Link to my last post/photos
Original Reddit Post
First off, thank you all for helping so far. There is some more work to be done in the investigating, but so far it's been really interesting. Below is about the Yale man, and his family. I still have more investigating to do.
The breakout clue was the Yale Man. Thank you for who helped identify this person, because Yale keeps meticulous records.
Yale Man is Harold Hayden Barber, who was part of a famous family of educators and religious leaders. He was a missionary and died in Mexico in 919.
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/61184229/harold-hayden-barber
PDF of deaths of Alumni in 1919-1920
Harold Hayden Barber, B A. 1914 Born November 14, 1891, in Manchester, Conn Died October 30, 1919, in Mazatlan, Mexico Harold Hayden Barber, son of Rev. Clarence Howard Barber (B A Amherst 1877) and Mary Lucretia (Johnson) Barber, was born in Manchester, Conn , November 14, 1891. His father, whose parents were Gaylord and Catharine (Hayden) Barber, graduated at the Hartford Theological Seminary in 1880 and later held Congregational pastorates in Tornngford, Manchester, and Damelson, Conn
The first member of the family to come to America was Thomas Barber, an Englishman who settled at Windsor, Conn Another ancestor on the paternal side was Rev Heman Humphrey, D D , who graduated at Yale in 1805 and was the first president of Amherst College. Mary Johnson Barber is the daughter of Almon and Sarah (Beach) Johnson.
He was fitted for college at the Kilhngly (Conn) High School At Yale he was given honors in the studies of Junior year, and received dissertation appointments He served as secretary and treasurer of the Jonathan Edwards Club in Junior year and was president of the organization in Senior year. He was for two years a Bible group leader, was interested in the work of the Edwin Bancroft Foote Boys' Club, and belonged to the Yale Society for the Study of Socialism.
He entered the Hartford Theological Seminary in the fall of 1914 and received the degree of B D. there in 1917. He was president of his class and also of the student body and the Students' Association of the Hartford Seminary Foundation, which includes the students of the Hartford Theological Seminary, the Kennedy School of Missions, and the Hartford School of Religious Pedagogy. Upon graduating from the seminary he was awarded a prize in Greek and a Jacobus Fellowship, which entitled him to an extra year of study. Availing himself of this privilege, he received in May, 1918, the degree of S T.M The thesis which he submitted at this time was entitled 'The Relation of Church and State in Mexico since the Beginning of the Nineteenth Century." Mr. Barber was ordained in his father's church in Damelson, July 24, 1918, and the following December became engaged in work under the American Board of Missions at Mazatlan, Mexico
He died there of fever, October 30, 1919, and was buried m the Protestant Cemetery. His marriage took place in Damelson, August 9, 1918, to Barbara Southworth Howland (B A. Mount Holyoke 1913), daughter of Rev. John Howland, a graduate of Amherst in 1876 and of the Hartford Theological Seminary in 1882, and Sara (Chollar) Howland, missionaries under the American Board in Mexico. Mrs. Barber survives him with their son, John Howland, born October 31, 1919, in Oakland, Calif. He is also survived by his mother, two brothers, Edward J. Barber, 'o$, and Rev Laurence L. Barber, '10, and an adopted sister, Edith M , the wife of Rev George B. Hawkes, who graduated from Colorado College in 1898 and from the Hartford Theological Seminary in 1902, and was a special student in the Yale Divinity School from 1917 to 1919 Mr. Barber's father died April 10, 1920
His son was born one day after his death, and Harold's wife went on to remarry
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/61188780/john-howland-barber

John Howland Barber

BIRTH 31 Oct 1919 Oakland, Alameda County, California, USA
DEATH10 Jul 2007 (aged 87) Torrance, Los Angeles County, California, USA
John Howland Barber was a descendant of a long line of New England educators and Congregational clergy and was proud to count among his ancestors John Howland, who came to America on the Mayflower.
His father, Harold Barber, died the day before John was born. A few years later, his mother married again, so John grew up in Mexico where his step-father, Walter Clyde Taylor, was director of the YMCA. His new family included three brothers, Robert, Walter Jr., and Ralph who were later joined by another brother Ted. The boys never made much over distinctions like step- or half- and remained close throughout their lives. John attended the American School and was valedictorian of the Class of 1936. He earned a B.A. in English from Stanford University, a masters in meteorology from California Institute of Technology, and a masters in economics from the University of Wisconsin.
In World War II, he served in the U.S. Army Air Force in the Canal Zone, Vera Cruz (Mexico), and Abeline, Texas, before serving in Rome as the commanding officer of Weather Cental for the Mediterranean Theater of Operations. At the end of the war, he participated in negotiations with both Italian and Greek representatives to establish procedures for turning over American weather equipment to their governments in exchange for commitments to provide weather information to the world meteorological community.
He was fluent in Spanish, Italian, and French. After the war, he worked as a simultaneous interpreter at various international conferences until joining the U.S. State Department, where he served in Monagua, Nicaragua, Genoa, Italy, and La Paz, Bolivia, as well as in the office of Mexican Affairs at the State Department. He then spent five years as Second Secretary at the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City, followed by his final tour of duty as the Consulate General in Monterrey, Mexico. He received the Department of State's Meritorious Honor Award for "his superior performance in political work, his contribution to the development program of scientific cooperation between the United State and Mexico, and his able representation of the United States in the Inter-American Indian Institute." He retired from the service in 1970 and established a career as a free-lance simultaneous interpreter for the State Department and other U.S. government agencies, as well as the Organization of American States.
He enjoyed choral singing and belonged to various singing groups wherever he lived, including the Washington Opera's 1960 production of Verdi's Othello. At Christ Church, he served as chairman of the Music Committee and sang with the choir. He was a charter member of the Easton Choral Arts Society. He also served several terms on the Board of Trustees of Dorchester County Public Library, including one term as President. He served as Treasurer of Friends of the Library and worked for a number of years with their used book sales. He was also an active member of the Dorchester County Historical Society and spent two terms as Vice-President, as well as being program chairman for several terms.
His motheHarold's Wife
Barbara Southworth Howland was born on 14 November 1889, in Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico. Her father, John Howland, was 35 and her mother, Sarah Brewster Choller, was 32. She married Walter Clyde Taylor in 1923, in Mexico City, Mexico. They were the parents of at least 1 son. She lived in Killingly, Windham, Connecticut, United States in 1910. She died on 27 January 1975, in Claremont, Los Angeles, California, United States, at the age of 85, and was buried in Oak Park Cemetery, Claremont, Los Angeles, California, United States.
https://aspace.fivecolleges.edu/repositories/2/resources/158
The Barbara Howland Taylor Papers consist of research material, writings, memorabilia, information on plants and gardening, biographical information, and photographs. The material primarily relates to her research about Mexican culture and literature, and the Spanish language. The research material includes short essays, translations, lecture notes, and pamphlets and articles in Spanish and English related to her doctoral dissertation.
This dissertation, entitled "La Tradición y la Leyenda en la Literatura Mexicana" (1936), and her book, "Mexico: Her Daily and Festive Breads" (1969) comprise a significant part of Taylor's papers. Also included with Taylor's writings are two speeches she gave at her fortieth (1953) and fiftieth reunions (1963) at Mount Holyoke College. Taylor kept photograph albums reflecting her time in Massachusetts at Mount Holyoke College, Northfield Seminary, and Bradford Academy. Primarily comprised of snapshots, the albums chiefly reflect student life at Mount Holyoke College from 1909-1913.
Of note are photographs of a student in blackface--probably for a minstrel show, Senior Mountain Day, the Young Women's Christian Association summer camp at Silver Bay, N.Y., and the interiors of several student rooms. This includes a picture of Taylor in her Porter Hall senior year room. A Northfield Seminary 1908 "Commencement Number" and two Bradford Academy yearbooks (1914 and 1915) are included in the collection.
Taylor also had a strong interest in gardening and botany during her adult years, and she kept many notes on the history of gardening and various herbs and plants. Included with Taylor's papers are many long letters written to family and friends for Christmas (1927-1946), with updates on the activities of family members. Many newspaper clippings relate to Taylor's involvement in the community in Mexico City, and her son, John Howland Barber, in Nicaragua, which comprise Taylor's biographical information. A Mount Holyoke College senior year photograph of Taylor and a large photograph of members of the Class of 1913 are also included in the collection.
Her 2nd husband
Walter Clyde Taylor was born on 26 September 1886 in Downs, Osborne, Kansas, United States. His father, Joseph Irwin Taylor, was 53, and his mother, Margaret Electa Hull, was 39. He married Flora May Hull on 6 August 1913. They were the parents of at least 2 sons. He died on 30 January 1957, in Cuernavaca, Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico, at the age of 70, and was buried in Cuernavaca, Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico.
Finally, Barbara and Walter had a son, Theodore Brewster Taylor
BIRTH 11 Jul 1925 Mexico City, Cuauhtémoc Borough, Distrito Federal, Mexico
DEATH 28 Oct 2004 (aged 79) Silver Spring, Montgomery County, Maryland, USA
Ted was a nuclear physicist who designed bombs during the Cold War, but later became convinced that nuclear weapons should be abolished, and spent the rest of his life working toward that end. His peers knew him for his creative and imaginative designs. Freeman Dyson remarked his bomb designs "were the smallest, most elegant and most efficient. He could draw his designs freehand, without elaborate calculations. When they were built and tested, they worked."
In response to the Soviet launch of Sputnik in 1957, he worked with others on a project at General Atomics to design a spaceship called Orion that would be propelled by nuclear bombs. He led the project, which he hoped would allow mankind to explore the solar system while reducing nuclear stockpiles. Although the project was technically promising, it was politically hopeless. It came to an end when the 1963 Nuclear Test Ban Treaty made testing impossible, thus ending his dream that nuclear bombs could be used better than killing people.
From 1964 to 1966, he was deputy director of the Defense Atomic Support Agency of the Department of Defense, responsible for the care and maintenance of the nuclear stockpile. He resigned from the government in 1966 and served as a consultant to the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna, hoping to establish safeguards to protect nuclear materials from being diverted to clandestine weapons programs. He served as a visiting professor at Princeton and the University of California at Santa Cruz. He co-authored three books: The Restoration of the Earth, Nuclear Theft: Risks and Safeguards, and Nuclear Proliferation: Motivations, Capabilities and Strategies for Control. He served on the President's Commission to investigate the 1979 Three Mile Island nuclear accident. John McPhee's 1974 book, The Curve of Binding Energy, is based on Ted Taylor.
Ted was raised in Cuernavaca, south of Mexico City, where his father was director of the YMCA. His maternal grandparents were missionaries. He attended the American School in Mexico City. He was a bright student and loved chemistry, especially its explosive possibilities, when he discovered the bang made by the right mix of potassium chlorate and sulfur. He received a bachelor's degree from the California Institute of Technology and pursued graduate studies at the University of California at Berkeley and Cornell University. He received his doctorate in theoretical physics from Cornell in 1954. He was active in the Navy from 1943 to 1946. He continued in the Naval Reserves until 1954.

The Thomas & Mina Miller Edison Family
Continuing our blog series on Mina Miller Edison, we take a deep look into her family life. In particular, the six children that she raised with her husband, Thomas Edison.
The family of Mina Miller Edison started when she married Thomas Edison on February 24, 1886. Mina assumed the responsibility for managing two large homes, each well staffed with servants. After two years of marriage, Madeleine was born in 1888. Next came Charles in 1890, and Theodore Miller in 1898.

Madeleine Edison

Madeleine was born on May 31st, 1888, the first child born to Mina. She was born in Glenmont, the Edison Family home in New Jersey. She attended BrynMawrCollege in Pennsylvania for two years. Madeleine married John Eyre Sloane. She married him in the Drawing Room at Glenmont on June 17, 1914. Her parents were not the happiest about this marriage being he was an aviator. Madeleine and John had four sons, who happened to be Thomas Edison’s only grandchildren from either marriage.
Madeleine briefly ran for Congress in 1938, she sadly lost. During World War II she gave much of her time to blood drives. This being for the New Jersey Red Cross. She also administered the Edison Birthplace in Milan, Ohio after her mother’s death. In the 1950s Madeleine served on the Board of Directors for Western Union. She died on February 14, 1979.

Charles Edison

Charles Edison was born into the Edison Family at the Glenmont on August 3, 1890. Charles graduated from the Hotchkiss School in Lakeville, Connecticut. He married Carolyn Hawkins, whom he had met in 1912 then married on March 27, 1918. Finally, he became president of his father’s company, Thomas A. Edison, Incorporated, in 1927. He ran the company until it was sold in 1959.
Charles is the best known because of his second career, in public service. In the mid-1930s he served in the cabinet of President Franklin Roosevelt. First as Assistant Secretary of the Navy, then as Acting Secretary. New Jersey voters elected him as their governor in 1940. Charles however, broke a family tradition in the process running as a Democrat. He also founded a charitable foundation that now bears his name, the Charles Edison Fund. He died on July 31, 1969

Theodore Miller Edison

Theodore Miller Edison was the last to be born at Glenmont on July 10, 1898. Thomas Edison was 51 when his final son was born. Charles is named after a beloved brother of Mina. He had just died in the Spanish-American War. Theodore first attended the Haverford School in Haverford, Pennsylvania, and then Montclair Academy in Montclair, New Jersey. Finally, he attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, from which he earned his physics degree in 1923. He was the only member of the Edison family to graduate from college.
Theodore did work for his father’s company after graduation. After starting as an ordinary lab assistant, he worked his way up to technical director of research and engineering for Thomas A. Edison, Inc. He eventually founded his own company, Calibron Industries, Inc. Also, he built his own smaller laboratory in West Orange. Charles earned over 80 patents in his career. In 1925 he married Anna Maria Osterhout, a graduate of Vassar. He became an ardent environmentalist. He was an opponent of the Vietnam War and advocate of Zero Population Growth. He lived in West Orange with his wife Anna until his death on November 24, 1992.

Mina’s Step-Children

With the marriage between Thomas and Mina, she took on his three children from the first marriage. Marion, twelve years old, Thomas, Jr. ten years old, and William Leslie eight years old. As a result, they became part of her family to raise.

Marion Estelle Edison

Marion was the first born of Thomas Edison’s children. She was born on February 18, 1873, and gained the nickname “Dot” as a child after Morse Code. Marion went to Somerville Seminary in Somerville, New Jersey. She also attended Bradford Academy in Bradford, Massachusetts. In 1895 she married Karl Oscar Oeser, a German army lieutenant. They lived in Germany through the First World War. Unfortunately, her marriage ended in divorce in 1921. Finally, she then returned to the United States, where she died on April 16, 1965.

Thomas Alva Edison Jr

Thomas Alva, Junior, was born on January 10, 1876. He was nicknamed “Dash” after Morse Code like his sister He went to St. Paul’s School in Concord, New Hampshire. Then moved on to J.M.Hawkins School in Staten Island, New York. He went on to marry stage actress Marie Louise Toohey in 1899. However, the marriage ended within a year. He next married Beatrice Heyzer. Thomas Jr sold the use of his name to advertise “quack” medicines and dubious inventions. His father disapproved of this and eventually asked him to change his name. Thomas Jr. briefly went by the name of Thomas Willard. His efforts at inventing and starting a mushroom farm failed. He died on August 25, 1935

William Leslie Edison

William Leslie was born on October 26, 1878. He went to school at St. Paul’s School, Concord, New Hampshire. Then also attended J.M.Hawkins School on Staten Island. He later studied at the Sheffield scientific school at Yale. William soon married Blanche Travers. William Edison served in the military during the Spanish-American War in 1898. He also served again in the First World War. Like his brother he turned to farm life, breeding chickens. He died on August 10, 1937.
For more information on Thomas Edison’s Family life check out these pages!

• Rutgers Thomas A. Edison Papers
• National Parks of New Jersey

Thanks so much for reading this post on Mina Miller Edison. To learn more about Mina Miller Edison check out our blog post.

Wrapping It Up

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If someone has a subscription and a few minutes to spare.
Hoping to view Bradford Starks obituary.
Thank you in advance!

https://www.counterpunch.org/2011/12/16/farewell-to-c-h/
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Brutal, accurate, and fair from someone who knew him well. Alexander, it turned out, was dying of cancer by then but unlike Hitchens he didn't publicize it.
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As a writer his prose was limited in range. In extempore speeches and arguments he was quick on his feet. I remember affectionately many jovial sessions from years ago, in his early days at The Nation. I found the Hitchens cult of recent years entirely mystifying. He endured his final ordeal with pluck, sustained indomitably by his wife Carol.

That's how a gentleman does it.
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Ok, not quite obits but close enough:
https://www.bradford-delong.com/2003/07/dennis-perrins-christopher-hitchens-obituary.html
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"The other difference is that, unlike Christopher, I do not revel in blasting apart strangers."
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https://www.counterpunch.org/2003/09/10/hitchens-as-model-apostate/
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Searing.
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I’m occasionally asked whether I still consider myself a Marxist. Even if my “faith” had lapsed, I wouldn’t advertise it, not from shame at having been wrong (although admittedly this would be a factor) but rather from fear of arousing even a faint suspicion of opportunism. To borrow from the lingo of a former academic fad, if, in public life, the “signifier” is “I’m no longer a Marxist,” then the “signified” usually is, “I’m selling out.” No doubt one can, in light of further study and life experience, come to repudiate past convictions. One might also decide that youthful ideals, especially when the responsibilities of family kick in and the prospects for radical change dim while the certainty of one’s finitude sharpens, are too heavy a burden to bear; although it might be hoped that this accommodation, however understandable (if disappointing), were accomplished with candor and an appropriate degree of humility rather than, what’s usually the case, scorn for those who keep plugging away. It is when the phenomenon of political apostasy is accompanied by fanfare and fireworks that it becomes truly repellent.

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I kind of miss the days when they tried sending their best to argue for our nasty empire. Now they don't even bother with arguments and writers. We've got hashtags and emojis for that.

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163. Canadian Families: Diversity, Conflict, and Change, 4th Edition: Nancy Mandell
     
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179. Child and Adolescent Therapy: Science and Art, 2nd Edition: Jeremy P. Shapiro
     
180. Child and Youth Care in the Field A Practicum Guidebook: Carys Cragg
     
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188. CISSP All-in-One Exam Guide, 8th Edition: Shon Harris & Fernando Maymi
     
189. City Politics: The Political Economy of Urban America, 10th Edition: Dennis R. Judd
     
190. Civil Litigation: Process and Procedures, 4th Edition: Thomas F. Goldman & Alice Hart Hughes
     
191. Classical and Contemporary Sociological Theory: Text and Readings, 3rd Edition: Scott Appelrouth & Laura D. Edles
     
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194. Clinical Kinesiology and Anatomy, 6th Edition: Lynn S. Lippert PT MS
     
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196. Clinical Nursing Skills and Techniques, 10th Edition: Anne Griffin Perry & Patricia A. Potter & Wendy Ostendorf & Nancy Laplante
     
197. Clinical Practice Guidelines for Midwifery & Women's Health, 6th Edition: Nell L. Tharpe & Cindy L. Farley & Robin G. Jordan
     
198. Clinical Reasoning Cases in Nursing, 7th Edition: Mariann M. Harding & Julie S. Snyder
     
199. Cloud Computing: SaaS, PaaS, IaaS, Virtualization, Business Models, Mobile, Security and More, 1st Edition:Dr Kris Jamsa Kris Jamsa
     
200. Cognition 6th Edition: Marvin Chun & Steven Most
     
201. Cognition, 10th Edition: Thomas A. Farmer & Margaret W. Matlin
     
202. Cognitive Psychology: In and Out of the Laboratory, 1st Canadian Edition: Myra Fernandes & Dr. Kathleen M. Galotti
     
203. Cognitive-Behavioral Treatment of Borderline Personality Disorder (Diagnosis and Treatment of Mental Disorders): Marsha M. Linehan
     
204. Collaborating to Manage: A Primer for the Public Sector (Public Management and Change series): Robert Agranoff
     
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206. Communicating in Small Groups: Principles and Practices, 12th Edition: Steven A. Beebe & John Masterson
     
207. Communication and Social Change: A Citizen Perspective (Global Media and Communication), 1st Edition: Thomas Tufte
     
208. Communication for Social Change: Context, Social Movements and the Digital: Pradip Ninan Thomas
     
209. Communication from the Inside Out Strategies For The Engaged Professional, 1st Edition: Karen Mueller
     
210. Communication Skills For The Healthcare Professional, Enhanced 2nd Edition: Laurie Kelly McCorry & Jeff Mason
     
211. Community Oral Health Practice for the Dental Hygienist, 5th Edition: Christine French Beatty
     
212. Comparative Politics: Classic and Contemporary Readings, 1st Edition: J. Tyler Dickovick & Jonathan Eastwood
     
213. Compensation, 6th Canadian Edition: Margaret Yap & Jerry Newman & Bruce Gerhart
     
214. Complete A+ Guide to IT Hardware and Software Lab Manual: A CompTIA A+ Core 1 (220-1001) & CompTIA A+ Core 2 (220-1002) Lab Manual (Pearson It Cybersecurity Curriculum (Itcc)), 8th Edition: Cheryl A. Schmidt
     
215. Complete A+ Guide to IT Hardware and Software: A CompTIA A+ Core 1 (220-1001) & CompTIA A+ Core 2 (220-1002) Textbook, 8th Edition: Cheryl A. Schmidt
     
216. Comprehensive Classroom Management: Creating Communities of Support and Solving Problems, 12th Edition: Vern Jones & Louise Jones
     
217. Comprehensive Health Insurance: Billing, Coding, and Reimbursement, 3rd Edition: Deborah Vines & Ann Braceland & Elizabeth Rollins & Susan Miller
     
218. Comprehensive Stress Management,15th Edition: Jerrold Greenberg
     
219. Comprehensive Commercial Law: Statutory Supplement 2020: Ronald J. Mann & Elizabeth Warren & Jay Westbrook
     
220. Computer Security Fundamentals (Pearson IT Cybersecurity Curriculum (ITCC)), 4th Edition: Chuck Easttom
     
221. Concepts of Programming Languages, 11th Edition: Robert Sebesta
     
222. Concise Introduction to Tonal Harmony, 2nd Edition: L. Poundie Burstein & Joseph N. Straus
     
223. Conditions in Occupational Therapy: Effect on Occupational Performance, 5th Edition: Dr. Ben Atchison PhD & Dr. Diane Dirette PhD
     
224. Conducting a Survey Techniques for a Term Project, 1st Edition: Lawrence T Orcher
     
225. Conectados Communication Manual, 2nd Edition: Patti J. Marinelli & Karin Fajardo
     
226. Conformity and Conflict: Readings in Cultural Anthropology, 15th Edition: James Spradley (Late) & David McCurdy & Dianna Shandy
     
227. Confronting Injustice and Oppression: Concepts and Strategies for Social Workers (Foundations of Social Work Knowledge Series): David Gil
     
228. Conn's Current Therapy 2022: Rick D. Kellerman & David Rakel & KUSM-W Medical Practice Association
     
229. Connect Core Concepts in Health, BIG, 17th Edition: Paul Insel & Walton Roth & Claire Insel
     
230. Constitutional Law for a Changing America Rights, Liberties, and Justice, 10th Edition: Lee J. Epstein & Thomas G. Walker
     
231. Construction Accounting and Financial Management, 4th Edition: Steven J. Peterson MBA, PE
     
232. Construction Planning, Equipment, and Methods, 9th Edition: Robert L. Peurifoy & Clifford J. Schexnayder & Robert Schmitt & Aviad Shapira
     
233. Consultation Across Cultural Contexts: Consultee-Centered Case Studies (Consultation, Supervision, and Professional Learning in School Psychology Series), 1st Edition: Antoinette Miranda
     
234. Consumer Behavior and Culture: Consequences for Global Marketing and Advertising, 3rd Edition: Marieke de Mooij
     
235. Consumer Behavior: Buying, Having, and Being, 12th Edition: Michael Solomon
     
236. Consumer Behavior: Building Marketing Strategy, 14th Edition: David Mothersbaugh
     
237. Consumer Behaviour Buying, Having, and Being, 8th Canadian Edition: Michael R. Solomon & Katherine White & Darren W. Dahl & Kelley Main
     
238. Consumer Behaviour: Buying, Having Being, 4th Australian Edition: Michael R. Solomon & Rebekah Russell-Bennett & Josephine Previte
     
239. Contemporary Auditing, 10th Edition: Michael C. Knapp
     
240. Contemporary Sociological Theory and Its Classical Roots: The Basics, 5th Edition: George Ritzer & Jeffrey N. Stepnisky
     
241. Contemporary Strategy Analysis, 11th Edition: Robert M. Grant
     
242. Contemporary Financial Management, 14th Edition: Ramesh Rao & James McGuigan & R. Charles Moyer
     
243. Contract Law for Paralegals: Traditional and e-Contracts, 2nd Edition: Kathleen Reed & Henry Cheeseman & John Schlageter III
     
244. Contract Law for Paralegals: Traditional and e-Contracts, 3rd Edition: Kathleen Reed & Henry Cheeseman & John Schlageter III
     
245. Contracts: A Modern Coursebook (Aspen Casebook Series), 2nd Edition: Ben Templin
     
246. Core Concepts in Health, 3rd Canadian Edition: Jennifer Irwin & Shauna Burke & Paul M. Insel & Walton T. Roth
     
247. Core Curriculum for Interdisciplinary Lactation Care, 1st Edition: Lactation Education Accreditation and Approval Review Committee (LEAARC) & Suzanne Hetzel Campbell & Judith Lauwers & Rebecca Mannel
     
248. Core Java Volume I--Fundamentals, 11th Edition: Cay S. Horstmann
     
249. Corporate Finance (Hornbook Series), 1st Edition: Jeffrey Haas
     
250. Corporate Finance 1st Edition: Laurence Booth & W. Sean Cleary & Pamela Paterson Drake
     
251. Corporate Governance: A Global Perspective: Marc Goergen
     
252. Corporate Innovation: Disruptive Thinking in Organizations, 1st Edition: Donald F. Kuratko & Michael G. Goldsby & Jeffrey S. Hornsby
     
253. Corrections in the 21st Century, 9th Edition: Frank Schmalleger & John Ortiz Smykla
     
254. Corrections: The Essentials 4th Edition: Mary K. Stohr & Anthony Walsh
     
255. Cost Management: A Strategic Emphasis, 9th Edition: Edward Blocher
     
256. Counseling the Nursing Mother: A Lactation Consultant’s Guide, 7th Edition: Judith Lauwers & Anna Swisher
     
257. Counselling Skills: A Practical Guide for Counsellors, 2nd Edition: John McLeod & Julia McLeod
     
258. Cost Accounting for Managerial Planning, Decision Making and Control, 12th Edition: Woody Liao & Andrew Schiff & Stacy Kline & Hsihui Chang
     
259. CPT 2021 Professional Edition (CPT / Current Procedural Terminology (Professional Edition)) , 1st Edition: American Medical Association
     
260. Crafting and Executing Strategy: Concepts and Cases, 23rd Edition: Arthur Thompson & Margaret Peteraf & John Gamble & A. Strickland
     
261. Crafting Short Screenplays That Connect, 5th Edition: Claudia Hunter Johnson
     
262. Creating Effective Teams: A Guide for Members and Leaders, 6th Edition: Susan A. Wheelan & Maria Åkerlund & Christian Jacobsson
     
263. Criminal Evidence, 1st Edition: Robert Donley
     
264. Creative Leadership: Skills That Drive Change, 2nd Edition: Gerard J. Puccio & Marie Mance & Mary C. Murdock
     
265. Criminal Evidence, 1st Edition: Matthew Lippman
     
266. Criminal Justice in Canada, 8th Edition: Colin Goff
     
267. Criminal Law and Procedure: Cases and Materials, 12th Edition: Kent Roach & Benjamin L. Berger & Emma Cunliffe & Asad G. Kiyani
     
268. Criminal Laws, 7th Edition: David Brown
     
269. Criminalistics: Forensic Science, Crime, and Terrorism, 4th Edition: James E. Girard
     
270. Criminological Theory: Context and Consequences, 5th Edition: J. Robert Lilly & Francis T. Cullen & Richard A. Ball
     
271. Criminology Connecting Theory, Research and Practice, 2nd Edition: Aida Y. Hass & Chris Moloney & William J. Chambliss
     
272. Criminology Today: An Integrative Introduction, 10th Edition: Frank Schmalleger
     
273. Crisis and Trauma Counseling: Unique Forms of Helping, 1st Edition: Eric Owens & Richard Parsons
     
274. Crisis Intervention: The Criminal Justice Response to Chaos, Mayhem, and Disorder, 1st Edition: William M Harmening
     
275. Critical Care: A New Nurse Faces Death, Life, and Everything in Between, 1st Edition: Theresa Brown
     
276. Critical Infrastructure Protection in Homeland Security: Defending a Networked Nation, 2nd Edition: Ted G. Lewis
     
277. Critical Media Studies: An Introduction, 3rd Edition: Brian L. Ott & Robert L. Mack
     
278. Critical Thinking About Research: Psychology and Related Fields, 2nd Edition: Harris Cooper & Julian Meltzoff
     
279. Cross-Cultural Management: An Introduction, 1st Edition: David C. Thomas & J. H. "Kerr" Inkson
     
280. Crossing the River with Dogs: Problem Solving for College Students, 3rd Edition: Ken Johnson & Ted Herr & Judy Kysh
     
281. Cryptography and Network Security Principles and Practice, 8th Edition: William Stallings
     
282. Cultural Anthropology, 19th Edition: Conrad Kottak
     
283. Cognitive Behavior Therapy Basics and Beyond, 3rd Edition: Judith S. Beck & Aaron T. Beck
     
284. Cultural Anthropology: Asking Questions About Humanity, 3rd Edition: Robert L. Welsch & Luis A. Vivanco
     
285. Culturally Sustaining School Counseling Programs: Implementing Diverse, Equitable and Inclusive Programs: Tim Grothaus & Kaprea Johnson & Natalie Edirmanasinghe
     
286. Culturas de Espana, 2nd Edition: Carmen Pereira-Muro
     
287. CURRENT Medical Diagnosis and Treatment 2022, 61st Edition: Maxine Papadakis & Stephen McPhee & Michael Rabow & Kenneth McQuaid
     
288. Cybersecurity: The Essential Body Of Knowledge, 1st Edition: Dan Shoemaker & Wm. Conklin
     
289. Daly and Doyen's Introduction to Insect Biology, 4th Edition: James B. Whitfield & Alexander Purcell III
     
290. Data Abstraction & Problem Solving with C++: Walls and Mirrors 7th Edition: Frank Carrano & Timothy Henry
     
291. Data Warehousing Fundamentals for IT Professionals, 2nd Edition: Paulraj Ponniah,
     
292. DBT Skills Training Manual, 2nd Edition: Marsha M. Linehan
     
293. Defining America Through Immigration Policy, 1st Edition: Bill Ong Hing
     
294. Delmar's Standard Textbook of Electricity, 7th Edition: Stephen L. Herman
     
295. Demystifying Crime and Criminal Justice, 2nd Edition: Robert M. Bohm & Jeffery T. Walker
     
296. Design Patterns Explained: A New Perspective on Object-Oriented Design (Software Patterns), 2nd Edition: Alan Shalloway & James Trott
     
297. Design Patterns: Elements of Reusable Object-Oriented Software, 1st Edition: Gamma Erich & Helm Richard & Johnson Ralph & Vlissides John
     
298. Designing and Managing Programs: An Effectiveness-Based Approach (SAGE Sourcebooks for the Human Services), 5th Edition: Peter M. Kettner & Robert M. Moroney & Lawrence L. Martin
     
299. Designing Dynamic Organizations: A Hands-on Guide for Leaders at All Levels: Jay Galbraith
     
300. Developing Multicultural Counseling Competence: A Systems Approach, 3rd Edition: Danica Hays (Author), Bradley Erford
     
301. Developing Occupation-Centered Programs With the Community, 3rd Edition: Linda S. Fazio
     
302. Counseling and Christianity: Five Approaches: Stephen P. Greggo & Timothy A. Sisemore ,
     
303. Digital Radiography and PACS, 3rd Edition: Christi Carter & Beth Veale
     
304. Direct Practice Skills for Evidence-Based Social Work: A Strengths-Based Text and Workbook, 1st Edition: Elizabeth C. Pomeroy PhD LCSW & Renée Bradford Garcia MSW LCSW
     
305. Discovering Psychology: The Science of Mind 4th Edition: John T. Cacioppo & Laura Freberg & Stephanie Cacioppo
     
306. Discovering Statistics Using IBM SPSS Statistics: North American Edition, 5th Edition: Andy Field
     
307. Dispute Resolution Beyond the Adversarial Model, 3rd Edition: Carrie J. Menkel-Meadow & Lela Porter-Love & Andrea Kupfer-Schneider & Michael Moffitt
     
308. Disputed Moral Issues: A Reader, 5th Edition: Mark Timmons
     
309. Distant Mirrors: America as a Foreign Culture, 4th Edition: Philip R. DeVita
     
310. Diversity and Equity in the Classroom, 1st Edition: Valerie Ooka Pang
     
311. Diversity and Social Work in Canada: Alean Al-Krenawi & John R. Graham & Nazim Habibov
     
312. Diversity in Organizations, 4th Edition: Myrtle P. Bell & Joy Leopold
     
313. Diversity in Organizations, 3rd Edition: Myrtle P. Bell
     
314. Doing Ethics in Media: Theories and Practical Applications, 1st Edition: Jay Black
     
315. Doing Ethnography, 2nd Edition: Amanda Coffey
     
316. Doing Survey Research: A Guide to Quantitative Methods, 4th Edition: Peter M. Nardi
     
317. Dosage Calculations 4th Canadian Edition: Gloria D. Pickar
     
318. Drafting and Design for Architecture & Construction, 9th Edition: Dana J. Hepler & Paul Ross Wallach & Donald Hepler
     
319. Drawing Essentials: A Complete Guide to Drawing, 4th Edition: Deborah Rockman
     
320. Dynamic Social Studies, 11th Edition: George Maxim
     
321. E-commerce 2018, 14th Edition: Kenneth C. Laudon & Carol Guercio Traver
     
322. Early Intervention Every Day!: Embedding Activities in Daily Routines for Young Children and Their Families, 1st Edition: Merle J. Crawford & Barbara Weber
     
323. Eating Disorders, 2nd Edition: Pamela K
     
324. Echoes from the Cave Philosophical Conversations since Plato: Lisa Gannett
     
325. Ecology: A Canadian Context, 2nd Edition: Bill Freedman
     
326. Ecology: The Economy of Nature, 9th Edition: Rick Relyea
     
327. Economic Forecasting: Graham Elliott & Allan Timmermann
     
328. Economics, 8th Edition: Glenn Hubbard & Anthony Patrick O'Brien
     
329. Economics, 22nd Edition: Campbell McConnell
     
330. Edexcel International GCSE (9-1) Mathematics Student Book, 3rd Edition: Alan Smith & Sophie Goldie
     
331. Edge: What Business Can Learn from Football: Ben Lyttleton
     
332. Educational Psychology, 13th Edition: Anita Woolfolk
     
333. Educational Psychology: Developing Learners, 10th Edition: Jeanne Ellis Ormrod & Eric M. Anderman & Lynley H. Anderman
     
334. Effective Crisis Communication: Moving From Crisis to Opportunity, 4th Edition: Robert R. Ulmer & Timothy L. Sellnow & Matthew W. Seeger
     
335. Effective Training Systems, Strategies, and Practices, 6th Edition: Blanchard
     
336. Elementary Geometry for College Students, 7th Edition: Daniel C. Alexander & Geralyn M. Koeberlein
     
337. Elementary Science Methods: A Constructivist Approach, 6th Edition: David Martin
     
338. Elementary Statistics, 14th Edition: Mario F. Triola
     
339. Elementary Statistics for Kinesiologists: a Customized Version of Elementary Statistics with Excel, 4th Edition: Laelie Snook
     
340. Elements of the Nature and Properties of Soils, 3rd Edition: Nyle C. Brady & Raymond R. Weil
     
341. Emergency Care, 14th Edition: EMT-P Limmer, Daniel J. & Michael F. O'Keefe & Medical Editor Dickinson, Edward T.
     
342. Emergency Care and Transportation of the Sick and Injured Advantage Package, 12th Edition: American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons (AAOS)
     
343. Employment Law in a Nutshell (Nutshells), 4th Edition: Robert N. Covington & Joseph A. Seiner
     
344. Empowerment Series: The Reluctant Welfare State, 9th Edition: Bruce S. Jansson
     
345. En avant! Beginning French, 3rd Edition: Bruce Anderson
     
346. Engaging in the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning: A Guide to the Process, and How to Develop a Project from Start to Finish, 1st Edition: Cathy Bishop-Clark
     
347. Engineering Design and Graphics with SolidWorks 2019, 1st Edition: James D. Bethune
     
348. Engineering Fluid Mechanics, 12th Edition: Donald F. Elger
     
349. Entrepreneurial DNA: The Breakthrough Discovery that Aligns Your Business to Your Unique Strengths: Joe Abraham
     
350. Entrepreneurship: The Practice and Mindset, 2nd Edition: Heidi M. Neck & Christopher P. Neck & Emma L. Murray
     

August 3rd is the birthday of Francis H. Allen (1866-1953), an editor whose diligent work increased public access to Thoreau’s writings. He edited the first properly annotated edition of Walden and his work on the Thoreau’s Journal had a huge influence on the world’s view of Thoreau. Walter Harding wrote:
“Just after the turn of the century, Francis H. Allen, a young editor at Houghton Mifflin, persuaded his firm against their better judgement to issue a new twenty-volume collection of Thoreau’s writings including a fourteen volume nearly complete transcription of the Journal. Although Allen himself supervised the transcription of the Journal, credit was long given only to the then better-known Bradford Torrey. To everyone’s pleasant surprise, the edition sold out before publication. For the first time readers were able to see that natural history was not the sole concern of the Journal, that Thoreau commented on his neighbors as frequently as on the flora and fauna of Concord, and that he was also concerned with social and philosophical issues.”
Mr. Allen compiled three books of Thoreau-related material:
A Bibliography of Henry David Thoreau (1908)
Notes on New England Birds by Henry D. Thoreau (1910)
Men of Concord and Some Others as Portrayed in the Journal of Henry David Thoreau (1936)
He also wrote a 28-page booklet, Thoreau's Editors: History and Reminiscence published by the Thoreau Society in 1950.
Mr. Allen published many papers and letters about ornithology, literature and other topics in scholarly journals (you can find about 100 of them on JSTOR). According to an obituary “his unusually acute hearing and retentive memory for sounds led him into taking particular interest in bird-songs and call-notes. His forte in these two important fields appears at its best in the numerous comments scattered throughout Bent’s Life Histories of North American Birds.”

I am stuck on a brick wall in some sense. I know who my 2nd great-grandfather is, but his parents are tricky because they came over from Quebec and I don't know if his parents married in Quebec or the USA. My second great grandfather was born in Vermont, and his baptism record has his parents spelled in one of several different ways I have seen (almost every record has their name spelled differently probably because they couldn't speak English and they had to rely on the clerk or census taker to spell out their name. I have possible baptisms for both of the parents from the Drouin records but can't find a record that puts the two names together in Quebec for a marriage or something. It looks like their surnames might have also been slightly altered when coming over to the USA but I don't know if that was an official alteration or unofficial. So the parents I have found might not be correct. I also am not fluent in French so that is another barrier. The town clerks and archives up in Vermont say they can't find any info either. My 2nd great-grandfather's obituary does not mention the name of his parents and from what I can tell he and his siblings were all buried in different places. There is a grave with the same name as my 2nd great-grandfather's father but this guy married when my 2nd great-grandfather's mom was still alive so I don't think it could be the right guy and I can't find any grave (even a wrong one) with his mom's name. I use ancestry as my primary genealogy site but also use FamilySearch and MyHeritage through my library card. I am vague in names because even though it just says don't mention names of living people I want to be extra careful since this is my first post. Thank you!
I am looking for info on my My 3rd Great grandfather Joseph Duprey (might be Dupre or Dupra) known Wife Mary Rosella Ouisrioun Clennette Sinot Senutte Cenate (varied spellings) (might be Rosalie Loiselle Dit Sinotte) Allegedly the daughter of Joseph Loiselle Dit Sinotte and Mary Louise Rougier Canada. May have gone to live with uncle Louis Sinotte after mom died.
Do not have birth certificate for him, his wife, sons or parents. My dads cousins wife has also been searching for this guy for years!! I need to find him so I can continue my tree past this generation. The Vermont, New Hampshire and Massachusetts SOS archives couldn’t find any information for me at all which makes me concerned. Same with town clerks in these states.
Year and place of birth of the person with unknown parentage Date (or at least a year or range) & Place about 1832-4 Quebec, Canada possibly St. Simon??
I found his sons death certificate and find a grave info but it says nothing about where the parents were born. Now, ancestry did tell me that there is a Joseph Duprey who lived in Swanton and died there I guess in 1900 and his wife was Susan Delligan. There has been confusion if this is the same Joseph Duprey who married Rose Sinotte. Maybe you can shed some light on this? I can’t seem to find a marriage record for Joseph and Rose in Canada or the USA or a birth record for my connection to them, Octave. The birth records for Joseph and Rose over in Quebec are confusing to me as they are in French (which I don’t know how to speak) and while I narrowed it down, I am still unsure if I have the right one. I also cannot find grave records for Rose in Canada or the USA — the only grave I have found for a Joseph Duprey is the one in Swanton which may or may not be the same Joseph. If they are not the same relative, I am still curious if the two Joseph’s were related somehow…
Rosalie Loiselle dit Sinotte 3rd great-grandmother B: 12 Dec 1834 • Ste-Rosalie, Québec, Canada D: 8 Sept 1865 • Brandon, Rutland, Vermont, USA (not confirmed) Joseph Loiselle dit Sinotte 4th great-grandfather B: 23 Dec 1807 • St-Marc-sur- Richelieu, Québec, Canada D: Unknown
Augustin Sinotte 3rd great-granduncle B: 14 Mar 1842 • Ste-Rosalie, Québec. Canada D: 23 February 1914 • Waterbury, New Haven, Connecticut, USA unsure if he ever lived in Vermont
Louis Sinotte 4th great-granduncle B: 25 Aug 1809 • La Presentation, Québec, Canada D: Unknown saw records of him in Addison county - it is my understanding that when Augustin and Rosalie’s parents died, they moved in with Louis, and at some point came over to Vermont.
Ambrose L Duprey 2nd great-granduncle B: 11 May 1856 • Bridport, Addison, Vermont, USA D: Abt. 2 Mar 1918 • Concord, Merrimack, New Hampshire, USA
James Duprey 2nd great-granduncle B: Abt 1862 • Vermont, USA D: 1938 • Hemmingford, Québec, Canada
Joseph Antoine Duprey 3rd great-grandfather B: 3 Aug 1833 • St-Pie-de-Bagot, Québec, Canada D: Unknown Middle name not necessarily confirmed.
Octave J Duprey 2nd great-grandfather B: 11 Feb 1861 • Bradford. Vermont, USA D: abt 1947 • Massachusetts, USA
Marie Angélique Fontaine 4th great-grandmother B: 29 Jan 1798 • Beloeil, Québec, Canada D: abt 1862 Allegedly Joseph’s mom. Not sure if she immigrated or if Joseph’s dad did either.
Supposedly these are Joseph and Rosellas children: Ambrose Duprey born May 11 1856 Bridport, Addison, Vermont Died abt March 2nd 1918 Concord New Hampshire
Octave (my 2nd great grandpa) possibly has a J middle initial Born Feburary 11 1861 Weybridge (but I have also seen Bridport) and the baptism record from Burlington church records says January 1860. Died about 1947 in Massachusetts (he is the only one I had heard of prior to getting an ancestry account and building my tree). Would the records have been destroyed?? I don’t know if Rose and Joseph married in Canada or here. Ancestry.com and Family search have very few records of any of these people and I am worried it is because there names were spelled wrong and the computer doesn’t pick them up as Duprey or the genealogical software can’t read a town record keepers handwriting.

Hello! This is a story I posted yesterday. Since then, I've changed it quite a bit due to the feedback I got on the last draft. The word count dipped by a big amount, as a result. What was roughly a 4200 word story is now less than 3900. Let me know what you think, especially compared to the previous draft, if you've read that one.
Regardless, I hope you enjoy reading.
​
What Follows
By Thomas Bradford
As she walks down the hallway, she remembers the old smell of her grandmother’s house. That sweet, sickly mixture of decrepitness and cloying perfume. It had been more than just a smell to her as a young girl. It had been a sense all its own, a force that stood the small hairs of her neck on end, warning her that danger was ever-present in this house, trouble for her so long as she remained under its roof.
Though that scent is no longer here, she can still feel this danger as she inches along the soft carpet. Her left hand hovers over the wall as she quietly steps closer to the front door and the stairs leading to the second floor.
She’s here, the woman thinks. She’s still alive.
But that can’t be, her mind whispers. You know it can’t.
She pauses shortly before the dark hallway’s end, the front door beyond and the edge of the main staircase’s banister visible further ahead on her left. Yellow light spills into the entryway from the right – the kitchen, not yet in sight.
She thinks she can see the shadow of a figure in that light, but at this point she stops to look down.
The small wooden stand. The dim light is just bright enough for her to make out the note placed on it, held in place with a jagged piece of white rock crystal. She grasps the piece of paper, holding the crystal in place as she slides it free. Part of her notes the stain on the rock’s sharp edge, the dark maroon, so old now it is nearly black. Her eyes focus on the paper, running over the elegant scrawl. In her mind she can hear her grandmother’s voice, prim and Victorian, speaking as she reads the words on the page:
Amanda,
The bag is under the stairs. The shovel’s in the yard. Come pay me a visit, will you? It’s been so long since we’ve talked, you and I. Sat down and had a heart-to-heart . . .
What shall we talk about?
You know. You know goddamned well.
Under the stairs. Out in the yard. You still know where everything is, don’t you? Oh yes . . . you know.
Come . . .
Let’s talk.
Love,
Grandma
More than anything, it’s that one word that is most prominent – “Love,” gouged so deeply into the paper that if she were to hold it up to the light she would see thin tracts in its thick stock where it shone through.
As she continues forward, the note slips from her fingers, vanishing as if it were never there at all.
She passes by the door beneath the stairs. Its lower half is coated in dust all the way up to its brass knob. The broom closet. A low rustling can be heard from inside as she walks by.
She thinks there is also a soft, plaintive moaning, and she hears an unmistakable thump. Strangely, these noises don’t concern her, and she continues past.
The thumping comes again, louder this time, and the muffled moans can no longer be ignored (a child’s voice, she thinks) but she does not turn to look back.
Nearing the front door, she pauses at the foot of the stairs. The kitchen is to her right, and yes, there’s someone standing in the entryway. A little boy, staring at her in silence, his long brown hair so unkempt and dirty it sticks to his forehead in dark greasy tangles. Through a parting in the side she can see the deep gash above his left eye, the coat of blood covering half his face dried to a rust-colored crust.
He stares at her mutely, his eyes filled with accusation. With blame. “You did this to me,” those eyes seem to say.
She doesn’t know this boy, and yet . . . a part of her does. She is certain she once knew him. That he was, in fact, someone very close, very important to her.
In his left hand, a coil of piano wire dangles, wrapped around his clenched fist. The silver ends gleam in the kitchen light, but the rest of it does not, for it is coated in blood.
She does know this boy. She’s sure of it. Just as part of her knows that if she were to go wandering through the many rooms and hallways of this house – her grandmother’s, yes – she might encounter a fat, hunched figure. One which carries the same likeness as a picture she once saw sketched in a newspaper.
(Had it been the front page? She thinks it was).
This hunched figure would be wearing a light brown overcoat and matching trousers, and stretched between its clutching fingers would be that same string of wire, though pristine, yet to be bloodied as the silent figure shuffles from room to room, searching endlessly.
Looking for someone.
Looking for her? The woman doesn’t know, but the thought of meeting this mysterious person fills her with dread. Not terror, exactly, but a vague sort of fear just the same. The fear of discovering something she would rather not know, something she would rather be left secret.
At this point the woman’s eyes are drawn to the front door’s glass window. In the soft glow of the porchlight she can make out a moving shadow. Something outside, wanting to come in. The glass is too high for her to see what this thing could be, but in a bizarre turn she sees first one disembodied eye, then another, looking in.
No, not disembodied, but resting on thin, pink flesh-colored stalks. Two bloodshot, lidless orbs, peering around, seeing what they can see as whatever body they are attached to paces restlessly on the front step. The lack of eyelids lends the eyes a look of startled curiosity as they peer inside, not seeing her but searching all the same.
On the outer wall beside the stoop, shadows are cast by the porchlight. Tendrils, writhing in a column of twisting appendages. The woman doesn’t know what these shadows are.
The doorknob turns; the woman pauses, watching it twist first one way, then the other. The door vibrates in its frame as the thing on the doorstep pushes against it. But the push is weak, and the door is locked, so the thing remains outside, its efforts to gain entry in vain.
She knows she can’t exit the house, at least not through the front door. The boy
(“Daniel”? Danny, is that your name?)
is still standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her. As the woman’s roving eyes wander over him, and past him, she notices faint red lines on his exposed flesh. They weren’t there before, and seem to be growing deeper. Like cuts, segmenting his body. But none of this concerns her; she’s looking for a way out.
She can’t go deeper into the house. The piano wire would get her. There’s a chance she might avoid it, but she doesn’t want to find out for sure.
Circling the banister, her eyes move up the stairs, to the second-floor landing.
Let’s talk . . .
She’s waiting for you up there. You know she is.
Yes, she knows this. But she also knows that she is trapped if she stays down here. Terrifying though it is, contrary to every ounce of self-preservation she has, she knows she must go upstairs.
Afraid, heart hammering in her chest, she forces her stiff muscles to obey her and begins to ascend.
Her eyes move up the stairs with her feet – one step, two steps, three – afraid to look up, certain that she’s going to see the old woman waiting for her on the landing, her skin drawn and decomposed, pockmarked and pale with rot as she looks down at her and grins, revealing an empty mouth save for but a few blackened teeth. And after waiting for her granddaughter to look up and see her, the old woman would come flying down the stairs, screeching, the sound coming through the severed flaps of her throat, where the skin has been cut through. Separated by a taut piece of metal wire.
The woman forces her head up, at first sneaking only a furtive glance at the landing.
It is empty. No one is waiting for her up there.
That will change any moment, she thinks. She is going to see her again, that awful woman. After all these years. The sleepless nights, cold sweats in pitch blackness, the haunting memories, all culminating in this final confrontation.
If I look away, she’ll be there when I look back.
Her eyes dart to the wall on her right, moving up the hanging frames rising with the ascending steps. She sees a portrait of Grandmother seated, her pose regal, graying hair pulled back from her high forehead and her shrewd eyes piercing from the canvas. Next, a picture of her again, a photograph, this one including the grandfather the dreaming woman has never met. The hint of a smile is on his face, his shy nature perhaps the result of the woman beside him, who also wears a smile, but one that is cold. More than the portrait, this photo captures the old woman’s essence, but not completely.
To achieve that, more photos would need to be taken. Private snapshots hung for the world to see.
Pictures of long, bloody scratches down a little girl’s back. Of that same girl locked in a broom closet beneath the stairs, lost in complete darkness for hours and days, waiting for the brief moment when the tiny slot would open, the light flooding through as food is quickly shoved inside.
Pictures of darkness, unable to convey a child’s wailing sobs.
Pictures of a canvas bag soaked in blood, a rusty shovel breaking wet earth in the pouring rain. The moon lost behind an impenetrable blanket of clouds as her grandmother watches her through the kitchen window.
The last of the frames above the staircase holds not a photograph or portrait, but paper altered to appear ancient. On the paper is a phrase, the letters tall, their green columns bearing many offshoots which swirl and curl back on themselves, lending the words an appearance of wisdom:
“A Great Sin shall notBe forgiven through aLife of goodness andCharity. Once the heartIs tainted, what followsIs the sentenceBequeathed to all thoseWho do evil.”
She doesn’t remember this frame. She’s seen many like it, but they’ve always carried a sense of fellowship, or a pious lesson to impart. This one does not. There is no hopeful message in its words, only the promise of punishment and despair. Her grandmother would love such a picture.
Beneath the phrase are words scratched in red ink, the person responsible for them unmistakable:
“I’M WAITING”
Returning her eyes to the landing, the woman is only a few steps from the top. For a moment she is sure she’s about to see a shrouded figure come dashing from the second-floor bedroom, laughing and wielding a large kitchen knife. Just like a movie she’d once seen, she’ll fall backwards down this long flight of stairs, her face slashed and bleeding as she cries out in surprised terror.
And yet . . . the landing remains empty, the second-floor hallway deserted.
Where is she, the woman thinks.
She is here somewhere. Somewhere in this house, the woman can feel her dead grandmother waiting for her.
The bedroom’s door is open partway. No howling figure has come running from it but . . . the bedroom light is on. It spills into the dark hall like an extended invitation.
I’m waiting . . .
The woman has paused before the landing, her eyes fixed on that open door. Her breath is held, her pulse thudding in her ears as she steels herself for whatever may come from that room, be it her long-dead grandmother, or simply the old woman’s voice. She moves up further.
On the second to last step, there comes the quiet sound of a footstep falling behind her.
The woman stops, frozen, her gaze still on the bedroom but no longer seeing it. A cold wave crashes over her, and she suddenly realizes that if she were to reach the bedroom and ease the door open, she would find the room empty, its light merely a clever ruse.
Whatever danger exists in this house is not waiting for her up ahead.
It had followed her up the stairs.
She feels the tightness in her jaw, her teeth clenched in a grimace as she slowly begins to turn around.
Please, she thinks, begging. Please, let me be wrong. Let there be nothing there. Don’t . . . don’t let it get me.
Her prayers go unanswered. Despite her wish to deny the solid shape creeping into her vision as her head turns, the figure remains on the steps below.
It is a woman, or appears to be. Her head is down, her face hidden behind dirty tangles of blonde hair which dangle down her front like a matted curtain. Her shoulders are hunched and she is dripping water, which makes sense given that she is wearing a light brown overcoat – perfect for a wet autumn night. The coat is tight against her large frame, stretched across the broad slope of her shoulders which rise and fall with each heavy breath.
Her arms hang at her sides, straight like her legs – thin branches with her large torso perched atop them. Slowly her bony hands start to come together, and in them
(No! Oh god please! No!)
is the shiny coiled string of wire, fresh and clean.
Clean because it is not meant for darling Grandmother this time, but for her.
In a flash the hunched figure’s hands fly forward, spinning the piano wire around her neck before she can lift her own hands. There’s no time to draw in breath before her windpipe is constricted, her terrified cry choked off as soon as it begins. Her fingers go to the strangling wire only to find it impossible to pull loose. Her head is jerked forward as the figure in the brown coat gives the string a quick pull as if testing its hold, or simply to frighten her more. She tries to gasp and can’t; her mouth opens but only a soft, pleading sound escapes.
The figure shifts slightly, and behind it, at the foot of the stairs, the woman sees the front door begin to swing open.
The creature on the doorstep is almost beyond her mind’s ability to comprehend. Almost, but not quite. Not to the point where she can’t make out its eyes sinking back into their sockets, the fleshy stalks on which they rest disappearing into the dark holes. Its sharp grin glitters in the porch’s light, splitting its lipless, skinless face nearly in two. The flesh of its hairless head is shiny with moisture, red and ridged with thin veins like the membranous skin of a peeled blood orange.
Silent, it lifts an emaciated hand, the dripping, gnarled fingers beckoning to her, and in the darkness behind it, the endless night which will last forever, the woman finally hears her grandmother’s voice, calling to her.
Inviting her to come to where she is.
The woman wants to scream but can only produce the sound in her head. The walls of her mind echo with her terrified shrieks as the hunched figure in the overcoat drags her body quickly and violently down the stairs. Her body tumbles down the steps, her fingers still grasping the wire. As she’s brought closer to the front door, she can hear the gurgling anticipation of the thing on the doorstep, can see it prowling back and forth like a caged animal glimpsing its first sight of an approaching morsel.
She can hear other sounds as well – more creatures dwelling in the void, howling and cackling.
Waiting for her.
Her wild eyes can see some of these shapes now, outlines moving in the darkness, and what remains of her sanity leaves her body, abandoning its doomed vessel to its fate.
Once she leaves this house and enters the dark infinity outside, that will be the end of her.
Or a beginning she does not want to know.
She hits the floor with a heavy thump she doesn’t feel. Her body has spun around, putting the front door and the horrors beyond thankfully from her sight, yet somehow this is even worse. To not see her end as it comes.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees the kitchen doorway. The little boy no longer stands in it, but in his place she sees what remains of him. A bloody torso, and a pile of limbs. The red stumps where they’d been severed ooze onto the yellowed linoleum, a spreading pool encircling the boy’s lifeless head. It lies on its side, the skin covered with wet dirt, the eyes no longer staring with accusation, or indeed with anything anymore, save for a sad, lost emptiness.
No – it wasn’t me! her frantic mind insists. It was her! But I had to get rid of you, I had to get rid of you or she was going to do the same to me too!
This is the last coherent thought the woman will ever have.
Just as she’s about to cross the threshold, she looks up at the thing dragging her. Through the tangles of hair which swing with the figure’s movement, she can see its face.
She sees its face and is not surprised to find that it is her own.
It was always her, shuffling through the rooms of this house, drawing closer each time she visited. Haunting her throughout the years.
“A Great Sin shall not be forgiven . . .”
She had to do it. She knew that she had to. And yet it had damned her all the same. Not just with the guilt of knowing what she’d done, the memories which never left her in life, but now, it was to be her everlasting torment in what follows.
She’s finally able to get a finger beneath the wire and pulls it loose just enough to let free the scream which has been trapped inside her. The sound is answered from the pitch blackness. As she is pulled from the house, she feels the wet fingers of the skinless creature on the doorstep wrap around her face, and as she looks up into the thing’s widening jaws, from its teeth she sees the squirming tendrils.
The twisting appendages, the writhing column of shadows in the porchlight. They are tongues, squirming free of the monstrous creature’s mouth, reaching for her face, where they quickly gather over her eyes, plunging her into wet darkness.
The front door of the house slams shut, cutting off the howls and crazed laughter of the things outside.
Inside the house is quiet, its owner having vacated it, never to return.
#
The following excerpt is taken from an article posted in the Grant’s Pass Daily Courier. Beside it is a black and white image of a young boy with long hair brushed from his eyes. He is standing beside a kitchen table which holds several wrapped presents, one of which he’s just unwrapped to reveal a large set of Lego blocks. His captured smile shows two prominent buck teeth, and he looks just like any other young boy on his ninth birthday:
Police seek help locating 9-year-old missing child
The search continues for young Daniel Oster. The boy was reported missing early Sunday morning, and authorities are asking anyone in the community with any knowledge of his whereabouts to please come forward.
Evelyn Dorey, the boy’s grandmother, said that the 9-year-old had been upset recently and told her he was “going to live on his own.” Police believe the child may have gone into the woods but aren’t ruling out the possibility he may have been picked up by someone.
A search party is being organized for this afternoon at 1 o’clock and is planned to go until sundown. Anyone interested in joining can contact Dep. Mel Tibbetts at . . .
#
The following article was printed on the front page of The Oregonian on April 11, 1953:
Night Strangler Claims
Fourth Victim
Grants Pass, OR – Grants Pass Police Department Detectives have located the body of 83-year-old Evelyn Dorey. Her cause of death by strangulation is consistent with the recent slayings of Oregon’s serial murderer, the “Night Strangler,” as well as the manner in which her body was discarded.
Until now the killer’s victims have consistently been young women. Detectives warn that this sudden change in pattern could mean that the killer’s mental state is deteriorating. The fact that this latest murder has also occurred far from the previous ones means that anyone could now be at risk. A six o’clock curfew has been implemented in Josephine County, with plans to expand statewide within the next few days.
Anyone with any information regarding the murders is urged to contact their local authorities. An anonymous tip line has also been set up at the following number . . .
#
This final article was posted to the website Weston-familychapel.com, under the section header marked “Obituaries”:
Amanda Janine Oster, known as “Janie” to those who knew her, passed away peacefully in her sleep at Rose Haven Care Home on August 21, 2021, after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s. She was 82 years old.
A resident of Dearborn most of her life, Amanda was somewhat guarded about her childhood, having suffered loss at an early age. Born on October 7, 1939, in Flagstaff, Arizona, she moved to Grants Pass, Oregon, following the death of both her parents in an automobile accident. There her and her little brother Daniel stayed with their grandmother, Evelyn.
Tragedy was to continue following Amanda’s early life, as her brother went missing in January of 1949 and was unfortunately never found. Then came the widely reported death of her grandmother, a victim of the Night Strangler serial killer, who was executed on July 7, 1962, but sadly never confessed to her murder.
Though Amanda Oster suffered much in life, her faith in the Lord was never shaken. She would often speak fondly of her foster parents, who were members of Saint Mary’s Catholic Church, where she herself would come be known as a pillar of her community. Her organization of many local fundraisers, including support of the Battered Women’s Advocacy shelter, will remain her legacy. She never married and is survived by no children.
In spite of her tribulations, Amanda remained a decent, kindhearted soul, and the Lord has surely called her spirit to higher labors. The Weston Family Chapel will be holding a small ceremony on Friday, April 24th, at 3:00pm, to honor Janie’s memory.

Hello! This is a little horror story I wrote a while back. It's only the 2nd draft, so there's still more work to be done. Any feedback is absolutely appreciated -- criticism is MOST welcome! Any comments are most welcome, really. As far as the story goes, I'm mostly worried that I was too obtuse with the narrative. Is it easy enough to follow, or should I be more blunt?
Thanks for checking it out. It's a little on the longer side of short stories: about 4200 words. So don't feel the need to read it all in one sitting.
Thanks for looking, and I hope you enjoy :)
​
What Follows
By Thomas Bradford
The light in the hallway is dim, her perception soft around the edges in the way that certain dreams have, and she knows that that is what’s happening now.
This is a dream. One she’s had before, many times. Though it has been long enough since the last that she’s nearly forgotten it, at least in the daylight-exposed crevasses of her conscious mind. Yet it all comes back to her now, like a movie playing out for the hundredth time, and she once again has the same thought. How you are always deprived of your sense of smell in dreams.
It’s true, of course, she realizes – again as she creeps up the darkened hall. But the smell of her grandmother’s house, that sweet, sickly mixture of decrepitness and cloying perfume, had been more than just a smell to her as a young girl. It had been a sense all its own, a force that stood the small hairs of her neck on end, warning her that danger was ever-present in this house, trouble for her so long as she remained under its roof.
Though there is no smell, she can still feel this danger as she inches along the soft carpet, her left hand hovering over the wall as she quietly walks closer to the front door and the stairs leading to the second floor.
She’s here, the woman thinks. She’s still alive.
But that can’t be, her mind whispers. You know it can’t.
She pauses shortly before the dark hallway’s end, the front door beyond and the edge of the main staircase’s bannister visible further ahead on her left. Yellow light spills into the entryway from the right – the kitchen, not yet in sight.
She thinks she can see the shadow of a figure in that light, but in this dream, as in all the others, she stops at this point to look down.
The small wooden stand, placed in the exact spot it had been in reality. The dim light is just bright enough for her to make out the note placed on it, held in place with a jagged piece of white rock crystal. Again she grasps the piece of paper, holding the crystal in place as she slides it free. Part of her notes the stain on the rock’s sharp edge, the dark maroon, so old now it is nearly black. Her eyes focus on the paper, running over the elegant scrawl. The edges of her vision are still blurred in that inebriated way dreams tend to have, and in her mind she can hear her grandmother’s voice, prim and Victorian, speaking as she reads the words on the page:
Amanda,
The bag is under the stairs. The shovel’s in the yard. Come pay me a visit, will you? It’s been so long since we’ve talked, you and I. Sat down and had a little heart-to-heart . . .
What shall we talk about?
You know. You know goddamned well.
Under the stairs. Out in the yard. You still know where everything is, don’t you? Oh yes . . . you know.
Come . . .
let’s talk.
Love,
Grandma
More than anything, it’s that one word that is most prominent – “Love,” gouged so deeply into the paper that if she were to hold it up she would see thin tracts in its thick stock where the light shone through.
The note does not fall from her fingers as she starts forward again, but merely vanishes the moment it’s out of sight, having no further purpose to serve in this place.
The sequence continues. Once again she passes by the door beneath the stairs, its lower half coated in dust all the way up to its brass knob. The broom closet. A low rustling can be heard from inside as she passes it. She thinks there is also a soft, plaintive moaning, and she hears an unmistakable thump. Strangely, these noises don’t concern her, and she continues past. Though the thumping comes again, louder this time, and the muffled moans can no longer be ignored (a child’s voice, she thinks) she does not turn to look back.
Nearing the front door, she pauses at the foot of the stairs. The kitchen is to her right, and yes, there’s someone standing in the entryway. A little boy, staring at her in silence, his long brown hair so unkempt and dirty it sticks to his forehead in dark greasy tangles. Through a parting in the side she can see the deep gash above his left eye, the coat of blood covering half his face dried to a rust-colored crust.
He stares at her mutely, his eyes filled with accusation. With blame. “You did this to me,” those eyes seem to say.
She doesn’t know this boy, and yet . . . a part of her does. She is certain she once knew him. That he was, in fact, someone very close, very important to her.
In his left hand, a coil of piano wire dangles, wrapped around his clenched fist. The silver ends gleam in the kitchen light, but the rest of it does not, for it is coated in blood.
She does know this boy. She’s sure of it. Just as part of her knows that if she were to break the sequence of this dream and go wandering through the many rooms and hallways of this house – her grandmother’s, yes – she might encounter a fat, hunched figure. One which carries the same likeness as a picture she once saw sketched in a newspaper.
(Had it been the front page? She thinks it was).
This hunched figure would be wearing a light brown overcoat and matching trousers, and stretched between its clutching fingers would be that same string of wire, though pristine, yet to be bloodied as the silent figure shuffles from room to room, searching endlessly.
Looking for someone.
Looking for her? The woman doesn’t know, but the thought of meeting this mysterious figure fills her with dread. Not terror, exactly, but a vague sort of fear just the same. The fear of discovering something she would rather not know, something she would rather leave secret.
At this point in her dream the woman’s eyes are drawn to the front door’s glass window. In the soft glow of the porchlight she can make out a moving shadow. Something outside, wanting to come in. The glass is too high for her to see what this thing could be, but in a bizarre turn which could only occur in this subconscious place, she sees first one disembodied eye, then another, looking in.
No, not disembodied, but resting on thin, pink flesh-colored stalks. Two bloodshot, lidless orbs, peering around, seeing what they can see as whatever body they are attached to paces restlessly on the front step. The lack of eyelids lends the eyes a look of startled curiosity as they peer inside, not seeing her but searching all the same.
The doorknob turns, first one way, then the other. The door vibrates in its frame as the thing on the doorstep pushes against it. But the push is weak, and the door is locked, so the thing remains outside, its efforts to gain entry in vain.
Like the sounds coming from the broom closet, this new development has little effect on the dreaming woman. Perhaps because thus far it is the strangest and most obviously dreamlike thing to occur, too absurd to instill any real fear. Or maybe because she’s dreamt this before, and knows that this creature will remain outside.
Whatever the case, she knows she can’t exit the house, at least not through the front door. The boy
(“Daniel”? Danny, is that your name?)
is still standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her. As the woman’s roving eyes wander over him, and past him, she notices faint red lines on his exposed flesh. They weren’t there before, and seem to be growing deeper. Like cuts, segmenting his body. But none of this concerns her; she’s looking for a way out.
She can’t go deeper into the house. The piano wire would get her. They say you can’t die in dreams, but she doesn’t want to find out for sure.
Circling the bannister, her eyes move up the stairs, to the second-floor landing.
Let’s talk . . .
She’s waiting for you up there. You know she is.
Yes, she knows this. But she also knows that she is trapped if she stays down here. Besides, is this not the purpose of the this dream, its inevitable conclusion? Terrifying though it is, contrary to every ounce of self-preservation she possesses, she knows she has to see this through to its end.
Afraid, heart hammering in her chest, she forces her stiff muscles to obey her and begins to ascend.
Normally, this is where the dream would end.
Her foot would come to rest on the first step, the unpleasant task only just begun, and then everything would stop. Like a film reel that’s been cut short, the house would vanish, to be replaced with further, non-sequential dreams, or the rational comfort of the waking world.
This time, however, the dream keeps going.
Her softened vision moves up the stairs with her feet – one step, two steps, three – afraid to look up, certain that she’s going to see the old woman waiting for her on the landing, her skin drawn and decomposed, pockmarked and pale with rot as she looks down at her and grins, revealing an empty mouth save for but a few blackened teeth. And after waiting for her granddaughter to look up and see her stinking corpse, the old woman would come flying down the stairs, screeching, the sound coming through the severed flaps of her throat, where the skin had been cut through. Separated by a taut piece of metal wire.
The woman forces her head up, at first sneaking only a furtive glance at the landing.
It is empty. No one is waiting for her up there.
That will change any moment, she is sure. For that is the purpose of this dream. To see her again, to suffer at the hands of that awful woman just as she had all those years ago. The sleepless nights, cold sweats in pitch blackness, the years, the haunting memories, all culminating in the dream which will not leave her. This dream which is now finally reaching its end.
If I look away, she’ll be there when I look back.
Her eyes dart to the wall on her right, moving up the hanging frames rising with the ascending steps. She sees a portrait of Grandmother seated, her pose regal, graying hair pulled back from her high forehead and her shrewd eyes piercing from the canvas. Next, a picture of her again, a photograph, this one including the grandfather the dreaming woman had never met. The hint of a smile is on his face, his shy nature perhaps the result of the woman beside him, who also wears a smile, but one that is cold. More than the portrait, this photo captures the old woman’s essence, but not completely.
To achieve that, more photos would need to be taken. Private snapshots hung for all the world to see.
Pictures of long, bloody scratches down a little girl’s back. Of that same girl locked in a broom closet beneath the stairs, lost in complete darkness for hours and days, waiting for the brief moment when the tiny slot would open, the light flooding through as food is quickly shoved in before the little door bangs shut.
Pictures of darkness, unable to convey a child’s wailing sobs.
Pictures of a canvas bag soaked in blood, a rusty shovel breaking wet earth in the pouring rain. The moon lost behind an impenetrable blanket of clouds as her grandmother watches her through the kitchen window.
The last of the frames above the staircase holds not a photograph or portrait, but paper altered to appear ancient. On the paper is a phrase, the letters tall, their green columns bearing many offshoots which swirl and curl back on themselves, lending the words an appearance of wisdom:
“A Great Sin shall not Be forgiven through a Life of goodness and Charity. Once the heart Is tainted, what follows Is the sentence Bequeathed to all those Who do evil.”
She doesn’t think this frame existed in reality. She’d seen many like it, but they’d always carried a sense of fellowship, or a pious lesson to impart. This one did not. There was no hopeful message in its words, only the promise of punishment and despair. Her grandmother would have loved such a picture.
Beneath the phrase are words scratched in red ink, the person responsible for them unmistakable:
“I’M WAITING”
Returning her eyes to the landing, the woman is only a few steps from the top. For a moment she is sure she’s about to see a shrouded figure come dashing from the bedroom in the second-floor hallway, cackling and wielding a large kitchen knife. Just like a movie she’d once seen, this dream was going to end with her falling backwards down this long flight of stairs, her face slashed and bleeding as she cries out in surprised terror.
And yet . . . the landing remains empty, the second-floor hallway deserted.
Where is she, the woman thinks.
She is here somewhere – the woman can feel it. Somewhere in this dream, her dead grandmother is waiting for her.
The bedroom’s door is open partway. No howling figure has come running from it but . . . the bedroom light is on. It spills into the dark hall like an extended invitation.
I’m waiting . . .
The woman has paused several steps from the landing. Now she creeps up first one step, then another, her eyes fixed on that open door. Her breath is held, her pulse thudding in her ears as she steels herself for whatever may come from that room, be it her long-dead grandmother, or simply the old woman’s voice.
On the second to last step, there comes the quiet sound of a footstep falling behind her.
She stops, frozen, her gaze still on the bedroom but no longer seeing it. She wasn’t aware that it is possible to sweat in dreams – and perhaps it isn’t, but she feels a cold wave crash over her all the same. She suddenly realizes that if she were able to reach the bedroom and ease the door open, she would find the room empty, its light merely a clever ruse.
Whatever danger exists for her in this dream is not waiting for her up ahead.
It had followed her up the stairs.
Though the sense of her physical body is distant, soft around the edges like her vision, she feels the tightness in her jaw, her teeth clenched in a grimace as she slowly begins to turn.
Please, she thinks, begging. Please, let me be wrong. Let there be nothing there. Don’t . . . don’t let it get me.
Her prayers go unanswered. Despite her wish to deny the solid shape creeping into her vision as her head turns, the figure remains on the steps below.
It is a woman, or appears to be. Her head is down, her face hidden behind dirty tangles of blond hair which dangle down her front like a matted curtain. Her shoulders are hunched and she is dripping water, which makes sense given that she is wearing a light brown overcoat – perfect for a wet autumn night. The coat is tight against her large frame, stretched across the broad slope of her shoulders which rise and fall with each heavy breath.
Her arms hang at her sides, straight like her legs, giving her large torso the appearance of being perched atop thin branches. Slowly her bony hands start to come together, and in them
(No! Oh god please! No!)
is the shiny coiled string of wire, fresh and clean. Clean because it has yet to wrap around anyone’s throat.
Clean because it is not meant for darling Grandmother this time, but for her.
In a flash the hunched figure’s hands fly forward, spinning the piano wire around her neck before she can lift her own hands in defense. There’s no time to draw in breath before her windpipe is constricted, her terrified cry choked off as soon as it begins. Her fingers go to the strangling wire only to find it impossible to pull loose. Her head is jerked forward as the figure in the brown coat gives the string a quick pull as if testing its hold, or simply to frighten her more. She tries to gasp and can’t; her mouth opens but only a soft, pleading sound escapes.
The figure shifts slightly, and behind it, at the foot of the stairs, the woman sees the front door begin to swing open.
The creature on the doorstep is almost beyond her mind’s ability to comprehend. Almost, but not quite. Its form is blurred, but not to the point where she can’t make out its eyes sinking back into their sockets, the fleshy stalks on which they rest disappearing into the dark holes. Its sharp grin glitters in the porch’s light, splitting its lipless, skinless face nearly in two. The flesh of its hairless head is shiny with moisture, red and ridged with thin veins like the membranous skin of a peeled blood orange.
Silent, it lifts an emaciated hand, beckoning, and in the darkness behind it, the endless night which will last forever in this dream, the woman finally hears her grandmother’s voice, calling to her.
Inviting her to come to where she is.
The woman wants to scream but is only able to produce the sound in her head. The walls of her mind echo with her terrified shrieks as the hunched figure in the overcoat begins to drag her body quickly and violently down the stairs. Her body tumbles down the steps, her fingers still grasping the wire. As she’s brought closer to the front door, she can hear the gurgling anticipation of the thing on the doorstep, can see it prowling back and forth like a caged animal glimpsing its first sight of an approaching morsel.
She can hear other sounds as well – more creatures dwelling in the void, howling and cackling.
Waiting for her.
Her wild eyes can see some of these shapes now, outlines moving in the darkness, and what remains of her sanity leaves her body, abandoning its doomed vessel to its fate.
Once she leaves this house and enters the dark infinity outside, that will be the end of her.
Or a beginning she does not want to see.
She hits the floor with a heavy thump she doesn’t feel. Her body has spun around, putting the front door and the horrors beyond thankfully from her sight, yet somehow this is even worse. To know your end will be soon, yet not see it coming.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees the kitchen doorway. The little boy no longer stands in it, but in his place she sees what remains of him. A bloody torso, and a pile of limbs. The red stumps where they’d been severed ooze onto the yellowed linoleum, a spreading pool encircling the boy’s lifeless head. It lies on its side, the eyes no longer staring with accusation, or indeed with anything anymore, save for a sad, lost emptiness.
No – it wasn’t me! her frantic mind insists. It was her! But I had to get rid of you, I had to get rid of you or she was going to do the same to me too!
This is the last coherent thought the woman will ever have.
Just as she’s about to cross the threshold, she looks up at the thing dragging her. Through the tangles of hair which swing with the figure’s movement, she can see its face.
She sees its face and is not surprised to find that it is her own.
It was always her, shuffling through the rooms of this dream world, drawing closer each time she visited. Haunting her mind throughout the years.
“A Great Sin shall not be forgiven . . .”
She had to do it. She knew that she had to. And yet it had damned her all the same. Not just with the guilt of knowing what she’d done, the memories which never left her in life, but now, it was to be her everlasting torment in what follows.
She’s finally able to get a finger beneath the wire around her throat and pulls it loose just enough to let free the scream which has been trapped inside her. The sound is answered from the pitch blackness outside. As she is pulled from the house, she feels the wet fingers of the skinless creature on the doorstep wrap around her face.
The front door of the house slams shut, cutting off the howls and crazed laughter of the things outside. Inside the house is quiet, its owner having vacated it, never to return.
The dream, once recurring, has now ended.
#
The following excerpt is taken from an article posted in the Grant’s Pass Daily Courier. Beside it is a black and white image of a young boy with long hair brushed from his eyes. He is standing beside a kitchen table which holds several wrapped presents, one of which he’s just unwrapped to reveal a large set of Lego blocks. His captured smile shows two prominent buck teeth, and he looks just like any other young boy on his ninth birthday:
Police seek help locating 9-year-old missing child
The search continues for young Daniel Oster. The boy was reported missing early Sunday morning, and authorities are asking anyone in the community with any knowledge of his whereabouts to please come forward.
Evelyn Dorey, the boy’s grandmother, said that the 9-year-old had been upset recently and told her he was “going to live on his own.” Police believe the child may have gone into the woods but aren’t ruling out the possibility he may have been picked up by someone.
A search party is being organized for this afternoon at 1 o’clock and is planned to go until sundown. Anyone interested in joining can contact Dep. Mel Tibbetts at . . .
#
The following article was printed on the front page of The Oregonian on April 11, 1953:
Night Strangler Claims Fourth Victim
Grants Pass, OR – Grants Pass Police Department Detectives have located the body of 83-year-old Evelyn Dorey. Her cause of death by strangulation is consistent with the recent slayings of Oregon’s serial murderer, the “Night Strangler,” as well as the manner in which her body was discarded.
Until now the killer’s victims have consistently been young women. Detectives warn that this sudden change in pattern could mean that the killer’s mental state is deteriorating. The fact that this latest murder has also occurred far from the previous ones means that anyone could now be at risk. A six o’clock curfew has been implemented in Josephine County, with plans to expand statewide within the next few days.
Anyone with any information regarding the murders is urged to contact their local authorities. An anonymous tip line has also been set up at the following number . . .
#
This final article was posted to the website Weston-familychapel.com, under the section header marked “Obituaries”:
Amanda Janine Oster, known as “Janie” to those who knew her, passed away peacefully in her sleep at Rose Haven Care Home on August 21, 2021, after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s. She was 82 years old.
A resident of Dearborn most of her life, she was somewhat guarded about her childhood, having suffered loss at an early age. Born on October 7, 1939 in Flagstaff, Arizona, she moved to Grants Pass, Oregon, following the death of both her parents in an automobile accident. There her and her little brother Daniel stayed with their grandmother, Evelyn.
Tragedy was to continue following Amanda’s early life, as her brother went missing in January of 1949 and was unfortunately never found. Then came the widely reported death of her grandmother, an alleged victim of the Night Strangler serial killer, who was executed on July 7, 1962, but sadly never confessed to her murder.
Though Amanda Oster suffered much in life, her faith in the Lord was never shaken. She would often speak fondly of her foster parents, who were members of Saint Mary’s Catholic Church, where she herself would come be known as a pillar of her community. Her organization of many local fundraisers, including support of the Battered Women’s Advocacy shelter, will remain her legacy. She never married and is survived by no children.
In spite of her tribulations, Amanda remained a decent, kindhearted soul, and the Lord has surely called her spirit to higher labors. The Weston Family Chapel will be holding a small ceremony on Friday, April 24th, at 3:00pm, to honor Janie’s memory.

FOR EZRA POUND IL MIGLIOR FABBRO
I. The Burial of the Dead April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “They called me the hyacinth girl.” —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer. Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson! “You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, “Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? “Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? “Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, “Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! “You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!” II. A Game of Chess The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, “Jug Jug” to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. “My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. “Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? “I never know what you are thinking. Think.” I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones. “What is that noise?” The wind under the door. “What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?” Nothing again nothing. “Do “You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember “Nothing?” I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent “What shall I do now? What shall I do?” “I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street “With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? “What shall we ever do?” The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. III. The Fire Sermon The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone. “This music crept by me upon the waters” And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia Wallala leialala “Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.” “My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?” “On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.” la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest burning IV. Death by Water Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. V. What the Thunder Said After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih

This has been something I've been researching for years, and has gotten more mysterious over time, hoping the masses may be able to help.
My mother's cousin enlisted my help to identify who her paternal grandparents were - their names / identities do not seem to be real people and a professional genealogist could not find any records when settling her Aunt's probate.
I've done extensive research and turned over every leaf possible, and she has done DNA testing which has verified some information but left us just as empty handed with answers.
Her father's name was Albert Bradford (b. 5/15/1925). He had two siblings, Millicent (8/2/1926-5/15/07) and Ronald (6/8/27-5/7/80). All children were supposedly born in Scranton, PA (I believe it really was NY). Neither Ronald or Millicent had children and there is no documentation from them.
Their parents supposed names were Albert Bradford and Jane Naylor. I do not believe either of these names to be true. Jane supposedly died of goitethyroid issue and Albert hit by a train (or car accident?) but there are no records on this couple or any of the children's births.
The first record I could find was the 1940 census where all three children are living with their Aunt, Caroline Naylor Tighe in Brooklyn. They were in the home as of 1935.
We have verified through DNA that my cousin is related to the Naylor family and the Naylor name is at least correct, but I have found no sister of Caroline named Jane. I have contacted descendants of Caroline Tighe and they do not know what the relationship was of the "Bradford children" to Caroline.
Albert (Jr) was baptized in Brooklyn. I have to find my copy of the certificate to reach out to the church for more information. It did not provide differing information.
Through DNA, I have narrowed the other grandparent to be a "Landon" and a descendant of John Henry Landon and Elizabeth Ballard. I have a suspected grandfather as Henry Landon (4/5/1866-11/13/1946) who disappeared on his wife and would have been older but certainly capable of starting a new family. I believe he might have lived under a different name and perhaps been institutionalized at one point -- more on this theory later. He died in Kings County Hospital which seems to have been a sanitarium/hospital. I am not 100% sure if the male parent is a Landon, or has a different surname, but it's a line that must connect. I am working off the hypothesis that the mother really is a Naylor and the father is X/Landon.
I have identified Caroline Naylor Tighe's family and thought it would be easy to find which sibling is the mother (or perhaps father) of the Bradford children. None of the siblings are clear matches.
Some of the Naylor brothers of Caroline seem to 'disappear' and could be the grandfather as well - Wilfred (Died 1936) or Thomas (cannot find what happened to him)
There is also a sister Mary/Louise Naylor who is the only female who I cannot trace. She appears to marry a James McDonald in NH (who does not show up in trees that contain his listed parents) in 1905. She lists her parents as deceased and his have wrong cities. I have no more luck chasing her and James.
This family becomes difficult to follow on many records they suddenly used the last name Dennis. The family was French Canadian and the father's name was originally Thomas Cloutier (french for Nailocarpenter) so they became the Naylor family. I cannot determine why on earth they use the surname Dennis on many records in the 1880s. I cannot find Thomas Naylor (Caroline's father)'s death record but the family is in Providence, RI in 1900 and in 1910, his wife, Mary Bouchard Naylor is in NY and remarried. I feel that Thomas may have died or they separated 1900-1905 and most of the family relocated to Brooklyn. I would like to find what happened to Thomas to perhaps find a gravesite with others, or perhaps he had more children that could have fathered the Bradfords.
This story became even stranger when my cousin received a close (1st cousin once removed-2nd cousin range) match. This family is connected to the "Landons" but I cannot identify how they link either. I researched both lines of their trees and reached out to relatives -- their father's obituary did not seem to tie with records I found and one of the children told me their father was really one of his siblings (I have spoken to that siblings daughter, and no, they were not one in the same person) and found actual records under his identity. I am not sure why he lied/was told he was someone else. This family was very poor and he and some siblings were removed from the household and put into state care approx 1921 and were raised on various farms/hospitals. The mother, was also institutionalized. I am wondering if perhaps the mother and Henry Landon somehow connected in an institution and that's where the Bradford children link to this family.
I'm truly at a loss and can provide links, records, research but thought this was a solid start.
Appreciate any help/questions/feedback -- this one has me beat!!

Episode Link
Vox's Dylan Matthews joins Matt and Dara for another step into Weeds Time Machine: a visit to the past to review some now-forgotten chapter in policy history. This week, it's a return to the late 1970s and a reexamination of "Volcker shock": an attempt by Fed Chairman Paul Volcker to cope with rising inflation, and the myriad consequences of his efforts. Our hosts discuss the oil crisis, stagflation, the curious relationship between central banking and fiscal policy, and give some much-needed reanalysis to this crucial and topsy-turvy time in American history.
Resources:
Charts: Unemployment in the 1970s & Inflation in the 1970s
"America's Peacetime Inflation: The 1970s" by J. Bradford De Long in Reducing Inflation: Motivation and Strategy, eds. Christina D. Romer and David H. Romer (U. Chicago; 1997)
"Commentary" [on 1970s inflation] by Christina D. Romer (Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis Review; 2005)
Keeping At It: The Quest for Sound Money and Good Government by Paul Volcker (Public Affairs; 2018)
"Other People's Blood" by Tim Barker (n+1; 2019)
"Paul Volcker Was a Hero of the Ruling Class" by Doug Henwood (Jacobin; 2019)
The Economists' Hour: False Prophets, Free Markets, and the Fracture of Society by Binyamin Appelbaum (Little, Brown; 2019)
"What really drives inflation" [on "Regulation Q"] by Itamar Drechsler, Alexi Savov, Philipp Schnabl (Sept. 11, 2019)
"Paul Volcker's Complicated Latin American Legacy" by Tyler Cowen (Bloomberg; Dec. 10, 2019)
"The Rise of Finance" by Jonathan Levy (Public Books; Nov. 22, 2011)
Hosts:
Matt Yglesias (@mattyglesias), Slowboring.com
Dara Lind (@DLind), Immigration Reporter, ProPublica
Dylan Matthews (@dylanmatt), Senior Correspondent, Vox

Congratulations thunderperfect! This looks like a good one - and I have a few ancestors myself who have strange and conflicting stories - and migrations - that have been a struggle to unravel. So good luck!
To the others who posted, feel free to re-enter your people in the Week 27 thread this Thursday.
From thunderperfect:
Andrew Harrison Christie
Birth: February 1886, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (Actual date is unknown, and year is just based off of his personal statements, which change over time)
Marriage #1: Dollie Winterrowd 06 Apr 1918 Marshalltown, Marshall, Iowa, USA
Marriage #2: Margaret Phillaubum 28 Sep 1933 Des Moines, Polk, Iowa, USA
Death: 12 Jul 1961 Rock Island, Rock Island, Illinois, USA
Children: Maxine Jacqueline Christie (1918–1988) & William Harrison Christie (1921–2008)

• The first confirmed appearance I have of him is a 1916 newspaper article from Marshalltown, Iowa, identifying him as a member of the I.W.W. union. I haven't been able to find anything referencing/pertaining to him before 1916. The 1920 Census is the first census I have found him in. He and Dollie divorce sometime before 1930 (I need to request the actual divorce record), and he and his new wife are in the newspapers a few times for disorderly conduct. He relocates to Rock Island, Illinois sometime between 1940 and 1942, and he died there in 1961, a few years shaved off his possible age by the time of his obituary.

Goal: The end goal is to confirm his parents and especially his mother's name to take their lines back further, but I'd also be happy with any records of him in PA, because I'm starting to wonder if he was even from there or lived there at all. Is Andrew Christie his name at all? It's a mystery!
Additional notes:

• He's consistent in saying his father is from Scotland and his mother is from England, and that he was born in Pittsburgh, PA.
• On his 1918 marriage record for marriage #1 he lists his father as John Christie and his mother as Bertha Grassman.
• But on the 1925 Iowa State Census he lists his father as John Christy and mother as Mary McCabe (line 144).
• He also says they married in Bradford, PA, and I've reached out to the correct folks there for a possible marriage record, and one doesn't exist. I have it on my list to reach out to Bradford County, PA, but it's so far from Allegheny County that I think it's a long shot.
• I have found a possible sibling in Bertha Christie, born to John Christie and Bertha Christie in Pittsburgh on 7 Jun 1890, but haven't been able to find a record for an Andrew or Harrison Christie, nor anything about baby Bertha beyond this birth record. I've literally gone through those records page by page in case the indexing missed something, but I know it's possible I may have missed something too (as always with genealogy).
• I have his death record, and it's unfortunately not helpful in this search.
• I haven't been able to find that he filed for a SSN.

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This is a real case, google the name Edward Brian McCleary if you want more detailed info. It's popular among paranormal enthusiasts alike, but I see little rational discussion of it. in the 60's this 16 year old went on a skin diving trip with 4 friends, and returned alone. when asked what happened he says that a giant dragon (a sea serpent / aquatic dragon) suddenly appeared and killed/ate his friends one by one leaving him the sole survivor. The description of the dragon attack was extremely detailed and very horror movie like.
For example while he was swimming away from the dragon he said he heard his friend Larry scream ''it's got Brad! I gotta get out of here!'' and McCleary heard the agonized ''blood curdling'' screams coming from Brad for what seemed to be half a minute, before silence.
he would tell everyone this and got a lot of ridicule for it, so he lived as a recluse.
Only one body was found after a long search, there were no injuries on the body as far as I know, the boy (Bradford Rice) had simply drowned. The other bodies weren't found or identified. In the original press release, McCleary did not mention a monstedragon, nor did he mention a storm. He did however later on, saying the news papers ''wouldn't allow a monster story,'' and that the monster was ''better left unmentioned to all those concerned''.
http://www.trueauthority.com/cryptozoology/death.htm
i heard a podcast about this case and it said that later on in his life before he died, he sought help from a psychologist and he eventually convinced himself that there was no dragon. What is that supposed to mean in the context of the case?
Edward McCleary died in 2016 - https://www.dignitymemorial.com/obituaries/jacksonville-fl/edward-mccleary-6819524
People had been trying to contact him long before that though, to no avail.

This is a real case, google the name Edward Brian McCleary if you want more detailed info. It's popular among paranormal enthusiasts alike, but I see little rational discussion of it. in the 60's this 16 year old went on a skin diving trip with 4 friends, and returned alone. when asked what happened he says that a giant dragon (a sea serpent / aquatic dragon) suddenly appeared and killed/ate his friends one by one leaving him the sole survivor. The description of the dragon attack was extremely detailed and very horror movie like.
For example while he was swimming away from the dragon he said he heard his friend Larry scream ''it's got Brad! I gotta get out of here!'' and McCleary heard the agonized ''blood curdling'' screams coming from Brad for what seemed to be half a minute, before silence.
he would tell everyone this and got a lot of ridicule for it, so he lived as a recluse.
Only one body was found after a long search, there were no injuries on the body as far as I know, the boy (Bradford Rice) had simply drowned. The other bodies weren't found or identified. In the original press release, McCleary did not mention a monstedragon, nor did he mention a storm. He did however later on, saying the news papers ''wouldn't allow a monster story,'' and that the monster was ''better left unmentioned to all those concerned''.
http://www.trueauthority.com/cryptozoology/death.htm
i heard a podcast about this case and it said that later on in his life before he died, he sought help from a psychologist and he eventually convinced himself that there was no dragon. What is that supposed to mean in the context of the case?
Edward McCleary died in 2016 - https://www.dignitymemorial.com/obituaries/jacksonville-fl/edward-mccleary-6819524
People had been trying to contact him long before that though, to no avail.
Posting this here since maybe psychology students know?

This is a real case, google the name Edward Brian McCleary if you want more detailed info. It's popular among paranormal enthusiasts alike, but I see little rational discussion of it. in the 60's this 16 year old went on a skin diving trip with 4 friends, and returned alone. when asked what happened he says that a giant dragon (a sea serpent / aquatic dragon) suddenly appeared and killed/ate his friends one by one leaving him the sole survivor. The description of the dragon attack was extremely detailed and very horror movie like.
For example while he was swimming away from the dragon he said he heard his friend Larry scream ''it's got Brad! I gotta get out of here!'' and McCleary heard the agonized ''blood curdling'' screams coming from Brad for what seemed to be half a minute, before silence.
he would tell everyone this and got a lot of ridicule for it, so he lived as a recluse.
Only one body was found after a long search, there were no injuries on the body as far as I know, the boy (Bradford Rice) had simply drowned. The other bodies weren't found or identified. In the original press release, McCleary did not mention a monstedragon, nor did he mention a storm. He did however later on, saying the news papers ''wouldn't allow a monster story,'' and that the monster was ''better left unmentioned to all those concerned''.
http://www.trueauthority.com/cryptozoology/death.htm
i heard a podcast about this case and it said that later on in his life before he died, he sought help from a psychologist and he eventually convinced himself that there was no dragon. What is that supposed to mean in the context of the case?
Edward McCleary died in 2016 - https://www.dignitymemorial.com/obituaries/jacksonville-fl/edward-mccleary-6819524
People had been trying to contact him long before that though, to no avail.
Posting this here since maybe psychology students know?