A satirical weekly article highlighting humorous moments in Midwestern history
By Silas P. Whitmore, Crosswick, Ohio, May 5, 1882
In the tranquil hamlet of Crosswick, where the most riveting event is typically the arrival of the weekly post, an incident of such an extraordinary nature occurred that it has since been recounted with equal parts disbelief and delight in every parlor and public house across the county.
On a fine May afternoon, young Edward and Joseph Dusseau, lads known more for their mischievous grins than their industrious pursuits, ventured to the local creek, ostensibly to fish but more likely to escape their mother’s chore list. As they idly cast their lines, a rustling in the underbrush signaled the approach of something—or someone—most unexpected.
From the foliage emerged a creature of such fantastical description that one might suspect the boys had partaken in their father’s corn liquor. They described a monstrous serpent, no less than thirty feet in length, with the audacity to possess limbs—two forelegs and, most perplexingly, two hind legs—which it employed with alarming dexterity. This aberration of nature, perhaps dissatisfied with its piscine diet, seized young Edward with its forelimbs and commenced dragging him toward a hollow sycamore tree, evidently intent on making the lad its afternoon repast.
The boys’ frantic screams summoned three local quarrymen, whose combined courage was matched only by their lack of a strategic plan. Armed with little more than bravado and whatever implements were at hand, they pursued the beast to its arboreal lair. Upon their approach, the creature, perhaps startled by the sudden influx of determined, if not particularly well-armed, townsfolk, released Edward and retreated into the cavernous tree.
Word of the encounter spread like wildfire through the village, and by eventide, a posse of no fewer than sixty men had assembled, armed with axes, pitchforks, and the occasional firearm—though it was widely acknowledged that most couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at ten paces. Their mission: to extricate and subdue the serpentine interloper.
As the first blows of the axe fell upon the sycamore, the creature, displaying a flagrant disregard for the dramatic timing of its human counterparts, burst forth from its refuge. Witnesses later described it as moving with the speed of a racehorse, which, given the average villager’s experience with racehorses, was likely an embellishment born of excitement. The beast made its escape to a nearby hillside, disappearing into a subterranean den, leaving the assembled townsfolk to ponder whether pursuing a giant, limb-bearing serpent into a dark hole was truly in their best interests.
In the days that followed, the people of Crosswick returned to their routines, albeit with a heightened awareness of rustling bushes and a newfound appreciation for the mundane. The creature was never seen again, leading some to speculate that it had moved on to less inquisitive pastures, while others suggested it had been a collective hallucination brought on by an overabundance of springtime leisure.
Thus, the tale of the Crosswick Serpent entered local lore, a humorous reminder that even in the most unassuming of villages, the unexpected can slither forth when least anticipated.
(This article is based on the following report: https://www.lovelandroar.com/post/urban-legends-of-ohio-the-crosswick-monster)