The miners, convinced of the integrity of the doctor, rose to his support, and it was difficult to seat an unbiased jury. The trial itself lasted longer than any in local history, and when it was over, the county was broke. Twice its an-nual budget had been spent on the court proceedings.
The story revealed at the trial was one of greed and passion. Dr. Penfield had supplied the arsenic—for medical purposes, he said, and any overdose was caused by human error. Mrs. Magley had baked the pasties and collected the insurance money, giving half to the doctor. He was found guilty on three counts of murder and sentenced to life in prison.
Mrs. Magley was never tried for the crime because the county couldn’t afford a second trial. The commissioners said it wasn’t “worth the candle”, as the saying went. It would be better if she just left town, quietly.
So she disappeared, along with her youngest son, the only one to survive. Seth Dimsdale retired to Ohio and also disappeared. The Dimsdale mine disappeared. The whole town of Dimsdale disappeared. It was called the Dimsdale Jinx.
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14.
The Mystery
of Dank Hollow
A True Stor y of Pioneer Days,
Circa 1850
The tale is corroborated by the discovery of a diary belonging to the pastor who heard the dying man’s last words. The diary is now in the historical collection of the public library. I am indebted to Silas Dingwall for permission to tape his account.
—JMQ
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One day a young fisherman by the name of Wallace Reekie, who lived in the village here, went to his brother’s funeral in a town twenty miles away. He didn’t have a horse, so he set out on foot at daybreak and told his new bride he’d be home at nightfall. Folks didn’t like to travel that road after dark because there was a dangerous dip in it. Mists rose up and hid the path, you see, and it was easy to make a wrong turn and walk into the bog. They called it Dank Hollow.
At the funeral, Wallace helped carry his brother’s cas-ket to the burial place in the woods, and on the way he tripped over a tree root. There was an old Scottish supersti-tion: Stumble while carrying a corpse, and you’ll be the next to go into the grave. It must have troubled Wallace, because he drank too much at the wake and was late in 쑽쑽쑽
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Lilian Jackson Braun leaving for home. His relatives wanted him to stay over, but he was afraid his young wife would worry. He took a nap before leaving, though, and got a late start.
It was a five-hour trek, and when he didn’t show up by nightfall, like he’d said, his wife sat up all night, praying. It was just turning daylight when she was horrified to see her husband staggering into the dooryard of their little hut. Before he could say a word, he collapsed on the ground. She screamed for help, and a neighbor’s boy ran for the doctor.
He came galloping on horseback and did what he could.
They also called the pastor of the church. He put his ear to the dying man’s lips and listened to his last babbling words, but for some reason he never told what he heard.
From then on, folks dreaded the Dank Hollow after dark. It was not only because of the mists and the bog but because of Wallace’s mysterious death. That happened way back, of course. By 1930, when a paved road bypassed the Hollow, the incident was mostly forgotten. And then, in 1970, the pastor’s descendants gave his diary to the Trawnto Historical Society. That’s when the whole story came to light.
Wallace had reached the Dank Hollow after dark and was feeling his way cautiously along the path, when he was terrified to see a line of shadowy beings coming toward him out of the bog. One of them was his brother, who had just been buried. They beckoned Wallace to join their ghostly procession, and that was the last thing the poor man re-
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Short & Tall Tales membered. How he had found his way home in his delirium was hard to explain.
The pastor had written in his diary: “Only the prayers of his wife and his great love for her could have guided him.” And then he added a strange thing: “When Wallace collapsed in his dooryard, all his clothes were inside out.”
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15.
Tale of
Two Tombstones
As the Stonecutter Told It
to His Grandson
Thornton Haggis said, “Gramps wouldn’t want this printed because it involves a customer, and he was punctilious about such things. But all of them are long gone, so . . . what the heck! Just change the names.” The following was taped for this volume.
—JMQ
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This was before I was born, but my dad told me after I started getting interested in local history. After World War One, he said, the stonecutting business wasn’t doing too well. The mines had closed; the county had been lumbered over, and there was an economic bust and general exodus. Thousands were going Down Below to work in factories—and to die there, apparently. At any rate, they weren’t coming north to be buried. He had a Model T truck and did some hauling jobs to make ends meet, but it was rough. People were living on oatmeal and turnips, and families were having to double up.
Then, one day Ben Dibble came in to order a tombstone for his uncle, who’d been living with them. The old fellow had been struck down by lightning and was being buried on the farm. Dad chiseled a stone and delivered it in 쑽쑽쑽
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Lilian Jackson Braun his truck—all Ben had was an oxcart—and the two of them set up the stone on a fresh grave by the river. Dad was glad to get the business; his family was in need of shoes, and Ben paid cash.
In a week or so, Ben was back for another stone; his aunt had died of a broken heart. Dad cut the stone and, while delivering it, wondered about burying somebody on a riverbank. What if there was a flood? . . . Anyway, he and Ben set up the stone, and Ben asked to look at the truck; he was thinking of buying one. To Dad’s embarrassment, it wouldn’t start! He tinkered with the motor until the farm bell called Ben in to supper.
As soon as Ben had left, Dad sneaked back to the graves. He’d only pretended the truck wouldn’t start.