When the Vultures Circled

The Grim is opening the gate and entering Georgiana Cemetery located on Merritt Island in Florida. Step away from the tourist crowds at Cape Canaveral and walk with us along a crooked mile, where sunlight filters through Spanish moss and century-old secrets whisper on the salt breeze. Georgiana Cemetery on Merritt Island might not make the Florida travel guides, but beneath its quiet exterior lies a tapestry of tragedy, mystery, and lingering spirits that refuse to be forgotten.

Discover the heartbreaking fate of the Smith sisters—Myrtle, Mary, and Martha—who perished together on June 14, 1916, when a family outing across the Banana River turned deadly during an unexpected storm. Their shared tombstone tells only part of the story, while local legend claims their childish laughter still carries on the wind during stormy evenings, echoing across decades of grief.

We'll unravel the brutal unsolved murder of 19-year-old Ethel Allen, whose mutilated body was discovered in 1934 near the riverbank. The prime suspect vanished without a trace, leaving behind a mystery that haunts Merritt Island to this day. From Ashley's Restaurant, where staff report encounters with a woman in 1930s attire, to the roadside where foggy nights sometimes reveal a young woman searching endlessly for home, Ethel's presence lingers far beyond her modest grave marker.

While rockets launch toward distant worlds at nearby Kennedy Space Center, Georgiana Cemetery anchors us to a different kind of mystery—one rooted in human tragedy rather than cosmic exploration. The spirits here don't reach for the stars; they reach for resolution, recognition, and perhaps a moment of connection with those brave enough to listen.

Join us as we close the gate on Georgiana Cemetery, where not everything that reaches for you comes from above, and where some things refuse to stay buried beneath the Florida sand and sunshine. For those fascinated by history's darker corners and the thin veil between worlds, subscribe today and never miss an episode of The Grim.

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Episode Transcript

Kristin (00:14):
Grim.
Mourning and welcome to theGrim.
I'm your host, Kristin.
On today's episode, we'll beopening the gate and entering
Georgiana Cemetery, located inMerritt Island, Florida.
So grab your favorite mug, cozyup and let's take a dig into
history.
We're trading fog for Floridathis episode, but don't let the

(00:34):
sunshine fool you.
Beneath the warm glow ofMerritt Island's skies lies a
quieter, more unsettling shadow.
This isn't your typical hauntedhilltop or ivy-wrapped tomb.
We're headed to a place wherethe palm trees sway gently, but
the past clings tighter than thecoastal humidity.
Tucked beneath the palms andSpanish moss, Georgiana Cemetery

(00:56):
, known to locals as CrookedMile Cemetery, waits in the
shade, whispering old secretsthrough the heat haze.
While Cocoa Beach and CapeCanaveral pull in the crowds,
this hidden burial ground keepsto itself.
It may not make the touristbrochures, but those who've
wandered its crooked mile speakof ghostly encounters, restless

(01:17):
graves and a lingering feelingthat something or someone is
watching.
Merritt Island was shaped byquieter forces.
Its stories not shouted inheadlines but carved in
crumbling stone and whisperedthrough moss-laden oaks.
Jorniata Cemetery, oftenoverlooked beneath the heavy
hush of Spanish moss and time,holds the remains of the area's

(01:40):
earliest settlers.
Soldiers from the Civil Warrest here, as do veterans from
great global conflicts thatfollowed.
Their stories now soften bylynching and salt air.
Just a short walk away fromGeorgiana, church still stands,
founded in 1886.
It's weathered wood andstill-used pews serving as a
rare link between the living andthe dead.

(02:02):
Nearby Provost Hall, on theside of the old Georgiana
Railway, whisper of a time whenthis sleepy stretch of land was
once a lifeline between rivers,a route of trade, faith and
farewells.
This isn't just a cemetery.
It's a pocket of the past thatstill breathes, and the roots of
Florida history run deep andsadly tragic.

(02:23):
The salty air and sun can makeanyone forget the force of the
ocean on a stormy day, but thecemetery knows better, or three
of its residents do.
Their graves lie side by sidein Georgiana Cemetery, marked by
a single sorrowful headstonethat bears the name of three
young sisters, myrtle Mary andMartha Smith.

(02:44):
The dates carved into the stoneall match June 14, 1916.
Beneath a shade of moss-coveredoaks, their story lingers like
a chill off the water, one thatstill grips the heart over a
century later.
That summer, the girls,accompanied by their grandfather
, jj Ramsey, their aunt and10-year-old cousin, set out

(03:05):
across the Banana River.
The plan was simple spend aweek on the beach, playing in
the surf, sleeping beneath thecanvas and hunting for turtles
along the shore A family memoryin the making.
But the weather had otherintentions.
A heavy cyclone gale wasalready raging, but Ramsey,
against better judgment, decidedto make the crossing anyway.

(03:27):
Their vessel, a humble rowboatoutfitted with a sail, was
loaded beyond reason Six people,a tent and a month's worth of
provisions.
Just a mile from shore, thewind shifted violently, snapping
the sail and dragging it intothe water.
The boat capsized, snapping thesail and dragging it into the
water.

(03:47):
The boat capsized, thrown intothe water's angry chop.
Ramsey managed to gatherFlorence and the girls to the
upturned hull.
For a moment there was hope,but the storm was merciless.
One by one, the girls slippedfrom his grasp, the water
claiming them.
Before help could arrive.
Ramsey and his son clung to thewreckage until it drifted close
enough to shore to be seen by aman named William Vente, one of

(04:08):
the campers who they hadplanned to join.
He pulled them to safety.
Florence's body was found thenext day, the other girls
following soon after.
When they recovered Florence,her hand was tightly clenched
around a lock of hair, proofthat, even as the waters pulled
her under.
She had tried to save one ofthe other girls and, as if the
tragedy wasn't deep enough, thethree girls were the only

(04:31):
children of Martin Gaither Smith.
He had already lost theirmother, elizabeth, during the
birth of his youngest daughternot many years earlier.
Now.
He was left utterly alone Tothis day.
Visitors to the Georgianacemeteries sometimes leave
trinkets or flowers at thegirls' graves.
Somewhere they hear laughtercarried on the wind, soft and

(04:51):
bleeding like waves against theriverbank, and on stormy nights
when the air feels heavy and thepalms groan in the wind, some
say, the sorrow of that daystill stirs just beneath the
surface, never leaving.
It wasn't long before the sleepyisland of Merritt, florida, was
visited by tragedy.
Once again, there was 1934.

(05:12):
Nestled along the slow-movingIndian River, merritt Island was
the kind of place where lifeunfolded quietly, where gossip
traveled faster than any trainand where strangers were noticed
immediately.
But in the chill of a Novemberevening, that familiar stillness
was shattered and somethingdark seeped into the heart of

(05:33):
the town.
It began with vultures, aswirling black cloud of them
that gathered near the riverbank, just off what is now US Route
1.
Of them that gathered near theriverbank, just off what is now
US Route 1.
Drawn by an unnatural sight, apasserby made a grim discovery.
Half buried in the sand andtangled in the underbrush lay
the mutilated, partially burnedbody of a young woman.
Her throat had been viciouslyslashed from ear to ear.

(05:56):
Her skull caved in by repeatedblunt force trauma.
Whoever had done this to herjust didn't want her dead.
They'd wanted to obliterate herto ensure that even the memory
of her would be desecrated.
She was only 19 years old.
Her name was Ethel Allen.
The identification came slowly,painfully, from the few

(06:18):
fragments left untouched by fireand violence.
A small tattoo on her thigh,said to be a butterfly or a
flower, survived, as did asimple ring still clinging to
one finger.
Her identity was confirmed bythe clothes.
She had been last seen wearinga lightweight dress, a cardigan,
sweater and cheap leather shoes.

(06:38):
Witness remembered seeing Ethelalive just a few nights earlier
at Jack's Tavern, a rough, dimlylit roadhouse near nearby
Rockledge, known for cheapwhiskey, gambling and trouble.
She was last seen there with aman named Billy Wilson, a local
drifter with a charming smileand a reputation for shady
dealings.
Some say he worked odd jobsalong the river, others

(07:01):
whispered of bootlegging andpetty crime.
Ethel had reportedly toldfriends that she and Billy were
headed inland to Huachula whereher mother lived.
But Ethel never arrived andBilly?
He vanished the day her bodywas found, later testified that
he was seen in a rush, packingup his belongings, clothing,

(07:23):
tools, even his mattress, into abattered car and fleeing town.
Before dawn Police launched asearch.
Radio bulletins blared his nameacross central Florida.
Rewards were posted.
Deputies combed back roads andriverbanks, but Billy Wilson had
slipped away like smoke, neverto be seen again.
Rumors sped like wildfire.

(07:44):
Some claimed Billy had ties toa traveling carnival, that he
had hidden among the show folkand slipped across state lines.
Others insisted darker forceswere involved Whispers of
gambling debts or jealous loversor something more sinister
lurking beneath the town's quietsurface.
Despite widespread suspicion andpublic outrage, the

(08:07):
investigation quickly stalled.
Evidence was scant, witnesses'memories faded or grew
suspiciously vague, and no onewas ever charged with Ethel
Allen's murder.
The official record grew cold.
Her story became more of awarning whisper to young women
than a case anyone believedwould ever be solved.

(08:28):
Ethel Allen was laid to rest inGeorgiana Cemetery on Merritt
Island, just a short drive fromwhere her body was found.
Her grave is humble, a handmadestone worn by saltwater and
time, bearing only her name anddates.
Yet it draws visitors.
Still fresh flowers, coins andtrinkets Uneven handwritten

(08:50):
letters, appear at her restingplace, placed by those who
remember her or those who aresimply moved by the tragic
weight of her story.
Some say Ethel's spirit lingersin Georgiana's cemetery.
That on cold November nightsyou can feel a sudden drop in
temperature near her grave.
That if you listen carefully,beneath the rustle of Spanish

(09:11):
moss and the cheering ofcrickets, you just might hear
the faint echo of her voicecrying out for the justice that
never came.
Others claim she's not bound tothe grave at all and that on
rare nights, when the fog rollsoff the Indian River and covers
Merritt Island like a shroud, ayoung woman in a cardigan
sweater can be seen walking theroadside, her face obscured, in

(09:35):
shadow, searching for a way home.
She was denied.
Ethan Allen's story is one ofviolence, mystery and
heartbreaking injustice.
Nearly a century later, hermemory endures, not because she
found peace, but because thosewho passed by her simple grave
could not help but feel theheavy silence she left behind.

(09:57):
The tavern where she was lastseen, now called Ashley's
Restaurant, has its ownreputation.
Lights flicker, doors slam.
Staff reported seeing a womanin 1930s-style clothing
lingering near the ladies'restroom or pacing the upstairs
hallway.
Her face is sometimes visible,other times just a shadow.

(10:19):
There are those who believethis is Ethel, still seeking
peace, so wanting for someone totell her story with the weight
and care it deserves.
And so, nearly a century later,her case remains unsolved.
Her memory lingers not only instone and newspaper clippings,
but in the spaces she once knewin the river breeze, in the old

(10:41):
tavern's floorboards and in theshade of Crooked Mile.
Cemetery is easily overlooked,its modest precedence, eclipsed
by the towering marbles of thenearby Kennedy Space Center.
Tourists speed past with theireyes turned skyward, chasing
rockets and the promise ofdistant worlds, never realizing

(11:05):
that just beyond the veil oftrees, a different kind of
history lingers, one rooted notin triumph but in tragedy.
Ethel Allen's story, and thoseof countless others, live not in
headlines but in whispers,carried by the moss-draped oaks
that shade the forgotten dead.
As the sun slips beneath thehorizon, the cemetery awakens.

(11:27):
Spanish monsters like ghostlycurtains in a thickening air,
and the world seems to hold itsbreath.
Paranormal investigators,thrill-seekers and the quietly
curious gather at its rustygates, drawn by rumors of the
restless and the unseen, hopingfor even the faintest brush with
the other side.

(11:48):
Though modest in size, GeorgianaCemetery holds a heavy,
inescapable presence, one thatclings to visitors like the
humid Florida night, leavingthem glancing over their
shoulders long after they'veleft.
To walk its grounds is a stepinto a forgotten 90s horror film
, where the spirits are patientand darkness feels endless and

(12:09):
the line between the living andthe dead blurs just a little too
easy.
The next time you pass byMerritt Island, remember not
everything that reaches for youcomes from the stars.
At Georgiana Cemetery, somethings still wait beneath the
moss and not all of them stayburied.
The grave grind for GeorgianaCemetery was a blended, sweet,

(12:32):
plain café con leche from Caféde Havana.
For more honorary crimes in thearea, please visit the-grim.
com.
For now we're closing the gateon Georgiana Cemetery.
We hope you enjoyed our diginto history If you did
subscribe today to join us nexttime when we open the gate on
the Grim.