Sylvia Shults's Blog, page 5

Today I Learned …

Rubber bands last longer when refrigerated.

If you encounter a bag of rubber bands in a friend’s fridge, they’re not storing them as a tasty snack. Rubber bands actually last longer and get stretchier at cooler temperatures.

While most materials expand when heated and contract when cooled, the polymer structure of rubber actually produces the opposite effect. Rubber molecules are grouped in chains like “tangled spaghetti.” When the long chains get hot, they shorten and contract, while colder temps make them relax and expand. 

 (Source: Ranker)

Today I Learned …

The planet Venus rotates so slowly that if you were to walk across its surface while watching the sunset, it would never end. (It’s not suggested that you actually do this, though, as the average temperature on Venus is 864 degrees Fahrenheit.) (from Ripley’s Believe It Or Not: Beyond the Bizarre)

Lights Out: St. Albans

The Roman town of Verulamium was one of three British towns laid waste by the vengeance of Boudicca, queen of the Iceni tribe. Much later, the town of St. Albans, outside London, still remembers its ancient history. Ghosts prowl the streets of St. Albans, spirits that have made the place their home over the centuries. Join me for a walking ghost tour of St. Albans, and a visit to its exquisite cathedral. https://youtu.be/ZBJ9AK6xluc

Today I Learned …

Greg Novak from Gilman, MN, used farm equipment to build a 50-foot-high snowman. It took him hundreds of hours to construct the snowman, who had plywood eyes, a barrel for a nose, garbage can lids for buttons, an 80-foot-long scarf, and carried a 35-foot-high broom.

The Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day Twelve: The Wreck of the General Arnold

We are going to end things with a bang, and with a ridiculously fun episode of Lights Out! I am delighted to bring you this super-cool episode, recorded in June 2017 in Plymouth, Massachusetts. I’ll be joined by the ever-fabulous Janice Williams, tour guide for Dead of Night Tours in Plymouth. She’ll tell us the creepy tale of the Wreck of the General Arnold, a brig that went aground on Christmas Day in White Flats just offshore from Plymouth. https://youtu.be/xZY-ntKexJk

And we’ve come to Christmas Eve — how about that! If you’ve enjoyed these ghost stories, and want more, tune in to the true crime podcast Grave Deeds and Dead Plots at www.voyagemedia.fm, or seek out the new book Grave Deeds and Dead Plots Volume Two, at amazon.com or bookshop.org. While you’re browsing the Web, take a peek at www.weirddarkness.com. If Darren Marlar left any cookies and milk out for Santa, you have my permission to take a couple. (And if he left schnapps out for Krampus, you just bring that right back here to me.) Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fright!

The Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day Eleven: Today I Learned …

The Japan outlet of Domino’s Pizza had a novel way of delivering pizzas for a hot minute. In 2016, Domino’s Japan thought it had come up with a clever way to promote its new live delivery GPS system, take on raging blizzards in Hokkaido, and add a bit of festive cheer all at once: delivery reindeer.

According to Domino’s, the reindeer were a genius idea because they served as a “light vehicle” that had no costs and could deliver heavy items without needing a license. What could go wrong?

Customers had mixed reactions, with some concerned about animal cruelty and others fearing the caribou would eat their pizza. Actual problems included the animals repeatedly shaking their antlers, dislodging the pizzas they were carrying, and refusing to stop at delivery locations.

The program lasted one week before Domino’s Japan threw in the towel on Dasher and Dancer and ended the reindeer deliveries. (from Ranker)

The Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day Ten: The Phantom Saloon

(This story comes from Spirits of Christmas: The Dark Side of the Holidays, available at www.bookshop.org and at Amazon.)

The Wild West held many secrets in its wide-open spaces. A thriving community could become a shivering ghost town in the space of just a few years, if the mine failed or the promised railroad didn’t come through. Sometimes, it was just one building out in the middle of the lonesome prairie that held out for a few years, then fell into ruin. But every once in a while, a building doesn’t die easily.

Sometime in the mid-1800s, two ranchers were out riding the range in Park County, Wyoming. They had gone out in search of a herd of cattle. A blizzard was looming, and they were charged with getting the longhorns to shelter. But they were too late.

The blizzard swept down quicker than expected. The two ranchers saw the cattle in a gully that was somewhat protected from the wind. Trusting in the cows’ thick winter coats to keep them warm, the ranchers turned their horses to safety for themselves. A herd of cattle could huddle together for warmth. Two men and two horses, out on the open plains during a blizzard, would surely freeze to death.

The two men headed for the ranch, but it was slow going fighting the drifting snow. Sleet swirled around the riders, and their horses’ heads drooped in exhaustion.

Suddenly, a gray form in the distance resolved itself into a building. The riders were still miles from the ranch, and the shack would have to do for shelter. They dismounted, tied their horses under the lean-to at the side of the building, and went inside.

The ranchers pulled the weathered gray door closed behind them, and looked around. In the fading light of day that peeked through the cracks in the walls, they could see that the building had once been either a restaurant or, more likely, a saloon. Along one wall was a long bar, with a cracked mirror hung behind it. One of the men looked behind the counter hopefully, but any bottles were long gone. A few lonely tables stood around like strangers at a dance.

The men unslung their saddlebags and set about building a fire. There was a hearth, with a few dried sticks scattered on it. One of the men shaved a stick into tinder and struck a spark. Soon a small fire was burning wanly on the bricks of the hearth.

Somehow, the small flames just made the shadows in the room look deeper.

The two men huddled close to the fire, warming their chilled hands. One of the men glanced over at the bar. Sure wish they’d left at least one bottle of whiskey when they cleared out, he thought miserably.

Then he blinked. He thought he’d seen a shadowy figure behind the bar. The bartender? But as quickly as the shadow had appeared, it flickered and was gone. The man rubbed his eyes and turned back to the fire.

“Listen! D’you hear that?” the other man muttered. “Coulda swore I heard the neck of a bottle clinkin’ on a glass.”

“Can’t be. That ain’t nothin’ but wishful thinking …” the first man said. But maybe, just maybe, he had seen a ghostly bartender behind the counter … he got up and grabbed one of the old wooden chairs.

“These oughta burn good.” He broke off a leg with a crack, and laid the dry wood on the fire. It caught, and the flames leapt up higher. The second man nodded, his eyes wide.

The sounds of a saloon began to unfold in the darkness around them, in the shadows the light of the fire couldn’t reach. The clack of poker chips came from a dusty table in the corner. A woman’s high laugh made the men jump. Someone plunked out “Old Susannah” on a piano that was slightly out of tune. The cheerful notes hung like brittle shards of ice in the air. The men moved closer to the tiny fire, praying for the dawn.

At last, the black gloom of the room gave way to gray shadows. The phantom sounds faded away as the fire guttered out. The men yanked open the door and stumbled out into the stinging cold. They’d never been so glad to see the sun.

They saddled their horses and urged them into a trot, breaking through the fresh snowfall. Neither man looked back, because in their hearts, they both knew what they’d see—a broken-down shack, one that had been abandoned for decades.

(There are plenty more spooky stories over at www.weirddarkness.com. Go explore, and say hello from me!)

The Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day Nine: More Creepy Tales of Christmas!

I had a fabulous time chatting with Jon Mallard, host of the Odd to Newfoundland podcast. Listen in as I spin some spooky tales of Christmas hauntings. https://podfollow.com/oddtonewfoundland/view?fbclid=IwAR0_FlxyNn0BRuyKLYV16pIAr713xclaqyPJPaWkYl6bFDklXajyTgp2xT8#_=_

Drop in on www.weirddarkness.com, too. You’re sure to find even more exciting ghost stories over there.

The Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day Eight: Professor Gladstone and the Murderer

(This story comes from Spirits of Christmas: The Dark Side of the Holidays, available at www.bookshop.org and on Amazon.)

The small town of Beechy, Saskatchewan, didn’t see much excitement during the year. But the evening of December 10, 1932, was a special occasion. That night, people were braving the wintry weather and flocking to the small movie theater in town. There weren’t coming to see Bette Davis or Gary Cooper, or the antics of the Marx Brothers or the snide sarcasm of W.C. Fields. They were there to see a live performance by “Professor Gladstone, Mentalist”—a real live mind reader, or so he claimed.

The house lights dimmed, and the audience settled in for an evening of exciting entertainment. They had no idea of how much drama would shortly come from that small stage.

Professor Gladstone was tall, with a distinguished manner well-befitting a mind reader and showman. He put on a memorable performance as he worked the show for nearly an hour, astounding the audience with his uncanny powers of mentalism. Unbeknownst to the audience, the show was about to get a lot more interesting.

Gladstone stopped his dramatic pacing around the stage, and went eerily still for a few long moments. The audience began to murmur their uncertainty. What was wrong? Then Gladstone snapped to attention and stared out over the audience. He locked eyes with a local rancher named Bill Taylor.

“At this moment, you are thinking of your friend Scotty McLaughlan,” Gladstone intoned. As Taylor blinked in astonishment, the mind reader added, “Scotty McLaughlan was the victim of a foul, brutal murder.”

A ripple of shock rustled through the theater. Three years before, McLaughlan had farmed in the area with a partner, John Schumacher. He’d had plans to sell his share of the farm to Schumacher and move to British Columbia. He had intended to take the night train out of town on January 16, 1930. His friends had shown up at the station to see him off and wish him luck, but McLaughlan had never arrived to catch his train. The police had been notified, but the investigation had long gone cold.

Professor Gladstone wasn’t finished making electrifying announcements. He pointed to another man in the audience, and announced, “He will find the body—and I myself will be with him when he does!” It was another bombshell: the man Gladstone had pointed to was Constable Carey, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer for the town.

Constable Carey was, himself, shocked at Gladstone’s revelations. The next morning, he called RCMP headquarters in Saskatoon. He told Corporal Jack Woods about the previous night’s astounding scene at the theater. Woods did a quick background check on Professor Gladstone, and decided to reopen the case. Whether one believed in mind-reading powers or not, Gladstone’s act had reminded the community that one of their citizens had been missing for nearly three years. If nothing else, the police would do well to take advantage of the renewed interest in the situation.

When Corporal Woods arrived, Constable Carey contacted Professor Gladstone, and the three men began to canvass the town of Beechy and the outlying farming community. They spent the entire day talking to people, mostly getting a rehash of the same dead-end information that Carey had heard in January 1930. But they caught a break in the case late that afternoon.

A farmer who was impressed by Gladstone’s talents admitted that before McLaughlan had gone missing, John Schumacher had come to see him in a towering rage. The farmer had no idea why Schumacher was so worked up, but he did say that Schumacher had threatened to kill the “damned Scotsman”.

This new evidence was enough to send the policemen, with Gladstone in tow, out to Schumacher’s farm that same night. As the tires of the car crunched on Schumacher’s driveway, Gladstone insisted that McLaughlan’s body was somewhere on the property.

John Schumacher, however, stuck to the story he’d told when McLaughlan had gone missing. He’d kept the story simple: Scotty had wanted to leave for British Columbia, so he (Schumacher) had paid Scotty a few hundred dollars for his share of the land. He had never seen Scotty again, and had no idea where he was now.

The Mounties found Schumacher’s story a little too pat, and started asking more questions. Schumacher, sensing their suspicions, clammed up. Just as the police were about to give up in frustration, Professor Gladstone spoke. He painted a sordid picture of the crime. Scotty had indeed come to Schumacher seeking payment for his share of the farm. But Schumacher had started a fight. The two men had wandered, still arguing, close to the barn. The argument had turned violent. A blow fell, and another, and another … Schumacher had buried McLaughlan’s body near the barn.

John Schumacher’s stubborn silence said more than a desperate denial ever could. The next morning, the police officers and Gladstone returned, and they brought a group of other men from the community.

The men were all carrying picks and shovels.

The group looked to Professor Gladstone for instructions. The mind reader concentrated fiercely for a few brief moments. Then he pointed to a frozen pile of manure. “Dig there. You’ll find him.”

Two hours later, the men’s hands were beginning to go numb with the cold. John Schumacher stood nearby, still saying nothing. The group was still working, but they weren’t digging with the same frenzy as when they’d started. Could the professor have been wrong this whole time?

Suddenly, a shovel edge scraped against not hard-frozen dirt, but something more yielding—a woolen sock. There was something in the ground. Soon, the diggers had unearthed an entire skeleton. Shreds of rotting cloth lay limply on the bones. The men fell silent.

“That scarf … it’s … it’s Scotty’s,” one man said in a sick, strangled voice.

The skull, when pried from the frozen grave and brushed off, showed three distinct fractures. John Schumacher broke down and admitted to the murder. He was convicted and sentenced, and justice was finally served.

The case brought Professor Gladstone the kind of publicity money just can’t buy. His career flourished, and he continued to perform for many years. As good as he was, though, he never had another show as dramatic as the one he played in Beechy, Saskatchewan, on December 10, 1932.

If you enjoyed this true crime tidbit, I’ve got a treat for you. My latest book, Grave Deeds and Dead Plots Volume Two, has a companion podcast. You can find it at www.voyagemedia.fm . And speaking of podcasts, Darren Marlar, over at www.weirddarkness.com, has a great one. Go check it out! Shoo! Go on! (You’ll dig it, I promise.)

The Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day Seven: The Kennedy Road Phantom

(This story comes from Spirits of Christmas: The Dark Side of the Holidays, available at www.bookshop.org and on Amazon.)

Chicago and her suburbs are justly famous for the phantom hitchhikers that roam the streets. Hovering somewhere between urban legend and outright ghost story, these apparitions rack up the paranormal equivalent of frequent flyer miles with their many appearances to unsuspecting motorists. And the notorious Resurrection Mary is by no means the only spirit that wanders the highways and byways of the Second City.

Take the “Kennedy Road Phantom”, for example. This mysterious female ghost first showed up near the town of Byron, Illinois, in December 1980. Her appearance was so shocking that once word got out, traffic was sometimes bumper-to-bumper along Kennedy Road, with curiosity seekers angling for a glimpse of the young lady.

This may well have been because the slender young woman wore next to nothing, even in the frigid Chicago weather.

One witness, Dave Trenholm, came to Chicago Tribune reporters with his story. He said that he was driving along Kennedy Road at about nine pm on the night of January 2, 1981, with Guy Harriett of Oregon. Dave claimed that the young lady stepped out from behind some bushes at the side of the road. She was, Dave said, “tall, slender, nice-looking, about twenty. All she was wearing were some black panties and some kind of scarf around her neck.” This despite the fact that the thermometer hovered around ten degrees that night. As the woman spotted the car, she turned and ran toward a nearby farmhouse, and vanished.

Sightings like this went on for weeks, from December 1980 well into January 1981. Reliable witnesses filled police blotters with reports of the girl’s clothing—or lack of it. Different witnesses described different outfits. The girl was seen wearing light-colored shorts and a sweatshirt, or shorts and a light jacket, or even a tiny halter top. One detail remained constant: she was always skimpily dressed.

This argued against the whole thing being a hoax. It would take a seriously dedicated (or outright insane) prankster to walk along the side of a rural roadway in the dead of winter half-naked.

So who was she? A mentally handicapped girl had been reported missing by her parents around Christmas, and for a while she became a possible candidate, but that theory was dismissed. Putting aside the possibility of a joke, people naturally turned to the paranormal for an explanation.

Perhaps she was a car accident victim who had returned to haunt a stretch of Kennedy Road. Or maybe she was the ghost of a woman who had been buried in a nearby cemetery, which had been abandoned and recently destroyed.

The story took a gruesome turn in late January 1981. The Rockford Register-Star published a report that an Ogle County sheriff’s car had struck a mysterious woman around 8 pm and run her over.

The woman had suddenly appeared in the middle of the road, and the driver of the squad car had no time to react. The car slammed into the woman, and she was pulled underneath the vehicle. According to the officers filing the report, they heard her bones crunch and felt the impact of the tires rolling over her body.

The squad car screeched to a stop, and the officers wrenched their doors open and flung themselves out of the car, horrified at what they’d accidentally done. They sprinted back up the road, aghast at the carnage that surely awaited them … but they never found the woman’s body.

Puzzled, the officers made their report, and braced for the derision that was sure to follow. A police lieutenant called the story “crazy and untrue”, but the officers were simply doing their duty, which that night included filing a report of something inexplicable.

By the end of January, the reports of the half-dressed phantom of Kennedy Road had begun to taper off. Soon, the pretty young ghost seemed to fade out of existence, despite the people still quite eager to see her. That was decades ago, but many ghost hunters still keep a sharp eye out for her as they drive down that lonely stretch of road.

Especially the guys.