The Missing Five

A History of the Bennington Triangle

May 23, 2025

In the woods near Glastenbury, Vermont, five people vanished without explanation over five years. A hunter, a student, a veteran, a child, a camper—none of them connected, yet all now folded into the same unsettling silence. There were search parties, aircraft, bloodhounds. One body turned up. The others didn’t. Locals call it the Bennington Triangle. It’s not on the map, but everyone knows where it is.

Some places never resolve.
They leave questions open, details unfinished. What’s lost in them doesn’t fade—it lingers, becoming part of the landscape.

Southwestern Vermont is one of those places.

If you’re from upstate New York or New England, this terrain feels familiar. The roads climb into the hills, narrowing to two lanes edged with stone walls and scrub. Farmhouses sit just off the road—some with tin roofs, others weathered to gray—yards scattered with firewood, old tools, and the remains of last summer’s garden. Town centers are modest: a diner with mismatched mugs, a post office, a hardware store that also sells bait, batteries, and snow shovels year-round. Life here isn’t frozen in time—it just moves at its own pace, measured more by seasons than by clocks.

The Green Mountains here aren’t especially dramatic. Their elevations are modest, their slopes gradual, their peaks rounded by time. But the forest grows thick. Trails narrow quickly, and the canopy blocks more light than you’d expect. Off the path, visibility drops. It’s quiet—not in an eerie way, but in the way that dense woods naturally are. Sound doesn’t travel far. You can be fifty feet from someone and not see or hear them.

Among the old cellar holes and collapsed foundations around what used to be Glastenbury, reports began to surface. Not dramatic, not widely publicized—but steady. A missing hunter. A student who never came back. A search that turned up nothing. A file still open years later.

Between 1945 and 1950, five people disappeared in this area. Most were never found.

Locals call it the Bennington Triangle.

It’s not marked on any map. There are no signs pointing to it, no official recognition of its name. But ask around in Bennington, Woodford, or the unincorporated shadow of what used to be Glastenbury, and most people will know what you mean.

“That mountain?” they’ll say.
“People go missing up there.”

There’s nothing theatrical about it. No ghost stories, no local attractions built around the mystery. What unsettles people here is straightforward: five people disappeared in a small area of southwestern Vermont over the span of five years. One was later found. The others were never recovered. No witnesses. No evidence. Just a series of cases without resolution.

But the Bennington Triangle isn’t just about missing persons. It’s about what people do with uncertainty. About how quickly stories start to build when explanations break down. It’s not a theory or a legend—it’s a label we’ve given to the gap between what happened and what we can prove.

Because sometimes, the facts stop short. And we’re left filling in the rest.

Glastenbury: A Town Removed from the Map

Before the disappearances, Glastenbury had already been in decline for decades. Founded in the early 1800s, the town was built around logging and charcoal production. A narrow-gauge rail line was constructed to move timber down the mountain, and for a time, the industry supported a small population.

As the hills were stripped and the soil gave way, the land became unstable. Heavy rain and erosion took a toll on the already limited infrastructure. In a last attempt to survive, Glastenbury tried to rebrand as a mountain retreat, opening a small hotel, a casino, and a dance hall to attract tourists. It didn’t last.

By the 1920s, repeated flooding and economic decline had emptied the town. In 1937, the Vermont General Assembly officially unincorporated both Glastenbury and nearby Somerset due to lack of residents. There were no longer enough people to hold town meetings, collect taxes, or maintain roads. On paper, the town ceased to exist.

Today, what remains are cellar holes, scattered foundations, and pieces of iron track half-buried in the soil.

Anecdotal reports followed: hikers noting irregularities with compasses, strange localized weather near the summit, long stretches of trail where even birds seemed absent. After dark, some reported seeing flashes of light through the trees—brief, unexplained.

These details weren’t formally recorded. They passed through conversation and memory, mentioned quietly, if at all.

Then, in the mid-1940s, people began to disappear.

Case 1: Middie Rivers – The Hunter Who Didn’t Come Back

November 12, 1945.
World War II was winding down, but America hadn’t fully exhaled. Ration books were still in pockets, Gold Star flags still hung in windows. In rural Vermont, men like Middie Rivers had been too old to fight but were still tethered to the rhythms of an older war: the seasonal hunt.

Middie was 74, a widower, a guide, and by all accounts as much a part of the mountains as the birch and stone. He lived in the hamlet of Faithville—now just a few cellar holes along Route 9—and had spent decades walking the ridges between Woodford and Glastenbury, where he once guided logging crews and, later, weekend hunters. He wasn’t a mythic figure to his neighbors. Just reliable. Competent. The kind of man who knew how to quarter a deer and mend a boot with baling wire.

That morning, Middie went out with a small hunting party, including his son-in-law, to scout the slopes north of Hell Hollow Brook—a tributary that runs cold and fast out of the Glastenbury Wilderness. They planned a loop: each would take a quadrant, then regroup at the camp by mid-afternoon.

It was the kind of terrain where you could go a hundred yards and lose the trail. Where the difference between orientation and disorientation might be one foggy rise or an unmarked ravine. But Middie had hunted this land his entire adult life. He wasn’t the kind of man to get turned around. That’s what made his disappearance so unsettling.

When he didn’t return by dusk, no one panicked. It was common for experienced woodsmen to double back or follow game too far. But by morning, after a night of no sign, a search party formed—first locals, then police, then the Vermont State Guard, newly decommissioned from wartime service and still wearing Army surplus.

They scoured the trails. Airmen from the nearby Westover Field in Massachusetts flew sorties overhead. Bloodhounds were brought in from New Hampshire. They searched drainages and streambeds, hoping Middie had taken shelter from the cold.

All they found was a single spent rifle cartridge near a creek. The gun, his pack, even his hat—all gone.

Theories bloomed. Some said Middie had fallen and been buried in a landslide, though there had been no rain. Others speculated a hidden ravine or abandoned well had swallowed him. A few even whispered about the “stone that eats people,” a local superstition rooted in Native legend—an alleged sinkhole or stone formation said to open and close with no trace.

The official explanation was “lost in wilderness.” But those who knew Middie never accepted that. He’d guided through worse weather. He had the instincts of a man who didn’t just survive in the woods—he belonged to them.

No trace was ever found.

The local paper ran his name for weeks: Missing Bennington Man Baffles Searchers. Eventually the story faded, leaving behind an empty grave and the first notch in what would become something else entirely.

Case 2: Paula Jean Welden – The Hiker Who Became a Ghost

December 1, 1946.
The country was adjusting to peace. Veterans had returned, the GI Bill was reshaping towns, and Bennington College—progressive, remote, and secluded—was becoming known for its arts program and unconventional students. Paula Jean Welden fit the mold: an 18-year-old sophomore with a quiet demeanor and a sharp intellect. She studied art, played guitar, and often took long walks to clear her head.

That Sunday was mild—nearly 50 degrees, a break in what should have been the creeping onset of winter. Around 2:30 p.m., Paula left her dorm wearing a red parka, blue jeans, and lightweight sneakers. She told her roommate she was going to hike the Long Trail, a well-known route that paralleled the Green Mountains. No map. No flashlight. No note.

She was spotted along Route 9 by several townsfolk, including a local contractor and an elderly couple who later said they saw her veer north toward Glastenbury’s base. The trail was quiet—off-season, leafless, damp from recent snowmelt. The couple watched her turn a corner on the trail. They expected to see her reappear a few moments later.

She didn’t.

By Monday, concern had turned to alarm. The college president notified the state police, who—at that point—barely existed as a centralized force. Vermont was still a patchwork of county sheriffs and constables. The lack of coordination frustrated Paula’s father, William Welden, who leveraged his political and industrial contacts to escalate the search. Bloodhounds were summoned. Air patrols from Fort Ethan Allen flew sorties. Rewards were posted. Even the FBI briefly considered the case.

But the forest kept its silence.

Not a thread of Paula’s clothing was found. Not a footprint. Not a dropped notebook or snapped twig. The dogs, like in the Jepson case that would come years later, followed her scent to a point—then stopped cold.

Theories multiplied.

One rumor suggested she’d run away with a secret boyfriend. Another said she’d taken her own life in a remote part of the woods. A few locals spoke of the “phantom hunter,” a man rumored to live off-grid near Somerset, occasionally blamed for poaching or theft. He was questioned. Nothing stuck.

Paula’s case exposed a deeper problem in Vermont: the need for a formal state law enforcement body. In response, the Vermont State Police was created in 1947—the same year searchers finally gave up hope.

Her story metastasized. It became more than a case file—it became symbol. Paula was no longer just a missing person. She was a stand-in for every unfinished story. And she seeped into culture: into Shirley Jackson’s fiction, into local folklore, into the recurring tale of “the girl in the red coat” glimpsed in the woods—always just out of reach.

She did not become myth by design.
She became myth because nothing else came.

Case 3: James E. Tedford – The Veteran Who Vanished in Transit

December 1, 1949.
James E. Tedford was 68 years old, a U.S. Army veteran of World War I, and a resident of the Bennington Soldiers’ Home, a state-run facility that housed older veterans in need of care or without close family. He had been living there since the death of his wife and was known by staff and fellow residents as quiet, orderly, and set in his routines.

That week, Tedford had traveled north to visit relatives in St. Albans, a small city near the Canadian border. On December 1st, he boarded a public bus bound for Bennington—roughly a four-hour ride south along Vermont Route 7. It was a regularly scheduled route with multiple stops, and the bus was lightly populated.

Fellow passengers later confirmed that Tedford was on board during the trip. Several remembered seeing him mid-route, seated near the rear of the vehicle with a timetable or small pamphlet in his hands. His suitcase was stored in the overhead rack above his seat.

When the bus arrived in Bennington, Tedford was no longer on board.

His belongings were untouched. His seat remained marked on the driver’s manifest. But there was no record of him getting off at any previous stop, and none of the passengers or the driver recalled seeing him leave the bus.

An initial investigation focused on the possibility of error—that perhaps Tedford had disembarked at an earlier town or transferred to another route. Police interviewed station staff and reviewed passenger logs. No leads emerged. The Soldiers’ Home was notified that Tedford was missing. Posters were distributed locally.

There was no indication of medical distress or struggle. No witnesses came forward. No evidence of a fall, theft, or criminal act was found. The Vermont State Police treated the case as a missing person, but without a point of departure or a known last location, the investigation quickly stalled.

Tedford was declared missing. His case was never solved. He is not listed as a veteran lost in combat or a casualty of war, but his name appears in some modern databases of unresolved disappearances.

He was last seen aboard a moving bus, and then he wasn’t.

Case 4: Paul Jepson – The Boy in the Red Jacket

October 12, 1950.
Paul Jepson was eight years old and lived with his parents on the grounds of a small county-run dump outside Bennington. His father was the caretaker. The family kept livestock and maintained the property. It was a rural but familiar setting, surrounded by roads, fences, and fields—not deep wilderness.

That afternoon, Paul’s mother left him near the family’s truck while she fed the pigs. He was wearing a bright red jacket. According to reports, she was gone for less than an hour. When she returned, Paul had vanished.

Search efforts began immediately. Local police were notified, and volunteers joined the effort to sweep the nearby fields and woods. It was broad daylight. The terrain was partially cleared and used regularly by workers and residents. Initial assumptions included that Paul had wandered off and become lost—or that he had followed a nearby road.

Bloodhounds were brought in to assist. The dogs reportedly followed Paul’s scent through a wooded section behind the property, toward an old trail system that connected to nearby ridgelines. The trail in question had also been mentioned in previous missing persons reports.

According to law enforcement and volunteers on the scene, the dogs abruptly lost the scent at a certain point. There was no indication of a struggle, no personal items left behind, and no signs that Paul had reached a roadway.

The search continued for several days. The Vermont State Police organized a grid system. Helicopters were not widely available for rural searches at that time, but foot patrols, mounted units, and more bloodhounds were used.

No trace of Paul Jepson was ever found. No suspects were identified, and no new leads developed. His parents remained in the community and spoke occasionally to the press, expressing confusion and grief.

Unlike the previous disappearances, Paul’s age—and the proximity to home—made this case particularly difficult for investigators. The assumption that a child would not stray far added to the confusion. But no remains, clothing, or evidence was ever recovered.

The case remains unsolved.

Case 5: Frieda Langer – The Only One Found

October 28, 1950.
Frieda Langer, 53, lived in North Adams, Massachusetts, and was camping with her husband Max and cousin Herbert Elsner near Somerset Reservoir—east of Glastenbury Mountain. The Langers were regular visitors to the area and familiar with the terrain. Frieda was described as physically active and experienced in the outdoors.

That morning, during a short hike with her cousin, Frieda slipped while crossing a shallow stream and became wet. She told Elsner she would return to camp—less than a mile away—to change into dry clothes and rejoin him. He continued hiking. She turned back alone.

When she did not return, her husband grew concerned. A search was launched that evening and expanded the next day with additional personnel. The Vermont State Police coordinated efforts with local volunteers and military personnel from nearby installations. Over 300 people took part in the search over several weeks.

Despite the large-scale effort, no sign of Frieda was found.

The ground was soft, ideal for tracking. Visibility was fair. The weather remained stable during the early days of the search. But no tracks, clothing, or personal items were located.

On May 12, 1951, Frieda’s remains were discovered by a civilian hiker near the eastern branch of the Deerfield River—approximately three and a half miles from the original campsite. The location had been previously searched by multiple teams during the original effort.

Her body was partially decomposed and exposed. Given the time elapsed and the condition of the remains, no definitive cause of death could be established. There were no signs of violent trauma noted in official records, and the Vermont medical examiner listed the cause as undetermined.

No suspects were ever identified, and there was no evidence of foul play that could be substantiated. Some searchers believed it was possible Frieda’s body had been missed in the original effort—covered by snow, obscured by brush, or concealed in a depression.

She remains the only one of the five disappearances associated with the Bennington Triangle whose remains were recovered.

Why the Pattern Matters

The five disappearances near Glastenbury, Vermont—spanning just five years between 1945 and 1950—are not officially connected. Each involved a different person, under different circumstances, in different parts of the region. One was a seasoned hunter. Another, a college student. A veteran. A child. A camper. There’s no consistent profile, no proven link, and no physical evidence that binds the cases together. On paper, they are isolated events.

But people don’t process them that way.
And we’re not supposed to.

Humans are pattern-seeking by design. Our brains are wired to connect dots, even when those connections are loose or unsupported. It’s how we learn. It’s how we warn. And when a story resists logic or closure, we build structure around it anyway. We name it. We pass it down.

That’s how the Bennington Triangle emerged—not as an official term, but as a response to discomfort.

Vermont folklorist and author Joseph A. Citro coined the phrase in the 1990s while researching unexplained events in the region. Inspired by Charles Fort’s writings and the preexisting legend of Massachusetts’ Bridgewater Triangle, Citro gave the area a name that could carry its unresolved weight. He wasn’t promoting the supernatural—he was acknowledging the psychological need to organize uncertainty into something more manageable. Something we could talk about.

Once named, the Triangle became part of a broader cultural vocabulary. It moved from local history into the realm of American mythmaking.

Its influence has been both direct and diffuse.

Shirley Jackson, who lived in Bennington during the time of Paula Welden’s disappearance, is often cited as having absorbed the tension and unease of that event into her work. Her 1951 novel Hangsaman follows a young woman at a fictional New England college who becomes increasingly detached from reality before disappearing altogether. The book is not a literal retelling, but it channels the same themes of disconnection, silence, and the thin boundaries between the seen and unseen.

The Triangle has influenced other speculative fiction, horror, and true crime in subtle but lasting ways—less through direct adaptation and more through atmosphere, theme, and structure.

The video game Alan Wake and its sequel draw heavily on Northeastern American lore—fog-drenched forests, disappearing hikers, and small towns shaped by unfinished stories. The narrative centers on a writer grappling with vanishing time and fractured memory in a place that feels almost sentient.
Robert Eggers’ The Witch (2015) and Ari Aster’s Hereditary (2018), while not set in Vermont, channel similar unease—rural isolation, folklore as threat, and the psychological toll of unresolved history.
Folk horror films like The Blair Witch Project (1999) and The Ritual (2017) borrow the core idea: ordinary people stepping into landscapes where the natural becomes untrustworthy, and disappearance suggests not violence, but dislocation—spatial, temporal, and emotional.
On YouTube, in podcasts like Lore and Unexplained, and in Reddit threads under r/UnresolvedMysteries, the Bennington Triangle appears regularly—less as an event and more as a framework. A cautionary space. A landscape where stories stop without closing.

None of these stories offer resolution. That’s the point. What they offer instead is structure.

They turn chaos—random tragedy, geographic coincidence, forensic silence—into a kind of symbolic map. They allow us to remember what we can’t explain. And in doing so, they function less as entertainment and more as collective processing.

Because mystery, especially when tied to real loss, leaves a wound. And the stories we build around that wound are how we live with it.

A Shared Human Response

The Bennington Triangle isn’t unique.

Around the world, regions marked by unsolved disappearances take on names, meanings, and stories that outlast the events themselves.

Alaska’s “Bermuda Triangle”—between Anchorage, Juneau, and Barrow—has been tied to hundreds of missing aircraft and unexplained disappearances.
In the Sierra Nevadas, a stretch between Yosemite and Sequoia National Park has developed its own folklore after a string of unsolved hiker vanishings.
Canada’s Nahanni Valley is sometimes called the “Valley of Headless Men,” after mysterious deaths and disappearances were reported there in the early 20th century.
Japan’s Aokigahara Forest, while sensationalized in Western media, is steeped in cultural taboos and shaped by centuries of folklore surrounding death and liminality.

These places—like Glastenbury—are not necessarily strange in their physical features. What they share is a cluster of unanswered questions. A lack of closure. A sense that something happened, and that something was never explained.

And when we can’t explain something, we tend to encode it.

Why We Still Tell These Stories

We tell stories like the Bennington Triangle because they help us frame the limits of what we know. They keep alive the memory of those who were lost, even when the details fail us. And they give us tools for dealing with uncertainty in a world that rarely provides final answers.

Psychologist Jerome Bruner argued that there are two modes of human understanding: the logical and the narrative. The first helps us make sense of facts. The second helps us make sense of meaning.

The Bennington Triangle survives because we need the second kind.

This isn’t a story about ghosts, or alternate dimensions, or cryptids in the woods. It’s a story about five people who left no clear trail behind. And about how we, as a culture, respond to that kind of silence.

We give it shape. We give it a name. And we pass it on.

Because some absences don’t fade. They stay open—waiting to be understood, or at least remembered.

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