Information about Tom Soul, Missouri is scarce. No library or archive or website makes much mention of it, today. The only reference I managed to find to the town was a poster, dated to the 1960s that a fellow collector obtained when he purchased a rare book. The poster was folded up inside as a bookmark. He offered to sell it to me, but I declined. Something about it is wrong. It doesn’t belong to us. I don’t want it in my home.
By Douglas Ray Cleavon
Published June 2006
Part One: The Interloper
Part Two: The Son
“The caves around Tom Soul are sick. A leaky kind of sick. That’s what the locals would tell you when they tell you to stay away. Can’t say I’d disagree.”
Dr. Malcolm Fisk, a historian and folklorist at the University of Missouri, was gracious enough to allow me to continue our interview after recounting the incidents involving the harrowing masked figure that plagued the town prior to the homicides of Theresa and Gideon Foster. The alarming description of the man,and his fixation on frightening people in town, made me feel like the Demon of Tom Soul was inextricably tied to the murders.
When I asked Dr. Fisk what sets the cave system within Tom Soul apart from the other caves and abandoned mines that are scattered around the rest of the Ozark Mountains,he provided me with resources to explore the history of Tom Soul from its founding. What I discovered was shockingly dark.
Tom Soul was founded in the early 1800s and spent much of that time as little more than a place for fur trappers and miners to stop and get a drink. This peaceful existence was violently interrupted by the start of Prohibition in 1920.
Without legal distilleries, moonshiners and bootleggers began to take full advantage of the extensive, natural hiding spots provided by the Ozarks herself, much to the chagrin of federal lawmen. Local police forces were happy to look the other way, likely because they were the recipient of cheap booze, but on a wider scale, Tom Soul was a problem.
Strong, quality alcohol without any real competition was being pumped out of the sleepy town without any real competition, quickly spreading into the surrounding counties. When federal agents came knocking, the moonshiners simply fled into the caves with their supplies, where the out-of-town agents were unable to follow safely.
On a chilly mountain night, in the fall of 1928, enforcers of Prohibition traveled to Tom Soul for what proved to be the last time. They had spent weeks whipping neighboring towns into a frenzy, convincing clergy, and law-abiding citizens that the bootleggers and outlaws in Tom Soul were a threat to American values,and to the good word of God.
Armed, they stormed the caves with little warning to the people inside. They knew that the moonshiners would flee into the caves. They brought matches.
When the moonshiners hid, the posse spilled the contents of the distilleries all along the cave, where it followed the moonshiners trail. The posse added firestarters, tinder, logs, anything they could think of, at the mouth of every cave in Tom Soul. Including Foster’s Cave.
Once the posse was satisfied, they lit it ablaze. The moonshiners tried to escape,facing the law over inevitable death, but they were not given a choice. The posse blocked the exits.
People choked on the smoke, lungs charring from the searing heat. They suffocated to death, fire consuming oxygen before they could get the chance. They burnt,clothes catching alight, and when fleeing to the exit for help, they were shot.
At Foster’s Cave, a man almost made it out of the fire before a federal officer shot the man in the knees. Witnesses say this was likely on purpose. The man fell into the fire, and tried to drag himself forward, but the stone floor of the cave was too hot, and he roasted alive. Nobody who went into the caves that night survived. It seemed as though even before that bloody night in June 1976, the Foster property was a harbor for savagery.
When I reached back out to the neighbor that I had previously interviewed, he claimed that Christopher Foster was preoccupied with the history of the town.
“Elroy- my brother- was buddies with Christopher, but I never liked the guy much. Don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but I’m just being honest. He was strange, even before he got sick. Not much of a church goin’ type, neither, which really riled up his pops. I don’t really remember much more than that, but hey, if you want’a talk to Elroy, I can give him a heads up.”
***
Elroy, who asked me to omit his last name on request of his brother, currently resides in California with a domestic partner, where he is employed as a schoolteacher. He was hesitant to speak about the murder of Theresa and Gideon Foster, but became happy to share information when I explained I was more interested in learning about their life, and specifically, their son.
“They didn’t deserve any of it,” Elroy told me. “Hate to say it, but in retrospect,part of me is relieved that Christopher passed when he did. Maybe it spared him in some way.
Growing up, I lived in a little house right on the outskirts of Tom Soul. I was the oldest of six boys, and desperate for some sense of privacy. Christopher was the same as I was, but he was an only child. I think we found a sort of solace with each other.
His house was somewhere I could escape to, and I think his parents were happy Chris had a pal his own age. They were always pleasant people. A little guarded, maybe, but pleasant. I think his dad had a hard time leaving his ‘pastor’ mask at the door.
We grew up doing just about everything together. Even though it was the sticks, there was a ton of things for wild young kids to get up to- maybe it was because we were way off in the sticks. We didn’t have an arcade, or a theatre, so we spent most of our when we weren’t at school or at home exploring the woods. If we were home before dark, and promised not to go into the caves, our parents were happy for us to be independent and out from under their feet. Different times, I suppose.
Chris was probably about 13 the first time he became seriously ill. He had to go to the hospital in Branson because he had pneumonia so bad. When he came home, it almost felt like he left whatever kept him a healthy young man behind. Never really recovered.
I think that’s when he started reading more about the town’s history. Maybe in retrospect it was a bit morbid, but after he got home, the doc had him on bedrest. Didn’t have a lot to do other than look at that damn cave and think. Started spending less time outside together and more time at the little library next to the mayor’s office. Helped me realize how much I loved classic literature, even if it wasn’t quite as exciting.
Nobody other than me and his parents really knew how bad his health had gotten until he started sleepwalking. To preface, this was a small enough town where everybody knew everybody. Today? Ina bigger town? Things wouldn’t have been like this. But in Tom Soul?” Elroy sighed. “It just made sense, to not make a big deal of things.
The first time it happened we were 14 or 15. Just starting high school. One of our neighbors went to get something from their cellar one night, and sitting down there in the dark was Christopher. Of course, the homeowner grabbed his gun and told him to leave, or he’d shoot him, but it was clear pretty quickly that Chris had no idea how he’d gotten down there. He was confused and crying, begging for his life, and that poor befuddled neighbor had to wake the Fosters up so they could come collect their son.
Nobody, not even his parents, could figure out how he got down there without waking anybody up or leaving a trail. Nobody knew how long he’d been sitting in that damp cellar. Alone, in the dark. Dreaming.
They took him back to the doctor. Doc said it was just a severe case of sleepwalking, and they left it at that. Harmless. Chris wouldn’t feel rested after an episode, but it wasn’t going to hurt him. Word in town travels fast. The next time someone found Christopher in their house, they didn’t bother with theatrics. They just called his parents to come take him home.
After a while, it was normal. Creepy, of course, but just a quirk of the town. Nobody wanted to offend the pastor, anyways. Adults tried to be polite, but kids weren’t so beholden to small-town politics.
He was weird, sickly, spent a lot of time indoors. Christopher was a real beanpole by this time, too. Had his hair long. The two of us were a bit bohemian, I suppose you could say. Girls were all over him, but the other boys didn’t appreciate him much. I remember about halfway into our freshman year; a bunch of older teens jumped us on our walk to school. Beat the shit out of us. I had a black eye for what felt like six months. They held Christopher down and cut his hair, called him some choice names I don’t believe you’d be able to print in your article.
After that, it was just the two of us. When his illness got worse, I’d come around every day with food for him and his folks. On his bad days I’d read to him, or I’d bring my records with me, and we’d listen to music. I’d clean up after he threw up and listen to him when he bitched about all the pills and teas his mom would have him try.
I loved Christopher. Part of me still does. I loved him in a way I couldn’t tell anyone, until I moved far, far away from backwoods Missouri. But Chris knew. He wasn’t ever going to feel that way about a man, but he accepted me the same.
When we were about 21 or so, we went out to the creek on his parent’s property, mostly for old times’ sake,” Elroy pronounced creek more like crik, just about the only thing about his speech that betrayed his backwoods Missouri roots. “This was one of his last good days. It was morning, and the weather was sublime. We sat on the bank of the creek with our feet in the water, not even talking. Just enjoying being outside.
The water was latte-brown, but too shallow to hide much more beyond an errant minnow. And then it rippled.
A man rose from the water, exposing everything above his navel to the cool air of early spring. I knew he was, with that damn creepy mask on. It was the Demon of Tom Soul.
I scrambled backwards away from the bank through the brush, trying to put as much distance between myself and that creep as possible. Christopher hardly reacted. I wonder if part of him expected it.
‘Hey,’ it said. It sounded like it had Marlboros for vocal cords.
My breathing was ragged, but Christopher looked as collected as ever.
‘Need a smoke?’ Christopher asked. I wanted to tell him we needed to go, but I was frozen.
I couldn’t get control of my body enough to make a sound. Its eyes were glittering, and it rose the rest of the way from the water. It was totally naked, muscles defined and wiry, and it waded over to stand in front of Christopher.
Chris pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. He never smoked. I don’t know why he had them.
‘Thanks kid,’ it said. It stuck the whole cigarette in its mouth, and after a moment, flipped it back out between his lips. The end was lit. The smoke didn’t smell normal. It was tobacco smoke, sure, but there was something else there. Coppery, earthy.
Christopher turned to me, where I still lay on the ground. ‘You should leave, El,’ he told me. ‘This isn’t something you should be around for.’
And-… I-… Douglas Ray, I was a coward. That knocked me out of my paralysis enough to get back on my feet and run home.
I checked in with his parents, a few days later, to see how he was doing. Sick, they told me. But he was home. I couldn’t bring myself to visit him again. I carry that with me.
That day in the woods. That was the last time I saw Christopher Foster.”
According to the town’s paper, Christopher Foster’s funeral was unexpectedly large, held on an overcast day, and closed casket. He had died after a long battle with an immune system disorder. Elroy hadn’t reported his sighting of the Demon.
A few days after our interview, I got an email from Elroy. He told me that talking about his childhood and Christopher had jogged his memory. There was a story, about the town, that Christopher had been fascinated with.
Decades before the incident with the bootleggers, a stranger visited Tom Soul. He arrived in Missouri by train and claimed he was visiting his family deeper in the mountains. This visitor was strange. His hair was tangled and long, his face was clean-shaven, and his teeth were small and neat. The stranger laughed,high and manic, at inappropriate times, but seemed otherwise harmless. He stayed at a farmstead with a man, his wife, their son, and their daughter.
A week went by, and people saw the stranger in town. He’d play card tricks, make unusual but friendly conversation. Talked a lot about how beautiful it was in the caves. Glow-worms and gold, he’d repeat to shopkeepers.
A week went by, and nobody saw the family. Until one day a few men decided to go check on their property. It was burned to the ground. The stranger had been living in the ashes. His belongings were pristine among the wreckage.
Law enforcement scoured the woods. They found them, eventually. The bodies of the family. All but the teenaged daughter. Bloodless, wrapped in layers of plaster and cloth. Propped up against outcroppings of rock, deep in the first chamber of Foster’s Cave. Over the wrappings, the bodies had been dressed in their Sunday best.
The stranger staying with the family was quickly taken into custody and set to be executed without so much of a trial. Small town justice, despite the man’s claim of his innocence. On his day beneath the gallows, in a singsong voice, he said a prayer, and asked for chewing tobacco. He was hung with the dip spit running from his mouth.
Years later, a strange smell came from beneath the floor of the local grocery. The same store operating in Tom Soul today, in fact. Unmistakable rot.
The grocer insisted he didn’t know the cause. Perhaps produce had gotten stuck somewhere and gone off. It got stronger. He said he would fix it. Nothing improved. Too many people complained, and the townspeople pushed the hands of the law. The floorboards were torn up, one by one.
For years, unbeknownst to anyone, the townsfolk had been walking, shopping, and eating above the body of a teenage girl. She was wrapped in strips of cloth and plaster, like the rest of her family, and dressed in beautiful lace. A facsimile of her face had been painted onto the plaster on her head.
Decay had set in, and the grocer’s crime was revealed. He confessed. The unusual stranger had been just that- and a more sinister monster lurked amongst the townsfolk.
Over the years,the grocer had become obsessed with the teenaged daughter of the murdered family. He watched her grow up. He decided he wanted her, needed her, and the only way to do so was to kill her family and take her for himself. He needed to make sure she couldn’t run away, so he killed her too. He was hung and buried next to the unidentified stranger in an unmarked grave, somewhere outside of town. Some versions of the story have his body burned, or simply tossed into a mine shaft somewhere out in the woods.
I asked Elroy why he believed Christopher was interested in the story, and he said at the time, he just thought Christopher liked it for the same reason one might like any ghost story or local legend. But Elroy had been thinking, after our talk.
He had been thinking about the days and weeks leading up to Christopher’s death and the later murder of his parents. He reached out to people he knew from back then and managed to get his hands on the official record of the evidence recovered from the house that the Fosters had lived in until their untimely death. He thought I needed to see it, too.
***
ITEMS FOUND AT RESIDENCE OF THERESA AND GIDEON FOSTER
-BLOODIED PILLOWCASE (A-TYPE, THERESA FOSTER) CUT WITH KNIFE
-1 SHOTGUN BELONGING TO GIDEON FOSTER -SPENT SHELLS BELONGING TO GIDEON FOSTER
-1 “FRARY AND CLARK” BRAND HUNTING KNIFE, FOUND IN SINK (TRACES OF AB-TYPE BLOOD, GIDEON FOSTER)
-BLOOD SPATTER IN SINK (AB-TYPE, GIDEON FOSTER AND O-TYPE, PRESUMED INTRUDER)
- BURNT CLOTHES IN FIREPLACE, BELONGING TO THERESA AND GIDEON FOSTER
-BURNT SCALP FOUND IN FIREPLACE, BELONGING TO THERESA FOSTER
-BLOODIED JAWBONE, BELONGING TO WHITE-TAILED DEER (AB-TYPE, GIDEON FOSTER, AND O-TYPE,PRESUMED INTRUDER)
-BLOODIED SOCKPRINTS MATCHING MEN’S SIZE 8 SHOE, PRESUMED TO BELONG TO GIDEON FOSTER (BLOOD BOTH A-TYPE AND AB-TYPE)
- BARE FOOTPRINTS, BELONGING TO UNKNOWN SUSPECT
-1 PARTIAL FINGERPRINT, BELONGING TO UNKNOWN SUSPECT
-1 PARTIAL FINGERPRINT, UNIDENTIFIABLE
-1 SAMPLE BLOOD SPATTER IN FIREPLACE (B-TYPE, PRESUMED TO BELONG TO CHRISTOPHER FOSTER)