The Historic City Cemetery

This grave belongs to Franklin Holdridge , a largely ordinary man whose name survives today because of the unsettling legend attached to his daughter, Ella Holdridge — sometimes called Ellie in later retellings. In the late 19th century, Ella Holdridge was known for wandering cemeteries alone. While other children played in streets and schoolyards, Ella preferred places of mourning. She walked the paths of City Cemetery , as well as St. Francis Cemetery and Salem Cemetery , lingering near fresh graves, watching funerals from a distance, memorizing names and dates carved into stone. Newspaper accounts and later retellings describe her as fixated on death — not frightened by it, but comforted by it. She reportedly learned funeral schedules. She knew which bells meant burial. She understood how grief gathered people together. And according to period press stories that later became infamous, that knowledge turned dangerous. Ella’s obsession with cemeteries and funerals allegedly escala...

On a cold December evening, William and Rose Cook came here together—just as they left the world together. They were part of a small skating party on Ellicott Creek: two brothers and two sisters enjoying the winter ice. Friends warned them the ice was unsafe, but the surface looked solid, and they skated on. Beneath them, hidden by snow and darkness, was a deep excavation where the water plunged more than fourteen feet. The ice broke without warning. In the chaos that followed, the two young men did not think of themselves. Each fought to save his sister in the icy water. Michael Coleman managed to hold his sister above the surface long enough for neighbors to hear her screams and pull her to safety. Exhausted and numb, he then slipped beneath the ice and drowned. William Newman never let go. Witnesses later said that when the bodies were recovered, William and Rosa were found locked tightly in each other’s arms , carried together by the current beneath the ice. Even in death, it was d...

One morning, visitors to this cemetery noticed something strange. A man stood alone among the graves, digging into the frozen earth with an old, broken spade. He was not preparing a burial. He had no coffin. No name. No permission. He was looking for a village. The man was Thomas Mullen , an escaped inmate of the Buffalo State Hospital. After slipping away from the institution, Mullen wandered until he reached Tonawanda—where he was found digging here, in this very cemetery, by Patrolman John Kreher. When questioned, Mullen gave an explanation that chilled those who heard it. He said he had come from Lancaster seven years earlier—and that the village had since been submerged . According to Mullen, the only way to find it was to dig. So he did. Using nothing but a damaged spade, he cut into the cemetery soil, searching beneath the dead for a place that existed only in his mind. Hospital attendants later identified him by markings on his clothing. He was known at the asylum only as Pati...

George Kleiber was not a stranger to danger—or to the police. Known throughout Tonawanda as a volatile fisherman, Kleiber lived much of his life in conflict: with the law, with other men on the river, and eventually with his own family. His name appeared repeatedly in newspapers under grim headlines— attempted murder , illegal fishing , violent assault . One summer night, inside the bottling department of the Tonawanda Brewing Company, an argument erupted between Kleiber and another fisherman, George Walrath. Each accused the other of illegal fishing on the Niagara River—specifically the use of dynamite, a destructive and outlawed method. Words quickly turned to threats. Witnesses later said Kleiber became enraged, shouting that he would kill Walrath “if it took all night.” When others tried to remove him from the building, Kleiber drew a revolver from his hip pocket, leveled it, and pulled the trigger. Only the quick action of a bystander saved Walrath’s life—the bullet struck the bui...

The Niagara River was not just a boundary—it was an opportunity. In 1865, as the Civil War had just ended and enforcement struggled to reassert control, smuggling flourished along the water between Canada and Western New York. Whiskey, goods, and contraband crossed quietly at night, often landing on Grand Island before being hauled into the city. One of the names that surfaced repeatedly in court records was Elijah V. Day . According to contemporary newspaper accounts, Day was arraigned before Justice Albro on charges far more serious than smuggling alone. He stood accused of feloniously assaulting and shooting Emanuel Hensler , a deputy customs officer, with a pistol loaded with gunpowder and lead— with intent to kill . The shooting allegedly occurred on Grand Island on July 10, 1865. Day waived examination and was committed for trial. At the same time, federal authorities pursued him for a related offense: resisting a deputy collector in the discharge of his duties during a smuggli...

Henry Kleiber’s name appeared in the Tonawanda newspapers again and again—not for achievements, but for arrests. He lived on Niagara Street and made his living as a fisherman on the river. To authorities, however, he was something else entirely: a river pirate . Game protectors accused Kleiber of illegal fishing with a seine, a practice that stripped the river clean. In one raid at the mouth of Rattlesnake Creek, officers seized more than 500 pounds of carp , along with the skiff used in the operation. Kleiber and his partner were marched to the police station while their catch was confiscated. But fishing violations were only part of his record. In 1906, Henry Kleiber achieved a distinction few could match. He was the first man sentenced that year in Tonawanda police court—and the last . On both occasions, the charge was intoxication. Each time, he asked to be sent to the Erie County Penitentiary. Each time, the judge granted him thirty days . His name opened and closed the court led...