The Ghost of Crawford Wilcox, Part 1

When you stand here, especially on a dark night with no moon to distinguish past from present, you might smell smoke from a distant fire — an inferno that roared through this block on September 27, 1886.

That night, at 2 a.m., there was an eerie moment of silence. For one brief flicker of time, everything stopped. There was no sound, no motion, no breath of fresh air — and then all hell broke loose.

At that instant, everyone in town woke to a living nightmare. The business district was on fire. Red and orange flames illuminated the night sky, casting a strange artificial daylight through the darkness. Columns of white smoke rose toward the stars, while constellations of burning embers spiraled in every direction, setting new fires wherever they landed. Dogs barked, and horses whinnied and bucked in a panicked frenzy. “Fire!” someone shouted. “Fire! Fire!”