Cat Man’s Grave is one of Delaware’s most haunting urban legends. The tale is deeply intertwined with the history of Colonel Armwell Long Cemetery near Frankford. It’s a story of spectral protectors, forgotten caretakers, and the power of imagination, captivating locals and visitors alike. But where does the legend end and the truth begin? Let’s unravel the threads of history, myth, and mystery that keep this tale alive.
On quiet nights along the shore of Stony Creek, a voice rises from the darkness. The wind carries a question, soft but insistent. Where is my head? Who’s got my head? The Stony Creek headless ghost has haunted these waters for generations. Some know the story well. Others only hear whispers. A headless figure, staggering through the woods, searching for something lost.
The Salt Lake City Cemetery spans 120 acres in downtown Salt Lake, with over 9.5 miles of winding, narrow roads.The cemetery saw its first burial in September 1847, however it wasn’t until January of 1851 when an ordinance was passed incorporating Salt Lake City, that the cemetery was officially organized. Since that first burial, there have been more than 124,000 people buried here, including the infamous Lilly E. Gray, Victim of the Beast 666.
The Salt Lake City cemetery is also home to a few unusual legends such as Emo’s Grave, Jean Baptiste, and Lilly Gray. People aren’t drawn to Lilly’s grave because of who she was, but because of what’s written on her headstone. She must have had a really ornate eye-catching headstone, right? Not quite. Located on the far northeast edge of the cemetery in Plot X_1_169_4E, Lilly’s red, flat granite headstone blends in with the surrounding headstones and is fairly unnoticeable. That is until you get close enough to read what it says:
Lilly E. Gray
June 6 1881 – Nov 14 1958
Victim of The Beast 666
Whoa! Right?! This is not your average epitaph. Usually, epitaphs are a heartwarming tribute to the deceased. Lilly’s, on the other hand, only leaves people scratching their heads about what happened to this older lady who died almost 65 years ago, in 1958. In the years following her death, legends began to grow about the meaning behind the epitaph. The most popular legend was that she must have been murdered in some horrific fashion.
There were others that suggested she was a follower of The Great Beast himself, Aleister Crowley. He was denounced by mainstream media at the time for being “the wickedest man in the world” as well as a Satanist. Other versions of the legend along this same thread were that she was involved in Satan worship, or murdered by Satanists during a ritual. But none of those assumptions are true. Let’s explore what is known about the life of Lilly E Gray.
Lilly Edith Gray was born on June 4th, 1880 in Manvers, Ontario, Canada. Interestingly enough, her maiden name was also Gray, which tended to make tracing her life slightly more difficult. She had a twin sister, Ethel Sarah Gray, and Lilly and Ethel were the sixth and seventh of eight children. According to census records the Gray family immigrated to Benzie, Michigan in 1880, following the birth of Lilly and Ethel. In July 1898 Ethel was admitted to the Traverse City State Hospital (asylum) where she would stay until her death in 1917 at the age of 36. (A side note, Traverse City State Hospital is rumored to be one of the most haunted places in Michigan.) Lilly meanwhile was unmarried and still living at home.
Shortly after the death of her twin sister, Lilly would marry for the first time. She married a man named Richard C. Walsh in Chicago, Illinois on October 8, 1918. At the time of their marriage, he was 67, and she was 38. A 29-year age difference, and she would have been considered an “old maid” back then. A marriage of convenience perhaps? Their union was brief, as Richard passed away a few years later in December 1925.
Not long after, less than a year later to be precise, Lilly entered into marriage again. Her second marriage took place in November of 1926 when the widowed Lilly married Frank Zimmerman. This time, the age gap was much narrower, with Lilly being 46 and Frank 50. It’s likely that their paths crossed through work, as both were employed at a post office in Chicago, according to the 1930 census. The marriage between Lilly and Frank endured for 17 years until his death in August 1943. After the loss of her second husband, Lilly was left to ponder the direction of her life.
By 1950, Lilly Zimmerman left Chicago behind, though the reason for her move remains unknown. She headed for Salt Lake City, where she would soon meet her third husband — an eccentric man named Elmer Louis Gray.
Before we get to how Lilly and Elmer ended up together, let’s get to know Elmer Gray, considering he’s the person responsible for her bizarre epitaph. It was fairly difficult to trace Elmer’s life as he told many different stories and would use different versions of his name, along with aliases. Elmer was from Butler, Missouri and was born on March 12, 1881. From a fairly young age, Elmer got himself on the wrong side of the law, and he would stay there for pretty much his entire life.
By 1900, the Gray family was living in Nebraska. At some point prior to 1909, Elmer was sent to the Nebraska State Industrial School, similar to juvenile detention today. On May 21, 1909, Elmer was admitted to the Missouri State Penitentiary following a conviction for Grand Larceny. Although he was sentenced to two years, he was released a little early on November 13, 1910. From here, Elmer headed west and by 1915 he was living in Silver Cliff, Colorado. This is where Elmer’s adventures in crime start hitting the public record.On Elmer’s WWI draft registration, he lists his name as Elmer Louis De Gray. The date of birth matches exactly, however, he lists his place of birth as France. There’s one good clue though that shows this record belongs to the Elmer Gray we’re looking for; his unique signature.
From 1915 until 1932 it appears Elmer lived a trouble-free life in Denver; at least nothing bad enough to make the news. His brother lived nearby and Elmer made a living as a laborer. But for a period of time between 1932 and 1934, Elmer was serving time in the Colorado State Penitentiary for larceny. And this is when we get our first glimpse of Lilly’s future husband. After Elmer’s release from the Colorado State Penitentiary, we pick up his trail in Utah.
I suspect that Elmer had some connection to the railroad either by working for them, or catching rides as a hobo, probably a little bit of both. On the evening of August 9, 1937, Elmer was busy breaking into the Kamas Confectionary building. The store owner caught him in the act, and the police quickly escorted him off to jail.
When officers brought him before the judge and charged him with 2nd Degree Burglary, he gave the name Woodrow Lamb, an alias he had used multiple times. On September 11, 1937, Elmer, still using the name Woodrow, pleased guilty, and the court sentenced him to an “indeterminate term” in the Utah State Prison in Sugar House.
Elmer quickly applied for parole. Shortly after arriving at the prison, he filed his first application. he used the name Woodrow Lamb and told a bizarre story. “Woodrow” claimed he had no idea what crime he had committed. Insisted that no one had arrested him, and stated that he had never appeared in court.
He went on to say that he was vacationing in Utah before heading back to work in Iowa. He claimed Utah authorities held him hostage and prevented him from speaking to a lawyer because he was sick. For his next parole application in September 1938, Elmer’s story changed even more dramatically.
This time, he claimed that on August 6, 1937, he camped near the Heber River with his wife, Florence Potvin. He said robbers shot him twice, murdered his wife, and stole $1,600. These unidentified attackers also took their car and baggage. However, he never explained why authorities found him at the Kamas Confectionary or why he showed no signs of injury when they arrested him.
Elmer again claimed that the State of Utah had kidnapped him and held him without a trial or due process. By 1941, when he applied for parole, he finally used his real name. He still insisted that he had committed no crime and that the state had imprisoned him illegally. When his previous parole attempts failed, he decided to tell the entire truth in his January 1945 application. After serving 10 years and 6 months in prison, officials released Elmer Gray on July 11, 1948. He was 67 years old.
According to her obituary, Lilly moved to Salt Lake City at some point in 1950. I’ve been unable to find any records or mention of her living in Utah prior to her marriage to Elmer. In the 1950 census it shows that in March of that year Lilly was still living in Chicago with her nephew and running a restaurant. Elmer Gray and Lillie E. Zimmerman married at the courthouse in Elko, Nevada, on July 11, 1952. At the time of their marriage, Elmer was 71, and Lilly was 72. After their marriage, the couple rented a small house located at 1216 Pacific Avenue in Salt Lake City. They tore down the ramshackle house without indoor plumbing years ago, replacing it with an apartment building.
From all accounts, Lilly and Elmer seem to have lived a quiet life together, and Elmer had no more problems with the law. Lilly and Elmer spent six years together before she passed away on November 14, 1958 at Salt Lake General Hospital. Despite the rumors, she died of natural causes — pulmonary embolism and kidney failure. Lilly’s death certificate holds some very helpful clues to her past. Not only does it list her parent’s names, but it also lists all of her married names. One thing I’ve noticed is that depending on what record you’re looking at, the spelling of her first name changes. It appears that earlier in life she went by Lillian, however different records show Lily, Lilly, or Lillie. In writing this article I went with Lilly to keep it simple. Simply put, that’s how it’s spelled on her headstone.
They buried Lilly in the Salt Lake City Cemetery on November 19, 1958. Her obituary was short and to the point. I don’t believe that Elmer wrote it; the funeral home probably chose the wording. According to her obituary, her only surviving family was Elmer and several nieces and nephews. A few of her siblings were still living at the time of her death, but from what I can tell all remaining family lived in Michigan and Washington.
For whatever reason, Lilly never had children. Shortly after her death, Elmer had the infamous headstone placed on her grave. There were a few mentions of Elmer in the years following Lilly’s death. Mostly him placing ads looking for a live-in caretaker. Paramedics brought Elmer to St. Mark’s Hospital on October 31, 1964, but he was dead on arrival. The cause of death was a stroke; Elmer was 83 years old. They buried him in the Salt Lake City Cemetery on November 4, 1964, far from Lilly’s grave.
I have not been able to find an obituary, and it appears a local nursing home provided what little information is listed on his death certificate. Like Lilly, Elmer had no children. And all of this brings us back to the question of why he put Lilly E. Gray Victim of The Beast 666 on Lilly’s headstone? The most common explanation is that he despised the Utah government and law officials, blaming them for her death. Seems like a really weird way to express such dislike for the government, right?
Elmer’s bizarre pardon applications and his unusual signature may hold a clue to the mystery. His handwriting remained shaky and erratic throughout his life, which I believe could be evidence of Parkinson’s Disease — a condition confirmed on his death certificate. While most people associate Parkinson’s with tremors, it can also cause cognitive symptoms, including paranoia, hallucinations, and delusions. Given Elmer’s history of fabricating elaborate stories and viewing himself as a victim of authority, it’s possible that his declining mental state led him to believe Lilly had fallen prey to something sinister.
Rather than referencing Satanism or cult activity, ‘Victim of the Beast 666’ may have been his way of expressing deep-seated paranoia — perhaps a final act of defiance against the forces he believed had wronged them. In the end, the truth behind Lilly’s headstone isn’t one of murder or the occult, but rather the result of an aging man whose troubled past and deteriorating mind shaped his final tribute to his wife.
Lilly’s grave has been my favorite in the Salt Lake City Cemetery for over a decade. I’ve spent years piecing together her life, and everything I’ve found points to an ordinary woman who never could have imagined the curiosity her headstone would spark.
Yet, here we are — still talking about her all these years later. If you ever find yourself wandering through the Salt Lake City Cemetery, stop by her grave, take a moment, and maybe even leave some flowers. After all, for someone who was labeled a ‘Victim of the Beast 666’, she deserves at least a little kindness.
Urban legends often revolve around harmless dares and thrill-seeking rituals. But sometimes, these stories take a darker turn—turning real people into targets of fear and speculation. Such was the case with the so-called Witch of Parley’s Hollow, a woman known as Crazy Mary or Bloody Mary. From the 1930s to the 1950s, parents warned children to stay away from Crazy Mary’s house.
So it naturally turned into a challenge to see if they could spot the Witch of Parley’s Hollow. She was a recluse, and from the stories I found she had very eccentric behavior. One lady told a story of going to her house at midnight and watching her wildly playing her piano. The legend’s goal seemed simple: to spot her. Since people knew little about her, they spread rumors and branded her as crazy or even a witch. So who was Crazy Mary? And how did this legend surrounding her grow?
In 1864 the Dudler family built their homestead where Parley’s Historic Nature Park stands today. The family included Joseph Dudler, his wife Elizabeth (who went by her middle name, Susan), and his 7 children. Joseph was a carpenter by trade with a talent for brewing beer. He built a two-story home with a stone foundation and framed upper floor. By 1870 Joseph had extended the house into the hillside behind it, which included a brewery. The lower floor contained a stone “wine cellar” that served to keep things cool. You can still see this cellar along with pieces of the original foundation today.
Mr. Dudler’s beer business quickly took off and by 1892 he owned one or two saloons in Salt Lake City as well as a The Philadelphia Brewery Saloon in Park City. Travelers passing through Parley’s Canyon stayed at the homestead, which also operated as an inn. By the early 1900s, it had become a saloon.
Joseph Dudler died suddenly on the 21st of October, 1897. The responsibility of running the brewery and maintaining Dudler’s Inn fell on his wife and children. It seems they were a feisty bunch and were definitely up to the challenge. In 1898, the Salt Lake County Sheriff arrived at the property in the middle of the night to shut off access to a canal the Dudlers had built to supply their brewery with water. Mrs. Dudler was not having it and along with her sons and Loretta, kept the canal open and the Sheriff left embarrassed. The dispute escalated into a major legal battle when Salt Lake City sued Mrs. Dudler, claiming she had taken water she wasn’t entitled to use.
Mrs. Dudler repelled the suit successfully and was able to maintain her claim to water rights of the canal. Just a few years later on December 26th, 1904, Mrs. Dudler succumbed to pneumonia and died at the family homestead. Joseph and Susan Dudler had three daughters: Amelia, Louisa, and Loretta. Louisa was the only one who appears to have had a “normal” life. She married, left Parley’s Hollow, and started her own family
Amelia Dudler was a popular girl in her teenage years. She along with Loretta spent a lot of time in Park City, and both attended St. Mary’s Academy in Park City. Loretta mastered the piano and organ, earning awards for her musical talent and beautiful singing voice. Amelia Dudler married but eventually fell into addiction, relying on morphine and cocaine. She spent most of her adult life cycling in and out of jail and prison. Newspapers frequently reported on her, detailing her involvement in fights, arrests for drug use, and charges of disturbing the peace. In 1906 she was even a suspect in a murder case. She died on October 30th, 1907. The death certificate lists her death as natural, and specifically states she “was morphine and cocaine fiend.”
And then, there was Loretta. Loretta also called Retta or Mary moved back to the homestead after she finished school. Starting when she was 16 she began suffering from anxiety and severe depressive episodes. She met her husband, Harold Schaer while living in Park City, and they married in July 1907. Harold was a miner by trade, but after marrying Loretta he began work at the family brewery. In May 1908 their first child, Harold was born.
Life, at this point, seemed to be going pretty well for Loretta.A year later, Loretta lost another loved one, when her sister Louisa died at the age of 49. And three years after that, on July 26, 1912, her favorite brother Frank died from kidney disease. In a span of just a few years, she lost her mother and three siblings. Anyone would have struggled with this loss, but Loretta’s depression and anxiety made it even harder for her.
In March 1911 Loretta and Harold’s second son, Charles was born, but things were not going to stay relatively normal for Loretta for much longer. On October 18, 1912, Charles Schaer died at the age of 19 months from convulsions at the Dudler homestead. Loretta was devastated, and from all accounts, she was never the same after his death.
By 1930, Loretta’s husband had moved to Los Angeles, leaving her and their son, Harold Jr., behind in Parley’s Hollow. At 21, Harold Jr. inherited his mother’s musical talents and worked as a musician. In February 1933, he married and moved to California, where he spent many years as a studio musician for Paramount Pictures. Loretta was now living alone at Parley’s Hollow.
This is when the legend of The Witch of Parley’s Hollow got its start. Loretta didn’t leave the house much, and no one really came to visit her. By 1940, her house had fallen into severe disrepair, fueling the rumors that surrounded her. I’m sure many of the local people remembered the stories of her drug-addicted sister and the mother’s fight with the city over water. Many locals resented the Dudler family’s long-standing claim to the canal’s water, a conflict that had already painted them as outsiders. As the years passed, these lingering tensions helped fuel the legend of Loretta. Parents warned their children to stay away from her house, and soon, stories spread that the strange woman living there was a witch.
By the mid-1940’s Loretta was living in a nursing home near 2nd North and 5th West. Her house sat abandoned, and her son left all of the antique furniture, including Loretta’s beloved piano inside. On the evening of October 18th, 1952, the 40th anniversary of her son’s death, Loretta’s house went up in flames.The fire was determined to have been caused by vandals. In the years it sat empty the house of legend had turned into a party spot for local teens. The house wasn’t completely destroyed, but all of the antique furniture, including the piano was a loss. The house was now more derelict and creepy than ever.
Early in the morning of March 22nd, 1959 an older woman who had lived a long yet difficult life died at the nursing home in which she had been living for years. Her siblings and estranged husband had all died before her, and her only living son lived in Las Vegas. Loretta Dudler Schaer lived to be 88 years old. Her obituary was very simple, and she is buried in an unmarked grave in the Salt Lake City Cemetery. Was she estranged from her son as well? It seems so but has been impossible to fully determine given what little information is available so far.In 1963, Salt Lake County set the Dudler house on fire and demolished it. They needed the land for the new freeway (I-80) that was going in.
If you ever visit Parley’s Historic Nature Park, take a moment to walk to the old Dudler wine cellar. Stand in the silence, where echoes of a long-forgotten legend linger, and pay your respects to a woman who was never a witch—only misunderstood.
Legends of witches often blur the line between history and folklore. While the Witch of Parley’s Hollow is shrouded in local myth, the tragic fate of the Doruchów Witches in Poland was all too real. Their trial and execution marked the last witch hunt in the country, proving that fear and superstition have long shaped the stories we tell. Read about the haunting history of the Doruchów Witches here.
What do World War I, anti-immigrant hysteria, and a vampire have in common? As strange as it sounds, they all converge in a forgotten cemetery in Park Hills, Missouri. This is where the legend of the Vampire of Gibson Cemetery comes to life.
Tucked away beneath layers of dead leaves and tangled brush, Gibson Cemetery barely looks like a cemetery anymore. Time and neglect have broken or scattered most of the headstones, wearing away the names.If you didn’t know better, you might not even realize you were standing among the dead.
And yet, there’s a story buried here—one that involves an accused vampire, an iron-barred grave, and a town gripped by fear.
Gibson Cemetery dates back to the 1820s when the Gibson family first settled in the area. Originally a family burial ground, it eventually expanded to include others from nearby mining towns like Flat River, Rivermines, and Elvins. No one has determined the exact number of people buried here, but most graves date back to the early 1900s, when this part of Missouri became known as the Lead Belt.
Mining was the lifeblood of these small towns, and the industry drew a flood of immigrant workers, many from Hungary. These men took on the most grueling and dangerous jobs, often working as shovelers deep in the mines. Locals derogatorily called them “hunkies” and paid them a measly thirty cents an hour for backbreaking labor.
The Lead Belt community hardly welcomed their presence.
Pictures above Courtesy of The State Historical Society of Missouri
By 1917, tensions between immigrant miners and local laborers had reached a boiling point. World War I fueled a wave of xenophobia, and many viewed Hungarian miners as foreign threats, making them easy scapegoats.
Then came the riot.
On July 14, 1917, a mob of American miners, waving American flags, stormed the homes and boarding houses of Hungarian workers. They looted, beat, and chased them out of town.1Macon Chronicle-Herald – Fri, Jul 20, 1917 | Pg 1 Newspapers at the time described the event bluntly:
“Flat River Miners Eject Foreigners.”
But not all of those forced to flee were foreigners. Many were naturalized American citizens, legally entitled to live and work in the Lead Belt. In their desperate escape, some left behind everything—homes, businesses, even their wives and children. The violence was so extreme that Hungarian-American organizations called for a congressional investigation, demanding answers from Washington about how such an event could happen on U.S. soil.
The 1917 riot wasn’t an isolated event—it was the violent climax of years of tension. As early as 1913, company officials and anti-union groups targeted Hungarian, Bohemian, and Italian miners for their union activities. The situation turned deadly when mining company guards opened fire on striking workers, injuring two and escalating the conflict into a near-militarized standoff.
In response, 500 miners blockaded the mines, stopping and searching vehicles to prevent strikebreakers from getting through. What happened in the Lead Belt was part of a broader pattern of anti-immigrant violence across the country, but it left a lasting mark on the people—and the folklore—of Missouri. By 1917, these tensions had already boiled over once before. Just four years earlier, the Lead Belt saw gunfire, barricades, and a full-scale labor war.
The same fears that fueled those clashes—fears of foreign workers taking jobs and gaining power—escalated into violence. Rioters didn’t stop at homes—they dragged Hungarian workers into the streets, beat them, and set fire to their belongings. Rioters looted businesses, destroyed shops, and drove entire families to flee with only what they could carry. By the time it ended, mobs had herded over 700 Hungarian miners onto trains, exiling them from the very town they helped build. As violence spiraled out of control, state officials sent the Missouri State Militia to restore order. Soldiers patrolled the streets of Flat River, but their presence wasn’t just to stop further rioting—it was to ensure that the mass expulsion of Hungarian miners remained permanent.
By the time the dust settled, many of those forced onto trains would never return. Some, like a Russian immigrant and his family, barely survived the journey. After mobs drove him to St. Louis, he returned to salvage what remained of his home—only to receive a telegram informing him that exposure had killed two of his children.The riot hadn’t just displaced people. It had killed them.
Women didn’t just stand by during these clashes—they fought, too. In one 1913 incident, a female striker nearly attacked a company lawyer with a rock, a visceral reminder that these weren’t just labor disputes; they were full-scale community struggles.
The strikes weren’t just violent—they were financially devastating. With a large portion of their workforce gone, several mining operations slowed or shut down completely, costing the region over $100,000 a day in lost wages and damages. The Lead Belt depended on its mines, and now, thanks to fear and violence, the industry itself was beginning to collapse.
Some merchants even refused to extend credit to striking miners, effectively starving them out to force them back to work. Desperation, distrust, and fear of outsiders — the perfect storm for a legend to be born.
Between 1910 and 1920, an unsettling number of children in the area died. In an era before vaccines and antibiotics, disease took many young lives, and in 1917, a diphtheria outbreak devastated the region. But medical explanations didn’t always satisfy a grieving community looking for someone—or something—to blame.
Soon, a rumor began to spread.
A Hungarian miner living in Elvins was accused of being a vampire. Locals whispered that he lured children to his home… and ate them. Depending on who told the story, the man was also said to be an albino, his skin deathly pale, his hair bone-white, and his eyes red as blood.
When he died, the townspeople refused to let him be buried among their dead—especially not near the children’s graves. Instead, his body was placed at the far edge of Gibson Cemetery, enclosed by a wrought iron fence lined with crosses. The belief? Even in death, the barrier would keep him from rising from the grave.
Unlike many urban legends, this one had a physical marker. The wrought iron fence was real. The crosses, placed to prevent his return, were real. And according to local records, his grave was surrounded by the small headstones of children—further fueling the belief that he had preyed upon them in life.
And from there, the legend of the Vampire of Gibson Cemetery was born.
Was there really a vampire buried in Gibson Cemetery? Of course not. The accused man was just another immigrant caught in the crossfire of prejudice and paranoia.
And the dead children? They died of disease, not supernatural horror.
But history has a way of shaping legends. In 1917—the same year the Lead Belt Riot erupted—the Washington Times ran a full serialization of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. In a town already primed with anti-immigrant fears and real-life violence, it’s not hard to imagine how the folklore took hold.
A foreigner. A pale-skinned outsider. A town full of frightened people looking for someone to blame.
A vampire was the perfect monster.
Today, Gibson Cemetery has been swallowed by time, its iron fences rusted and its gravestones shattered. No one knows exactly where the so-called vampire was buried, but it is rumored he was buried within the cast iron fence. Maybe he’s still out there, hidden beneath the overgrowth, his grave forgotten.
Or maybe he was never there at all—just a name lost to history, twisted into a monster by fear.
Either way, the legend remains. And in a place like this, some stories never stay buried.
On Thanksgiving Day, 1902, a southbound train neared Geneva, NY, approaching the Marsh Bridge. As it did, the engineer and fireman onboard heard a piercing scream. When they looked up, they saw a white figure standing to the east of the bridge, frantically waving its arms.
Alarmed, the engineer brought the train to a stop. Just as he did, another scream rang out, and the phantom figure vanished before their eyes. The two men climbed down and searched the tracks and surrounding area for any sign of the figure or the source of the cries. Nothing. The tracks were clear, and there was no trace of anyone nearby.
As they started across the bridge, they heard the scream once more—one final, chilling wail before silence fell.
When the train pulled into the station, the shaken men described their experience to fellow railroad workers. The workers then told them about a deadly accident that had occurred on the same bridge years earlier. A train had plunged off the bridge, killing the engineer and fireman. According to the story, the quicksand swallowed the fireman’s body, and no one ever recovered it. Since then, witnesses have reported seeing a shrieking phantom at the bridge every year around Thanksgiving. Unsurprisingly, people began calling it the Thanksgiving Ghost.
This eerie tale was more than just local folklore—it was reported in newspapers across the country, including the Salt Lake Telegram on December 4, 1902 . But was there any truth to the legend?
Tracking down the truth behind this story wasn’t easy. There was no clear record of an accident on Thanksgiving, nor one in the years leading up to 1902 that exactly matched the description.
However, I did find an event that closely aligns with the details of the story.
On March 29, 1873, a train left Syracuse at 7:45 p.m., heading toward Rochester on the Auburn Road. Within half a mile of Geneva, the train ran into a washed-out bridge over Marsh Creek, where floodwaters had destroyed the supports. The locomotive, tender, and baggage car plunged into the raging water below, vanishing beneath the surface .
Amazingly, the passenger cars remained on the tracks, preventing further catastrophe. But for the men in the engine, there was no escape. The violent current tore through the wreckage, making any immediate rescue efforts impossible.
The search for the missing crew was delayed due to the sheer force of the floodwaters and dangerous debris floating in the creek.1Democrat and Chronicle Apr 4 1873 Pg 4 It wasn’t until the following day, March 30, that the body of Engineer Ignatius Buelte was recovered near the wreck.
Fireman Augustus Sipple met an even more unsettling fate. Rescuers searched the crash site but found no trace of his body. The flood swept him far downstream, and searchers didn’t discover his remains until March 31, far from the wreck. They scoured the floodwaters for two days before finally locating him. The powerful currents had made immediate recovery impossible, and by the time they found both men, exposure had severely damaged their remains. Such a tragic and violent end easily fuels ghostly tales.
Buelte’s tragic death left a deep impact on his community. His funeral at St Joseph’s Church drew a large crowd, including members of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers and the St. Alphonse’s Society, a testament to the respect he commanded.2Democrat and Chronicle Apr 4 1873 Pg 4 Some say his untimely death, along with that of Fireman Sipple’s, gave rise to the legend of the Thanksgiving Ghost of Marsh Bridge, a spectral warning of the dangers that once lurked along the tracks.
This wasn’t just a freak accident. In the aftermath, both families sued the railroad for negligence, arguing that the bridge had been in a dangerous state before the flood took it down.
The court found the railroad liable and awarded compensation to both families.
The wreck sent shockwaves through the Geneva community. As details emerged about the bridge’s weakened state before the flood, public outcry grew. The railroad was heavily criticized, reinforcing the idea that the ghost story may have been less about the supernatural and more about reminding railroad men of the dangers of poor track maintenance.3Democrat and Chronicle Mar 31 1873 Pg 4
For years to come, railroad workers crossing Marsh Bridge may have whispered about the two men who perished there, warning new hires to keep their eyes, and ears, open.
There are no reports linking the March 1873 accident directly to Thanksgiving. So why did the story evolve that way?
People may have misremembered the wreck’s anniversary over time. Since the disaster happened in late March, a transitional season, storytellers may have shifted it to another familiar marker: Thanksgiving. Folklore often changes this way, especially when people pass stories down orally instead of recording them in history.
Another theory suggests railroad workers kept the story alive as a cautionary tale during their long, grueling holiday shifts.
Thanksgiving marked a time of heavy travel when workers needed to stay especially vigilant on the tracks. Linking the ghost to Thanksgiving reinforced the idea that this was a dangerous season for train crews. This connection helped ensure the legend remained relevant across generations.
Or maybe, just maybe, the spirits of Engineer Buelte and Fireman Sipple never truly left—forever warning those who crossed Marsh Bridge to be careful where they tread.
The Thanksgiving Ghost of Marsh Bridge may not have happened as reported in 1902, but it’s rooted in real tragedy. Whether a spectral warning or a reminder of railroad dangers, the legend of Marsh Bridge continues to echo through history.
But perhaps there’s another reason why Buelte and Sipple’s spirits might linger. Even in death, Buelte’s journey was troubled. At his funeral, burial was delayed due to a rule limiting the number of carriages allowed in the cemetery. When the sexton refused to help, mourners had to lower the coffin and fill the grave without his assistance.[msn]Democrat and Chronicle Apr 4 1873 Pg 4[/mfn]
Some might say this kind of disrespect in death is exactly the kind of thing that keeps spirits from resting.
A mother took her two young children for a drive, believing they were possessed by the devil. She drove off the bridge into the river, killing everyone in the car. If you sit on the bridge, roll down your windows, and honk three times, you may hear children yelling, “Don’t do it, Mother!”
Cry Baby Bridges are a common urban legend across the United States, with each location adding its own twist. Most versions involve a grieving mother who, in desperation, kills her child by throwing them off a bridge or driving into the water. Some stories, like the Cry Baby Bridge Utah legend, blame an abusive husband, mental illness, or supernatural forces like demonic possession. Despite their differences, they all share one eerie claim. If you visit the bridge at night, you may hear a baby crying, see ghostly figures, or experience paranormal activity.
While these legends are widespread, documented evidence to support them is rare. In many cases, the stories evolve from real tragedies—car accidents, drownings, or even suicides. But over time, the details shift, and fact becomes folklore. Some historians believe these stories come from older ghost tales or past cases of infanticide exaggerated into legend. Whether based on truth or fiction, Cry Baby Bridge stories, including the Cry Baby Bridge Utah legend, continue to fascinate ghost hunters and folklore enthusiasts.
I’ve heard stories of various Cry Baby Bridges across the United States but didn’t know Utah had one. I discovered it while reading an article about haunted spots across the state. Bear River City isn’t far from where I live. Since it was Halloween, I figured it was the perfect time to visit the infamous Cry Baby Bridge Utah.
We got to the bridge and saw it had been closed off some time ago. A new bridge stood beside the old one. Thankfully, they left the old bridge standing. After climbing through some brush, we saw the bridge stretched out before us.
It quickly became clear why the bridge had been abandoned. Made of steel, the bridge had holes every few feet, some large enough for a foot to slip through. Rust covered the bridge. We looked for any indication of a car going off the edge of the bridge. While it would’ve been easy enough to repair the bridge, there were no areas that we could see that showed any signs of previous damage.
When we got home, I figured a mother dying by suicide and murdering her children would have been a major story. Bear River City is tiny, so it would have made big news.
I searched the internet and newspapers for any mention of a major car accident, accidental deaths, murder, or suicide in Bear River. Finding nothing, I expanded my search to Corinne, Tremonton, and Brigham City. But still, nothing.
Then I found a May 16, 1931, article with the headline: “Driver Freed of Blame in Bridge Death.” While the story didn’t involve a mother killing her children, it was still incredibly tragic.
On the morning of Friday, May 16, 1931, a four-year-old-boy by the name of Ellis Anderson was playing near the bridge while his father was working in a nearby field. A mail carrier was crossing the bridge when a dog darted in front of his car. He swerved to avoid the dog but lost control, striking Ellis and throwing him off the bridge into the river below. His father pulled his body from the river. The medical examiner stated he was dead at the time of his arrival on the scene. The mail carrier later said he hadn’t seen the little boy chasing the dog. Another article says that the driver struck both Ellis and a 12-year-old companion by the name of Norman. The article didn’t mention Norman’s condition, but he apparently survived.
This wasn’t the tragedy I expected to uncover, but it makes me wonder. Could this be the real event behind Bear River City’s Cry Baby Bridge legend? Stories like these often evolve over time, blending fact with folklore. Have you ever visited a Cry Baby Bridge or heard a similar legend? I’d love to hear your thoughts—drop a comment below or share your own eerie experiences of Cry Baby Bridge Utah!
If you visit Emo’s Grave, circle the Moritz Columbarium three times while chanting “Emo, Emo, Emo” and then look into the columbarium you’ll see the red glowing eyes of “Emo” staring back at you.
One of the local legends I’ve had a lot of people ask me about is that of Emo’s Grave. Emo’s Grave is a columbarium located in the Jewish section of the Salt Lake City Cemetery. The tomb is visible from 4th Street just East of 990 East. The name ‘Emo’ appears nowhere on the monument because it actually belonged to Jacob Moritz.
Jacob Moritz was born in Ingenheim, Germany, in February 1849. At 16, he immigrated to the United States, arriving in September 1865. He spent a few years in New York City working at F.M. Schaefer Brewing Co. Then, he moved to St. Louis and worked for Anheuser-Busch.
Hoping to try his hand at mining, he eventually made his way to Helena, Montana. Whether he struggled with mining or simply missed brewing is unclear. In 1871, he moved to Salt Lake City and opened the Little Montana Brewery. Within a few years, it became immensely successful. He then built a much larger, state-of-the-art brewery at 10th East and 5th South, renaming it the Salt Lake City Brewing Co. Part of the original brewery still stands and is now the Anniversary Inn.
Over his 39 years in Salt Lake City, Jacob Moritz grew his brewery to be one of the largest outside of Milwaukee. His beer was sold throughout Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Arizona, Colorado, and even parts of California. At the height of his success, he also owned over 36 saloons. In 1889 he married Lahela Louisson from Hawaii, and she joined him in Salt Lake. Both actively participated in the local Jewish community. He served as President of Temple B’nai Israel, while she led the Hebrew Ladies’ Relief Society. In addition to running a successful brewing business, he engaged in Utah politics as a member of the Liberal Party.
Despite making his fortune from alcohol and supporting liberal politics, Jacob Moritz was well-liked in Utah, even among Mormons. In October 1909, he received a passport. Soon after, he and Lahela left for Europe. He had been in poor health for months, and they hoped rest and mineral springs would help. By June 1910, they reached Germany. There, Moritz died of lung and stomach cancer at 61, surrounded by his wife and siblings. This is where the legend of Emo’s Grave begins.
A newspaper report on his death stated that Lahela had him cremated, intending to inter his remains in the Jewish section of the Salt Lake City Cemetery. Lahela returned to the United States from Europe on the 23rd of July. Lahela sent Jacob’s remains “in bond” and they arrived on the 25th. Sometime after July 31st, she interred them in the columbarium, though I found no record of a funeral or ceremony. Soon after, rumors about “Emo’s Grave” began to spread.
No one knows who started the rumors or how the name Emo originated. Not long after Jacob’s death, Lahela remarried and moved to California with her new husband. At some point, Jacob’s family retrieved his remains, but their final resting place remains unknown. I suspect they were taken to California and possibly buried with Lahela when she died in 1959. Nonetheless, the tale of Emo’s Grave lives on.
For decades, the Brigham City Indian School sat abandoned, its empty halls fueling eerie stories of restless spirits and forgotten history. As with most urban legends, the longer the buildings stood empty, the more elaborate the ghost stories became.
Paranormal teams and ghost hunters became obsessed with the site, eager to explore its decaying halls. Like the Old Mill and Pioneer Village at Lagoon, this was one place that remained strictly off-limits. Those who managed to get inside did so illegally.
If you stand in front of the Weeping Woman of Logan Cemetery at midnight under a full moon and say, “Weep, woman, weep,” the statue will cry. At least, that’s what the legend claims.
Some say she mourns the loss of her children; only three of her eight lived to adulthood. Depending on who you ask, she either weeps only under the full moon or on the anniversary of each child’s death. Over the years, visitors have sworn they’ve seen streaks on her face, as if the stone itself holds onto her sorrow.
Olif Cronquist built this monument in memory of his wife, Julia, who died on January 8, 1914, from valvular heart disease, likely a lasting complication of scarlet fever. As one of Cache County’s first commissioners and a well-known dairy farmer, Olif left his mark on the community, but his legacy remains forever tied to the heartbreak that shaped his family’s history.
Julia and Olif’s first child, Margaret, was born in 1880, followed by twin boys, Olif and Oliver, in 1883. Their son Orson arrived in 1888, and for a time, life seemed full of promise. Then, in March 1889, scarlet fever swept through their home. Within days, the twins were gone, taken by the disease before their sixth birthday. Julia survived the illness, but it left her with lasting heart damage—an invisible scar that would follow her for the rest of her life.
With the birth of their son Elam in 1891, it seemed as though the worst had passed for the Cronquist family. In 1894, Julia gave birth to another daughter, Lilean, but records are unclear—she may have been stillborn or lived only a short time. In just five years, they had buried three of their six children.
Despite their losses, life carried on. Julia and Olif welcomed another daughter, Emelia, in 1896, followed by Inez in 1899. But their happiness didn’t last long. By late February 1901, scarlet fever had returned, and this time, it took Emelia, age four, and Inez, just two years old. The sisters were buried together in a specially built casket.
Twelve years earlier, Julia and Olif had stood in this same cemetery, mourning the deaths of their twin boys, Olif and Oliver. Now, they found themselves in the same place, saying goodbye to their daughters—history, in the cruelest way, repeating itself.
Mourners at the funeral watched in sorrow as pallbearers placed the small casket over the grave. When they removed the lid for one final viewing, the girls lay side by side, their bodies gently positioned as if they were still whispering secrets to one another—only now, death had silenced their conversation. Those who attended later described the scene as both beautiful and devastating: the two girls, fair as angels, half-facing each other, cold in death’s embrace.
Julia was inconsolable. Witnesses feared she might not survive the weight of her grief. She had already buried four of her children, and now she was saying goodbye to two more. Even the strongest hearts at the service were moved to tears as she stood over the casket, visibly shattered.
Even in life, Julia’s sorrow was impossible to ignore. Passersby often saw her at the cemetery, kneeling by the graves of her children, lost in grief. Some say she never truly left. Maybe that’s why the legend lingers—because some grief is too heavy to fade, even in death.
By the time Julia turned 40, she had buried five of her eight children. Loss had become a familiar presence in her life, but it never grew easier. Family history remembers Julia as inconsolable, often seen kneeling at their graves, lost in grief. Over time, her health declined, weakened by the long-term effects of scarlet fever. She passed away at 3 a.m. on January 14, 1914.
Her obituary described her as “a splendid type of woman, tender, loving, patient, and true, bearing her great burden without complaint and always seeking the happiness and comfort of those about her.”
Olif commissioned the monument in 1917, a lasting tribute to his wife and the children they lost. Today, the Weeping Woman watches over the Cronquist family plot in Logan City Cemetery. If you want to see her for yourself, you’ll find her at 1000 N 1200 East in Logan, on the campus of Utah State University. The family’s plot is located at A_ 100_ 45_ 4.
