A Little Less Mess: The Circleville Letters [Ohio]

Cara (0:20)

Hey, everyone, welcome to Bless This Mess on the True Crime Podcast. I'm Cara, just Cara. This is A Little Less Mess, our Monday mini-sode, where we step outside the South for a case that is strange, unsettling, and just a little less messy than our full Thursday episodes. Now, before we get started, here's a quick reminder of our weekly schedule. On Thursdays, Stu and I are back together for our regular full-length Southern True Crime Cases. And if you want early ad-free access to everything on the main feed, plus our Friday bonus show Sit and Sippin and Bullshittin, come join our Patreon family. You can also follow us on TikTok, Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube for True Crime and Dinner Time, my new Cozy Mystery Movie Club, which I'm really loving, and then our weekly True Crime documentary recommendations. And as always, the best free way to support the show is to rate, review, and subscribe wherever you are listening. Alright y'all, let's get into this week's case out of Ohio. For nearly two decades, someone in a small Ohio town sent anonymous letters that seemed to know everybody's business. The writer accused people of affairs, domestic violence, embezzlement, murder, and secrets that were supposed to be private. The letters had no return address, they were written in blocky handwriting, and they came with threats. This is the mystery of the Circleville Letters. Circleville, Ohio is a small city south of Columbus. It is well known for its annual pumpkin show, and in the 1970s it was the kind of place where people knew their neighbors, watched local school events, and noticed when something out of the ordinary happened. Then, in March of 1977, people started finding anonymous letters in their mailboxes.

The letters were not friendly notes or harmless pranks. They were personal, cruel, and threatening.

They accused people of things that could damage marriages, jobs, and reputations. They made it clear that the writer believed they were watching the people they targeted.

One letter read, You have been watched, failure to comply, and you shall suffer. No one can help, no one can protect you, obey.

The writers seemed to know exactly which button to push. For Mary Gillispie, the attacks focused on an alleged affair with Gordon Massey, the superintendent of the local school district. Mary was married to a man named Ronald Gillispie. Gordon was married too. Mary always denied that she was having an affair with Gordon at the time. The earliest letters arrived. But the writer was relentless. The letters accused Mary of sneaking around with the other woman's husband. They accused her of causing pain to families and marriages. They did not only go to Mary. Ronald began receiving letters too.

One letter urged him to catch Mary and Gordon together and kill them both.

Imagine opening your mailbox and finding somebody trying to set a match to your marriage. Somebody who knows your names, knows your jobs, knows your town and seems to be watching you.

That is what the Gillispie family was living with.

In August 1977, the story took an even darker turn. Mary was away on a trip to Florida when Ronald received a phone call. The caller was believed to be connected to the anonymous letters. Ronald left in his pickup truck. Not long afterward, he crashed into a tree and died. He was only 35 years old. Police found a gun underneath Ronald's body. The gun had been fired once. The official ruling was that Ronald's death was an accident. But because of the letters, the phone call, and the gun, people wondered whether something else had happened. Had Ronald been chasing somebody? Had he fired at someone? Had he been forced off the road? Or was it simply a terrible crash connected only by timing to the letter campaign that already turned his family upside down? There was never a murder charge in Ronald's death. But for Mary, the terror did not end when he died. After Ronald's death, Mary and Gordon Massey did eventually begin a relationship. And according to reporting on the case, that was when the letters became even more threatening. The writer's obsession with Mary did not fade. It intensified. For years, the Circleville residents continued to receive letters. They went to homes, businesses, and schools. They accused people of criminal behavior and private misconduct. The writers seemed to know rumors, grudges, old family drama, and details that people thought no one else knew.

Some people ignored the letters. Others were terrified.

And then, in February 1983, the threats against Mary became physical. Mary was driving her school bus route when she saw an obscene sign hanging on a fence. The sign referenced her 13-year-old daughter. Mary stopped and tried to pull the sign down. But it was not just a sign. It had been attached by a twine to a box.