Step into the humid darkness of turn-of-the-century Florida with five chilling true crime stories. From a miserly orange grower bludgeoned and dumped in Crystal Lake to a bookkeeper savaged by buzzards, a banker ambushed in a seedy saloon, a lone farmer left floating in the Miami River, and the bloody Baxter Rebellion that left a deputy riddled with bullets. Justice often failed these victims, but their stories refuse to stay buried—atmospheric historical true crime at its darkest.
Residents of Sanford, close to where the crime was committed c. late 1900sTHE COARSE RED HAIR – The Miser, the Englishman, and the Red Hair That Damned HimSamuel McMillan vanished on September 30, 1882. His neighbors quickly grew alarmed and launched a search across the Florida countryside.
Seventeen days later, on October 17, his body surfaced in Crystal Lake, four miles west of Sanford. Gases had swollen the corpse and floated it toward shore. The head was gone, and the lower limbs were mutilated by the buzzards. Much of the flesh had been eaten by fish and alligators. A heavy pot of nails remained lashed around the waist—nails later traced directly to McMillan’s own property.
The thirty-year-old Ohio native had lived in Sanford for eight years. He came from Salem, remained unmarried, and owned ten acres where he had planted eight hundred orange trees. Locals described him as a quiet man with no enemies. He paid his debts promptly, minded his own affairs, and avoided drink. His single flaw, if it could be called one, was his miserly habit of carrying every dollar on his person—roughly fifteen hundred dollars.
Orange County posted a reward for information leading to the killer.
Days later, searchers recovered McMillan’s severed head near the same stretch of shore. A single bullet hole pierced the back of the skull; the spent round was still lodged in the brain.
Suspicion soon fixed on
Archibald W. Newton. The Englishman had arrived in Sanford in the spring of 1881 bearing a letter of introduction from one of the London stockholders to J.E. Graham, manager of the Sanford company. Presented as Mr. Gray’s nephew, Newton received a monthly stipend of eighty-three dollars. He claimed an English birth but a life spent mostly in India; his father worked for the East India Company. At first, his fine appearance and polished manners won favor, yet that reputation crumbled fast. Rumors of forgeries swirled, followed by darker whispers: Newton had fled England after drugging and assaulting a young woman named Polly Bowron.
Newton and his wife lived near McMillan. Authorities arrested them both on suspicion of murder. Robbery appeared to be the clear motive. Only weeks earlier, Newton had been desperately short of cash. Suddenly, he paid off every debt, gambled in Jacksonville, deposited four hundred and thirty dollars in the bank, and bought a buggy and furniture while his wife acquired new dresses. When pressed, he explained the windfall: his wife’s brother, James Bowron, had sent twenty-five thousand dollars so they could purchase an orange grove on the lake. McMillan, it turned out, had been negotiating the sale of his own grove with Newton just before his death.
Investigators questioned the couple. They released the wife—barely eighteen years old—and transported Newton to Orlando. There, before Judge Cocke, he faced a first-degree murder charge. Newton’s wealthy relatives spared no expense on his defense.
The state attorney, Alexander
St. Clair-Abrams, prosecuted the case. Circumstantial evidence mounted against the accused. A bullet recovered from McMillan’s skull matched a revolver Newton had borrowed days before the murder. The neighbor received the weapon back the day after the killing—with one cartridge spent. Newton claimed he had shot an alligator.
Witnesses placed McMillan walking with Newton toward the latter’s house on the final evening he was seen alive. At trial,
Dr. King Wylly (Thomas Butler King Wylly) testified that he examined blood spots on a handkerchief found in Newton’s pocket the morning after the murder. Among the corpuscles lay a single coarse red hair—McMillan’s distinctive hair color.
Articles about the murder of McMillan and Newton's death in 1909.Newton insisted the sudden money had come with his wife from England. The prosecutor countered by bringing Mrs. Jones from London. Her appearance electrified the courtroom. As she entered and drew level with Mrs. Newton, she stopped, stared into the young woman’s face, and exclaimed, “Why, Kate!”Newton flushed crimson, the blood seeming ready to burst from his neck and cheeks. His wife turned deathly pale, her face frozen in shock, lips parted, eyes wide.Mrs. Jones recounted how, in October 1880, the woman then known as Kate Bowron had arrived at her London lodging house with her sister Polly. They carried no baggage, wore threadbare clothes, and possessed almost nothing. Kate found work making fur hats, but soon lost the position and teetered on starvation. Newton sent her money. She returned briefly to her mother, Charlotte, in Hull, then wrote three letters to Mrs. Jones—letters later read aloud in court. In them, she spoke of misery in Hull, Newton’s promises, and her plan to sail for America with the thirty pounds he provided. Mrs. Jones confirmed the Bowron family had never possessed anything close to twenty-five thousand dollars. Kate had been a poor working girl. She also verified Newton’s earlier outrage against Polly Bowron.On July 8, 1883, the jury convicted Archibald W. Newton of murdering Samuel McMillan and sentenced him to hang. Appeals followed. In December 1884, he won a new hearing. The Supreme Court overturned the verdict in 1886 and ordered a retrial. Venue moved to Volusia County. After four years in jail and one failed escape attempt, Newton walked free, acquitted.By 1900, he had resettled in San Francisco. He died in Auburn, California, in 1909 at age forty-nine. He named Kate Newton executrix of his modest estate, which included a small income from Great Britain. By 1910, Kate served as a companion to a seventy-eight-year-old widow in Verona, California. After that, she vanished from the historical record.In the end, Newton cheated the gallows.Yet one lingering shadow haunts the record. Samuel McMillan died alone, a quiet bachelor whose only legacy was eight hundred young orange trees swaying over ten lonely acres. He left no widow to weep at the graveside, no children to cry out for justice, no family name to rally the public’s fury. In the raw frontier justice of 1880s Florida, that absence mattered. The press and the courtroom treated his murder as a grim puzzle rather than a devastating personal tragedy. Sympathy for the victim ran shallow; outrage cooled quickly once the sensational London backstory of the accused took center stage.Had McMillan left behind a grieving wife and small children, the story might have played out differently. A family’s visible sorrow could have kept the community’s blood hot through every appeal. Newspapers would have printed their pleas. Politicians might have leaned harder on the courts. Public pressure could have turned the Supreme Court’s mercy into iron resolve. Newton’s polished defense and wealthy relatives might not have overcome the image of a murdered father, his blood money turned into buggies and new dresses while his orphans went without.Instead, the bachelor’s quiet death allowed the system to grind on in Newton’s favor. Four years in jail, one overturned verdict, and eventual freedom in California. McMillan’s orange grove passed to strangers. His fifteen hundred dollars vanished with his killer’s acquittal. And the lonely grave by Crystal Lake received only silence.In the end, some ghosts walk alone—and in 19th-century Florida, that solitude sometimes let murderers walk free.
Fernandina on Amelia Island was a well-known destinationBAD LUCK FOR THE BOOKKEEPER – A Young Bookkeeper's Fatal Search for Work in Fernandina
The last week of September 1892,
Thomas Robert Craig stepped off the train in Fernandina, Florida, hoping for a fresh start. Instead, he found death.
On September 30, searchers discovered his mutilated body in the woods near the beach. A heavy blow had crushed the back of his skull. His pockets hung turned inside out. Buzzards had torn out his entrails and pecked the eyes from their sockets. The ground for several feet around told a brutal story: scuffed earth, signs of a desperate struggle, and deep holes near the dead man’s feet where he had kicked and clawed in his final agony.
The day before,
Henry Muller had asked two friends,
Frank Ferreira and Snodgrass, to join him on a duck hunt at Willow Pond in Beach Hammock. This was a lonely place used for indigo dye processing in the 18th century. The excuse rang hollow—wild ducks were nowhere to be found that time of year. What the men found instead were buzzards circling low. Closer inspection revealed the feast: Craig’s ruined corpse.
Suspicion fell instantly on Muller. Witnesses had seen him and Craig walking together along the road that led straight to the murder scene. Muller returned alone. Craig was never seen alive again. When questioned, Muller flatly denied even knowing the dead man.
The townspeople already distrusted Muller. His father had worn the Confederate gray with honor, but Henry stood out as the black sheep of an otherwise respectable Christian family. Authorities charged him with first-degree murder. O.J.H. Summers, a former judge and future candidate for district attorney, took up his defense.
Craig had come from Clinton, South Carolina. After his uncle died in Brunswick, Georgia, the twenty-four-year-old bookkeeper drifted south in search of work. Locals remembered him as a perfect gentleman—except when drink clouded his judgment. On May 22, 1892, he had written to a prospective employer in crisp, hopeful tones:
I am a young man 24 years of age, graduated at the commercial colleges of Lexington, Kentucky and in Poughkeepsie, NY in the year 1884… I am willing to commence on a salary of $65 and work until you are convinced that I am worth more.
Willow Pond in Beach Hammock was used in indigo dye processing during the 18th century
By October 4, Warren E. Owens arrived from Clinton to claim the body. Craig’s father, Dr. John T. Craig, had died in 1877, and his mother the same year, leaving him an orphan at 9 years of age. He went to live with his maternal uncle, Rutherford Rush Blakely, who had employed him until he died in 1888. Only one married sister remained alive.
Owens, from one of Clinton’s oldest families, likely acted as both kin and friend.
Thomas Robert Craig was laid to rest next to his parents at Clinton Cemetery.At trial, Chief G.B. Livingston testified that Craig had approached him seeking bookkeeping work. He had briefly jailed the young man for a minor offense, then released him on a five-dollar bond. The last confirmed sighting placed Craig with Muller around noon on Sunday. He never appeared in court on Monday morning.In November 1892, a jury convicted Henry Muller of first-degree murder. His attorney quickly moved for a new trial, claiming one juror had failed to pay his poll tax and was therefore disqualified. The judge granted the motion. Public outrage simmered, yet mysteriously, talk of a retrial faded into silence. Muller remained in Fernandina, never married, and lived quietly with his married sister. He died in 1953, having outlived nearly all his family.Ironically,
Owen J.H. Summers, who defended Henry Muller, did go on to become district attorney for the Southern District of Florida and, in November 1894, was appointed assistant district attorney of the United States Court for the Eastern District of Louisiana. The victory of this appointment was short-lived since two weeks later, he was found dead in his bed. The reason given was fatty degeneration of the heart, coupled with a stroke. He was only 34 years old. This was two years after T.R. Craig was killed.
Justice, it seemed, bent more easily for the local black sheep than for the rootless stranger.
Had Craig had powerful kin to demand answers, the verdict might have stuck. But a lone drifter from South Carolina left no one to press the matter. His blood cooled on the sand while Muller walked free for another six decades. In the quiet corners of old Florida, family name still carried more weight than a murdered man’s rights.
Saloon in Old TampaAMBUSH AT EAVES SALOON – The Banker, the Shotgun, and the Staged Train Death
On the night of May 24, 1898,
William Macleod, president of the State Bank of St. Petersburg, walked out of history and into darkness.
Railroad workers discovered his body lying across the Plant System tracks just south of the Florida Brewing Company. At first glance, it looked like a tragic accident. A train had severed his left leg at the ankle and crushed his right foot. Yet the rest of the corpse lay almost untouched between the rails. When investigators examined him more closely, the truth emerged: Macleod had been murdered elsewhere, then dragged onto the tracks to conceal the crime.
The body was still warm. Death had come from shotgun blasts— one savage charge to the side and three pellets that tore into his heart. Sheriff Stephens, Sheriff Spencer, and former coroner Justice Torres rushed to the scene. They held a hasty inquest beside the rails while undertaker J.M. Tucker carried the corpse to
Dr. U.S. Bird (Urban Sinclair Bird) for autopsy.
No blood stained the ground. No signs of struggle disturbed the earth. Robbery clearly was not the motive—money and watch remained untouched in his pockets. Someone had killed Macleod in a more secluded spot and staged the scene to look like an unfortunate encounter with a locomotive.
That evening, Macleod had come to Tampa to meet Captain T.A. Richardson of the Warnell Lumber Company for dinner at the elegant Tampa Bay Hotel. He checked into the Almeria Hotel and told the proprietor he would return late. Witnesses placed him at a concert inside the Tampa Bay Hotel, then at the Imperial Theater on the corner of 14th Street and 6th Avenue. He drank heavily at the theater, shared a box with a mysterious woman, and downed several more drinks in her company. From there, he drifted into Felix Eaves’ barroom in the old Fort Brooke district, where he caroused with two soldiers. That was the last time anyone saw him alive.
Once a proud military post, Fort Brooke had fallen into decay after the Army decommissioned it in 1883. By 1898, the area had become Tampa’s seedy underbelly, a dangerous haunt of saloons, transients, and vice.
Inside Eaves’ saloon, investigators noticed a suspicious patch of floor scrubbed clean only hours earlier. The owners claimed the entire place had been mopped that Monday morning, but officers seized the freshly cleaned section anyway. Witnesses reported hearing shotgun blasts in the backyard around three o’clock—thirty minutes before the body turned up on the tracks. Others saw five soldiers lingering near the rear of the building. Shotgun pellets had peppered the back wall and fence. Dr. Bird confirmed the wounds matched a shotgun blast at close range.
Later that morning, Macleod’s brother
Alastair arrived to claim the body. William was buried in Greenwood Cemetery in St. Petersburg.
Streets of Old TampaA strange side mystery deepened the shadows. Policeman Williams was found unconscious in a house next to the saloon. He remembered nothing after two o’clock and could not explain how he got there. Had Macleod’s killers drugged the officer and hidden him to clear the way for their crime? The scrubbed floor, the timing, and the staged body all pointed to cold-blooded premeditation.Macleod was a Scotsman who represented a powerful English syndicate that built the Orange Belt Railway. His brother begged authorities to spare no expense in hunting down the murderers. His pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears.Felix Eaves and his bartender, Robert Meredith, were arrested on suspicion. Two weeks passed with no further breakthroughs. The governor offered a $200 reward, but no one came forward. In December 1898, a grand jury indicted both men. After a preliminary hearing, they were released, then rearrested six months later. Eaves posted a $2,000 bond. Almost a year had passed before Judge Maxwell finally took up the case. The state attorney quietly entered a nolle prosequi, dropping the charges without explanation.In 1900, Alastair Macleod followed his brother to the grave at age thirty, succumbing to tuberculosis in Denver. He died never knowing who had killed William.Felix Eaves married Josephine Harrison in 1902 and kept running his saloon. Over the next few years, authorities fined him for violating Sunday laws, charged him with robbery (later discharged), arrested him for carrying a pistol, and cited him for cruelty to animals. In 1905, the two-story building housing his saloon burned in what many suspected was arson, yet no one pursued the fire with any vigor. Josephine herself was later arrested for fighting and using profane language. The couple eventually faded from Tampa’s records. They lived at 1412 6th Avenue for a time before vanishing from history.William Macleod’s murder was never solved.Despite his prominence as a banker and railroad man, many seemed ready to blame the victim. After all, he had ventured alone into the notorious Fort Brooke district late at night, drinking and keeping questionable company. In the eyes of some, he had courted danger and paid the price. This attitude may explain why investigators showed so little appetite for digging deeper. Was the killing a simple saloon brawl that escalated, or something more sinister? Could rivals in the banking or railroad world have arranged his death? Those questions—and their answers—followed the guilty to their own graves.Once again, in the humid shadows of turn-of-the-century Florida, a prominent man died violently while his killers walked free.
Streets of Old Miami c.1904NO JUSTICE FOR MCQUEEN – Skull Crushed and Dumped in the Miami River
On
June 30, 1904, the body of
William Alexander McQueen floated in the dark waters of the Miami River. It lay wedged between the old bridge and the bank near the tannic acid plant dock. A watchman from the Florida Extract Company spotted the corpse and pulled it ashore.
Undertakers at
H.M. King’s (Herbert Morgan King) parlor examined the remains to determine whether the man had drowned or been murdered. A deep wound scarred his scalp, and his skull showed signs of a severe fracture.
McQueen was thirty-six years old. He lived upriver on a small truck farm and carried a well-earned reputation as a heavy drinker. He had been on a multi-day spree, though witnesses claimed he appeared sober the last time anyone saw him alive.
A year earlier, he had drifted down from Sumter County, South Carolina. Few in Miami knew much about him.
The next day, a coroner’s jury delivered a blunt verdict: “W.A. McQueen came to his death from a wound over his right temple caused by a blow from a blunt instrument in the hands of some person unknown to us.” The autopsy confirmed the grim truth—no water filled his lungs. He had not drowned. Someone had crushed his skull and dumped his body into the river.
His parents requested burial in the Miami City Cemetery. William Alexander McQueen came from a respected family in Sumter County. He bore the name of an uncle, a Confederate lieutenant who fell in the final days of the Civil War. Of three siblings, he alone survived—his brother and sister had both died many years before when he was still a boy.
Nine months passed before justice stirred. Sheriff Gore arrested
Henry Thomas and E. Carter. Evidence showed the pair had been the last men seen with McQueen. After the killing, Thomas pawned a pistol that belonged to the dead man, then fled town for several months. Carter remained in Miami.
Both men had worked for McQueen and bitterly complained that he still owed them wages. Thomas claimed Carter gave him the pistol. Carter denied it.
Miami River c.1904On March 28, 1905, Judge Hill dismissed the case, ruling the evidence too weak to tie the men to the murder. Authorities held them briefly on vagrancy charges before releasing them.Henry Thomas carried a shady past from Jacksonville—petty theft and vagrancy. In 1904, he had been shot at after following a couple into an alley, a skirmish sparked by jealousy over a woman.William Alexander McQueen had left the shelter of his South Carolina family for the raw promise of Miami. He lived quietly, died violently, and slipped into obscurity.His killers walked free. Once again, the swamps and rivers of early South Florida swallowed a murder along with any hope of justice. The blunt instrument that shattered McQueen’s skull was never found, and the men who wielded it faded back into the shadows of a town still learning how to punish its own.But their reprieve proved temporary.Carter spiraled into ruin. In 1913, ravaged by excessive cocaine use, he staggered into the police station and begged the desk sergeant to lock him up—he had nowhere else to go and knew he was dying. The Miami city physician examined him but offered little hope. Carter was too far gone. He died in custody.Henry Thomas met an equally grim end. In 1918, while imprisoned in the Jacksonville stockade, he attempted to escape by swimming Moncrief Creek. He drowned in the murky waters.In the end, the Florida wilds claimed McQueen’s killers after all—just not at the end of a rope. Justice, slow and indifferent, finally caught up with them in its own merciless way.
Rufe Thrift shot to death in the Baxter skirmish c.1904BLOODSHED AT BAKER COUNTY – Mob Violence, Train Massacre, and the Murder of Deputy Rufe Thrift
In the shadow of the McQueen investigation, fresh blood soaked the piney woods along the Florida-Georgia line.
On a tense night in mid-September 1904, a mob descended on the tiny settlement of Baxter, barely a mile from Georgia. A company of Florida State Troops had encamped there after reports that locals had murdered
Deputy Sheriff R.A. “Rufe” Thrift. Another man lay dead as well.
Sheriff U.C. Herndon (Urban Cooper) had stationed Thrift at Baxter to protect W.M. Duncan and his workers. The deputy slept on the second floor of a vacant storeroom belonging to Duncan when the mob struck around midnight. They fired several shots as a deliberate decoy. Thrift grabbed his shotgun and descended the back stairs. A deadly fusillade cut him down. He fell, yet still managed to fire back from the ground.
Riley Dowling, one of the attackers, was shot in the brain. His comrades carried his body away, but fragments of scalp and brain matter littered the ground twenty yards from where Thrift fell.
The next morning, searchers found the deputy’s body doubled up beneath the building. He had dragged himself there in a desperate bid for shelter, only for the mob to haul him out and riddle him with bullets from pistols, shotguns, and rifles. Neighbors heard Thrift beg for his life before the final volley. Thirty-five years old, he left behind six children, the youngest born the previous year. He had worked faithfully for Duncan for more than two years and had never harmed the people of Baxter.
The mob quietly carted Dowling’s body seven miles home and laid it on his front porch so as not to wake his wife and children. They discovered him at dawn.
A coroner’s jury investigated Dowling’s death and, in doing so, uncovered the full horror of Thrift’s murder. Tracks told the story: a cart traveled from
Aaron Dowling’s house to Baxter and back, accompanied by several horses and plenty of whiskey and wine. Roughly ten to twenty men had taken part.
Sheriff Herndon crossed into Georgia with the governor’s permission and hunted the ringleaders. He pursued Jesse Altman, who fled into the swamp. The posse, which included the sheriff’s own grandson, swept through homes on both sides of the line and arrested
William Hardy Altman (postmaster at Baxter),
Francis Bartow Crews,
Berry Crews, Riley Rhodes, Caney Rhodes, Bird Johns, John Eddie, Homer Eddie, Jesse Sapp, and others.
The first company of state troops arrived with two Gatling guns. The trouble had simmered for months. W.M. Duncan, a big, outspoken Tennessean recently from Macon, Georgia, had bought vast acreage, opened a turpentine operation, and entered the crosstie business. Local men—particularly the Altman and Crews clans—resented the newcomer. Hardy Altman occupied one of Duncan’s stores without paying rent. Bartow Crews claimed a pile of fertilizer on land Duncan had leased. Duncan also shut down several “blind tigers” selling illegal whiskey to his workers, an act that earned him powerful enemies.
Tension exploded on an excursion train to St. Augustine on September 16, 1904. Whites and Blacks rode the same crowded cars in the uneasy segregation of the day. Liquor flowed freely. The Altman brothers, Hilery and Charley, taunted Duncan’s Black employees. When Jim Plummer fled in fear, Jim Riley mocked him. One of the Altmans slashed Riley’s throat. Jackson Duncan stepped in to help and was stabbed to death, his heart cut out. Marshall Duncan suffered savage cuts and was thrown from the moving train. Bystanders and members of the Macon baseball team fell victim to the bloody chaos. The conductor refused to stop except to wire for help.
Sheriff Herndon arrested more than twenty men, but the community closed ranks. Witnesses refused to talk. Relatives of the accused packed the courtrooms armed and threatening. Trials in Folkston and Macclenny ended in swift acquittals. The new governor, N.B. Broward, with his own local connections, allowed the case to disappear in red tape and judicial loopholes.
Some participants fled the county. Others died or vanished. The Duncan family eventually left. By the 1950s, Baker County had earned a new reputation as the Moonshine Capital of the World. The old wounds never fully healed, but the code of silence held firm.
Archibald Rufus Thrift died protecting a man and a way of life that the locals had rejected. His killers, shielded by family and community, walked free. In the hardscrabble borderlands of 1904 Florida, loyalty to kin once again proved stronger than the law.
Justice dissolved in silence and blood ties.
Convict hauling turpentine c.1910Justice, when it came at all, arrived crooked and late.Jesse Altman, the desperate fugitive who vanished into the swamp as Sheriff Herndon closed in, proved impossible to tame. Already twice arrested for murder before the Baxter bloodshed, he struck again in 1908, killing Albert Zachary in a Highway Avenue saloon. A jury acquitted him. The following year, during a carnival in Jacksonville, Altman slashed the throat of showman Burt Woods. He and a companion, John S. Smith, fled to a city suburb. There, the two men quarreled. Altman drew a razor across Smith’s throat, but as Smith fell, he snatched a revolver from Altman’s pocket and fired. The bullet killed Altman instantly. All three corpses—Woods, Smith, and Altman—were later laid out for public viewing at the morgue.His son Hilery Altman, a vicious participant in the 1904 violence at only twenty years old, died in Baxter in 1911 at the age of thirty-three. Local papers made no mention of his death or its cause. His brother Charles Arthur Altman, who had joined in the bloodshed, fled to Oregon. In 1935, he ended his own life by swallowing strychnine.Aaron Dowling, whose brother Riley fell during the attack on Deputy Thrift, died three years later at forty-five. He left behind a widow and eleven children. The newspapers printed not a single line about his passing.In the end, the pine woods and river swamps of old Florida claimed their own. Some fell to violence, others to poison or silence. The blood feud that tore through Baxter may have faded from headlines, but its ghosts lingered long after the last body was lowered into the ground.#historicaltruecrime #Floridamurders #19thcenturycrime #unsolvedmurdersFlorida #BaxterRebellion #CrystalLakemurder #McMillanmurder #truecrimeblog #SouthFloridacrimestories
#forgottenmurders #historical homicide #Macleodmurder #McQueenmurder #oldFloridamysteries #frontierjustice #truecrimeFlorida #southerngothiccrime #1880smurders #1890smurders #1900sFlorida #deputysheriffkilled, #turpentine wars #blind tigers #OrangeBeltRailway #vintagetruecrime
Dan Baldwin
Dr. Scott Taylor is President of the Expanded Awareness Institute, where he helps curious people explore near-death experiences and what they mean for individuals and our culture at large. A spiritual teacher, speaker, and researcher, Scott has spent decades making the exploration of the nonphysical universe accessible to everyday seekers.
Brian Terrell is an Oklahoma-based researcher and the founder of Red Dirt Cryptids. Dedicated to hands-on, evidence-based field investigations, Terrell explores reports of unexplained creatures across Oklahoma and Kansas—ranging from Bigfoot and Dogman to regional folklore phenomena like Deer Woman and Little People. In this episode, Brian shares his own firsthand encounters along with notable accounts gathered directly from eyewitnesses in the field.Host - M.P. Pellicer
Interview on Xzone Radio with host Rob McConnell. We discuss true ghost experiences.
Lance Hightower spends his life on the edge of maps most people never unfold. An investigator and outdoorsman, he crosses the country in search of those who have already met what the woods, the water, and the dark sky refuse to name—Sasquatch, Dogman, and the rarer things that move between air, land, and sea.
James Szubski brings an unusual mix of grit and mystery to every conversation. A US Army infantry veteran, former wildland firefighter, and nationally certified search and rescue EMT, James has spent his career running toward danger rather than away from it.
Lesley Mitchell-Clarke is a certified clinical hypnotherapist who specializes in several modalities, including work with individuals who believe they have had experiences with extraterrestrial beings. She also works with metaphysical therapies such as Past Life and Interlife Regression. She is the author of INTERSECTION: A True Story of Extra-terrestrial ContactHost - M.P. Pellicer
Real videos capturing terrifying encounters. From mysterious strangers appearing out of nowhere to bizarre incidents that remain unexplained. These unsettling moments prove that unexpected paranormal encounters can occur anywhere, at any time. Host - M.P. Pellicer
For over thirty years, Allan Pacheco has walked the narrow boundary line where documented history ends and the supernatural begins.
Confronting the Unseen: When Pinellas County Sheriffs and Des Moines Police answered routine disorderly calls, they never expected to face what seemed like pure malice.
