GIRL VANISHED IN APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS—2 YEARS LATER HIKERS FOUND HER MUMMY COATED IN WAX: THE KILLER WAS THE MORTUARY TECH WHO WALKED AMONG US
Sixteen years ago, Leah Thompson set out alone into the wild, beautiful, and dangerous White Mountains of New Hampshire. She never returned. Two years later, hikers stumbled upon a scene so chilling it would haunt the region for years: a stone pit hidden between boulders, and inside, a woman’s body, mummified, encased in a thick shell of wax, as if someone had tried to preserve her forever. The person who did this was no stranger to death. He worked with the dead every day.
The White Mountains, northern Appalachians, are a place of stark contrasts. In summer, they’re alive with hikers, climbers, and families chasing the thrill of the peaks and the peace of the forests. In winter, they turn into a frozen wasteland where even the most experienced can die from a single mistake. Locals say the mountains take those who don’t respect their power.
In August 2009, Leah Thompson was 27, a biologist at a university lab in Concord, New Hampshire. She studied the effects of climate change on local bird populations, and her colleagues described her as quiet, focused, and gentle. She loved the mountains—had hiked them since childhood—and found peace in their silence. Her friends worried about her habit of solo hikes, but Leah was always careful: she left detailed route notes, carried a GPS, a satellite phone, and never took unnecessary risks.
Leah was petite, with dark hair, gray eyes, and a soft smile. She lived alone in a small apartment, dated a local engineer named Brian, and visited her parents in Lebanon every other Sunday. It was an ordinary, peaceful life.
On Saturday, August 15, 2009, Leah packed her old blue Honda Civic and drove into the mountains. The weather was perfect—clear skies, 25°C, a light breeze. She planned a three-day solo trek along the Mount Adams Ridge, one of the most challenging and rewarding routes in the White Mountains. She left her plan and satellite phone number at the ranger station, parked her car, and set out at 10 a.m. The last video footage of her shows her adjusting her backpack, locking her car, and stepping onto the trail.
When Leah didn’t return by August 18, rangers found her car still in the lot. Calls to her satellite phone went unanswered. Her parents and boyfriend hadn’t heard from her. That night, a search party of rangers, volunteers, and police began combing the trails. They found her first campsite: a carefully extinguished fire, food wrappers, but no tent, backpack, or sleeping bag. The trail went cold after a kilometer—dogs lost her scent on the rocks.
Cell phone records showed her phone pinged a tower northeast of her last known camp at midnight on August 18. After that, silence. For two weeks, searchers scoured the mountains, checked every cave, ravine, and shelter. Other hikers reported seeing a woman matching Leah’s description, but nothing unusual—no one suspicious, no one following her.
Theories swirled: she’d slipped and fallen, been attacked by a wild animal, lost her way and died of exposure. But there was no evidence. The police investigated her boyfriend, her parents, her colleagues—nothing. Leah’s digital life was ordinary. There were no threats, no stalkers, just emails about work and hiking. But Detective David Connor noticed something odd: Leah had been active on a hiking forum, corresponding with a user named “Mountain Watcher.” The user gave her advice, recommended remote trails, and then vanished from the forum after Leah disappeared. The account was registered to a throwaway email and logged in from various public Wi-Fi locations—untraceable.
A month after Leah vanished, the search was called off. Her parents didn’t give up. They hired private investigators, put up posters, gave interviews, and started a fund for missing hikers. But months passed with no news. Leah’s case faded into just another unsolved mystery.
Until July 23, 2011. Two hikers from Massachusetts, Kevin and Jennifer Hart, took a little-used trail near Mount Adams. Two kilometers from the main path, Kevin spotted a strange stone structure between two boulders—a wall of neatly stacked rocks with a large flat stone on top. Curious, the couple peered into the cracks and caught a whiff of something chemical, waxy. They marked the GPS coordinates and reported it to a ranger.
The next day, rangers returned with shovels and crowbars. They dismantled the stonework and uncovered a pit, a meter deep, lined with small stones. Inside, wrapped in a tarp, was a body covered in a thick shell of brown wax. The wax was hard, brittle, and covered every inch of the corpse. The body was curled in a fetal position, arms crossed over the chest.
The remains were rushed to the morgue in Berlin, New Hampshire. Medical examiner Dr. Elizabeth Green began the autopsy. She found the wax was not beeswax or paraffin, but a specialized compound used in morgues and labs to preserve bodies. It was only available through medical suppliers. Under the wax, Leah’s body was astonishingly well-preserved. Her face, hair, and clothes—a blue hiking jacket, trekking pants—were all recognizable. In her pocket was her driver’s license: Leah Thompson.
The news exploded across the state. The missing biologist had been found, mummified, hidden in a mountain tomb.
Dr. Green found bruises on Leah’s neck—she had been strangled with a cord or fabric. Puncture marks on her arms showed she’d been injected with succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant used in surgery. The dose was enough to paralyze, but not to kill. Leah had been immobilized, then suffocated. The wax was applied within 24 hours of death, creating a perfect mummification. The killer had medical knowledge, access to specialized chemicals, and a disturbing obsession with preservation.
Detective Connor narrowed his search to medical professionals in the area. He found “Mountain Watcher” had logged in from the hospital network in Manchester, which included the city’s morgue. Five employees worked in pathology. One stood out: Richard Flowers, 42, a morgue technician who prepared bodies for autopsy and volunteered for a group that repatriated American remains from overseas. He had no criminal record, lived alone, and enjoyed hiking.
Connor dug deeper. Flowers had purchased 10 kilograms of preservation wax five months before Leah’s disappearance, supposedly for his volunteer work—yet the organization never used it. He’d also bought succinylcholine online with a forged prescription. Police obtained a warrant and searched his house. In the basement, they found a workshop full of chemicals, dissecting tools, and wax. In a freezer, they found Leah’s backpack, tent, sleeping bag, GPS, satellite phone, and camera—carefully preserved like museum pieces. On his computer: the login for “Mountain Watcher,” searches about mummification, and a diary about “preserving beauty forever.” There were hidden-camera photos of women, including dozens of Leah.
Flowers was arrested and interrogated. He remained calm, asked for a lawyer, and said nothing. Forensic evidence, however, told the story. Flowers had stalked Leah for months, learned her hiking plans from the forum, and intercepted her on the trail. He offered her a drink laced with muscle relaxant, paralyzed her, then strangled her. He wrapped her body in a tarp, carried her to a pit he’d prepared, and coated her in wax to create a perfect mummy. He hid her belongings in his freezer and went back to work as if nothing had happened.
Why? Experts said Flowers suffered from a rare psychological disorder: he was obsessed with preserving bodies, creating “eternal beauty.” To him, Leah was the perfect subject—young, healthy, natural. He wanted to freeze her in time, to own her forever. His diary described his fantasy of “combining life and death, beauty and peace.”
The trial began in March 2012. The defense argued Flowers was insane. The prosecution showed his careful planning, his purchases months in advance, his stalking, and attempts to destroy evidence. The jury deliberated for three days and found Flowers guilty of first-degree murder, kidnapping, and desecration of a corpse. He was sentenced to life without parole.
Leah’s parents, Robert and Martha, attended every hearing. When the verdict came, Martha wept—not with relief, but with grief. Justice had been done, but their daughter was gone. Leah was cremated, her ashes scattered in the mountains she loved. A plaque on the trail reads: “In memory of Leah Thompson, who loved these mountains. May her spirit always be free.”
Leah’s story is a warning. Monsters don’t always look like monsters. Sometimes, they’re the people who walk among us, who work with the dead every day, and who hide their darkness behind ordinary lives. Richard Flowers, the mortuary tech, will die in prison, silent and remorseless, his obsession forever entombed.
The mountains keep their secrets, but sometimes, the truth is more horrifying than any legend.
