The Ouija board was invented by a fertilizer salesman who needed something new to sell, and its patent never once explains how it works. Decades later, in a rented cabin in the Arizona wilderness, one of those boards was blamed for ordering a man's murder. The accused killer was his 15-year-old daughter. The woman asking the board the questions was her mother, once crowned America's Venus.
A prank, then a product
Spiritualism, the belief that the living can talk with the dead, started as a prank. In upstate New York, sisters Maggie and Kate Fox claimed a spirit spoke to them by knocking on walls and furniture. Their mother became a believer when it rapped out the correct number of her children. The girls were packed off to Rochester, the knocking followed them, and a couple of radical Quakers, Amy and Isaac Post, spread the word. Their Quaker friends became the core of a movement. In 1851 a family friend admitted helping fake the sounds. In 1888 Maggie confessed on a public stage, producing the raps "by the movement of her big toe joint." It made no difference. The Civil War had killed as many as three-quarters of a million people, and grieving families wanted a word from the dead and some meaning for all that blood.
Charles Kennard saw a market. He was a fertilizer salesman with his own recipe until a drought, piled on top of his debts, sent him looking for something new to sell. Newspapers were full of séances and talking boards: planks painted with letters, numbers, yes, no and goodbye, read with a sliding pointer called a planchette. They were cheap to make, and if the spirits stayed quiet, that was the user's problem, not the board's. Kennard teamed up with E.C. Reiche, a Prussian immigrant down the hall in Chestertown, Maryland, who built furniture, built coffins and worked as the town undertaker. In Baltimore, a lawyer named Elijah Bond signed on. His sister, a medium named Helen Peters, helped convince the U.S. Patent Office, and when she asked the board its name, the pointer spelled O-U-I-J-A. "It means good luck." Kennard got pushed out of his own company in 1891, but the board went on to outsell Monopoly. By 1917 a new Baltimore plant was turning out close to a million a year.
America's Venus goes west
That March, the New York newspaper The Evening World named Dorothea its American Venus, the living copy of the Venus de Milo, a six-foot-eight marble statue that experts had scaled down to a five-foot-four woman. This was the era of the posture panic, when college women were stripped naked and measured for signs of scoliosis. Dorothea beat out 50,000 other contestants. She was a sassy tomboy and a reporter who insisted "I never gave my figure a thought." Bachelors swarmed, so her parents shipped her off to Europe to study music.
She married a serious-minded Navy chief petty officer, Ernest J. Turley, and had a daughter, Maddie, and a son, David. From Boston they landed in Coronado, California, where nobody applauded, Navy pay didn't cover the extras and Dorothea's sinuses kept her sick. A friend recommended Arizona's dry air. In August 1933 the family bought a ranch in the White Mountains and moved into a crude rented cabin in Apache County. That first week, a broad-shouldered man in a dusty hat knocked, looking for work. His name was Kent Pearce.
What the board told Dorothea
Within a month Dorothea was spending hours hunched over her Ouija board, using it the way we use Google. When she stumbled on petroglyphs, prehistoric carvings in the rock, the board said gold lay beneath them. Ernest dug until his back gave out and even tried dynamite before the board allowed that "some mistake had been made." The marriage curdled. Twice Dorothea threatened his life, once screaming, "Every time I look at you, I want to kill you." Maddie started joining the sessions. "Something needs to be done," the spirits said, and the man standing between Dorothea and happiness was Ernest.
The only one said to have ordered Ernest Turley's killing was a Ouija board, a parlor game whose own patent never claims it works. Whether a talking board can think and act for itself became a real question before the Arizona Supreme Court.
Two shots at the cow pen
On the night of November 17, 1933, a skunk crawled under the cabin and fought the cat, and the family stayed up all night. The next day was David's birthday, so Dorothea took him to the store and told Maddie to help her father catch the skunk. Maddie said she wouldn't help catch it, "But I might shoot him." She followed Ernest to the corral with a loaded shotgun, eating an apple while he milked the new cow. As he carried the bucket back through the gate, two shots hit him in the back. "Daddy, have I hurt you?" Maddie screamed. She said she had stumbled. Ernest believed it was an accident and scolded her for being careless. Kent Pearce held the lantern while the doctor worked.
Sheriff Marion Haws noticed that the shot had traveled downward through Ernest's hip. That meant Maddie was standing when she fired, probably with the gun at her shoulder. He asked her gently, and she confessed. She described a séance by lamplight: "mother asked the Ouija board shall we Kill father and the pointer moved to yes mother asked who should do the killing and The pointer spelled out my name." The board promised that Ernest wouldn't die, told them "not to fear the law" and put the insurance at $5,000. She nearly lost her nerve, then remembered "how important it was to mother for her to marry her handsome cowboy." Her mother had told her "there was no escaping its commands."
A trial that never came back
Maddie pleaded guilty in juvenile court and was sent to reform school until she turned 21. A Marine Corps plane flew Ernest to the naval base in San Diego. He died on December 26, 1933, 38 days after the shooting. Near the end he said that just before the shots he had glanced over his shoulder and seen Maddie behind him, shotgun leveled. Dorothea got 10 to 25 years for assault with intent to murder. Pearce was questioned and released. "You wouldn't expect a woman of my age to rob a cradle. Would you?" Dorothea asked. Witnesses had seen the two of them being openly affectionate on desert drives with Maddie and another young man, Pollard Wiltbank, and Pearce had told a neighbor he planned to marry her.
On appeal, the Arizona Supreme Court faced a new question: "Can a Ouija board think and act by itself or may it be influenced by human hands?" Dorothea blamed teenage rebellion: rouge, cowboys, crossed legs, short dresses. The court found 32 errors in her conviction and ordered a new trial. It never happened. In 1938 Dorothea sued the reform school matron, Thelma Bradford Bailey, for $75,000 for alienation of affection, a claim that Bailey had stolen her daughter's love by getting Maddie paroled. Dorothea hadn't heard from Maddie since. In 1939 she had the case dismissed, saying she was too ill to go to court.
