In this collection of stories, each told in rhyme,
We explore a forest seated at the edge of time.
Its roots reach back through a history of death
That continues today with each passing breath.
Our first story begins in rural Catawissa
Where the forest did manifest like a songbird
A harbinger of death; that is a
Woman known as Bertha Gifford.
Like many young maids of the Reconstruction
Bertha herself was no stranger to ruction.
Time had changed the culture, just barely
But, in it, Bertha Gifford was rooted squarely.
A struggle for power brewed within,
And it finally boiled over in 1902.
At just thirty-one, she gave in to sin
And claimed her first victim… or two.
Bertha was a reader; she loved the news.
Especially obituaries, tales of woe and blues.
She also had a love for sweets, and it showed.
She was affectionately called “plump,” as it goes.
In her youth, she’d been the toast of St. Louis,
But sun and hard work robbed away her beauty.
Nowadays, her looks are like a legend to us
Hidden by a legacy of death duty.
When she came to Catawissa, it was a small town
Of 125 people, but there were no doctors around.
Bertha was all too happy to fulfill that role,
And a nurse’s likeness she would come to extol.
She lovingly cooked meals for each new patient,
Filling their tummies up with warmth and love.
Yet her meals were always oddly calefacient…
Each produced more heat than meals you might know of.
How many people Bertha killed is not quite known
In this town she adopted as her new home.
But she was tainted by the darkness in those woods
And she was pure evil, though outwardly good.
She cared for the sick as the Bible directed,
Claiming victims every step of the way.
Though not a mother, she was a caregiver as expected
And she fostered her reputation each day.
Before Catawissa, Bertha was actually married
To a man named Graham, who was by then buried.
He was killed by pneumonia, or, so the story goes,
He was ravaged with fever from his head to his toes.
The stomach cramps came, and they never left.
The ever-diligent Bertha also never left his side.
Eventually, he gave in to the shortness of breath,
And, then, Bertha’s first husband died.
Next she wed Gene Gifford, a good man
A carpenter and farmer who tended the land.
In her thirties and stunning, Bertha stole his heart
But rumor says she was controlling from the start.
Gene’s family loved Bertha, and her cooking;
Her biscuits were nothing short of legendary.
When people got sick, she was forward-looking;
She’d serve biscuits and soup and sherry.
Gene’s Uncle Sherman was the town drunk
And, in 1917, he was finally out of luck.
Stumbling under stars, he stopped by their home
And stayed the night in that dark catacomb
Of a structure, and sadly, he didn’t leave alive.
The next town’s doctor said it was the drinking.
Assuming alcoholism is why he died
Is, unfortunately, wishful thinking.
Nobody thought twice about his passing,
Bertha had a reputation that was quickly surpassing
That of other local doctors, when she worked as a nurse
And none dared to assume her intentions were perverse.
Accidents, sickness, nothing scared Bertha away,
And she’d help selflessly until the sick recovered.
She was great, and rarely even accepted pay
Yet, like an angel of death, she hovered.
She donned a white apron, meticulously clean
As she rushed to any accident scene.
But Jim Ogle said the Giffords owed him money,
As he’d worked in their field when the weather was sunny.
Of course, one day, Jim Ogle finally fell ill.
Bertha, unphased, immediately moved to assist.
It was malaria, a deadly disease poised to kill.
But Jim wasn’t going down, determined to persist.
Of course, the disease continued to progress,
His stomach cramped and heart fluttered under breast.
Gastritis killed him, the doctor confirmed,
And locals didn’t even so much as squirm.
There was no doubt, not a single question asked,
No autopsy, investigation, or further inquest.
Of course, long after the death had passed,
People finally began to question and suspect.
Before suspicion arose, in January of 1923
Little Beulah Pounds uttered her final life plea.
But just days before the child’s untimely demise,
She’d visited Bertha mere hours after sunrise.
When her mother returned at dinner to pick her up,
Beulah had a bellyache, which Bertha could help.
She stayed the night; tucked in bed, covered up,
It worsened and she died, uttering only a yelp.
Once again, gastritis was to blame.
Locals, surprisingly, weren’t buying that claim.
Beulah’s aunt requested a post-mortem
But it, of course, was too much money for them.
Bertha, usually mousy, became rather angry
At the implication and skipped the funeral.
So she stayed home, cooking, organizing the pantry…
The only time Bertha had ever missed a burial.
That spring, residents reflected on winters so hard
That some had lost children, like Little Bernard.
The Stuhlfelders were neighbors to Bertha
And the Giffords neighbors to them, and vice versa.
Bertha had, in 1915, tended to Bernard
And then to his sister, Margaret, years later.
Both children died, and the family was scarred
But a hard life was just the will of the Creator.
But in 1923, the Stuhldelders also lost Little Irene.
Their daughter’s death didn’t even cause a scene.
Three children were gone, but it was just their curse
To bear; at least they knew they had a good nurse.
She was a good friend, too. And, boy, could she cook.
Bertha always knew about each death in the news.
She’d discuss each as she eyed a recipe book
And, though odd, nobody had any clue.
And then in 1925, the Schamels were slaughtered.
Starting with Ethel, her name was listed proper
In the paper as “Mrs. George Schamel” when she died,
And Bertha, ever diligent, had been sitting at her bedside.
Ethel’s two sons followed her into death, and her sister,
Leona, also started vomiting. Gastritis, they said.
Four deaths in one home. Locals started to whisper.
After all, there was one link between the recent dead.
Bertha made potions; yes, that’s what she called them,
For muscle sprains, aches, all manner of mayhem.
And when farmhand Ed Brinley had just gotten sick,
Bertha offered a potion, promising relief real quick.
Ed Brinley died like so many others.
An official investigation finally began,
Justice for community members, children, mothers.
And our hero, Bertha, needed an escape plan.
She retreated to the woods and found a spring
So pure and rich, its waters did sing.
Inspired, she went to Eureka with Gene
Hoping for solace, a new home so serene.
The law followed her, and a police chief,
Andrew McDonnell, arrested her, but first took her to eat.
By all means, any conversation should have been brief.
But she uttered something full of replete.
“Beulah Pounds, people say she died from arsenic.
That’s the silliest thing you’ve heard, isn’t it?”
McDonnell tilted his head and nodded. “Okay.
If not Beulah, which others did you slay?”
After a few hours, Bertha finally admitted
That arsenic had been used in some medications.
She didn’t believe a crime had been committed,
Gastritis was just common in Catawissa’s location.
The county ordered a few exhumations
Hoping to amass some explanation.
Ed Brinley was found to be full of arsenic,
A simple explanation for why he fell sick.
A case was made, and a trial commenced.
Bertha was tried for two murders, and she
Immediately claimed innocence.
“Why would I kill? Why me?”
Word of the trial spread fast through the press.
“Murder committed! By a woman, no less!”
She was just being tried for two cases,
But suspicion arose for the other faces
That closed their eyes and died under her care.
As many as seventeen, she was locally blamed for…
She was only tried for two, with wide eyes and wild hair
She was declared “insane,” nothing less, nothing more.
Bertha was committed to State Hospital Number Four
And Catawissa saw mysterious deaths no more.
With good behavior, she was eventually moved
To the kitchen there, where she baked love into food
Enjoyed by other patients, and boy, was it good.
Eventually, one of the first serial killers in the nation
Died and was buried in the Catawissa woods.
And the evil in that forest manifested at the next destination.