When they’re flowing, artesian wells are dynamic things. They’re so much so, that sometimes I miss the forest for the trees when I visit them! The dry well at Abington in the hills of Wayne County is a perfect example. Behind its unusual geology lies a strange human story. I’m still figuring out how to tell it, but I’ll try my best.
The best place to start is probably Abington, where the tale first unfolded. A well or spring there became a reliable source of water in 1815, and the community was platted two years later1. A post office followed in 18242. Abington never grew much beyond a crossroads at the southern border of Wayne County, but it’s near where William Holler grew up.
I had never heard of William Holler before I shared a post of Abington’s so-called “non-portable” well to a Richmond social media group. Soon after, someone clued me in. “Look up William Holler,” he said. “I know you, Ted, will tell the story better than I after you do the research3.”
I did look him up. William Holler was born in 1866. By 1904, he farmed family land that straddled the line between Union and Wayne Counties. After repeated thefts from Holler’s corn crib and chicken coop, he began to get anxious; even “unbalanced4.” Still, determined to catch the culprit, Holler ventured on a nocturnal stakeout5. When someone appeared at the door of his corn crib, he fired without hesitation! Unfortunately, Holler soon realized his terrible mistake: the supposed thief was his own brother -who lived on the property- shot through the hand. Frank Holler’s injuries were so severe that doctors were forced to amputate6.
Accidentally shooting his brother weighed heavily on William Holler’s mind. So did the arrival of dogs from New Paris, Ohio, brought in to follow the real thieves’ tracks. As the newspaper put it, “the action of the bloodhounds was so new and strange to Mr. Holler that he dwelt upon it in his conversations for some time after the trails had been followed to an end. He finally became a raving maniac on the subject and had to be confined for safe keeping7.”
Holler was first sent to the jail in Liberty, where he attempted suicide. Later, he was moved to Richmond State Hospital. In 1907, the recently-furloughed Holler caused an uproar when, according to the newspaper, “the spectacle of a disheveled individual with the light of madness shining from his eyes, muttering incoherent imprecations, and frequently slashing at an imaginary adversary with a great gleaming knife, when he was not flourishing a big revolver, caused citizens of the little town of Centerville to seek safety behind barred doors8.”
Centerville is right up an angled road from Abington, which is right down a jangly pike from the hospital in Richmond. Fortunately, Holler didn’t resist when he was apprehended. He landed in jail again and was taken back to Richmond State9. Two months later, he escaped naked with but a blanket for warmth.
“The news that an unclothed insane man was circulating some place in the vicinity of the hospital had anything but a quieting effect on the people living in that part of the county10,” wrote the Richmond Palladium. Fortunately, Holler was found at his brother’s house near Abington and was sent back to the hospital a day later11.
Sensational headlines and breathless retellings of William Holler’s behavior feel sort of foreign today outside of supermarket tabloids. They read less like history and more like yellow journalism- eye-catching exaggerations meant to sell papers, the nineteenth-century version of clickbait. Then again, maybe they don’t feel so unfamiliar after all. Corners of the internet are infested with that kind of stuff.
Whatever the source of Holler’s struggles, though, one thing seems clear through a modern lens: he was a man living with mental illness. Today, it’s unfortunately easy to see how a life can be flattened into spectacle through lurid headlines and secondhand judgment instead of real assistance. In those days, government-run institutions like the state hospital at Richmond purported to help. Today’s medical environment leaves a lot to be desired, too, but compassionate care can be found.
Unfortunately, Holler’s name surfaced in the news again in 1914- this time when the Abington spring was supposedly poisoned. Someone was said to have dumped a large quantity of copper sulphate, blue vitriol12, into the well where residents drew water for cooking and drinking. Another pump at the home of Butler Rosenberg was reportedly contaminated, too. Rightly or wrongly, Holler quickly became the prime suspect14.
Was Holler a scapegoat due to his mental illness? A patsy in some larger scheme? One of his friends wrote to the paper to claim Holler’s innocence. “I do not believe that he is guilty of this, nor crazy. He has more good common sense than half the people of Abington, the hell hole of Wayne County. And because he was declared insane before to get him out of the way and to cover up suspicion on someone else, they are claiming he done it15.”
Howell’s uncle, Thomas Lamb, also professed his innocence. Lamb reported that Holler was the heir to a $20,000 estate equal to $650,000 today- so long as his sanity could be assured. Jealous folks wanted that cash for themselves. “If the spring which supplies Abington with water was poisoned, and I have reliable information that it was not,” Lamb proclaimed, “Holler was not responsible for the outrage; and, furthermore, he has not been going about the country armed as has been reported since the spring was said to have been poisoned16.”
Regardless, officials quickly focused on Holler, probably because of his reputation16. When authorities tracked him down, they found him hiding in an outhouse perched on a hillside. As they approached, Holler suddenly opened fire with a shotgun! Once the tension subsided, he calmly told the sheriff that they were standing in Union County and that the sheriff had no authority to take him back to Wayne. Just as firmly, Holler denied any knowledge of the alleged poisoning at the Abington well17.
After that, Holler seems to have fled. One official got tangled in a broken fence as he gave chase, but another overpowered him. Despite his reputation, fortifications, and gleeful shots, Holler’s charges were eventually dismissed18.
It took two years for William Holler to make the headlines again. In 1916, he announced that he was developing a “thought reading machine,” believed to have “a peculiar appeal to wives when they are sorely displeased with their husband19.” He demonstrated his mechanism to the mayor, but was soon forgotten- at least as far as the papers were concerned. Holler died in 1930 at the age of sixty-four and was buried in Abington Cemetery.
In the end, William Holler’s story seems inseparable from the Abington well as two currents flowing through the same quiet crossroads. The well once sustained a community just as Holler was once sustained by it, but both reveal how easily something essential can be misunderstood when viewed only at the surface.
Today, the water has stopped flowing, the headlines have faded, and the man behind Abington’s spectacle has slipped into obscurity. William Holler is remembered more for rumor than reality, and that’s sad. Standing beside the dry well today, it’s hard not to wonder how many stories like his lie buried beneath familiar places, waiting for someone to look closer.
Artesian wells remind us that unseen pressure shapes what rises to the surface. Maybe history works the same way. In some instances, like at Abington, it pushes forgotten lives like William Holler’s back into view long after the noise has settled and the water has gone still.
Whatever truly happened at that well in Abington, one thing feels certain: William Holler deserved a better life. When I wrestle with my own frustrations about today’s systems, I think about a troubled man living in an era when mental illness was treated as a moral failure rather than a medical condition. It makes me grateful for the progress we’ve made in recognizing that mental health struggles deserve care, compassion, and dignity instead of condemnation.
Sources Cited
1 Young, A.W. (1872). History of Wayne County, Indiana from Its First Settlement to the Present Time. R. Clarke & Company [Cincinnati]. Book.
2 “Wayne County”. Jim Forte Postal History. Web. Retrieved February 22, 2026.
3 Imhoff, J. Historic Richmond Indiana Photos (2026, February 20). There’s a sad story here. Look up William Holler. I know you, Ted, will tell the story better than I [Comment]. Facebook.
4 Thieves Drive Man Insane (1904, October 1). The Richmond Item. p. 8.
5 (See footnote 4).
6 William Holler Was Armed Again (1907, January 12). The Richmond Item. p. 3.
7 Thieves Drive Farmer Crazy (1904, October 6). The Richmond Palladium. p. 1.
8 Maniac Frightens Quiet Villagers (1907, January 13). The Richmond Palladium. p. 8.
9 (See footnote 8).
10 William Holler An Insane Man Makes Escape (1907, March 27). The Richmond Palladium-Item. p. 1.
11 William Holler found (1907, March 28). The Richmond Palladium-Item. p. 6.
12 Holler’s Uncle Claims Relative Victim Of Plot (1914, June 12). The Richmond Palladium. p. 1.
13 FORUMOFTHEPEOPLE (1914, June 13). The Richmond Palladium. p. 4.
14 (See footnote 13).
15 Holler’s Uncle Claims Relative Victim Of Plot (1914, June 12). The Richmond Palladium. p. 1.
16 Farmer craftily Stands On Union county Land (1914, June 5). The Richmond Item. p. 1.
17 Suspected Of Poisoning Abington Water Supply, Holler Avoids Arrest (1914, June 5). The richmond Palladium. p. 1.
18 Wm. Holler of Abington Invents Thought-Reading Machine that He Intends to Demonstrate to Mayor (1916, July 20). The Richmond Item. p. 1.
19 Wm. Holler of Abington Invents Thought-Reading Machine that He Intends to Demonstrate to Mayor (1916, July 20). The Richmond Item. p. 1.
Wow, what a story! It is certainly true that a bad reputation can send trouble of every kind in a guy’s direction, just like a good reputation can be a shield from accountability for wrongdoing.
I think that the state of modern medical and government systems can suffer from just as many flaws as in this story, only the flaws are different ones.
I agree with you- not sure that modern medical systems -both private and public- have their own flaws these days. Especially with regards to insurance. Since I’m still unemployed, I’ve been going to the Muncie Mission free clinic for meds. It’s been a godsend.
As an aside, the state of Richmond State was weird when I drove through. Most of the old buildings appeared empty or abandoned, but there were some modern buildings that were populated.
Your story is interesting, but it indicates that the well was poisoned since the early 1900’s but my family lived there and the well was our only water source for years, everyone in Abington, drank the water, my grandparents had a general store next to the church, in the 1930/40’s then my parents bought the house around 1955, until it burned down around 1980. Sorry, my dates may be off a few years.But the water was not poisoned when we lived there.
I think the fact that Holler wasn’t charged may indicate that the well wasn’t poisoned after all.
My great uncle Harry Stout lived near Abington in a place they called Yankee town. Have you heard of it? My grandmother said Harry lived by his wits and by raising coon dogs. He had a young girlfriend (wife?) in the 1940s who left him and threw all his clothes in the creek, my grandma said. I’ll bet there are a lot of stories in Yankee Town!
I haven’t. I’ll have to do some digging!