In this addition, we are traveling through Utah, where one mysterious gravestone has puzzled visitors for decades, stolen pieces of a Jurassic forest return home with letters of apology, a grave robber disappears from an island in the Great Salt Lake, and a brilliant blue mountain lake is said to conceal something enormous beneath its surface.
Some parts of these stories are documented history. Others are legends that grew as they passed from one storyteller to the next. That distinction matters, but it does not make the folklore any less fascinating. In fact, the place where the records end and the legends begin is often where the most interesting questions are waiting.
Before we explore those stories, it helps to understand the remarkably deep history of Utah itself.
Before Utah Became a State
Among the cultures known through archaeology are the Ancestral Puebloans of southern Utah and the people scholars call the Fremont. “Fremont” was not necessarily the name these people used for themselves. It is an archaeological label taken from the Fremont River, where some of their distinctive pottery, tools, rock art, homes, and food-storage structures were studied.
Fremont communities flourished across much of Utah from roughly A.D. 300 to 1300. They farmed corn, beans, and squash while continuing to hunt and gather wild foods. Their Ancestral Puebloan neighbors relied more heavily on agriculture and built communities across the Four Corners region.
Older histories sometimes say these people mysteriously “disappeared.” The real story is more complicated. Communities changed, people moved, new alliances formed, and different lifeways developed. Archaeological labels may disappear from the record even though people and traditions continue.
Utah remains home to living Native communities. The state recognizes eight distinct Tribal Nations, representing Goshute, Navajo, Paiute, Shoshone, and Ute peoples. Utah’s Native history is not simply an ancient chapter that ended before European arrival. It continues today.
There is also no reliable evidence that Francisco Vásquez de Coronado entered present-day Utah in 1540. The first well-documented European expedition through the region was led in 1776 by Franciscan friars Francisco Atanasio Domínguez and Silvestre Vélez de Escalante.
They were searching for an overland route between Santa Fe and the Spanish settlements in California. Their success depended heavily upon Indigenous guides, including two Ute guides whom the Spaniards called Silvestre and Joaquín. Joaquín was reportedly only twelve years old.
Although the expedition never reached California, its journal and maps became some of the earliest surviving European descriptions of Utah’s geography and Native communities.
Fur trappers entered the region during the 1820s. Jim Bridger is often credited with reaching the Great Salt Lake in 1824, but French Canadian trapper Étienne Provost may have arrived there around the same time or even slightly earlier. The available evidence does not allow us to name one man as the unquestioned first.
Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints began arriving in the Salt Lake Valley in 1847. They established permanent settlements throughout the region, but Utah’s path to statehood became entangled in decades of conflict with the federal government, particularly over plural marriage.
After several unsuccessful attempts, a new state constitution prohibited polygamy. On January 4, 1896, Utah entered the Union as the forty-fifth state.
Against that layered background of Native history, exploration, migration, religious settlement, and dramatic landscape, Utah developed some unforgettable folklore.
Lilly Gray and the Beast
On the far northeastern side of the Salt Lake City Cemetery stands a small gravestone with an inscription that sounds like the final line of a horror story:
“Lilly E. Gray
June 6, 1881 – November 14, 1958
Victim of the Beast 666”
There are no carvings of demons or mysterious symbols. There is simply a woman’s name, two dates, and those five disturbing words.
Who was Lilly Gray? What was the Beast? And why would anyone place that declaration over her grave?
The first surprise is that the gravestone does not agree with the official record.
Lilly’s death certificate says she was born in Canada on June 4, 1880—not June 6, 1881, as the stone claims. This is a small but important reminder for genealogists: even information carved in stone can be wrong. A gravestone may have been created years after the event by someone relying on memory or incomplete information.
Very little has been confirmed about Lilly’s earlier life. She appears to have moved to Utah around 1950. On July 10, 1952, she married Elmer Lewis Gray in Elko, Nevada. Lilly was about seventy-two, while Elmer was seventy-one.
Lilly died on November 14, 1958, after spending approximately a week in a Salt Lake City hospital. Her death certificate and obituary both indicate that she died of natural causes.
There is no evidence that she was murdered, sacrificed by a cult, persecuted as a witch, or killed on the highway once numbered U.S. Route 666. Those explanations were created later by people trying to make sense of the inscription.
The most promising clue may be Elmer Gray.
Elmer had a long criminal history. In 1937, using the alias Woodrow Lamb, he pleaded guilty to burglary in Utah and was sentenced to state prison. He ultimately served eleven years. In one of his applications for release, Elmer accused five Democratic officials of kidnapping him and described his imprisonment as a farce.
Those accusations suggest that Elmer viewed government authorities as powerful enemies. Some researchers therefore believe that “the Beast 666” may have represented the government, the legal system, or another institution Elmer blamed for his troubles.
That is plausible, but it remains an interpretation. No surviving record conclusively identifies who selected the epitaph or explains what that person meant by “the Beast.”
The mystery surrounding Lilly Gray is not really about how she died. The records answer that question. The mystery is why such an ordinary death received such an extraordinary memorial.
Perhaps the inscription preserved Elmer’s anger. Perhaps it referred to a private event that has never been documented. Or perhaps the full explanation disappeared with the two people who understood it.
Lilly’s stone demonstrates how quickly an unanswered question can attract sensational answers. The inscription is real. The natural death is real. Everything between those two facts must be handled carefully.
Sometimes the most honest ending to a mystery is simply this: We do not know.
The Curse of the Petrified Forest
In southern Utah, near the town of Escalante, visitors can walk among the remains of a forest.
The petrified wood at Escalante Petrified Forest State Park comes primarily from ancient conifer trees. During the Late Jurassic Period, rivers and floods carried fallen trees across the landscape and buried them beneath layers of sediment. Over an immense span of time, minerals filled or replaced portions of the wood, preserving its structure in stone.
The result is astonishing. Some pieces still display the grain and shape of the original trees, but their surfaces shine with bands of red, yellow, orange, white, and black.
Naturally, some visitors want to take a small piece home.
That is where the curse begins.
According to local legend, anyone who removes petrified wood from the park will suffer a run of terrible luck. The misfortune will continue until the stolen piece is returned.
Some versions call this an ancient Native American curse. However, reliable documentation does not connect the Escalante story to a specific Tribal tradition. It is more accurate to describe it as modern park folklore whose precise origin is uncertain.
What is certain is that people return the wood.
Park managers have received packages containing petrified wood and letters written by deeply apologetic former visitors. One former manager reported receiving roughly six to twelve such packages in an average year.
The letters describe accidents, illnesses, broken relationships, financial trouble, vehicle failures, and other misfortunes. One writer blamed a stolen piece for several accidents, numerous broken bones, a fire in a motor home, and the failure of a car engine.
The packages do not prove that the wood carries a supernatural curse. They prove that the people returning it believe—or at least fear—that it might.
Guilt may also play a role. Once something goes wrong, a person who knowingly stole from a protected place may begin connecting every later difficulty to that one decision. A flat tire becomes punishment. A lost job becomes another warning. A household accident becomes evidence that the forest has not forgotten.
Yet the curse performs a useful service. It turns a rule against collecting into a story people remember.
Taking petrified wood from the state park is illegal, regardless of whether one believes in supernatural consequences. Each seemingly insignificant piece is part of a limited scientific and natural resource. If every visitor took only one, there would eventually be very little left for anyone else.
So, if you visit the Escalante Petrified Forest, take photographs. Admire the colors. Place your hand near the stone and imagine the living tree it once was.
Then leave it exactly where you found it.
There is no reason to test the curse—and postage on a heavy rock can be expensive.
The Grave Robber of Salt Lake City
In January 1862, a young man named Moroni Clawson was buried in the Salt Lake City Cemetery.
Clawson had been arrested in connection with the robbery and assault of territorial governor John W. Dawson. After escaping from custody, he was pursued and shot by a police officer.
Because no one initially came forward to pay for a proper burial, police officer Henry Heath purchased burial clothing for him. Heath then watched as Clawson was placed in the grave.
About a week later, Moroni’s brother George arrived to have the body moved to a family burial ground. When the coffin was opened, the clothing Henry Heath had purchased was gone.
The body was completely naked.
Heath began investigating. His attention soon turned to the cemetery’s gravedigger, a man known variously as Jean or John Baptiste.
Officers went to Baptiste’s home, where his wife allowed them inside. There they noticed boxes containing neatly folded burial garments. A broader search reportedly uncovered clothing, personal belongings, and nearly sixty pairs of children’s and adult shoes.
Authorities concluded that Baptiste had robbed approximately three hundred graves.
News of the discovery raced through Salt Lake City. Families rushed to determine whether their relatives’ graves had been disturbed. Mobs gathered around the jail and threatened to lynch Baptiste. Hundreds of people crowded the courthouse.
The crime was particularly horrifying in a community whose religious beliefs included a literal bodily resurrection. Brigham Young attempted to reassure grieving families that the missing clothing would have no effect upon their loved ones in the resurrection.
Officials eventually placed the recovered burial clothes in a large box and buried them together in the cemetery.
Then they faced another problem. What could they do with Baptiste?
Authorities believed he would be killed if released into the community. They secretly took him by wagon to Antelope Island in the Great Salt Lake. Because the shallow water near that island might allow him to reach the mainland, he was moved to the more remote Fremont Island.
Popular retellings claim that Baptiste’s ears were cut off and that words identifying him as a grave robber were branded or tattooed across his forehead. Those details are not supported equally by the surviving historical evidence and should be treated as later additions to the story.
The documented events are already strange enough.
About three weeks after Baptiste was left on Fremont Island, cattle herders returned to check the island.
Baptiste was gone.
A heifer had been killed, and portions of its hide appeared to have been prepared for leather. Boards had been removed from a small ranch building, possibly for the construction of a raft.
Did Baptiste build a crude vessel and escape? Did it break apart, leaving him to drown in the Great Salt Lake? Did he reach the mainland and disappear into another frontier settlement?
No one knows.
In 1893, hunters discovered a skeleton near the mouth of the Jordan River with an iron clamp around one leg. Some immediately wondered whether the remains belonged to Baptiste. However, officers familiar with his exile stated that he had not been wearing a ball and chain when taken to the island.
The skeleton did not solve the mystery.
As the historical trail went cold, folklore supplied an ending. Stories began describing a ghostly man walking along the shores of the Great Salt Lake, groaning as he carries a bundle of wet, decaying burial clothes.
No reliable evidence confirms such an apparition. But it is easy to understand why the image endured. Baptiste violated the peace of the dead, disappeared into a landscape of saltwater and barren islands, and left behind no known grave of his own.
The gravedigger who emptied graves became a man without one.
The Bear Lake Monster—or Monsters
Bear Lake stretches across the border between Utah and Idaho. Its brilliant turquoise water and mountain setting make it one of the most beautiful places in the region.
It is also an ancient lake. Sediment cores preserve a continuous environmental record, and geologists believe the lake itself may be considerably older.
It is a magnificent setting for a monster story.
The modern legend burst into public view in 1868, when Joseph C. Rich sent a report to the Deseret News describing enormous creatures supposedly seen in the lake.
Rich began by claiming that Native people had long told of a serpent-like animal that could come partly onto land and carry swimmers away. Later folklore scholarship has connected the story to Shoshone traditions. However, the earliest surviving written version comes through Rich, a settler and newspaper correspondent. We should therefore be careful not to present every detail in his article as a direct or unchanged Shoshone account.
Rich then described several recent sightings by settlers.
One party traveling along the lake reportedly noticed a strange disturbance in the water. A witness estimated that the largest creature was at least ninety feet long and moving almost as fast as a locomotive.
Then another creature appeared.
And another.
According to the report, four large creatures and six smaller ones passed through the water—ten Bear Lake Monsters in all.
Another witness described seeing a head and part of a neck rising above the lake. The animal supposedly had ears, or ear-like lumps, about the size of drinking cups. Water appeared to spray from its mouth or nose whenever waves passed over its head.
The story created a sensation. Some people discussed capturing one of the creatures and displaying it for money. Rich himself ended the report with playful questions about whether the animal was fish, flesh, serpent, amphibian—or simply an enormous fib.
Years later, Rich provided an even larger reason for skepticism. In 1894, while recalling his accomplishments in the region, he referred to the Bear Lake Monster as a “wonderful first-class lie.”
That does not tell us whether Rich invented every reported sighting, exaggerated local stories, or simply enjoyed keeping the joke alive. It does tell us that his newspaper account should not be treated as a scientific report.
One proposed explanation in later retellings is that the monster might be a surviving Basilosaurus. That idea does not work.
Basilosaurus was an early, fully aquatic whale that lived in ancient oceans. It was not a freshwater serpent, and it became extinct before Bear Lake existed. There is no credible evidence that a population of prehistoric whales somehow survived in the lake.
More ordinary explanations include waves, floating debris, groups of known animals, optical effects, exaggeration, or deliberate storytelling. None is as entertaining as a ninety-foot monster traveling with nine of its relatives, but they fit the available evidence far better.
Even after Rich called the story a lie, the monster refused to disappear. Additional sightings entered local folklore, and the creature gradually became part of the identity of the Bear Lake community.
That may be the monster’s real secret.
A legend does not need to be zoologically real to become culturally real. Once people tell the story, argue over it, create pictures of it, and pass it to their children, the creature occupies a genuine place in the history of the community.
Where History Meets Folklore
Utah’s folklore reminds us that a historical source does not always prove what we first think it proves.
Lilly Gray’s death certificate establishes that she died naturally. Her gravestone establishes that someone called her a victim of the Beast. Neither record explains the other.
The packages arriving at Escalante prove that people return stolen wood and describe terrible luck. They do not prove that the forest caused that luck.
Historical accounts confirm that Jean Baptiste robbed graves and disappeared from Fremont Island. They do not confirm every gruesome detail added later or prove that his ghost walks the lakeshore.
The 1868 newspaper proves that stories about monsters were circulating around Bear Lake. It does not prove that enormous unknown animals lived beneath the water.
For genealogists and family historians, that is an important lesson. Every document has a creator, a purpose, and a point of view. A newspaper may repeat a rumor. A gravestone may contain an error. A family story may preserve a genuine event while changing its details with every generation.
Folklore should not automatically be dismissed, but it should be investigated.
Ask who first told the story. Ask when it was recorded. Compare it with contemporary documents. Look for the part that remained consistent—and pay attention to the pieces that grew more dramatic over time.
Sometimes careful research solves the mystery. Sometimes it reveals that the popular version was wrong. And sometimes, as with Lilly Gray, Jean Baptiste, and the strange waters of Bear Lake, it brings us to the edge of the available evidence and leaves us there.
That is not a failure.
It is simply where documented history ends and folklore takes over.
