Episode 94 – “The Year of the Ax” Out Now
Between 1911 and 1912, America’s heartland lived in fear. From Oregon to Iowa, entire families were slaughtered in their beds. Curtains drawn, lamps dimmed, the blunt edge of an axe left behind. The trail of terror ran through Ardenwald, Rainier, Colorado Springs, Monmouth, Ellsworth, and Paola, before ending with the infamous Villisca murders.
Was it the work of one shadowy figure riding the rails, or a series of eerie coincidences? Detectives of the day struggled with poor science, conflicting rumors, and too many suspects. Men like Henry Lee Moore, William Mansfield, Rev. George Kelly, Charles Marzyck, Nathan B. Harvey, and George Wilson. None were ever proven guilty.
In this episode of Curator135, we retrace that chilling year of violence, the communities shattered in silence, and the questions that remain more than a century later.
Ardenwald, Oregon
The headlines told the story first. A family in a small Oregon community, wiped out overnight. William and Ruth Hill, along with children Philip and Dorothy, were found beaten in their beds. A neighbor girl visiting also lost her life.
Detectives searched for answers, but science offered little help. Bloodhounds were brought in, and neighbors whispered names. One man, Nathan B. Harvey, was arrested. Yet the case fell apart, and he was freed.
The murders shocked the Northwest. Curtains drawn. An axe left behind. No clear motive. Ardenwald became the first chapter in a series of horrors that stretched across the country.
Rainier, Washington
Rainier woke to horror. Archie Coble, 25, and his young wife Nettie, only 17, were found murdered in their bed. Their skulls were crushed, and Nettie had been assaulted. A cigarette still smoldered in a chair beside them.
Sheriff Mathews launched an immediate hunt. Deputies arrested drifters and questioned rail workers. Names surfaced fast: John McQueen, Arthur Pierce, Swan Peterson. Each man denied guilt. The trail kept circling back to one: George H. Wilson, a railroad section hand.
Wilson gave conflicting stories. At one point, he confessed. Later, he denied it. Jurors listened, weighed the evidence, and returned a verdict. On October 18, 1911, the court found him guilty of second-degree murder. He went to prison.
Still, questions lingered. Did Wilson truly kill the Cobles? Or did authorities seize the easiest suspect? The method matched other cases. Night. A family in bed. A blunt weapon. A killer who moved with silence, then left behind terror.
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Two houses. Six victims. One night.
Police forced their way into the Wayne home on Harrison Place and the Burnham home on West Dale Street. Inside, they found families destroyed in their beds. Henry and Blanche Wayne lay bludgeoned, their two-year-old daughter beside them. A few doors down, Alice Burnham and her children, Alice and John, suffered the same fate.
The killer used an axe borrowed from a neighbor. He left it behind. He drew the blinds, covered windows, and even tried to burn papers to hide his crime. Nothing was stolen.
Detectives detained Alice’s husband, Arthur “A.J.” Burnham. He worked nights at the Modern Woodmen sanatorium and had an alibi. Suspicion faded, and he was released. The investigation stalled.
Colorado Springs residents locked their doors and kept watch by the rails. Newspapers across the country printed the story. Another family had been wiped out. The pattern was growing, and fear spread with every mile of track.
Monmouth, Illinois
Churchgoers grew worried when sexton William Dawson failed to arrive on Sunday morning. They walked to his home. The curtains were drawn, and the door stayed locked. Police forced entry.
Inside, Dawson, his wife Charity, and their daughter Georgia lay in bed, beaten to death.
Detectives chased rumors. They arrested the Heffernan brothers, then released them. A tramp near the depot was held, then cleared. The case produced suspects but no answers.
The scene felt familiar. Families attacked in silence. Curtains pulled. Lamps dimmed. A household tool turned into an instrument of death.
Monmouth buried the Dawsons. Townspeople locked doors and watched the depot. Newspapers warned that a shadow seemed to ride the rails.
Ellsworth, Kansas
Neighbors grew uneasy when the Showman home stayed dark on a Monday morning. They knocked. No one answered. Finally, they forced their way inside.
The scene stopped them cold. William Showman, 36, lay bludgeoned beside his wife Pauline, 30. Their children — Lulu, 9; Fern, 6; and Willie, 3 — were all in their beds. Each had been struck with the blunt side of an axe.
The details repeated the same chilling pattern. Curtains hung tight. A lamp chimney had been removed, the wick turned down low. Even the family telephone sat covered with a cloth. The axe leaned against the wall, abandoned.
Detectives searched for answers. They focused on Charles Marzyck, Pauline’s former brother-in-law. He had quarreled with the family and left town. Officers tracked him across the border, arrested him in Canada, and brought him back.
At first, it looked like a breakthrough. Then witnesses confirmed Marzyck’s alibi. The case collapsed, and he walked free.
Ellsworth panicked. Families locked doors, posted guards, and watched strangers at the depot. The town buried five coffins side by side. The pattern was impossible to ignore, and fear spread farther down the rails.
Paola, Kansas
For months, the killings stopped. Families breathed easier. Then, in June of 1912, the silence ended.
In Paola, newlyweds Rollin Hudson and Anna Hudson failed to appear the next morning. Neighbors checked the cottage and discovered the worst. Both were dead in their bed, struck down with a heavy tool. The killer left it behind.
The house showed familiar signs. Curtains closed. A lamp chimney removed so the flame would glow faintly. Nothing stolen. No clue why the young couple had been chosen.
That same night, another Paola family woke to breaking glass. Someone had slipped inside. A lamp tipped over. Shouts filled the house. The intruder fled into the dark before more blood was spilled.
Deputies brought in bloodhounds. The dogs followed a scent toward the railroad depot. The trail ended there.
Paola panicked. The murders matched the others. A family gone. A weapon abandoned. A killer who moved like smoke and vanished by train. Just four days later, the terror would strike again — this time in Villisca, Iowa.
Villisca, Iowa
On Sunday evening, June 9, 1912, the Presbyterian Church in Villisca held its annual Children’s Day program. Families filled the pews. Kids recited verses and sang hymns. Among them were the Moore children — Herman, Katherine, Boyd, and Paul. Their parents, Josiah and Sarah Moore, proudly watched from the crowd.
When the service ended, the Moore children asked two friends, Lena and Ina Stillinger, to stay the night. The girls agreed. The Moore home on East Second Street filled with laughter, then grew quiet as everyone went to bed.
By dawn, eight people were dead.
The killer struck first in the upstairs bedroom, bludgeoning Josiah and Sarah Moore. He then turned on the children, one by one. Finally, he entered the guest room downstairs, where Lena and Ina Stillinger slept. Each victim was struck with the blunt side of an axe. None survived.
The scene shocked even hardened investigators. Curtains were pulled shut. Mirrors and windows were covered with cloth. A lamp burned dim, its chimney removed. The axe, Josiah’s own, leaned against the wall. On the floor lay a slab of bacon wrapped in cloth, left behind for reasons no one could explain.
When neighbors noticed the house still dark the next morning, they called Josiah’s brother. He unlocked the door and made the discovery. Soon, the marshal arrived. Then the neighbors. Then hundreds more. People crowded inside, walking through rooms, touching walls, and carrying away pieces as souvenirs. Evidence disappeared before it could be studied.
Detectives swarmed. They brought in bloodhounds, but the dogs lost the trail near the depot. Suspicion turned to suspects — traveling ministers, jealous businessmen, and drifters who rode the rails. The names of Rev. George Kelly, William Mansfield, and Henry Lee Moore filled headlines. Yet none were convicted.
Fear consumed Villisca. Families locked their doors. Lamps burned until dawn. Vigilance committees patrolled the town. Across the nation, readers followed the story with dread. Villisca became the symbol of the nightmare: a town torn apart, a family destroyed, and a killer who slipped away into history.
In Closing
The year of the ax left scars that never fully healed. Families in towns from Oregon to Iowa locked their doors, drew their curtains, and wondered who would be next. More than a century later, the mystery still lingers. Was it one man riding the rails, or several killers striking in similar ways? The truth may never be known.
Episode 94 of Curator135, The Year of the Ax, is out now on all streaming platforms. In it, we explore each of these chilling cases in full detail. And below, you’ll find a look at some of the men who stood accused along the way — suspects who kept the fear alive, even if none were ever proven guilty.
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