The Jitterbug Coal Caper: Background

It was 1944, and the world was at war. That should have been the cause of enough anxiety for anyone, but in Plum Creek, North Dakota, no one was thinking about Europe or the Pacific. They were worried about the turmoil taking place in their school. The little schoolhouse may have looked like a modest and quaint center of community learning, but within its walls were explosions, fires, and cries for help that made its inhabitants wonder if they were on the battlefields of World War II.

This rural outpost on the edge of the Badlands, known for its hardy ranchers, became ground zero for one of the weirdest stories to come out of World War II-era America. It all began with coal that started behaving like it had just downed a double espresso.

A Schoolhouse in Peril (and in Pieces)

It was March 28, 1944. Students from the Wild Plum School rushed home from school to report what can only be described as a classroom Armageddon. Books spontaneously combusted, maps went up in flames, and lumps of coal decided to put on a show, leaping out of the scuttle as if auditioning for the North Dakota State Fair.

It all started during an arithmetic lesson. The students were hunkered down, pencils to paper, each one of them in their seats, eyes locked on their tests. Pauline Rebel, their trusty teacher, stood at the front of the room, overseeing her little mathematicians in action.

Now, what happened next shouldn’t have been possible—emphasis on “shouldn’t”—but it unfolded anyway, defying all reason and logic. Sitting innocuously next to the classroom’s dormant wood stove was a pail of lignite coal. This was their trusty fire starter, the kind of thing you’d rely on to battle the bone-chilling winters that North Dakota graciously provides. On this day, spring had finally decided to show up, and the stove sat empty while the coal sat untouched.

The room was silent, save for the sound of pencils scratching away at paper. But then, the pail of coal, which had been minding its own business, suddenly began to tremble like it had a nervous Chihuahua. It wasn’t long before the pail tipped over, and the lumps of coal spilled out onto the hardwood floor, as if compelled by some invisible hand. Instead of just sitting there, the coal decided to up the ante—it spontaneously burst into flames.

Now, here’s the thing about the Wild Plum School House: it was practically a tinderbox, built almost entirely out of wood. When those flames erupted, it wasn’t just a little campfire—they spread fast. The blinds hanging from the windows started to smolder, the bookcase turned into a roaring inferno, and the once breathable air was quickly replaced with thick, choking smoke. It was a scene straight out of anyone’s worst nightmares. To make matters worse, there was no logical explanation to be found. It was as if the whole event was the work of some otherworldly force—almost like magic. And just like that, it seemed that the Wild Plum School House had found itself under a bewitching spell.

Bewildered parents throughout Plum Creek heard the breathless reports of the students. According to the terrified children, just as the weird things started to happen, a hooded figure dashed past the schoolhouse window. The kids were convinced they were under attack by either a sorcerer or a particularly mischievous pixie. Who could blame them? It’s not every day that your dictionary explodes while you’re trying to do your school work.

One of the parents, rancher George Steiner, being a man of sound mind and practical sensibilities, scoffed at the supernatural explanation. He was the first adult on the scene—aside from the undoubtedly shell-shocked teacher, Mrs. Rebel. He immediately started looking for a more down-to-earth explanation. According to Steiner, the coal was covered in white dust that smelled suspiciously like talcum powder. When he picked up a piece, it jumped out of his hand. “Uncanny,” he admitted, before muttering something about chemicals and trickery.

Despite Steiner’s skepticism, the good people of Plum Creek weren’t so easily convinced. The children were adamant that the school had been “verhexed” (that’s “bewitched” for those of you who didn’t grow up in a German-Russian community). And who could argue with them? After all, they’d seen the hooded man and narrowly escaped death by coal bombardment.

Investigations, Theories, and Some Really Weird Science

As the story gained traction (because what else is there to talk about in rural North Dakota?), investigators were brought in to figure out what was going on. Special Assistant Attorney General W. James Austin and State Fire Marshal Charles Schwartz were dispatched to the scene, probably wondering why their careers had taken this strange turn. Was it pixies? A rogue chemist? Or just one of those weird Midwestern weather phenomena like raining frogs that people from the coasts refuse to believe exist?

Their first clue was that mysterious white dust, which they identified as plain old global salt, a common occurrence on lignite coal in the area. Could salt really make coal dance like it had ants in its pants? The investigators weren’t so sure, so they brought in a chemist who, after a few experiments, reported that a combination of two common household chemicals could produce a residue that might cause spontaneous combustion if agitated or heated.

Meanwhile, Samuel G. Gordon, a curator of minerals, suggested that the coal might have gotten mixed up with some “fool’s gold”—iron pyrites, to be exact—which could theoretically make the coal jump around if it got wet and then started to combust. All of this sounds very scientific and plausible, but none of it quite explains the whole “hooded man” thing, does it?

At this point, the story was weird enough that it attracted a lot of attention, and the plot thickened with the discovery of a series of threatening notes pinned to the schoolhouse door. Mrs. Rebel, the beleaguered teacher, found the first note in January—two months before the coal started its calisthenics routine. The notes, nearly a dozen in all, were alternately obscene and threatening, with one particularly charming missive warning Mrs. Rebel to “leave or be shot.”

Oh, and did I mention the armed, masked man who showed up one day, kicked the door, and then ran off into the Badlands? Because that happened too.

The whole thing was just too much for the tiny community to handle. Since it was just a few weeks until the summer recess, parents and school administrators decided it would be best to end the school year early and send the kids home. The students, presumably, did not object to this decision.

The Big Reveal (Or How to Make Your Teacher Question Her Life Choices)

After weeks of investigation, chemical analysis, and probably a few sleepless nights, the whole thing came crashing down in the most anticlimactic way possible: the kids confessed. Yes, the mysterious, supernatural events that had stumped investigators and terrified a community turned out to be nothing more than a prank—albeit a rather elaborate and cruel one—perpetrated by a group of bored schoolchildren.

According to Special Assistant Attorney General Austin, the whole thing started when the kids decided to have a little fun with their near-sighted teacher, Mrs. Rebel. They figured out that if they threw coal when she wasn’t looking, she’d take off her glasses, making her an easy target for their antics. They even started fires in the schoolhouse to freak her out, knowing that without her glasses, she wouldn’t be able to catch them in the act.

The “masked man”? Just one of the kids standing in the doorway, pulling a fast one on Mrs. Rebel. The threatening notes? Also the kids, who apparently thought it would be a laugh to pretend someone was out to get their teacher. All of this was designed to play on Mrs. Rebel’s poor eyesight and naturally trusting nature, turning her into a pawn in their cruel game.

When they finally confessed, it wasn’t out of guilt or remorse, but because the whole thing had gotten too big for them to handle. They were tired of the mystery and just wanted it to be over. Meanwhile, Mrs. Rebel, bless her heart, was left questioning her entire existence. “I just can’t believe the children did this,” she said. “If they did, why did I have to be used? I am too ashamed to talk.”

The Aftermath: A Teacher’s Heartbreak

So, what became of Mrs. Rebel after this bizarre ordeal? Unsurprisingly, she didn’t return to teaching. Her husband, Tony Rebel, was quoted as saying that “my wife won’t go back. She doesn’t want anything more to do with that school.” And who could blame her? After being made the unwitting star of a psychological thriller orchestrated by a bunch of teenagers, who wouldn’t want to retire to a quiet life of knitting, hoping to never see a piece of coal again?

There are a few unanswered questions in this story. For one, how did the kids manage to pull off the entire thing without anyone noticing? The antics outside the school, the pounding on the door, the fires—this wasn’t your average schoolyard prank. What about the chemicals that could cause spontaneous combustion? Were the kids secretly junior chemists, or was there more to this story than we’ll ever know?

Let’s not forget the bigger question: what kind of punishment did these kids receive for nearly driving their teacher to a nervous breakdown? Were they made to replace the burnt books and curtains? Sent to a coal mine for a little real-world experience? Or did they get off with a slap on the wrist and a stern talking-to about why faking a haunting is generally not a good idea? Our intrepid research intern was unable to dig up the dirt on any of these details. If you happen to have any information that would shed light on this part of the story, we hope you’ll drop us a line.

---