The Talking Corpse

The blizzard of 1873 swept across southwestern Minnesota, rattling the skeletons of trees and burying those cabins that stood unprotected on the prairie.

Inside a small cabin in northern Nobles County, Mary Weston fed the last chunk of wood to the stove and pinned another shawl around the shoulders of her three-year-old daughter, Margaret. The blizzard had raged for three days and there was no sign of her husband John. His parting words still echoed in the woman's mind: “Don't worry, honey. I'll be back soon.”

Mary recalled the leaden February sky and the rising wind on that day when her husband trudged off to gather more firewood. She had begged him not to leave her and the child, but he had insisted that they would need more wood, especially if the thermometer plunged below zero as it often did following a blizzard.

The Weston cabin was sturdy and well-chinked, but there were, nevertheless, little air pockets through which the brutal winds blew. Mary had tried to use the wood sparingly. At night she and Margaret slept in their clothes with all of the bed quilts and coats piled upon them. Now, the terrified woman watched the glow from the last stick of wood and spread her hands to the warmth.

As Mary did so, she had the strange feeling that something was different. She listened intently. The wind was no longer howling about the chimney. Mary scraped a film of ice from the small window and peered out. Through the condensate of her warm breath on the cold glass, she gazed upon a white world pierced by bare, black tree branches. The storm was over.

The air was still. No sound of man or beast broke the silence. Yet, there was something. A faint whisper in the snow? No, she thought, it must be her imagination. Pulling her robe tighter around her, she turned to comfort her child.

In the next instant, Mary Weston knew she had not imagined the sound. The distinct crunch of footsteps grew closer. John was back! Of course. He always kept his promise. Why had she worried so? He would make the fire and she would prepare a hearty meal. She bustled around setting the table and pulling plates from the shelf.

A knock shook the door and a neighbor's voice rang out, “Mrs. Weston, John is froze to death!”

The startled woman rushed to the door and threw it open. No one was there. The quilt of snow lay unbroken as far as she could see, all the way to the dark row of pines at the edge of the grove. She slumped into a chair and remained there until friends, not knowing if John had returned, arrived with firewood and a basket of hot food. Only later did Mary learn that the man whose voice she had heard at the door had not left his home that day and knew nothing about her husband's absence!

A neighbor woman offered to stay with Mary, but she said no. She would manage, Although the neighbors presumed John Weston to be dead, his wife did not. She wanted absolute proof and there was none.

Six days after the storm ended, Elmer Cosper, who lived a mile and a half from the Weston place, called on Mary Weston. She was excited to see him. Perhaps he had brought word of John.

“Mrs. Weston,” he began, twisting his cap in his hands, “I seen John early this morning.”

Mary's face brightened. Those were the words she had longed to hear. “Where? When is he coming home?”

Mary motioned Elmer to sit down and she poured coffee for both of them. Elmer ddid not look at her.

“I don't know how to tell it, ma'am. I was pitching hay to my cattle. I was standing inside the barn door.” He stirred his coffee hard. “When I looked up, I seen John standing in the doorway no more'n fifteen feet away.”

Elmer shook his head. “I don't rightly know. But, it was John all right. He had on his Union soldier's overcoat.”

There was no mistake. Mary knew that John was the only man in the county who still wore his wartime coat.

“Well, ma'am,” Elmer continued, “John stepped into the barn and said, `Mornin' to ya, neighbor.' I was pretty startled `cause I heard that John was dead. But…I returned his greeting.”

“I held tight to my pitchfork. And I said, `But, John, why are you here? We thought you was froze to death.' Then…then your husband said, `That I am. My body lies a mile and a half northwest of Hersey.'”

Mary Weston's eyes filled. She knew Elmer Cosper to be the most highly respected man of the neighborhood. His word was good. He never made up stories.

Margaret, who had been playing on the floor at her mother's feet, began to cry and Mary picked her up and held her close.

“After your husband spoke to me, ma'am, I seen the wind shake his coat about his knees. Then…well…he vanished…just like a mark wiped from a slate. I searched all around, but there weren't no footprints. No sign of anyone.”

Mary Weston and her neighbors undertook a thorough search of the Hersey area, but the body of John Weston was never found. His widow remained in the little cabin until her death, anticipating her husband's arrival at the close of every raging blizzard.


	Stephen And Tracy's Home Page Back The Talking Corpse The blizzard of 1873 swept across southwestern Minnesota, rattling the skeletons of trees and burying those cabins that stood unprotected on the prairie. Inside a small cabin in northern Nobles County, Mary Weston fed the last chunk of wood to the stove and pinned another shawl around the shoulders of her three-year-old daughter, Margaret. The blizzard had raged for three days and there was no sign of her husband John. His parting words still echoed in the woman's mind: “Don't worry, honey. I'll be back soon.” Mary recalled the leaden February sky and the rising wind on that day when her husband trudged off to gather more firewood. She had begged him not to leave her and the child, but he had insisted that they would need more wood, especially if the thermometer plunged below zero as it often did following a blizzard. The Weston cabin was sturdy and well-chinked, but there were, nevertheless, little air pockets through which the brutal winds blew. Mary had tried to use the wood sparingly. At night she and Margaret slept in their clothes with all of the bed quilts and coats piled upon them. Now, the terrified woman watched the glow from the last stick of wood and spread her hands to the warmth. As Mary did so, she had the strange feeling that something was different. She listened intently. The wind was no longer howling about the chimney. Mary scraped a film of ice from the small window and peered out. Through the condensate of her warm breath on the cold glass, she gazed upon a white world pierced by bare, black tree branches. The storm was over. The air was still. No sound of man or beast broke the silence. Yet, there was something. A faint whisper in the snow? No, she thought, it must be her imagination. Pulling her robe tighter around her, she turned to comfort her child. In the next instant, Mary Weston knew she had not imagined the sound. The distinct crunch of footsteps grew closer. John was back! Of course. He always kept his promise. Why had she worried so? He would make the fire and she would prepare a hearty meal. She bustled around setting the table and pulling plates from the shelf. A knock shook the door and a neighbor's voice rang out, “Mrs. Weston, John is froze to death!” The startled woman rushed to the door and threw it open. No one was there. The quilt of snow lay unbroken as far as she could see, all the way to the dark row of pines at the edge of the grove. She slumped into a chair and remained there until friends, not knowing if John had returned, arrived with firewood and a basket of hot food. Only later did Mary learn that the man whose voice she had heard at the door had not left his home that day and knew nothing about her husband's absence! A neighbor woman offered to stay with Mary, but she said no. She would manage, Although the neighbors presumed John Weston to be dead, his wife did not. She wanted absolute proof and there was none. Six days after the storm ended, Elmer Cosper, who lived a mile and a half from the Weston place, called on Mary Weston. She was excited to see him. Perhaps he had brought word of John. “Mrs. Weston,” he began, twisting his cap in his hands, “I seen John early this morning.” Mary's face brightened. Those were the words she had longed to hear. “Where? When is he coming home?” Mary motioned Elmer to sit down and she poured coffee for both of them. Elmer ddid not look at her. “I don't know how to tell it, ma'am. I was pitching hay to my cattle. I was standing inside the barn door.” He stirred his coffee hard. “When I looked up, I seen John standing in the doorway no more'n fifteen feet away.” Mary interrupted. “You must be mistaken. Why would John go to your place?” Elmer shook his head. “I don't rightly know. But, it was John all right. He had on his Union soldier's overcoat.” There was no mistake. Mary knew that John was the only man in the county who still wore his wartime coat. “Well, ma'am,” Elmer continued, “John stepped into the barn and said, `Mornin' to ya, neighbor.' I was pretty startled `cause I heard that John was dead. But…I returned his greeting.” Mary's knuckles turned white as she gripped her cup with both hands. “I held tight to my pitchfork. And I said, `But, John, why are you here? We thought you was froze to death.' Then…then your husband said, `That I am. My body lies a mile and a half northwest of Hersey.'” Mary Weston's eyes filled. She knew Elmer Cosper to be the most highly respected man of the neighborhood. His word was good. He never made up stories. Margaret, who had been playing on the floor at her mother's feet, began to cry and Mary picked her up and held her close. “After your husband spoke to me, ma'am, I seen the wind shake his coat about his knees. Then…well…he vanished…just like a mark wiped from a slate. I searched all around, but there weren't no footprints. No sign of anyone.” Mary Weston and her neighbors undertook a thorough search of the Hersey area, but the body of John Weston was never found. His widow remained in the little cabin until her death, anticipating her husband's arrival at the close of every raging blizzard.