Chicago. 1912.The air hung heavy—coal smoke and lake wind trapped between brick tenements and unkept promises. It was an age of mediums and miracle cures, when grief was a business and hope came bottled or candle-lit. In a modest parlor on Ogden Avenue, Louisa Lindloff offered comfort to the grieving. No table-rapping, no hysterics. She simply sat still, hands folded and let silence do the work. A widow in black, a crystal ball at her elbow, and a gaze steady enough to make you question what she saw in you that you couldn’t. People believed her. That was the trick. They came with hair locks, old letters, and questions whispered through trembling fingers: Is he happy? Does he forgive me? Louisa answered softly, with the conviction of someone who has seen both sides and prefers neither. For a few coins, she made the unbearable seem negotiable. She wasn’t cruel. She was practical. Grief was endless, but groceries were not. The Ledger and the Lies Her husband, Arthur Lindloff, worked when he could and complained when he couldn’t. Their son, Arthur Jr., filled the silence with toy soldiers dragged across the floorboards. A boarder coughed through the nights upstairs, paying rent late but never leaving. Louisa kept a ledger—clients, payments, séances, debts—and like every ledger, it began to show its imbalance. The small sums she collected from widows and laborers didn’t stretch far enough to cover coal, rent, and the kind of respectability that kept a woman safe from gossip. Then came the insurance man with his stack of industrial policies: burial money for those too poor to die properly. Arthur scoffed. Louisa signed. A few cents a week for peace of mind, he’d said. Peace of mind turned out to be a matter of dosage. The Experiment It started, as most damnations do, with curiosity. Louisa had read about arsenic, this household staple in rat poison, common, unsuspicious. She studied it the way a pianist studies a new piece: slowly, with caution, until muscle memory took over. The first time, her hand trembled. The sound of the spoon against porcelain was louder than it should have been. Fear and resolve traded places until she couldn’t tell which one she wanted to win. When Arthur died, the doctor called it sunstroke. The neighbors called it tragedy. Louisa called it proof. The Pattern Chicago forgets quickly. Another death in another tenement doesn’t even make the paper. Weeks later, the boarder fell ill. She nursed him like someone who might have actually cared would be expected to. She brought him broth, a cool cloth, she whispered prayers. Even so, he died grateful. The next boarder moved in; she signed another set of forms. The ledger began to balance itself. For a time, Louisa felt relief, even pride. Order had returned to her world. But order built on death is fragile. It creaks. It leaks. And it invites company. Whispers followed her. Neighbors noticed the smell of a sweet, chemical, that now seems unmistakable. One woman swore she’d seen Louisa stirring something white into a teacup. Another claimed the widow’s calm was too calm. When Arthur Jr. became sick, the gossip turned to certainty. A mother who kills her husband might not stop there. The Discovery The authorities came slowly, as they always do when the victims are poor and the killer polite. By the time they tested what remained in the kitchen, the evidence had dissolved into rumor and grief. But arsenic has a way of surviving paperwork. Louisa Lindloff was arrested in her black dress, the same one she wore to every séance and funeral. She didn’t protest. She didn’t cry. She simply said, “It must have been the tea.” The papers called her The Fortune Teller Killer. The city called her evil. But the truth is colder than that: she was efficient. She learned that belief can be the easiest poison of all—because people drink it willingly. The Afterlife of a Lie Today, Louisa Lindloff’s name drifts somewhere between folklore and footnote. Some say she was a con artist, others a woman cornered by poverty and pride. Either way, she turned the oldest currency—trust—into tender for murder. Her story isn’t about arsenic. It’s about faith. About how desperation, when dressed in ritual and respectability, can look almost holy. In her world, death was not a crime; it was customer service. Why She Still Matters More than a century later, Chicago has changed its skyline, but not its appetite. We still buy comfort. We still want to believe that someone out there knows the answers, even if it costs us a little piece of truth. Louisa didn’t invent deception; she perfected its tone. She made belief feel gentle while it killed you slowly. And that’s what makes her story stick—the quiet terror of realizing that the voice offering you peace might be the one stirring the poison. If you want to hear the full story—the séance, the suspicion, the arrest—you’ll find it in this episode “The Fortune Teller Killer.”You can stream it, share it, or play it loud enough to scare your neighbors. I won’t judge. (might even celebrate that, just sayin) And yes, if you’re into supporting this madness, there’s swag—shirts, mugs, and other questionable life choices—over at www.paulgnewton.com.They’re not haunted. Probably, well, hopefully. There is a hoodie that may be suspect. Hate mail, praise, and your own theories can all go to paulg@paulgnewton.com.I read them all. Eventually. Thanks for reading Paul G's Substack! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Paul G's Corner at paulgnewton.substack.com/subscribe
