The Smuttynose Murders

October 22, 2025

Some debts get paid in blood.

You can see Smuttynose Island from the docks on a clear day — a half-mile of granite, sea grass, and gulls between Maine and New Hampshire. Looks harmless enough. But when the fog rolls in, the place feels wrong. Quiet in a way that makes you think it’s holding its breath.

The locals still talk about what happened there in the winter of 1873.

John and Maren Hontvet were Norwegian immigrants, honest, hardworking, the kind of people who’d give you the last of their bread if you needed it. They lived in a small red cottage by the water — Maren kept flowers in the window, a dog named Ringe at her feet. It was a good life.

And then there was Louis Wagner.
A fisherman, strong and silent, the kind who smiles with his mouth but not his eyes. He’d fallen on hard times, and the Hontvets took him in — gave him work, food, friendship. For two years, they treated him like family.

When business picked up, John hired extra help, and Wagner left the island. But by March, he was broke, desperate, and angry. That night, while John was in Portsmouth buying bait, Wagner stole a dory and rowed twelve miles through black water toward the island. The sea was calm. The sky was clear. He knew exactly where he was going.

Inside the cottage, Maren and her sister Karen were settling in for the night. Their sister-in-law, Anethe, had just finished washing the dishes. They’d left supper warming for the men, never knowing who was coming instead.

Around midnight, the dog barked.
A shape filled the doorway — heavy boots, the smell of the sea. Before Maren could call out, Karen screamed. There was a thud, then another, then the sound of something — someone — hitting the floor.

Maren dragged her sister into the bedroom, bolted the door, begged Anethe to run. But Anethe froze, barefoot in the snow outside the window, staring at the man she’d once called friend. “Louis,” she whispered. He raised the axe.

By morning, the cottage was still. Maren hid among the rocks until daylight, blood frozen to her skirt, clutching the dog to keep from sobbing out loud. When fishermen found her, she could barely speak. Only one word made it through: “Wagner.”

He was caught within days — still wearing the clothes he’d killed in, hidden beneath a new suit. He confessed nothing, but the jury didn’t need a confession. In 1875, they hanged him at the prison in Thomaston.

People who visit Smuttynose say you can still hear the axe. Not the blow — just the swing, cutting through empty air. Some claim to see a woman’s figure in the window of the old cottage, pale and waiting, while the dog barks from somewhere you can’t quite place.

They say the island is cursed by kindness repaid in blood.
And when the fog creeps in fast, it’s better to turn back — before you start to see lanterns on the water.

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Author’s Note
The Smuttynose murders of 1873 were among Maine’s most infamous crimes. Louis Wagner killed two women — Karen and Anethe — while Maren Hontvet survived by hiding among the rocks. Their cottage still stands on Smuttynose Island, and locals say the sea and wind still carry their screams on quiet nights.