The Ghastly Demise of Link Lingle

 

The Fuoss Mills covered bridge, circa 1963

Fuoss Mills, in Blair County, is a tiny village named after a flour mill that was operated at the turn of the 20th century by the Fuoss brothers at the foot of Brush Mountain not far from the borough of Tyrone. The mill, which was originally erected by Aaron Beyer, one of the leading businessmen in the early history of Antis Township, burned down nearly a century ago, becoming one of many historically significant local landmarks to meet an unfortunate demise. The same can be said for the old Fuoss Mills covered bridge which used to span the Little Juniata River. The beloved bridge, which was erected on October 4, 1874, withstood the ravages of floods and the stress of storms for generations before being set ablaze by arsonists in February of 1967. At the time of its destruction, it was the last remaining covered bridge in Blair County.

There was also another curious local landmark of sorts-- an eccentric, old hermit by the name of A. Link Lingle-- who met an unfortunate demise in his mountain shack near Fuoss Mills in the spring of 1930. Lingle's death marked the end of an era for hundreds of curious local boys, most of whom had sneaked into the woods at some point in their lives to catch a glimpse of the ornery recluse who had been the basis for many a spook tale told around a roaring campfire.

Abraham Lincoln Lingle was born in Fannettsburg, Franklin County, on Christmas Day of 1865, and was one of seven children born to Thomas and Nancy Lingle. After learning the carpentry trade as a young man, Lingle-- known to his friends simply as "Link"-- relocated to Tyrone at the age of 21, eager to make a name for himself in the thriving lumber business. Through years of hard work, Link amassed considerable wealth as a contractor, building homes throughout the region, until some unknown financial misfortune drained his bank account and left him with nothing but a small plot of rocky, unfarmable land in the rugged mountains west of Fuoss Mills.

It was in 1902 when Link erected a humble shanty on Brush Mountain. He built himself a large chicken coop, and even though the land wasn't suitable for growing crops, Link found that it was ideal for peach, apple and cherry trees. As the years drifted by the saplings grew taller, slowly maturing and providing fruit which the now-aged recluse had waited for so long to savor. By the time Link had been living the life of a hermit for two decades he had managed to clear five acres of land, some of the most rugged land in all of the state, entirely by himself with the crudest of tools and implements.

 The fact that any middle-aged man could accomplish this task unaided is testament to an industrious nature, but it is especially remarkable considering that Link was a wisp of a man; not only was the dark-complected hermit with the silvery gray beard scarcely more than five feet tall, but he weighed around 140 pounds and was said to have walked with a limp due to an old injury he had suffered in his rough-and-tumble logging days. 

There was nothing particularly mean or standoffish about the old man, but since he had never shown his face in any of the local churches and had never belonged to any of the numerous fraternal organizations that were so popular among men in those days, Link couldn't help but become fodder for the local gossip mill. To go out of one's way to avoid social activities was one thing, but to skip out on church was another, and the God-fearing citizens of Fuoss Mills could only wonder what sort of dark event from his past had driven him to a shack in the mountains. But, on the other hand, lots of folks go to church to find peace, and it seemed that Link Lingle had all the peace he could ever want in his private wilderness kingdom. And Link continued to enjoy this unspoiled peace until the day in 1924 when tragedy struck.

On the Saturday morning of December 27, Link had left his beloved hunting dog at home and had ventured into town to purchase supplies. By nightfall he was ready to return, but on his way back he learned that his shack had burned to the ground in his absence. The firemen who put out the blaze attributed the fire to an overheated stove, but to the day of his death Link insisted the fire had been set intentionally. At any rate, Link lost everything he owned in the blaze; his hunting dog (who most likely would've ran away had the fire been accidental) was killed in the fire, and the flames had thoroughly destroyed his furniture and the potatoes and pork and other food he had stored inside the shack. Faced with the prospect of starvation over the course of the long, bitter winter, Link's only conceivable hope for survival hinged upon the $500 in paper currency he kept hidden beneath the cabin's floorboards. Link never found this money-- the entirety of his life's savings; the money was either stolen or destroyed by the fire.

Rather than rely on the charity of strangers or the sympathy of his surviving relatives, Link moved into the only structure that had not burned to the ground-- his chicken coop. As the cold winds howled he chopped down some trees with the remnants of his rusty axe and built a bunk for himself. Then he fixed up his old stove and proceeded to make the chicken coop as comfortable as possible. And it was inside this chicken coop where A. Link Lingle lived for several years with a dozen stray cats and dogs, until his own ghastly demise in the spring of 1930.

On April 16, 1930, one of the most gruesome scenes ever seen by the human eye came to light with the discovery of the remains of Link Lingle. In his later years, Link had made it his routine to travel down the mountain to Fuoss Mills, where his sister was now living, to collect bones and scraps of food for the dozens of dogs and cats he shared his home with. When Link failed to make his weekly appearance his sister, Mrs. G.W. Laird, and her son-in-law, Ray Patterson, went up the mountain to check on him.
Patterson and Mrs. Laird found nothing amiss when they arrived at the scene, but a large number of dogs began barked ferociously from inside the shanty at their approach. Patterson noticed that the door was locked from the inside, and realized the only way to get inside was to smash one of the windows and crawl through the opening. He attempted to do this, but was promptly attacked by several of the angry dogs. After extricating himself from the window he grabbed a large wooden club and attempted to re-enter, beating two of the dogs into submission. But once inside he realized that he was greatly outnumbered-- not just by dogs, but by a large number of cats as well. He beat a hasty retreat through the  window, just as a buggy was passing the property.

Mrs. Ruth Hoffman, who lived on a farm about a mile down the road from the Lingle shanty, had been attracted by the barking of the dogs and when she got out of the buggy she encountered Mrs. Laird and her son-in-law, both of whom were understandably in a state of high agitation. The animals must have recognized Mrs. Hoffman, and she was able to quell the angry dogs and frightened cats while Patterson went back inside the shanty to search for Link Lingle.

When the hermit's corpse was discovered by Patterson, there was nothing left but a well-chewed skull and scattered bones, all of which had been gnawed to the marrow. Patterson found the skull under a table. All the flesh and hair had been chewed off; only Link's false teeth had been spared from the fangs of his pets. Because of the condition of the corpse, it was impossible to determine in Link had died a natural death before his body was devoured, or if his own pets had turned on their master.

 

 

Coroner Rothrock and Constable B.J. Oberly of Tyrone's Second Ward were determined to find the answer to this question, but in order to do so they had no choice but to kill the animals which the hermit had kept as companions so that a more thorough search of the premises could be made. They slaughtered eight dogs and seven cats that afternoon, though three dogs managed to escape into the woods. The following morning they returned to the shanty and shot two more dogs and a number of cats. All of the animals were buried in the orchard, near the shanty. Constable Oberly described his experience with the animals, stating that it was virtually impossible to get within close enough range of them for a clear shot with his revolver. They were like wild beasts of prey, he said, and over twenty of the cats ran away at the sound of his first shot.

Only after the animals had been dealt with could the gruesome task of gathering up what was left of Link Lingle begin, and this chore was performed by Mr. Fuoss and Mr. Glass, the undertakers from Tyrone. They collected the bits and shards of bone and took them back to Tyrone for burial in the Charlottesville Cemetery. This task took quite a while, as some of the hermit's bones were found inside the shanty, and others were found strewn about the orchard.

Yet, more than eight decades after his horrible death, it is still unclear what momentous event caused him to walk away from a lucrative profession and take up the life of a mountain hermit. While some may argue that Lingle might've been on the receiving end of a love affair gone awry or a business deal gone sour, it's very likely that Abraham Lincoln Lingle lost his wealth not by accident, but by choice. 1902 was the year Link Lingle decided to build his shack on Brush Mountain, but it was also the year that his mother passed away. Nancy Jane Lingle died in Blair County on March 30 after a short bout with pneumonia, and her body was sent back to Franklin County for burial, to be laid to rest alongside Link's father, who died thirteen years earlier. Did Link give away his considerable wealth to help out his six brothers and sisters? There doesn't seem any evidence to support this theory, aside from the fact that one of Link's sisters-- the one who discovered his body-- later made her home in Fuoss Mills.

   

Sources:

Tyrone Daily Herald, Dec. 29, 1924.
Altoona Mirror, April 17, 1930.
Altoona Tribune, April 18, 1930.