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If you love a good southern ghost story, you know
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that the best haunting tales aren't just about what lurks
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in the dark. They're about the history, the mood, and
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the things left behind. If you're looking to bring a
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piece of that dark romantic magic into your own life,
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you need to know about Haunted. Located right in the
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heart of downtown Tullahoma, Tennessee, at 125 West Lincoln Street,
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Haunted is your brick-and-mortar sanctuary for all things spooky, Victorian,
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and alternative. We're talking eerie home decor, dark academia apparel, oddities,
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graphic tees, and curated self-care for souls who prefer the
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shadow side of life. Can't make the trip to Tullahoma
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for all our fellow dark holiday lovers, Haunted is proud
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to sponsor the upcoming Yuletide Shadows Holiday Market. It's Saturday,
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November 28th. Mark your calendars for an unforgettable day of
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horror fun. Visit them at 125 West Lincoln Street in Tullahoma,
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or shop online right now at hauntedstore.net. Welcome back to
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Southern Ghost Stories. I'm the American Hauntstorian, Alan Searcy. So hey,
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I just found out something really cool that you guys
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may appreciate. So you guys know all my books are
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on Kindle Unlimited. Well, Kindle Unlimited is now becoming Kindle Plus.
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And with Kindle Plus, you can download all the books
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on Audible for free. So if you want to have
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someone read to you, you can check out Southern Ghost Stories,
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Downtown Nashville, you can check out The Sausage King, you
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can check out Jules Wallace, the great life reader. All
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my books are on there, and now they're available on
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Audible for free if you have Kindle Plus. So anyway,
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I just found that out. Thought you guys would like
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to know. So, man, October is winding down, man. It's
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been a It's gone by really fast. So for Tennessee
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Tales Tuesday, I want to do the Hell in the
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Woods story. And this is just wild. So you guys ready?
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Buckle up. Let's go. The Cumberland Plateau is always held
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onto its secrets. The mountains of East Tennessee are beautiful
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from a distance. Long ridges roll across the horizon like
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frozen waves, covered in hardwood forests that burst into brilliant
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color each autumn, before settling into the gray stillness of winter. Today,
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the roads that wind through Scott County are quiet. Small
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churches sit beside narrow highways. Old railroad grades disappear into
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the trees. To most travelers, Helenwood is simply another small
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Appalachian community they pass without a second thought. But there
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was a time when people across America knew the name Helenwood.
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Not from prosperity. Not because of coal. but because newspapers
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called it one of the bloodiest little towns in Tennessee.
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This is the story of a place where murders became commonplace,
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where shootouts erupted in broad daylight, where a judge became
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a killer, where people believed the devil himself lived beneath
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the mountains. And it all began with one Christmas murder.
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Helen Wood was established in 1859, dug deep within the
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rugged hills of Scott County. For years, it remained little
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more than a scattering of cabins and farms surrounded by
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dense forests. Life was difficult. The land was rocky. Farming
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was poor. And families survived however they could. Everything changed
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during the 1880s. Rich seams of coal were discovered beneath
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the surrounding mountains. Mining companies rushed into the area. Almost overnight,
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Helenwood transformed into a booming company town. Railroads pushed into
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the valley. carrying coal out, and bringing workers in. Families
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arrived from across Tennessee and Kentucky, hoping to build better
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lives underground. Mining, however, was one of the most dangerous
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jobs in America. Every descent to the earth carried the
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possibility that a man might never come back out. Explosions, cave-ins,
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runaway mine carts, poisonous gases. One mistake could bury dozens
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of miners beneath thousands of tons of rock. Among those
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miners was a young man named Mike King. King was
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only 22 years old. Like countless young men before him,
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he had entered the mines believing hard work had brought
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a future. Instead, the mines took nearly everything from him.
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During one shift, disaster struck. Accounts differ on exactly how
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the accident happened, but what is certain is that a
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collapsed crush King's left arm so badly, doctors had no
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choice but to amputate it. In the 19th century, losing
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a limb often meant losing your livelihood. Coal companies had
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little use for one-armed miners. There was no disability checks,
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no workers' compensation, no rehabilitation programs. One day King had
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been a healthy young laborer. The next he was unemployed,
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permanently disabled, and facing an uncertain future. Yet sometimes tragedy
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opens unexpected doors. For Mike King, the door arrived in
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the form of an older businessman named Aaron Beck. Beck
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lived across the state line of Russell County, Kentucky, but
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traveled frequently throughout the region on business. Somewhere during those visits,
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he met the young miner. Nobody knows exactly why Beck
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took such interest in King. Perhaps he pitied the young
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man with one arm. Perhaps he admired his determination. Or
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perhaps he simply believed everyone deserved a second chance. Whatever
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the reason, Beck became something far more than an acquaintance.
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He became King's benefactor. Whenever King found himself struggling, Beck
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loaned him some money. He offered advice, encouragement, and perhaps
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most importantly, he urged King to abandon mining altogether. Instead
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of trying to return to dangerous manual labor with only
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one arm, Beck encouraged him to pursue education. It was
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remarkable advice for its time. and eventually Mike King became
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a schoolteacher. His new profession wasn't glamorous, but it offered stability,
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something few former miners ever achieved. To the outside world,
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it appeared King had rebuilt his life. He married, established
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a home, he earned respectable work. But appearances can be deceiving.
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Money was still tight. Teachers in rural Tennessee earned very little,
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and despite his new career, King often depended on Beck's
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generosity to make ends meet. and that dependence would prove deadly.
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December 23rd, 1896. Only two days before Christmas. Snow lingered
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across the Cumberland Plateau, and the bitter mountain air cut
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through heavy coats as Mike King made his way to
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visit Aaron Beck. King needed some money. Nothing unusual about that.
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He explained his situation, and Beck listened patiently. The older
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man wasn't wealthy enough to hand out large sums of money,
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but He reached into his pocket and gave King what
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he could spare, and King was grateful. As thanks, he
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invited Beck to spend the evening at his home for supper.
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It was a small gesture. Neighbors frequently shared meals in
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small Appalachian communities. Traveling after dark over rough mountain roads
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weren't always practical, so spending the night with friends was
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equally common. Beck accepted. The two men walked together through
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the cold toward King's modest home. When they arrived, Beck
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immediately noticed something strange. King's wife wasn't there. King casually
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explained she had unexpectedly left town. Nothing suspicious about that.
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Life often demanded sudden trips to visit family or handle emergencies. Still,
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Beck found himself spending the evening alone with Mike King.
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King apologized for not having his wife's cooking and insisted
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he make supper himself. Before beginning the meal, he stepped
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outside carrying a hatchet. The December cold had settled over
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the mountains, and the fireplace needed fresh wood. King split
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enough firewood to last through the night before returning inside.
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He built a roaring fire. Prepared a modest supper. The
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two men ate together quietly. Perhaps they talked about Christmas.
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Perhaps they discussed school. Maybe they talked about the mines.
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What we do know is after supper, they retired for
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the evening. King's house was small. There wasn't a guest bedroom.
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Sharing a bed wasn't unusual in 19th century rural America.
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It was practical. The fire slowly died. The oil lamp
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was extinguished. Darkness settled over that tiny cabin. Outside, the
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winter wind whispered through bare trees. Inside, Aaron Beck drifted
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peacefully off to sleep. But Mike King did not. Around
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ten o'clock that night, King opened his eyes. The room
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was silent except for Beck's slow breathing. Carefully, King reached
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toward the bedside table. His fingers found an oil lamp.
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A match struck. The wick caught fire. Suddenly, soft yellow
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light filled the room. Beck never woke. King reached beneath
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the nightstand. Not for another blanket. Not for water. He
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withdrew a. 38 caliber revolver. Then he stood. For several
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long moments, he simply stared at the sleeping man. There
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was no argument. No fight. Everything suggested King had planned
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exactly what was about to happen. He slowly raised the
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revolver over Aaron Beck. head. He pulled the trigger. The
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explosion shattered the silence. The bullet struck Beck in the head.
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Blood sprayed across the walls, the bedding, and King's clothing.
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But Beck wasn't dead. The old man suddenly lurched awake, dazed, bleeding,
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blinded by pain. He instinctively reached toward the only other
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person in the room, Mike King. His fingernails clawed across
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King's arm, drawing blood as he desperately struggled to understand
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what was going on. No one knows what happened next,
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but King panicked. The pistol hadn't finished the job. He
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needed something else. Only inches away rested the very hatchet
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he'd used earlier that evening to split the firewood. King
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grabbed it, raised it high, and brought it crashing down
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onto Beck's skull. One blow. The blade split his head open.
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The struggle ended instantly. The room fell silent once again.
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Only now, Aaron Beck was dead. Blood pooled across the
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wooden floor. Smoke drifted lazily from the fireplace. Mike King
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had just murdered the man who had helped save his life.
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For several long seconds, Mike King simply stood over the bed.
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The only sound inside the little cabin was his own breathing.
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Blood dripped from the edges of the hatchet onto the
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wooden floor. The oil lamp flickered, casting moving shadows across
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the walls as if the house itself had witnessed the killing.
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Aaron Beck, the man who had loaned him money, encouraged
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him after losing his arm and helped him become a
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schoolteacher lay motionless beneath the blankets. The murder was over.
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Now came the harder part. Getting away with it. King
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knew daylight would expose everything. The bedroom looked like a slaughterhouse.
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Blood covered the mattress, the floorboards, and parts of the wall.
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His own clothes were stained crimson. He couldn't leave Beck
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where he was. Working with only one arm, King wrapped
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the body tightly inside a bed sheet. It was an
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exhausting task. Beck was a full-grown man, and every pound
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had to be dragged across the rough floor by someone
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with only one good arm. Slowly, inch by inch, King
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wrestled the corpse outside into the freezing December night. The
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woods surrounding Helenwood were pitch black. Few lanterns burned outside
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the scattered homes, and once King disappeared beyond the edge
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of his property, darkness swallowed him completely. Nearby was a
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large depression where an old tree had been uprooted during
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a storm years earlier. The exposed roots had left behind
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a deep pit. To King, it looked like the perfect grave.
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He struggled to maneuver Beck's body down the hillside. More
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than once, he nearly lost his footing in the frozen earth. Finally,
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after what must have felt like an eternity, he managed
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to slide the body into the hole. He gathered loose stones,
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old clothing, whatever debris he could find. One by one,
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he piled them over the body until Beck disappeared beneath
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the makeshift grave. It wasn't a careful burial. It was
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simply the best a desperate killer with one arm could manage.
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King climbed back toward the house, exhausted, but he wasn't
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finished yet. Inside the cabin, he searched Aaron Beck's pockets.
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This was the reason for the murder. Not revenge. Not anger. Money.
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Inside Beck's clothing, King found $ 54. Today, that doesn't sound
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like very much, but in 1896, $ 54 represented several months'
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wages for many men. Adjusted for inflation, it would equal
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well over $ 2, 000 today. King stuffed the money in his pocket.
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Then he began destroying the evidence. He burned Beck's pants
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in the fireplace. Next, He examined the bedroom. The blood
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had soaked deep into the wooden floor. No amount of
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scrubbing would hide it. So King chose another solution. He
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began cutting sections of the floor out of his home.
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Board after board disappeared. Then he turned to the bed.
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The mattress was ruined. The wooden frame was covered with blood.
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He dismantled it piece by piece, feeding it to the fireplace,
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until almost nothing remained. By the time dawn approached, The
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bedroom had been transformed. Not cleaned. Altered. Almost as though
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the murder had never happened. The following morning, King's wife
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returned home. She immediately noticed something strange. The bed was gone.
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Entire sections of flooring had disappeared. Of course she asked
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what happened. But King didn't tell her about Aaron Beck. Instead,
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he offered one of the strangest explanations imaginable. He claimed
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the house was haunted. According to King, something evil had
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entered the home during the night. The only solution, he insisted,
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was to move immediately. No one really knows what his
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wife said, but that afternoon they packed their belongings and
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relocated to another nearby house. King had left the crime scene.
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He probably believed he had erased every trace of that murder.
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But he had overlooked one simple problem. Aaron Beck was gone.
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He had vanished. And people were going to start asking questions.
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With the stolen money in his pocket, Mike King did
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something that would later appear incredibly suspicious. Instead of lying low,
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he left town. King purchased a train ticket to Nashville.
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And there, according to later reports, he spent several days
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gambling and visiting houses of ill fame. Perhaps he believed
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he'd earned a fresh start. Perhaps he was celebrating. Or
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perhaps he simply wanted to get as far away from
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Helen Wood as possible. Everyone wondered. where Aaron Beck had gone.
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Whatever his reason, his sudden disappearance only deepened the suspicion. Meanwhile,
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back in Scott County, someone was about to make a
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gruesome discovery. January 1, 1897, nine days after the murder,
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a local hunter named Hannibal Ross was walking through the
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woods when he noticed something unusual near an uprooted tree.
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As he approached, he saw what appeared to be clothing
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protruding from beneath a pile of rocks. He pulled back
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the covering. Looking up at him was Aaron Beck. The
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freezing winter temperatures had preserved the body remarkably well. There
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was little doubt about the victim's identity. News spread throughout
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Helenwood almost immediately. In a town of only a few
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hundred people, everyone knew everyone's business. And as everyone knew,
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Aaron Beck had last been seen with Mike King. Scott
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County Sheriff John Good quickly began piecing together the timelines
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Aaron Beck had visited King. King had suddenly moved. King
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had abruptly left for Nashville. None of it looked good.
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The sheriff gathered a deputy and traveled to King's new home.
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When confronted, King did not everything. He insisted he knew
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nothing about Beck's disappearance. But the sheriff wasn't convinced. Instead
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of arguing, he decided on something unexpected, something psychological. He
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ordered King to accompany him back to the place where
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Beck's body had been found. The frozen corpse was lifted
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onto a rough wooden plank. Then the sheriff gave King
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an order. Help carry him. It was a remarkable decision.
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King only had one arm. The body was stiff with
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winter cold. The weight was tremendous. Yet the sheriff forced
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him to shoulder the burden. Perhaps good hope the physical
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exhaustion would weaken King's resolve. Perhaps he believed making the
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killer carry his own victim would break him. If that
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was the plan, it worked. King managed only about 30 yards,
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and then he collapsed. Breathing heavily, he admitted he couldn't
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carry the body any further. The sheriff and deputy finished
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the journey themselves. When they walked back to King's home,
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they carried Aaron Beck's body inside. King's wife saw the corpse.
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She screamed. She demanded to know what happened. Why was
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Aaron Beck dead? Why had the sheriff brought him there?
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King remained silent. Moments later, he was placed under arrest.
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While sitting in jail, King wasn't ready to admit guilt. Instead,
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he invented another story. According to King, a mysterious stranger
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named John Banks had committed the murder. Banks, he claimed,
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had shot Aaron Beck. King insisted the hatchet wound came afterward.
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He told investigators Beck had been suffering terribly after the gunshot,
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and he merely ended his misery with a hatchet. It
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was a desperate attempt to reduce murder to mercy. But
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nothing about the story made sense. No evidence supported the
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existence of John Banks. No witnesses had ever seen him.
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No motive could be established. Investigators quickly dismantled the tale.
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And outside the jail, meanwhile, another danger was growing. An
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angry mob. Word of Beck's murder had spread across the county,
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and many believed justice should come immediately. Lynching was a
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very real possibility. Recognizing the danger, Sheriff Goode secretly transferred
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King to the jail in neighboring Morgan County, where he
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would be beyond the reach of the crowd, safe behind
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stronger walls. And Mike King finally broke. He confessed. There
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had never been a John Banks. He alone had shot
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Aaron Beck. He alone had finished him off with a hatchet.
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And he alone had stolen the money. The trial moved quickly.
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There was little doubt about King's guilt. There was a cover-up.
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A murderer. and the jury returned a guilty verdict. The
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judge sentenced Mike King to die. by hanging. Execution day
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was May 17, 1897. The gallows stood waiting in nearby Huntsville.
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Long before sunrise, people began arriving. Public executions remained major
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events during the 19th century, drawing spectators from neighboring counties.
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Farmers left their fields. Merchants closed their shops. Families traveled
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for miles simply to witness justice being carried out. Among
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those gathered that morning were two people whose presence must
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have weighed heavily on King. His wife and their eight-month-old daughter.
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Whether he looked toward them as he climbed the scaffold,
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no one really knows. Whether they met his eyes before
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the hood was placed over his head, history doesn't say.
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The sheriff read the death warrant aloud. The noose was adjusted.
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The trap was prepared. Mike had spent months believing he
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could outsmart everyone around him. He had murdered the very
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man who had shown him kindness. He had hidden the body,
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destroyed his bedroom, invented a ghost story, and blamed an
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imaginary killer. He tried to flee to Nashville, believing he
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had escaped justice. Now there was nowhere left to run.
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The trapdoor opened beneath his feet. Within moments, Mike King
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was dead. Most towns would have spent years talking about
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a crime like that. Not Helen Wood, because only days
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after Aaron Beck's murder, the streets ran red with blood again.
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And before the year was over, the tiny mining town
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of barely 200 people would experience an almost unimaginable level
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of violence. Shootouts. Public killings. Lawmen exchanging gunfire with drunken citizens.
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By the end of 1897, an astonishing 47 people had
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been shot in Helen Wood. The Christmas murder of Aaron
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Beck wasn't the end of the story. It was only
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the beginning. of a new chapter in the legend of
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a place that many would call Hell in the Woods.
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So if you want to learn more about the Helen
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00:21:46.759 --> 00:21:50.900
Wood story, check out Southern Ghost Stories Tennessee Tales 2.
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00:21:50.900 --> 00:21:53.700
Right out deep into the history and the hauntings all
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over the Volunteer State. So I also have a new book.
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I mentioned earlier Kindle Plus, Amazon. It's Arsenic Anna. Check
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00:22:01.930 --> 00:22:05.789
out Arsenic Anna. It's a crazy story about another killer
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00:22:05.930 --> 00:22:08.339
in Cincinnati. It's during the Great Depression. She took care
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00:22:08.359 --> 00:22:11.039
of older men, and one by one, she was poisoning
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them and taking their money. It's crazy. She was the
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first lady ever executed in the state of Ohio. So
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as I mentioned, Arson Canada is free to read on
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00:22:18.700 --> 00:22:21.680
Kindle Plus. So all my books are. Southern Ghost Stories,
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00:22:21.700 --> 00:22:25.170
South Nashville, The Resurrection, Knox Martin, The Sausage King, Old
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00:22:25.210 --> 00:22:28.150
Man Dead. So please leave a review wherever you found
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00:22:28.190 --> 00:22:30.890
the show. Apple Podcasts, Spotify. Those are really important. It
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00:22:30.930 --> 00:22:34.809
helps others find the show. And Ghosts of Gallatin Haunted Tour,
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00:22:34.849 --> 00:22:39.319
Winding Down Things for October. We have tours in Friday, Saturday,
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00:22:39.339 --> 00:22:41.299
and Sunday this week. So it's going to be the
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last weekend for public tours. We do private tours year-round. But, yeah,
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come take a walk with me around Gallatin, one of
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00:22:46.839 --> 00:22:49.880
the most haunted squares in Tennessee. GhostofGallatin.com, or you can
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find us on Facebook, Ghost of Gallatin Haunted Tour on Facebook.
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Have you guys been to Monster City Madhouse yet? The
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new shirt man's a whole lot of fun. Gravestone, featuring
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City Madhouse exclusive shirt is made from a comfortable 60-40-ester
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So when you go to MonsterCityMadhouse.com, use promo code SAVE10.
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That's right, MonsterCityMadhouse.com, promo code SAVE10 gets you 10% right
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off the top. So be sure you like Southern Ghost
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Stories on Facebook and Instagram, and send your questions for
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a Q & A that's coming here in a couple
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00:23:28.630 --> 00:23:32.049
weeks to southernghoststories at gmail.com. I do a Q &
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A roughly every two months, and I've got one coming
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here in a few weeks. So southernghoststories.gmail.com if you want
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to ask a question. So thanks for listening to Southern
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Ghost Stories. I'm Alan Searcy, the American historian, and I'll
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00:23:43.319 --> 00:23:53.710
see you guys back tomorrow for another new show.
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00:23:53.710 --> 00:23:56.549
200 years ago, Louisville, Kentucky was known as the Graveyard
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of the West. Yellow fever hit the town so hard,
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gravediggers stacked bodies in mass unmarked graves, their names lost
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to time. A century later, the Ohio River rose and
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swallowed the city whole. The bodies it pulled from the
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ground floated up against the cast iron storefronts, bumping against
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the glass like they wanted back inside. This fall, Old
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Fashioned Express invites you to climb aboard the haunted trolley
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tour and take a trip back in time through Louisville's
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grim history. Ride a vintage trolley through the gaslit streets
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of Old Louisville, the Highlands, and downtown. And, if you dare,
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abandon the safety of your trolley to walk the darkened
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streets where terrible tragedies occurred. Reserve your seat now at OldFashionedExpress.com
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Looking for the perfect family fall adventure? Shuckle's Corn Maze
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and Pumpkin Patch at Fiddle Dee Farms in Greenbrier, just
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outside of Nashville, is open every Saturday and Sunday through Halloween.
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Bring the whole family for an 8-acre corn maze, hay rides, pumpkins,
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and tons more fall fun. And Southern Ghost Stories listeners
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at Shuggle's Corn Maze and Pumpkin Patch.
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If you love a good southern ghost story, you know
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that the best haunting tales aren't just about what lurks
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in the dark. They're about the history, the mood, and
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the things left behind. If you're looking to bring a
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piece of that dark romantic magic into your own life,
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you need to know about Haunted. Located right in the
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heart of downtown Tullahoma, Tennessee, at 125 West Lincoln Street,
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Haunted is your brick-and-mortar sanctuary for all things spooky, Victorian,
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and alternative. We're talking eerie home decor, dark academia apparel, oddities,
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graphic tees, and curated self-care for souls who prefer the
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shadow side of life. Can't make the trip to Tullahoma
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just yet? No problem. You can wander their digital aisles
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anytime from the comfort of your own couch at hauntedstore.net. Plus,
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for all our fellow dark holiday lovers, Haunted is proud
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to sponsor the upcoming Yuletide Shadows Holiday Market. It's Saturday,
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November 28th. Mark your calendars for an unforgettable day of
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alternative vendors, Michael, Jason, and Freddy photo ops, and holiday
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horror fun. Visit them at 125 West Lincoln Street in Tullahoma,
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or shop online right now at hauntedstore.net. Welcome back to
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00:01:21.659 --> 00:01:26.519
Southern Ghost Stories. I'm the American Hauntstorian, Alan Searcy. So hey,
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00:01:26.599 --> 00:01:28.480
I just found out something really cool that you guys
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00:01:28.519 --> 00:01:30.939
may appreciate. So you guys know all my books are
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on Kindle Unlimited. Well, Kindle Unlimited is now becoming Kindle Plus.
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00:01:35.180 --> 00:01:38.359
And with Kindle Plus, you can download all the books
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00:01:38.420 --> 00:01:40.269
on Audible for free. So if you want to have
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00:01:40.280 --> 00:01:43.310
someone read to you, you can check out Southern Ghost Stories,
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00:01:43.329 --> 00:01:45.349
Downtown Nashville, you can check out The Sausage King, you
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00:01:45.370 --> 00:01:48.430
can check out Jules Wallace, the great life reader. All
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00:01:48.469 --> 00:01:51.390
my books are on there, and now they're available on
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Audible for free if you have Kindle Plus. So anyway,
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I just found that out. Thought you guys would like
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to know. So, man, October is winding down, man. It's
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been a It's gone by really fast. So for Tennessee
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Tales Tuesday, I want to do the Hell in the
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Woods story. And this is just wild. So you guys ready?
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Buckle up. Let's go. The Cumberland Plateau is always held
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onto its secrets. The mountains of East Tennessee are beautiful
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from a distance. Long ridges roll across the horizon like
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frozen waves, covered in hardwood forests that burst into brilliant
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color each autumn, before settling into the gray stillness of winter. Today,
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the roads that wind through Scott County are quiet. Small
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churches sit beside narrow highways. Old railroad grades disappear into
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the trees. To most travelers, Helenwood is simply another small
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Appalachian community they pass without a second thought. But there
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was a time when people across America knew the name Helenwood.
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Not from prosperity. Not because of coal. but because newspapers
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called it one of the bloodiest little towns in Tennessee.
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This is the story of a place where murders became commonplace,
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where shootouts erupted in broad daylight, where a judge became
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a killer, where people believed the devil himself lived beneath
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the mountains. And it all began with one Christmas murder.
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Helen Wood was established in 1859, dug deep within the
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rugged hills of Scott County. For years, it remained little
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more than a scattering of cabins and farms surrounded by
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dense forests. Life was difficult. The land was rocky. Farming
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was poor. And families survived however they could. Everything changed
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during the 1880s. Rich seams of coal were discovered beneath
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the surrounding mountains. Mining companies rushed into the area. Almost overnight,
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Helenwood transformed into a booming company town. Railroads pushed into
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the valley. carrying coal out, and bringing workers in. Families
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arrived from across Tennessee and Kentucky, hoping to build better
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lives underground. Mining, however, was one of the most dangerous
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jobs in America. Every descent to the earth carried the
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possibility that a man might never come back out. Explosions, cave-ins,
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runaway mine carts, poisonous gases. One mistake could bury dozens
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of miners beneath thousands of tons of rock. Among those
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miners was a young man named Mike King. King was
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only 22 years old. Like countless young men before him,
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he had entered the mines believing hard work had brought
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a future. Instead, the mines took nearly everything from him.
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During one shift, disaster struck. Accounts differ on exactly how
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the accident happened, but what is certain is that a
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collapsed crush King's left arm so badly, doctors had no
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choice but to amputate it. In the 19th century, losing
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a limb often meant losing your livelihood. Coal companies had
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little use for one-armed miners. There was no disability checks,
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no workers' compensation, no rehabilitation programs. One day King had
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been a healthy young laborer. The next he was unemployed,
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permanently disabled, and facing an uncertain future. Yet sometimes tragedy
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opens unexpected doors. For Mike King, the door arrived in
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the form of an older businessman named Aaron Beck. Beck
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lived across the state line of Russell County, Kentucky, but
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traveled frequently throughout the region on business. Somewhere during those visits,
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he met the young miner. Nobody knows exactly why Beck
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took such interest in King. Perhaps he pitied the young
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man with one arm. Perhaps he admired his determination. Or
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perhaps he simply believed everyone deserved a second chance. Whatever
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the reason, Beck became something far more than an acquaintance.
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He became King's benefactor. Whenever King found himself struggling, Beck
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loaned him some money. He offered advice, encouragement, and perhaps
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most importantly, he urged King to abandon mining altogether. Instead
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of trying to return to dangerous manual labor with only
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one arm, Beck encouraged him to pursue education. It was
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remarkable advice for its time. and eventually Mike King became
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a schoolteacher. His new profession wasn't glamorous, but it offered stability,
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something few former miners ever achieved. To the outside world,
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it appeared King had rebuilt his life. He married, established
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a home, he earned respectable work. But appearances can be deceiving.
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Money was still tight. Teachers in rural Tennessee earned very little,
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and despite his new career, King often depended on Beck's
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generosity to make ends meet. and that dependence would prove deadly.
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December 23rd, 1896. Only two days before Christmas. Snow lingered
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across the Cumberland Plateau, and the bitter mountain air cut
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through heavy coats as Mike King made his way to
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visit Aaron Beck. King needed some money. Nothing unusual about that.
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He explained his situation, and Beck listened patiently. The older
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man wasn't wealthy enough to hand out large sums of money,
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but He reached into his pocket and gave King what
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he could spare, and King was grateful. As thanks, he
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invited Beck to spend the evening at his home for supper.
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It was a small gesture. Neighbors frequently shared meals in
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small Appalachian communities. Traveling after dark over rough mountain roads
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weren't always practical, so spending the night with friends was
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equally common. Beck accepted. The two men walked together through
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the cold toward King's modest home. When they arrived, Beck
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immediately noticed something strange. King's wife wasn't there. King casually
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explained she had unexpectedly left town. Nothing suspicious about that.
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Life often demanded sudden trips to visit family or handle emergencies. Still,
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Beck found himself spending the evening alone with Mike King.
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King apologized for not having his wife's cooking and insisted
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he make supper himself. Before beginning the meal, he stepped
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outside carrying a hatchet. The December cold had settled over
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the mountains, and the fireplace needed fresh wood. King split
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enough firewood to last through the night before returning inside.
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He built a roaring fire. Prepared a modest supper. The
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two men ate together quietly. Perhaps they talked about Christmas.
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Perhaps they discussed school. Maybe they talked about the mines.
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What we do know is after supper, they retired for
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the evening. King's house was small. There wasn't a guest bedroom.
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Sharing a bed wasn't unusual in 19th century rural America.
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It was practical. The fire slowly died. The oil lamp
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was extinguished. Darkness settled over that tiny cabin. Outside, the
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winter wind whispered through bare trees. Inside, Aaron Beck drifted
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peacefully off to sleep. But Mike King did not. Around
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ten o'clock that night, King opened his eyes. The room
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was silent except for Beck's slow breathing. Carefully, King reached
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toward the bedside table. His fingers found an oil lamp.
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A match struck. The wick caught fire. Suddenly, soft yellow
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light filled the room. Beck never woke. King reached beneath
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the nightstand. Not for another blanket. Not for water. He
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withdrew a. 38 caliber revolver. Then he stood. For several
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long moments, he simply stared at the sleeping man. There
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was no argument. No fight. Everything suggested King had planned
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exactly what was about to happen. He slowly raised the
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revolver over Aaron Beck. head. He pulled the trigger. The
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explosion shattered the silence. The bullet struck Beck in the head.
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Blood sprayed across the walls, the bedding, and King's clothing.
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But Beck wasn't dead. The old man suddenly lurched awake, dazed, bleeding,
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blinded by pain. He instinctively reached toward the only other
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person in the room, Mike King. His fingernails clawed across
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King's arm, drawing blood as he desperately struggled to understand
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what was going on. No one knows what happened next,
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but King panicked. The pistol hadn't finished the job. He
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needed something else. Only inches away rested the very hatchet
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he'd used earlier that evening to split the firewood. King
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grabbed it, raised it high, and brought it crashing down
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onto Beck's skull. One blow. The blade split his head open.
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The struggle ended instantly. The room fell silent once again.
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Only now, Aaron Beck was dead. Blood pooled across the
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wooden floor. Smoke drifted lazily from the fireplace. Mike King
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had just murdered the man who had helped save his life.
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For several long seconds, Mike King simply stood over the bed.
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The only sound inside the little cabin was his own breathing.
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Blood dripped from the edges of the hatchet onto the
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wooden floor. The oil lamp flickered, casting moving shadows across
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the walls as if the house itself had witnessed the killing.
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Aaron Beck, the man who had loaned him money, encouraged
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him after losing his arm and helped him become a
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schoolteacher lay motionless beneath the blankets. The murder was over.
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Now came the harder part. Getting away with it. King
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knew daylight would expose everything. The bedroom looked like a slaughterhouse.
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Blood covered the mattress, the floorboards, and parts of the wall.
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His own clothes were stained crimson. He couldn't leave Beck
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where he was. Working with only one arm, King wrapped
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the body tightly inside a bed sheet. It was an
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exhausting task. Beck was a full-grown man, and every pound
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had to be dragged across the rough floor by someone
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with only one good arm. Slowly, inch by inch, King
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wrestled the corpse outside into the freezing December night. The
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woods surrounding Helenwood were pitch black. Few lanterns burned outside
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the scattered homes, and once King disappeared beyond the edge
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of his property, darkness swallowed him completely. Nearby was a
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large depression where an old tree had been uprooted during
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a storm years earlier. The exposed roots had left behind
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a deep pit. To King, it looked like the perfect grave.
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He struggled to maneuver Beck's body down the hillside. More
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than once, he nearly lost his footing in the frozen earth. Finally,
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after what must have felt like an eternity, he managed
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to slide the body into the hole. He gathered loose stones,
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old clothing, whatever debris he could find. One by one,
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he piled them over the body until Beck disappeared beneath
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the makeshift grave. It wasn't a careful burial. It was
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simply the best a desperate killer with one arm could manage.
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King climbed back toward the house, exhausted, but he wasn't
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finished yet. Inside the cabin, he searched Aaron Beck's pockets.
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This was the reason for the murder. Not revenge. Not anger. Money.
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Inside Beck's clothing, King found $ 54. Today, that doesn't sound
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like very much, but in 1896, $ 54 represented several months'
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wages for many men. Adjusted for inflation, it would equal
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well over $ 2, 000 today. King stuffed the money in his pocket.
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Then he began destroying the evidence. He burned Beck's pants
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in the fireplace. Next, He examined the bedroom. The blood
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had soaked deep into the wooden floor. No amount of
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scrubbing would hide it. So King chose another solution. He
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began cutting sections of the floor out of his home.
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Board after board disappeared. Then he turned to the bed.
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The mattress was ruined. The wooden frame was covered with blood.
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He dismantled it piece by piece, feeding it to the fireplace,
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until almost nothing remained. By the time dawn approached, The
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bedroom had been transformed. Not cleaned. Altered. Almost as though
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the murder had never happened. The following morning, King's wife
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returned home. She immediately noticed something strange. The bed was gone.
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Entire sections of flooring had disappeared. Of course she asked
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what happened. But King didn't tell her about Aaron Beck. Instead,
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he offered one of the strangest explanations imaginable. He claimed
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the house was haunted. According to King, something evil had
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entered the home during the night. The only solution, he insisted,
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was to move immediately. No one really knows what his
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wife said, but that afternoon they packed their belongings and
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relocated to another nearby house. King had left the crime scene.
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He probably believed he had erased every trace of that murder.
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But he had overlooked one simple problem. Aaron Beck was gone.
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He had vanished. And people were going to start asking questions.
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With the stolen money in his pocket, Mike King did
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something that would later appear incredibly suspicious. Instead of lying low,
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he left town. King purchased a train ticket to Nashville.
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And there, according to later reports, he spent several days
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gambling and visiting houses of ill fame. Perhaps he believed
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he'd earned a fresh start. Perhaps he was celebrating. Or
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perhaps he simply wanted to get as far away from
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Helen Wood as possible. Everyone wondered. where Aaron Beck had gone.
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Whatever his reason, his sudden disappearance only deepened the suspicion. Meanwhile,
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back in Scott County, someone was about to make a
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gruesome discovery. January 1, 1897, nine days after the murder,
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a local hunter named Hannibal Ross was walking through the
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woods when he noticed something unusual near an uprooted tree.
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As he approached, he saw what appeared to be clothing
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protruding from beneath a pile of rocks. He pulled back
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the covering. Looking up at him was Aaron Beck. The
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freezing winter temperatures had preserved the body remarkably well. There
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was little doubt about the victim's identity. News spread throughout
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Helenwood almost immediately. In a town of only a few
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hundred people, everyone knew everyone's business. And as everyone knew,
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Aaron Beck had last been seen with Mike King. Scott
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County Sheriff John Good quickly began piecing together the timelines
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Aaron Beck had visited King. King had suddenly moved. King
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had abruptly left for Nashville. None of it looked good.
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The sheriff gathered a deputy and traveled to King's new home.
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When confronted, King did not everything. He insisted he knew
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nothing about Beck's disappearance. But the sheriff wasn't convinced. Instead
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of arguing, he decided on something unexpected, something psychological. He
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ordered King to accompany him back to the place where
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Beck's body had been found. The frozen corpse was lifted
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onto a rough wooden plank. Then the sheriff gave King
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an order. Help carry him. It was a remarkable decision.
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King only had one arm. The body was stiff with
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winter cold. The weight was tremendous. Yet the sheriff forced
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him to shoulder the burden. Perhaps good hope the physical
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exhaustion would weaken King's resolve. Perhaps he believed making the
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killer carry his own victim would break him. If that
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was the plan, it worked. King managed only about 30 yards,
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and then he collapsed. Breathing heavily, he admitted he couldn't
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carry the body any further. The sheriff and deputy finished
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the journey themselves. When they walked back to King's home,
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they carried Aaron Beck's body inside. King's wife saw the corpse.
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She screamed. She demanded to know what happened. Why was
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Aaron Beck dead? Why had the sheriff brought him there?
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King remained silent. Moments later, he was placed under arrest.
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While sitting in jail, King wasn't ready to admit guilt. Instead,
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he invented another story. According to King, a mysterious stranger
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named John Banks had committed the murder. Banks, he claimed,
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had shot Aaron Beck. King insisted the hatchet wound came afterward.
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He told investigators Beck had been suffering terribly after the gunshot,
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and he merely ended his misery with a hatchet. It
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was a desperate attempt to reduce murder to mercy. But
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nothing about the story made sense. No evidence supported the
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existence of John Banks. No witnesses had ever seen him.
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No motive could be established. Investigators quickly dismantled the tale.
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And outside the jail, meanwhile, another danger was growing. An
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angry mob. Word of Beck's murder had spread across the county,
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and many believed justice should come immediately. Lynching was a
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very real possibility. Recognizing the danger, Sheriff Goode secretly transferred
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King to the jail in neighboring Morgan County, where he
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would be beyond the reach of the crowd, safe behind
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stronger walls. And Mike King finally broke. He confessed. There
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had never been a John Banks. He alone had shot
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Aaron Beck. He alone had finished him off with a hatchet.
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And he alone had stolen the money. The trial moved quickly.
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There was little doubt about King's guilt. There was a cover-up.
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A murderer. and the jury returned a guilty verdict. The
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judge sentenced Mike King to die. by hanging. Execution day
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was May 17, 1897. The gallows stood waiting in nearby Huntsville.
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Long before sunrise, people began arriving. Public executions remained major
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events during the 19th century, drawing spectators from neighboring counties.
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Farmers left their fields. Merchants closed their shops. Families traveled
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for miles simply to witness justice being carried out. Among
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those gathered that morning were two people whose presence must
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have weighed heavily on King. His wife and their eight-month-old daughter.
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Whether he looked toward them as he climbed the scaffold,
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no one really knows. Whether they met his eyes before
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the hood was placed over his head, history doesn't say.
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The sheriff read the death warrant aloud. The noose was adjusted.
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The trap was prepared. Mike had spent months believing he
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could outsmart everyone around him. He had murdered the very
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man who had shown him kindness. He had hidden the body,
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destroyed his bedroom, invented a ghost story, and blamed an
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imaginary killer. He tried to flee to Nashville, believing he
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had escaped justice. Now there was nowhere left to run.
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The trapdoor opened beneath his feet. Within moments, Mike King
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was dead. Most towns would have spent years talking about
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a crime like that. Not Helen Wood, because only days
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after Aaron Beck's murder, the streets ran red with blood again.
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And before the year was over, the tiny mining town
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of barely 200 people would experience an almost unimaginable level
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of violence. Shootouts. Public killings. Lawmen exchanging gunfire with drunken citizens.
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By the end of 1897, an astonishing 47 people had
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been shot in Helen Wood. The Christmas murder of Aaron
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Beck wasn't the end of the story. It was only
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the beginning. of a new chapter in the legend of
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a place that many would call Hell in the Woods.
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So if you want to learn more about the Helen
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Wood story, check out Southern Ghost Stories Tennessee Tales 2.
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Right out deep into the history and the hauntings all
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over the Volunteer State. So I also have a new book.
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I mentioned earlier Kindle Plus, Amazon. It's Arsenic Anna. Check
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out Arsenic Anna. It's a crazy story about another killer
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in Cincinnati. It's during the Great Depression. She took care
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of older men, and one by one, she was poisoning
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them and taking their money. It's crazy. She was the
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first lady ever executed in the state of Ohio. So
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as I mentioned, Arson Canada is free to read on
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Kindle Plus. So all my books are. Southern Ghost Stories,
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South Nashville, The Resurrection, Knox Martin, The Sausage King, Old
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Man Dead. So please leave a review wherever you found
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the show. Apple Podcasts, Spotify. Those are really important. It
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helps others find the show. And Ghosts of Gallatin Haunted Tour,
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Winding Down Things for October. We have tours in Friday, Saturday,
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and Sunday this week. So it's going to be the
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last weekend for public tours. We do private tours year-round. But, yeah,
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come take a walk with me around Gallatin, one of
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the most haunted squares in Tennessee. GhostofGallatin.com, or you can
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find us on Facebook, Ghost of Gallatin Haunted Tour on Facebook.
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Have you guys been to Monster City Madhouse yet? The
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new shirt man's a whole lot of fun. Gravestone, featuring
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a matchup of Tombstone and the Universal Monsters. This Monster
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City Madhouse exclusive shirt is made from a comfortable 60-40-ester
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00:23:06.549 --> 00:23:10.470
polyester cotton blend. With quotes like, I'm your huckleberry, and
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hell's coming with me, you'll be ready to unleash monster justice.
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So when you go to MonsterCityMadhouse.com, use promo code SAVE10.
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That's right, MonsterCityMadhouse.com, promo code SAVE10 gets you 10% right
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off the top. So be sure you like Southern Ghost
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Stories on Facebook and Instagram, and send your questions for
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a Q & A that's coming here in a couple
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weeks to southernghoststories at gmail.com. I do a Q &
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A roughly every two months, and I've got one coming
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here in a few weeks. So southernghoststories.gmail.com if you want
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to ask a question. So thanks for listening to Southern
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Ghost Stories. I'm Alan Searcy, the American historian, and I'll
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see you guys back tomorrow for another new show.
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200 years ago, Louisville, Kentucky was known as the Graveyard
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of the West. Yellow fever hit the town so hard,
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gravediggers stacked bodies in mass unmarked graves, their names lost
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to time. A century later, the Ohio River rose and
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swallowed the city whole. The bodies it pulled from the
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ground floated up against the cast iron storefronts, bumping against
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the glass like they wanted back inside. This fall, Old
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Fashioned Express invites you to climb aboard the haunted trolley
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tour and take a trip back in time through Louisville's
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grim history. Ride a vintage trolley through the gaslit streets
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of Old Louisville, the Highlands, and downtown. And, if you dare,
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abandon the safety of your trolley to walk the darkened
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streets where terrible tragedies occurred. Reserve your seat now at OldFashionedExpress.com
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and use the code PODCAST10 for 10% off. We're waiting
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for you.
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Looking for the perfect family fall adventure? Shuckle's Corn Maze
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and Pumpkin Patch at Fiddle Dee Farms in Greenbrier, just
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outside of Nashville, is open every Saturday and Sunday through Halloween.
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Bring the whole family for an 8-acre corn maze, hay rides, pumpkins,
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magic shows, the animal corral, the super-duper pumpkin jump pillow,
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and tons more fall fun. And Southern Ghost Stories listeners
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00:25:11.589 --> 00:25:14.829
can save. Get $ 2 off each ticket when you buy
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online using promo code HAUNT26. That's right, $ 2 off each
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ticket with promo code HAUNT26. Make some memories this fall
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at Shuggle's Corn Maze and Pumpkin Patch.