"The Tin Crown":
I arrived on Beaver Island back in the summer of 1849, a young man full of hope and faith, fleeing the troubles on the mainland. My family had heard tales of a new leader, James Strang, who promised a safe haven for believers like us. He claimed to be the true successor to Joseph Smith, with a letter straight from the prophet himself. At first, it all seemed like a blessing. The island sat quiet in the middle of Lake Michigan, far from prying eyes, with thick woods and rocky shores that kept the world at bay. We built homes from logs, planted gardens, and gathered for meetings where Strang spoke with a voice that pulled you in, like he held secrets only the chosen could hear.
But soon, small things started to unsettle me. Strang ruled with a firm hand. He introduced rules that bound us closer together, but they also sowed doubt. One evening, as we sat around a fire after a long day of work, my neighbor Elias whispered to me, "Have you noticed how he watches everyone? Like he's waiting for someone to slip." I nodded, but said nothing. Elias had a wife and two small children, and he feared speaking out. We all did.
Then came the coronation in 1850. Strang declared himself king—not just of the church, but in a way that felt absolute. We assembled in a clearing near the harbor, hundreds of us standing in silence as he appeared in a red robe, a shiny tin crown on his head, holding a wooden staff. His eyes gleamed as he raised his arms and said, "This island is our kingdom, given by God. I am your protector, your guide." The crowd cheered, but I felt a knot in my gut. It was as if we'd stepped into something irreversible, cut off from the rest of the world by miles of cold water.
Conflicts brewed with the fishermen from nearby towns. They called us thieves, accused us of taking their nets and boats under cover of night. Strang denied it, but rumors spread like wildfire. One night, a group of them rowed over, drunk and angry, shouting threats from the shore. "We'll burn you out!" one bellowed. Strang had us arm ourselves with whatever we could find—axes, rifles from the mainland. He fired a cannon we'd hidden in the trees, the boom echoing across the lake, scattering them like rats. After that, we posted guards every night, peering into the darkness, wondering if they'd come back with more men.
Inside our group, things turned darker. Strang took up polygamy, saying it was divine will. He married several women, including a young girl named Elvira, barely nineteen, who he dressed as a boy and called his nephew for months to hide it. Whispers grew about favoritism and jealousy. My sister, Rebecca, confided in me one afternoon while we mended fences. "He's changed," she said softly, glancing over her shoulder. "Last week, he scolded Mary for questioning him, and now she won't leave her cabin. What if he turns on us next?" I tried to reassure her, but her words lingered, making every shadow seem alive with secrets.
Punishments became harsher. Thomas Bedford, a hot-tempered man who'd joined us from Wisconsin, got into trouble when his wife refused Strang's orders. Strang had him whipped in front of everyone—lashes that left bloody stripes on his back. Bedford stood there afterward, eyes burning with hate, muttering to Alexander Wentworth, another punished follower, "This king will pay for his cruelty." I overheard them by the docks one evening, their voices low and urgent. "We can't let him control us like this," Bedford said. Wentworth nodded, his face pale. "Soon. When the moment comes."
The island felt smaller with each passing day, the woods closing in, the lake a barrier that trapped us. Strange noises at night—branches snapping, distant calls—made me wonder if outsiders lurked or if it was our own people plotting. Paranoia spread. People stopped talking openly, fearing spies among us. Strang grew more isolated, surrounding himself with loyal guards, but even they looked uneasy.
It all came to a head in June 1856. A U.S. Navy steamer, the USS Michigan, anchored off the island. Strang went aboard to meet the captain, confident as always. But as he stepped back onto the pier, Bedford and Wentworth waited in the crowd. I was nearby, unloading supplies, when it happened. Bedford called out, "Strang!" The king turned, and in that instant, Bedford pulled a pistol and fired point-blank into his spine. Strang staggered, blood blooming on his robe. Wentworth followed with another shot, hitting him in the head. Strang crumpled, gasping, as chaos erupted—screams, people running. The assassins fled to the ship, where the crew protected them, claiming it was justice.
Strang didn't die right away. We carried him to his home, where he lay for weeks, refusing doctors, insisting God would heal him. His wives tended him, their faces drawn with fear. I visited once, and he grabbed my hand, his grip weak but fierce. "Betrayers everywhere," he rasped, eyes wild. "Watch the shores. They'll come for all of you." His words chilled me, as if he saw ghosts in the room.
When he finally passed on July 9, the island descended into terror. A mob from the mainland arrived days later—fishermen and settlers, armed and vengeful. They stormed our homes, smashing windows, dragging people out. "Get off our lake!" they shouted. My family and I hid in the woods for hours, hearing cries and gunshots. Rebecca clutched my arm, whispering, "What if they find us?" We watched flames rise from cabins, the smoke thick and acrid.
In the end, they forced us all onto boats, stripping us of everything—clothes, tools, even food. We scattered to the winds, broken and haunted. I ended up in Chicago, but the memories cling like fog. The isolation of that island, the way trust eroded into fear, the shots that echoed in my mind—it's a nightmare that never fades. Beaver Island was supposed to be paradise, but it became a prison of suspicion and blood, where one man's ambition turned neighbors into enemies and faith into dread. Even now, I wake at night, listening for footsteps on the water, wondering if the past will catch up.
"Murder on Mackinac":
I had been planning this family getaway for what felt like ages. My mother-in-law, Frances, insisted on joining us at Mackinac Island that summer of 1960. She was a strong woman in her mid-fifties, widowed for a few years, and she loved the idea of a quiet escape on that little island in Lake Huron. No cars allowed, just horses clipping along the paths and bikes whizzing by. We checked into the Murray Hotel, a cozy place with wooden floors that creaked underfoot and rooms overlooking the water. Frances shared a suite with my husband, Robert, and me, while his sister, Clara, and her husband stayed next door.
From the start, Frances seemed eager to explore. "I need some time alone to clear my head," she said that first afternoon, adjusting her scarf around her neck. She had on her favorite light dress, the one with small flowers, and carried a little purse. Robert nodded. "Just stick to the main paths, Mother. Don't wander too far into the woods." She smiled at him. "I'm not a child, dear. I'll be back before dinner." We watched her head out the hotel door, her steps firm on the gravel path leading toward the ring road that circles the island.
Dinner came and went, but Frances didn't show up. Clara fidgeted with her napkin. "Maybe she met someone and lost track of time." Robert paced the dining room. "This isn't like her. She's always punctual." I suggested we check the nearby shops, but the hotel clerk shook his head when we asked. "Haven't seen her since she left. Lots of folks out today with the yacht race finishing up. Boats from Chicago bringing all sorts of people." That race meant the island was busier than usual, ferries unloading crowds of sailors and spectators. Strangers everywhere, laughing and chatting, but it made the place feel less safe somehow.
By evening, worry set in. Robert and I walked the paths near the Grand Hotel, calling her name softly at first, then louder. The woods edged close to the road, thick with trees and underbrush that swallowed sounds. "Frances! Where are you?" No answer. A man on a bicycle passed us, his face hidden under a hat. He slowed for a moment, staring, then pedaled away. "Did you see that?" I whispered to Robert. "He looked right at us." Robert frowned. "Probably just a tourist. Let's keep looking."
The next morning, we reported her missing to the local constable. He was a stout fellow named Harold, with a mustache that twitched when he spoke. "We'll organize a search party. Island's not that big—about eight miles around. She couldn't have gone far." By noon, volunteers gathered: hotel staff, some year-round residents, even a few sailors from the race. Clara joined us, her eyes red. "What if she fell and hurt herself?" she said, gripping my arm. I tried to reassure her. "She's tough. We'll find her."
We split into groups. Robert and I took the trail between the Grand Hotel and British Landing, the same area Frances mentioned walking. The path was narrow, flanked by dense foliage. Twigs snapped under our feet, and every rustle made me glance over my shoulder. "Robert, do you think someone might have... hurt her?" I asked quietly. He stopped, his face pale. "Don't say that. It's probably nothing." But his voice lacked conviction.
As we searched, we talked to people along the way. A young hotel worker, a boy named Tom who helped with luggage, approached us. "I saw your mother-in-law yesterday," he said, shifting his weight. "She was talking to a man near the woods. Tall guy, wearing a dark jacket. Didn't recognize him—must be from the boats." Robert leaned in. "What did he look like? Did they go together?" Tom shrugged. "Couldn't see his face well. They walked off toward the trees. That's all I know." Clara overheard and gasped. "Why didn't you say something earlier?" Tom backed away. "Didn't think it mattered until now."
That detail gnawed at us. Who was this man? The island felt smaller, more confining, with the lake lapping at its edges like a barrier. No quick way off without a ferry, and those ran on schedule. The killer—if there was one—might still be here, blending in with the crowds. That night, back at the hotel, sleep evaded me. Robert sat up in bed. "I keep thinking about that stranger. What if he followed her?" I pulled the blanket closer. "We have to trust the police. They're checking everyone."
The second day dragged on. More volunteers combed the woods, poking sticks into bushes. Harold updated us at the hotel. "We've questioned dozens. A few suspicious types—men with no clear reason for being here. One sailor admitted to a fight last night, but he has witnesses." Clara pressed him. "What about the man Tom saw?" Harold nodded. "We're looking into it. Stay close; don't go out alone." His words hung in the air, a warning that danger lurked.
In the afternoon, I ventured out with Clara to retrace Frances' steps again. The path wound through taller trees, branches forming a canopy overhead. A faint smell of earth and decay filled the air. "Listen," Clara whispered suddenly. "Footsteps." We stopped. Behind us, a crunch of leaves. We turned, but saw no one. "Hello?" I called. Silence. Then, another snap, closer. We hurried back to the road, breaths quick. "Someone was there," Clara said, voice trembling. "Watching us."
By the third day, exhaustion weighed on everyone. The search party grew, now including state police from the mainland. They arrived by boat, serious men in uniforms carrying notebooks. Lead detective, a sharp-eyed guy named Ellis, gathered us in the hotel lobby. "We've covered most of the island. No sign yet, but we're not giving up." Robert asked, "Any leads on that tall man?" Ellis hesitated. "A couple of matches, but alibis check out. Could be unrelated."
Late that afternoon, a shout echoed from the woods. Volunteers had found something. We rushed over, pushing through the crowd. There, in a shallow dip off the path, lay Frances. Her body, twisted and still, half-covered by leaves. Bruises marked her neck, her dress torn. I turned away, horror rising. Clara collapsed sobbing. "Who did this?" Robert demanded of Ellis. The detective knelt, examining. "Struck from behind first, then strangled. We'll find out."
The investigation intensified. Police interviewed everyone again. Tom the hotel worker seemed nervous. "I didn't do anything," he insisted when questioned. "Just saw them talking." Suspects emerged: a transient sailor with a history of violence, ruled out by timing; a local handyman who avoided eye contact. Even family members were briefly considered, but cleared. Ellis confided later, "Evidence is thin. No fingerprints, just some hairs that don't match anyone yet."
Weeks turned to months. We left the island, but the fear followed. Back home, I locked doors obsessively, imagining that tall man somewhere out there. Police chased leads across Michigan—tips from Detroit, sightings in Battle Creek—but nothing stuck. Years later, they linked similar cases to known killers, like a man who worked at the hotel much later, convicted of other murders. But for Frances, no justice.
The island's beauty hides that darkness now. I never returned. The memory of those woods, the unseen footsteps, the stranger's shadow—it all lingers, a reminder that evil can strike anywhere, even in paradise.
"Echoes Across":
I had been paddling these wild waters for years, hauling furs and supplies through the endless lakes and rivers of the north. That spring of 1736, I joined Sieur de La Vérendrye's group at Fort Saint-Charles. My name doesn't matter much now, but back then, I was just another voyageur, strong in the arms and quick with the oar. We were a crew of twenty-one, sent east to fetch goods from Kaministiquia and Michilimackinac. Food was low, and the fort needed restocking bad. Leading us was young Jean-Baptiste de La Vérendrye, the boss's son, a bold man in his twenties with a sharp eye for the land. With him came Father Aulneau, the Jesuit priest, calm and thoughtful, there to guide our souls on the trip.
We set off in three big canoes on June 3, loaded with what little we had left. The lake stretched out wide, dotted with rocky islands like forgotten stones in a giant's hand. Jean-Baptiste steered us steady, calling out directions as we cut through the water. "Keep the rhythm, boys," he said during our first break, wiping sweat from his brow. "We'll make good time if we push hard." I nodded, sharing a bit of dried meat with the man next to me, Pierre. He was new to this, younger than most, and full of questions. "Think we'll run into any trouble?" Pierre asked, his voice low. I shrugged. "The Sioux have been restless. Heard they blame us for arming the Crees against them. But we've got numbers, and we're armed. Should be fine."
Father Aulneau sat nearby, his black robe tucked neat, reading from a small book. He looked up and smiled gently. "Trust in the Lord, my sons. He watches over us in these vast places." His words eased some of the worry, but I couldn't shake the feeling that eyes followed us from the distant shores. We'd heard stories at the fort—raids, ambushes. The Sioux were fierce warriors, quick and silent. Jean-Baptiste had even been made a chief by the Monsonis and Crees a while back, but that might have stirred bad blood with the others.
We paddled on for days, the lake growing wilder, the islands more scattered. On June 6, we spotted a small, flat island ahead, bare with just some scrubby trees and rocks. It seemed a good spot to camp for the night—sheltered enough, easy to defend if needed. "We'll stop here," Jean-Baptiste announced as we pulled the canoes ashore. "Rest up, eat what we have. Tomorrow, we push harder." We set up quick: tents pitched, fire started for warmth and cooking. The men chatted as we worked. "This place feels empty," one voyageur, Louis, muttered while tying down a canoe. "Too quiet." I agreed but kept it to myself, focusing on sharpening my knife.
As evening came, we gathered around the fire. Father Aulneau led a short prayer, his voice steady. "Bless this journey, O Lord, and protect us from harm." Jean-Baptiste shared plans for the route ahead. "Once we get the supplies, we'll head back strong. The fort depends on us." Pierre leaned in, excited. "What's Michilimackinac like? Big trading post?" Jean-Baptiste chuckled. "Bigger than you've seen, lad. Full of people, goods from everywhere." The talk turned light, stories of past trips, laughs about close calls with rapids. But underneath, tension lingered. I caught glimpses of movement in the trees—probably just animals, I told myself.
Later, as most men settled into tents, I took first watch with two others. The fire crackled low, casting flickers on the rocks. "Hear anything?" I whispered to Henri, one of the watchers. He shook his head. "Nothing but water lapping." We sat alert, muskets ready. Hours passed slow. Then, a rustle—faint, like feet on leaves. I stood, peering into the dark. "Who's there?" No answer. Henri gripped his weapon. "Could be deer." But my gut twisted different. I woke Jean-Baptiste quietly. "Something's out there." He rose, alert. "Wake the others slow. Don't panic them."
Before we could, shouts erupted—war cries piercing the night. Arrows whistled through the air, thudding into tents and ground. Men scrambled out, grabbing axes and guns. "Sioux!" someone yelled. They came from the trees, dozens of them, painted for war, moving fast and low. Jean-Baptiste fired first, dropping one. "Form a line! Protect the priest!" Father Aulneau emerged, cross in hand, calling for peace. "Stop this! We mean no harm!" But the attackers surged, knives flashing, clubs swinging.
Chaos hit hard. I fired my musket, reloading quick as I could. Pierre fell beside me, an arrow in his chest, eyes wide in shock. "Help..." he gasped. I pulled him behind a rock, but more warriors closed in. Louis swung his axe, taking one down, but two more tackled him, blades rising and falling. Screams filled the air—men begging, fighting back. Jean-Baptiste stood tall, shouting orders. "Hold them off!" He shot another, then grappled hand-to-hand, strong but outnumbered.
I took a slash to the arm, blood soaking my shirt, pain burning sharp. I stumbled back, dropping behind a boulder near the water's edge. Warriors overran the camp, tents collapsing under the assault. Father Aulneau knelt, praying aloud. "Forgive them, Father..." A warrior struck him down with a club, then an arrow pierced his side. He slumped, still clutching his cross.
Hiding, I pressed my hand to the wound, biting my lip to stay quiet. Through the rocks, I saw the horror unfold. Jean-Baptiste fought fierce, knife in hand now, but they surrounded him. One warrior stabbed deep, and he fell face down, body jerking. The Sioux decorated him with quill garters, a mock honor. Others dragged bodies, scalping some, cutting heads clean off. They arranged the heads in a circle, a grim ritual. Knives sliced chests open, arrows driven in post-kill. The ground ran red, the air thick with cries fading to gurgles.
I lay still, playing dead when a warrior passed close, his foot nearly on me. He poked at bodies nearby, but missed mine in the shadows. My heart raced so loud I feared he'd hear. Minutes stretched like hours, the attackers looting our canoes, taking weapons and supplies. Their voices murmured in a tongue I didn't know, low and triumphant. One laughed, holding up a stolen musket.
Finally, they piled into their canoes and paddled off, vanishing into the dark. I waited longer, breath shallow, pain throbbing. When sure they were gone, I crawled out. The camp was ruin—bodies mangled, tents torn, fire smoldering. Jean-Baptiste lay headless, his torso covered in wounds. Father Aulneau knelt frozen, chest split, arrow protruding. Pierre stared blank, life gone. I counted— all but me dead. Twenty slaughtered.
Tears mixed with blood on my face. I bandaged my arm with a torn shirt, gathered what food I could find. The island felt cursed now, every shadow a threat. What if they returned? I pushed a canoe into the water, weak but driven. Paddling alone, I headed back toward the fort, each stroke agony. Days blurred—hunger gnawing, wound festering. I imagined warriors behind every island, arrows ready.
When I reached Fort Saint-Charles, I collapsed at the gate. "Massacre," I whispered to the guards. "All gone... Sioux." La Vérendrye himself came, face paling as I told the tale. "My son... the priest..." He broke down, but ordered search parties. They found the bodies as I described—heads in a circle, scalps taken, horrors etched in flesh.
I healed slow, but the memories never faded. That island, now called Massacre Island, haunts me. The silence after the screams, the blood on the rocks, the way they arranged the dead like trophies. I warn every voyageur: the lakes hold dangers deeper than water. Stay vigilant, or end up like them—forgotten bones on a remote speck of land.
"Blood on the Lake":
I had always loved the idea of getting away from everything, so when I planned my backpacking trip to Isle Royale, it felt like the perfect escape. The island sits out there in Lake Superior, far from any city, with trails that wind through thick woods and lead to quiet spots by the water. I took the ferry over, hiked in with my pack, and aimed for a campground called South Lake Desor. It's one of those remote places you can only reach on foot, about eleven miles from the nearest ranger station. No roads, no stores, just a few tent sites scattered around a small lake.
When I got there in the late afternoon, I picked a spot near the edge of the trees, far enough from the group sites to have some peace. I set up my tent, boiled water for a meal, and sat listening to the birds. That's when I noticed the other campers. Two men, one older, maybe in his sixties, with gray hair and a limp, and the other younger, around thirty, tall and thin. They had set up at the group site across the clearing, maybe a hundred yards away. Father and son, I figured, from the way they moved around each other—familiar, but stiff.
At first, it was nothing unusual. I heard snippets of talk as I ate my noodles. The older one said something like, "You always do this, bring up old stuff when we're supposed to relax." The younger one replied, sharp, "Relax? How can I, with you dragging me out here like this solves anything?" Their voices carried clear across the open space, echoing off the water. I tried not to eavesdrop, but in a place this quiet, every word stuck.
As the light faded, I zipped into my sleeping bag, figuring I'd read a bit by headlamp. But their argument picked up again. The older man's voice rose first: "I've given you everything, and this is how you repay me? Running off, making bad choices?" The younger one shot back, "You think money fixes it? You ruined us, Dad. Mom left because of you." It went on like that, back and forth, accusations flying. I lay there, staring at the tent ceiling, wondering if I should move campsites in the morning. Family fights happen, but this felt raw, like something boiling over.
Sometime after dark, it got worse. I heard footsteps crunching through the leaves, then the slam of what sounded like the outhouse door. A minute later, yelling started. The younger voice, loud and ragged: "Why did you even bring me here? To lecture me more?" The older one: "Because you're falling apart, son. Look at yourself." Then it turned ugly. "I can't take this anymore," the younger one shouted. "All your control, your lies." I sat up, my pulse quickening. Their words cut through the night air, sharp as knives.
I peeked out of my tent flap, but it was too dark to see much—just shadows moving near their fire pit. The argument spiraled. The older man said, "Calm down, we're out here alone. No one to hear you act like this." That sent a shiver through me. Alone? I was right here, but they didn't know that, or didn't care. The younger one laughed, bitter. "Alone is right. Perfect place for it all to end." What did he mean by that? I strained to listen, my hands gripping the tent fabric.
Hours passed, or it felt like it. The yelling stopped for a while, and I tried to sleep, but then it flared up again. Around midnight, I think—it was hard to check my watch without making noise—the screams started. Real screams, not just angry words. The younger voice, unhinged: "Go ahead and kill yourself! See if I care!" Then the older one, pleading at first: "Stop this, please. You're scaring me." But it escalated. "I'm going to kill myself," the younger one howled. "I'm going to murder us all!" Those words hung in the air, repeating in my head. Murder us all? There were only two of them. Or did he know about me?
I froze in my bag, every muscle tense. The screams went on for over an hour, echoing across the lake. At first, both voices mixed in, arguing, threatening. Then it was mostly the younger one, ranting alone. "This ends tonight," he yelled. "No more running." I imagined him pacing, wild-eyed, maybe holding something—a knife from their camp kit, or worse. The island felt smaller then, trapping us all. No cell signal down here by the water, no way to call for help without hiking up to a ridge.
Finally, I couldn't stay put. I slipped out of my tent, quiet as I could, and crept closer through the trees. The ground was uneven, roots snagging my boots. I stopped behind a thick trunk, maybe fifty yards away now. Their tent glowed faintly from a lantern inside. Shadows moved against the fabric—one standing, one sitting. The younger man was still talking, lower now, but intense. "You think you can fix this? It's too late. We're done." The older one murmured something I couldn't catch, sounding weak, defeated. Then a thud, like something heavy falling. Silence followed, broken only by heavy breathing.
My mind raced. Was that a fight? Had he hurt him? I backed away, heart hammering, and grabbed my pack. I had to get out, find higher ground to make a call. The trail back was dark, but I knew the way—eleven miles to Windigo, where rangers might be. As I hurried off, I heard one last shout from behind: "This is it!" It chilled me deeper than the night air.
I hiked fast, flashlight beam bouncing ahead. Every rustle in the bushes made me jump—deer, I told myself, or wind. But what if he followed? What if he saw me leave? The path climbed, twisted through dense forest. My legs burned, but I pushed on. After what seemed forever, I reached a high point with a weak signal. I dialed 911, voice shaking as I explained: the screams, the threats, the thud. The dispatcher promised to send help, but warned it would take time—rangers had to hike in.
I kept moving, not stopping until dawn broke. At Windigo, I collapsed at the visitor center, told the staff everything. They nodded, faces grave, and said teams were on the way. I waited there, sipping coffee, replaying it all. Had I imagined the worst? Or left them to something terrible?
Two days later, word came back. Rangers found the bodies at the site—both men dead. The older one with wounds that looked inflicted, the younger one nearby, like he'd turned on himself after. Investigators pieced it together as a tragic breakdown, but details stayed sparse. No one else had been close enough to intervene. I gave my statement, described the voices, the words that still echo in my ears.
Now, months later, I can't shake it. That remote spot by the lake, meant for peace, turned into something dark. I wonder if I could have done more—yelled out, approached them. But in that isolation, with those threats ringing out, fear won. Isle Royale calls itself a wilderness paradise, but I know better now. Some places hold secrets that swallow people whole.