James Burne Worson was a shoemaker who lived in Leamington, Warwickshire, England. He had a little shop in one of the by-ways leading off the road to Warwick. In his humble sphere he was esteemed an honest man, although like many of his class in English towns he was somewhat addicted to drink. When in liquor he would make foolish wagers. On one of these too frequent occasions he was boasting of his prowess as a pedestrian and athlete, and the outcome was a match against nature. For a stake of one sovereign he undertook to run all the way to Coventry and back, a distance of something more than forty miles. This was on the 3d day of September in 1873. He set out at once, the man with whom he had made the bet–whose name is not remembered–accompanied by Barham Wise, a linen draper, and Hamerson Burns, a photographer, I think, following in a light cart or wagon.
For several miles Worson went on very well, at an easy gait, without apparent fatigue, for he had really great powers of endurance and was not sufficiently intoxicated to enfeeble them. The three men in the wagon kept a short distance in the rear, giving him occasional friendly “chaff” or encouragement, as the spirit moved them. Suddenly–in the very middle of the roadway, not a dozen yards from them, and with their eyes full upon him–the man seemed to stumble, pitched headlong forward, uttered a terrible cry and vanished! He did not fall to the earth–he vanished before touching it. No trace of him was ever discovered.
After remaining at and about the spot for some time, with aimless irresolution, the three men returned to Leamington, told their astonishing story and were afterward taken into custody. But they were of good standing, had always been considered truthful, were sober at the time of the occurrence, and nothing ever transpired to discredit their sworn account of their extraordinary adventure, concerning the truth of which, nevertheless, public opinion was divided, throughout the United Kingdom. If they had something to conceal, their choice of means is certainly one of the most amazing ever made by sane human beings.
The strange event you just read took place on the third day of September in 1873. The incredible and terrifying story of James Worson is often associated with other famous vanishings like the unfortunate crew of the Mary Celeste. When objects mysteriously disappear we’re naturally drawn to solve the puzzle. Especially when that puzzle is a story with a terrifying ending. However the James Worson story was just that, a story.
An Unfinished Race is a short story written by Ambrose Bierce. It went on to be published alongside with several of his other ghostly tales and has since then been mistaken by many to be true. However, there is a real mysterious disappearance tied to Bierce’s short story. The disappearance of Bierce himself.
It was October of 1913 when Bierce, then age 71, went to visit several of the battlefields he had fought in alongside his compatriots of the Union Army. The writer eventually made his way down to the state of Texas, from which he continued on south until getting to Mexico. Not surprisingly, Bierce joined the raucous gang that was Pancho Villa’s army. I say not surprisingly because Villa himself was an arrogant crook that reveled behind Hollywood’s lens. Vill would jump at the opportunity to have an american reporter or camera crew in his army. It was natural that Bierce, a well known writer at the time and war vet, joined up with Villa and his crew. However in a couple of months, he would have vanished from the face of the Earth, just like his character, the shoemaker.
When Villa’s forces entered the state of Chihuahua during the Mexican Revolution, Bierce sent a letter to one of his friends back home. The letter was dated ‘December 26, 1913′ and was the last known correspondence from Bierce. It’s been said that the letter closed with the line: As to me, I leave here tomorrow for an unknown destination,
Writer Ambrose Bierce vanished without a trace in 1913.