on the verandah of an hotel in Mexico shot through the heart. Though the identity of his murderer was generally suspected, there was no actual proof, and as the man was very rich and influential, it was thought quite useless to take up the case. Now what kind of superphysical phenomenon do you call that?" Captain Tennison concluded. 

"I can't exactly say," I replied. "It is one of those strange prognostications of the future that happen more often on New Year's Eve than on any other day of the year. 

''I don't think the phantasm you saw was actually Wilmot's spirit. I don't see how it could have been. I think it was an impersonating neutrarian, one of that order of phantasms that have never inhabited any kind of material body, and whose special function is apparently to foretell the end of certain people, and certain people only."

Newspaper Clipping of the Day, New Year's Eve Edition

For this New Year's post, I offer a cautionary tale about the importance of inspecting your prospective bride or groom carefully.

Very, very carefully. From the "Illustrated Police News" for March 23, 1878:

The New Year's festivities at the usually quiet and unexcitable colliery village of Croxdale have been greatly enlivened by the discovery and public exposure of a well-contrived, and cleverly carried out matrimonial hoax.

It appears that for some time a certain very grave individual has been lodging at Croxdale-terrace, and working as a hewer at Croxdale colliery. He is a man past the prime of life--in fact, a grey-haired old chap--but his stylish mode of dressing, jaunty air, and open admiration of the fair sex, have made him quite conspicuous in the neighourhood. Being a regular attender at chapel and class, a constant reader of religious literature, and a very quiet, steady, and inoffensive person, it is not surprising that many of the lonesome widows and ancient spinsters of the locality cast wistful glances at him as they passed him on the road, or sat with him in the chapel. But none of these were to his liking. He wanted a young wife, and a pretty one, but having passed the Rubicon, the girls were shy of his grey head, beard, and whiskers.

Some five weeks ago, however, fortune seemed to favour him, for a pretty young woman looked at him so earnestly one night that he was sure she had been smitten by his appearance. She was in company with a young man who worked next board to him in the pit, but that circumstance only seemed to smooth the way for an introduction to the charmer. The next morning, therefore, "Gentle Johnny," as he is designated, inquired of the young man who the fine-looking girl was that he saw in his company the preceding night. Now, it so happened that the "fine-looking girl" was the wife of the young man, but for a lark he, like Abraham, said she is my sister.

Johnny, therefore, began to praise her good looks and nice manners, and asked his friend if he would mind introducing him to his charming sister. With an eye to further fun the young man promised to help him in the matter, but said he must first see if she was willing to accept him as a suitor, and then he would tell him when it would be most convenient to come to the house.

That night the young man, his wife, and a few friends concocted a plot to hoax poor Johnny, and let the public know that he was already a married man living apart from his wife. Next day Johnny was informed that his attentions would be acceptable, and he could have a first interview that evening, as the old folks were to be from home for a couple of hours. At the appointed time Johnny went to the house, dressed up in his broad cloth and kid gloves, with a grand silk umbrella in his hand. He was duly introduced, and the discreet brother very considerately withdrew, and left them to arrange matters. How Johnny conducted himself during the interview is now the subject of universal conversation at Croxdale.

The "young lady" at first absolutely refused to have anything to do with him, unless he would first shave off his whiskers and beard, which he promised to do before his next visit. She then promised to meet him at a certain hour on a certain night, dressed in a white shawlet, and have a moonlight walk with her devoted admirer. From this time forth Johnny and his "lady love" met regularly, and the couple might have been seen any night on the Darlington road beyond Croxdale, walking side by side, the arm of the swain fondly encircling the waist of his adorable mistress. Johnny was not so deeply smitten, however, but that he noticed some rather strange peculiarities in the manner and behaviour of his charmer. She wore very strong boots, for instance, and walked with a firm, vigorous step, like a female Weston, but she explained that she liked to keep her feet warm, and Johnny acquiesced with the trite remark that when the feet were warm we felt warm all over. Then she grasped his hand at parting with a grip that always brought the tears to his eyes; but Johnny put this to the warmth of her feelings.

Marriage was eventually proposed and the offer accepted. The ring was to have been bought last Saturday, and the ceremony completed by special license. But, alas for Johnny's peace of mind--they took their last walk on New Year's Eve. Johnny on that night was more affectionate and pressing in his suit than ever, but "the lady" reminded him that he would have to go home with her and ask the consent of her parents to the match. Nothing loath, Johnny expressed himself perfectly willing to do so, and the twain at once proceeded to the girl's domicile for that purpose. But the evening appeared to be inauspicious, as there was quite a large party assembled. Johnny, therefore, thought the time inopportune to prefer his request for the daughter's hand.

Not so, however, "the lady," for she stood forth, and informed the company that he had proposed to marry her, and she desired them all to bear witness to the fact, for she was now going to put his love to the test. Saying which, she proceeded to divest herself of her bonnet, fall, gloves, shawlet, gown, and other female attire, and presently stood before them in the form of a strapping potter lad, known as "Queer Tommy." It would be impossible to describe the scene which ensued upon this exposure. Suffice it is to say, that the would-be bridegroom eventually made his escape from his tormentors amid much merriment.

Since the above event was made public "Johnny" has been so unmercifully chaffed that he has threatened several people with personal chastisement; he has sought the protection of the local policeman, and got the viewer to give a general notice that any one interfering with him in future will be discharged from the colliery. It should, however, be known to all men and women, whom it may concern, that he is again cultivating his hirsute appendages, and presents a very grisly appearance in his woeful devastation.

My friends, may you never, ever, have an Illustrated Police News New Year's Eve.

Newspaper Clipping(s) of the Day, New Year's Edition

On this New Year's Eve, spare a moment of sympathy for the "Seattle Star," a newspaper that did not handle the holiday well at all.

In their January 1, 1909 issue, their front page carried this disgruntled editorial:

Last night, while a whole nation mourned its countless dead, Seattle got drunk.

Last night, while a quarter of a million human beings, brothers of us all, cried out in the climax of their prolonged agony, thousands in Seattle scoffed at God and man, sin and suffering, as they drank their wine and cheered the ribald songs.

Voltaire, once baiting a cardinal, asked: "If by pressing this pin into this pin cushion you could make a million francs and incidentally kill a man in China, would you do it?"

And the cardinal, with conscience and avarice well balanced, truthfully declined to lie about his brotherhood to man.

If there was one sorrow in the whole wide world last night Seattle knew it not, or if knowing, drowned all memory in wine and made merry, until darkness left the earth. But the earth, having completed its heavenly orbit, as it has done since chaos, the fact must be celebrated in the classic revelry of Bacchus and the putrid debauchery of Harry Thaw.

Never once during the long, loud night, did the moans and groans from [earthquake] stricken ltaly obstruct the shrill false laugh of the painted lady as she quaffed her cheer at the table next to the honest woman. The quavering prayers for food that went up from childish throats in Sicily spoiled not one jot of milady's salad as she nursed her jaded palate with the best and rarest that gold can command.

The thought of the heaps of what were once men and women slowly burning to ashes; the thousands crazed with horror seething brains; the homeless, friendless, despairing thousands; this concentrated and distilled misery, not one note of it struck false with the wildly playing orchestras in Seattle's fashionable cafes last night.

For all was merry in Seattle on the night of her annual orgie.

And such an orgie it was. If Nero fiddled over a scene of wilder abandon in Rome, tradition has been conservative. Men and women, boys and girls, drank themselves to uproarious hilarity and screamed in pride of their drunken achievements. In the groggeries of King st. and Jackson, and in the fashionable cafes on Second av., the difference was only one of tuxedos and overalls, silks and serge. The drooling sots that tottered and leered in the land of beer and raw whiskey were brothers to the young bloods and smart men about town who staggered and oggled in the land of iced wine.

And the drink disheveled woman who flaunted her cotton hose and worn shoes in the stall of some cheap saloon was a sister in carousal to her who swished spotless lingerie and whisked her silken slippers on the tables of the rich.

The common bond of drunkenness made thousands in Seattle kin last night. The strange atavism for a night, that impelled the man to take his wife to the thick of this wild revelry, drew the school girl and the shop girl, some man's daughter, to where license reigned supreme.

Decency, religion, morals and all that is clean and good were forgotten in the long blasts of horns, crashes of whistles and shouts of drink delirious crowds. Every convention of law and instinct was flouted, as man and woman gloried in their alcoholic insurrection. Up and down Second av., in and out of saloons, cafes, theatres, back and forth where the lights gleamed brightest, surged the hectic, thick-tongued throng, singing in a thousand keys and discords to welcome the "glad New Year."

Boys in their teens drank their mite and ran riot in blasphemy and obscenity. Girls, whose shoe tops showed beneath their skirts, berated bartenders and vied with chauffeurs in the badinage of the brothel.

This was Seattle's welcome to the New Year.

And a few thousand miles away the greatest cataclysm of modern times had just finished piling up a quarter of a million dead.

Sounds like a damn good party to me, but never mind.

The "Star" returned to the same theme exactly one year later:

Seattle went on her annual drunk again last night. Some in the sanctity of the home, others in the quiet of the church, waited the old year out and welcomed in the new but thousands, men, women, boys and girls, drank themselves drunk—riotously, recklessly drunk. On First and Second av., there was revelry and debauchery unrestrained. Young and old, decent, undecent and indecent mixed in moral democracy where the worst was as good as the best: the painted woman on a par with the mother-—all reduced to one alcoholic level by the whisky glass or the champagne cup.

The days of the sans culottes and the Carmagnole saw no wilder outbreak of licentiousness than that which occurred in the cafes and saloons of Seattle last night; the Moulin Rouge in its hectic Bohemian abandon never outdid the Newport when last night's climax was reached at midnight. The roar of a thousand whistles was drowned by the shrill drunken shrieks of a thousand men and women, as they rose, a swaying, seething mass, with glasses high to drink to Janus.

By 11 o'clock the doors to the cafes were locked. Inside, revelers who had made their careful plans, were packed tight. Squads of waiters squirmed their way in and out, orchestras played rollicking ail while glasses tinkled and laughter rang forth in joyous unison.

At first all was convivial merriment, within the bounds of decent celebration, but as the night wore on and the new year grew apace, the popping of champagne corks grew sharper and sharper. Faces flushed and eyes grew bright; voices thickened and gestures grew awkwardly frequent. One by one the conventions were quietly laid aside in the din, as the hot blood flowed with a quickening pulse; well-bred laughter rose shriller, voices mounted higher as gaiety drew nearer to hysteria.

They were getting drunk, just plain drunk, but it was an occasion and everybody was striving for the same end; the example was contagious. Soon the weaker men and men, unused to dissipation, lost their hold on sobriety and cast rules of conduct in the old year's winds. They sprawled in their chairs limp and careless, hair disheveled, clothing awry, eyelids drooping and hands waving in vague, erratic figures.

Already the bright, humorous features were disappearing; the comicality of the scene was verging toward the pathetic, and then it was but a short way to the pathetic.

Young girls 16 and 18 years old, who a short hour before were sipping with fearful caution from the bubbling, slender glass before them, were now gulping between hiccoughs eagerly, greedily, pitching their voices to their shrillest, their laughter to the wildest, while all around them the tumult of racy, risque anecdote rose in the smoke-laden air.

They were happy, these fair young worshipers at the modern electric lighted shrine of Bacchus; happy for a time. Before the night was done many of them were led, weak-kneed and staggering, the flush of wine routed by the paleness of nausea, to carriages and autos home to sleep it off, essentially the same as the sot of the ten-cent barrel house. Drunk, just drunk.

Out in the streets there was anarchy, a madness for noise that knew no satisfaction; thousands of persons suddenly erased, cow bells, horns, whistles, tin pans, every device fashioned in Pandemonium added to the unceasing din that ebbed and flowed up and down the streets.

They were drunk, too, on the streets, men and women with rougher appetites or slenderer purses. A hundred saloons poured forth an unresting stream of croaking men and youths bawling and brawling into the streets to join in the demonic chorus that went up unceasingly. They pushed, shoved, jostled, collided, cursed, laughed, sang, one long, uproarious symphony of men gone wild. Hats were rushed, dresses torn, insults passed and blows struck, but the human maelstrom whirled on unheeding.

Ruffianism and rascality came up to the higher stratum and the higher went down to the lower. At the doors of the larger saloons and the more notorious cafes police fought back the prurient crowd that beat up against them.

Whenever a young woman was dragged, leering and drooling, forth to the fresh air, they set up a shout of joy, crashed their bells in envious sympathy, and blew approval on their raucous horns. A drunken girl gave the keenest delight and they rewarded her achievement with coarse and profane plaudits.

It was thus that Seattle welcomed the advent of another year.

I'm starting to suspect the "Star" was really conducting a stealth campaign to lure people into visiting Seattle on New Year's Eve.

On December 27, 1910, the publication indulged in some pessimistic prophesizing:

Will Seattle get drunk again New Year's eve?

On January 1, 1909, the Star printed a half page article headed, "Seattle Was Drunk Last Night."

On January 1, 1910, The Star published another article, "Seattle Drunk Again Last Night."

Seattle approaches another New Year's morn.

Will the same pitiful, tragic, terrible story have to be written again?

Will Seattle get drunk AGAIN this New Year's eve?

Already the cafe men are laying their plans. Invitations are being scattered broadcast. "Reserve your table for New Year's eve now," is the cry. Sometimes you must put down a guarantee of as high as $50. In others there is no guarantee, but there'll be nothing but wine served after 10:30.

And already men and woman are laying their plans, in turn, to be there—and to stay there till the last light goes out.

But—

When the last light in the last cafe is twitched out and the last wine-splashed table is piled high with wine-drenched chairs, and the last merry taxicab has whirled off with its last tragic load of drunken humanity—

How many clean young men will have set foot on the ladder that leads DOWN to ruin?

How many girls will have taken the first fatal step?

This is not a plea for prohibition. It is not an argument against saloons.

It is a plea for common, ordinary, 364-days-out-of-the-year decency.

The New Year's day eve is, and rightly, a time for throwing off the cares and worries of the year.

It has been made a period of debauch. It is the time sacredly set forth for the annual drunk.

The annual drunk—that is the word for it, the only word?

Who can tell the full, awful tale of wreck and disaster it has brought? New Year's eve, the time of ending and beginning. It has been made a thing of horror and disaster.

Not a fanatical plea is this against New Year's, against the holiday spirit. It is not even an argument against wine or the saloon.

It is an argument against the New Year's drunk, a plea for decency, a plea for ordinary morality.

Will Seattle get drunk again?

I think we can all guess the answer to that question. On January 2, 1911, the front page of the "Star" carried this plaintive, despairing headline:

Ah, well. Tonight, my friends, drink responsibly. In other words, don't let the "Seattle Star" catch you doing it.

Happy New Year to you all. See you in 2015!

Newspaper Clipping of the Day, New Year's Edition

In which some amateur theatricals turn into an episode of "Midsomer Murders":

Los Angeles Herald Jan 2, 1893

San Francisco, Jan. 1.—The old year was closed last night by a unique and terrible tragedy by which Sidney McCoy, a young lawyer, aged 32, lost his life, and Miss Grace King, aged 19, is in a precarious condition. A party of friends, numbering about 50, assembled last night at McCoy's, on Guerrero street, to watch the old year out and the new year in. The feature of the entertainment was the production of a short play written by McCoy and performed by amateurs. The plot of the play was the betrayal of a band of Russian Nihilists by one of their number. The Nihilists discover the traitoress, a young woman, and condemn her to death. They decide by lot who shall perform the execution, and the duty fell to the character portrayed by McCoy. Miss King played the part of the traitoress. She is given the choice of being killed or stabbing herself, and chooses the latter alternative. McCoy banded her a stout dagger which had been in the family for years. In the play the girl, instead of killing herself, was to stab her executioner, and as she received the knife, Miss King leaned forward to touch McCoy on the breast with the knife. At the same instant McCoy started toward the girl, who stumbled, and falling forward with the dagger in her hand, drove it through McCoy's heart. McCoy showed wonderful vitality and presence of mind. He walked into the next room and asked for a doctor, and then fell dead.

The girl knew there had been an accident of some kind, but did not know McCoy was killed. She was taken home and afterwards, on the advice of friends, gave herself up to the police She was taken to the city prison at 6 o'clock in the morning, and when she entered the prison fainted, and has since remained unconscious. This morning McCoy's two brothers secured her release by giving $10,000 bond for her appearance. The girl was then taken home and is in a critical condition.

The accident is explained by the fact that recently Miss King suffered from a sprained ankle. She had been using crutches to walk wish, but had laid them aside to participate in the play. As she made the motion to stab McCoy, she rested her weight on her weak foot. It gave way and she fell forward.

May all of you have a great New Year's Eve. Just give those Russian Nihilist plays a pass, OK?