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Transcript
- In the quiet dark of Austin, Texas, in 1884, a shadow moved through neighborhoods where dogs did not bark and fences offered no protection. It was a silence so profound it felt less like peace, and more like a held breath waiting for the axe to fall. Let’s remember her name. Mollie Smith was twenty-five years old when she died on the night of December thirtieth, eighteen eighty-four. She wasn’t just a statistic in a cold case file; she was a woman with a life, a presence, someone who likely laughed, worried about bills, or dreamed of a better tomorrow. But that night, those dreams ended violently in her own home. The killer didn’t just take her life; he attacked Walter Spencer, wounding him seriously. This wasn’t random violence in a public square. This was an invasion of sanctuary. He came while they slept. He struck while their defenses were down. And then, he vanished into the Texas night, leaving behind only blood, confusion, and a city beginning to realize that something deeply wrong had taken root in its streets. By March of eighteen eighty-five, the fear had hardened into dread. Two Swedish servant girls, Clara Strand and Christine Martenson, were brutally wounded in their beds. They survived, but barely. Their survival didn’t bring relief; it brought questions. Why them? Why servants? Why inside their homes? The killer wasn’t just killing; he was testing boundaries. He was learning how far he could go before someone stopped him. In May, Eliza Shelly was murdered. Then Irene Cross, killed by a knife rather than the axe that would become his signature tool later on. Each attack was a message sent in blood. The community was on edge. Neighbors watched neighbors. Trust eroded faster than the summer heat. The killer was becoming bolder, moving through the city like a ghost, unseen and unheard, striking at the most vulnerable among us—those who worked hard, lived simply, and had little power to protect themselves from the darkness that crept under their doors. The horror escalated in August. Mary Ramey, just eleven years old, was murdered. Her mother, Rebecca, was severely wounded. Think about that. A child. Taken from this world because of a monster’s whim. And then, Gracie Vance and her boyfriend, Orange Washington, were killed together on September twenty-eighth. But it was after these murders that the pattern became chillingly specific. The killer began posing his victims. He dragged unconscious women outdoors. He mutilated them. And here is the detail that haunts investigators even today: six of the murdered women had a sharp object inserted into their ears. This wasn’t necessary for the kill. This was ritual. This was personal. It suggests a twisted intimacy, a desire to control, to mark, to send a message that went beyond death. The silence here is loud. You can hear the echo of that choice in every report, every newspaper headline screaming about a cunning madman. It wasn’t just murder; it was performance art in the worst possible way. December twenty-fourth, eighteen eighty-five. Christmas Eve. The city was exhausted, frayed to the bone. And then, the killer struck twice. Eula Phillips, seventeen years old, and Susan Hancock were both killed in their beds on the same night. Susan was attacked while sleeping in the bed of her sixteen-year-old daughter. Another young girl caught in the crossfire of evil. Moses Hancock, Susan’s husband, was accused. He was tried. He was acquitted. The conviction of Eula’s husband, James Phillips, was overturned due to insufficient evidence, despite witness testimony about his violent threats. Was it one man? Or was it a group? The lines blurred. The New York Times called him a 'cunning madman,' insane on the subject of killing women. The speculation flew across the ocean, linking Austin to Whitechapel, to Jack the Ripper. But there was no link. Just two cities terrified by the same kind of shadow. We look for names, don’t we? We want to pin a face to the fear. Eyewitnesses saw a white man, a dark-complexioned man, a 'yellow man' wearing lampblack, a man in a Mother Hubbard dress, a man in a slouch hat. Some said he had an accomplice. Some said he belonged to a gang. The African-American community and some practitioners of voodoo believed he had magic powers, that he could become invisible, because no dogs barked. Not one dog outside or in fenced yards raised an alarm. Imagine living in a world where your protector, your loyal companion, stays silent as death walks by. That level of terror changes how you see the world. Historians have speculated he knew servant schedules. That he was local. That he was ordinary. But ordinary people don’t do extraordinary things. Justice isn’t just an outcome; it’s a presence. And in Austin, that presence was missing. So, how does it end? Not with a trial. Not with a confession. It ends with action. The city pushed back. Additional police officers were hired. Rewards were offered. Citizens formed vigilance committees to patrol the streets at night. They took back the dark. And the murders stopped. Contemporary newspapers reported the murderer had fled. Maybe he ran out of courage. Maybe he ran out of opportunity. Maybe he was intimidated. We will never know for sure. Only one person, James Phillips, was convicted, and even that was undone by the law. Four hundred men were arrested over the course of the year. Forty hundred lies told in desperation. The case remains unsolved. It stands as one of the earliest documented examples of serial killing in America, predating Jack the Ripper by three years. Yet, the voices of Mollie, Clara, Eliza, Irene, Mary, Gracie, Eula, and Susan are often drowned out by the mystery of the killer. Let’s turn up the volume on their stories. I’m Teresa Howarth. Thank you for listening, for caring, for remembering. This story is drawn from public records and widely reported accounts. Our thoughts are with everyone affected.