BONUS: Nordic Tent Killings
On a bright summer morning in 1960, carpenter Esko Johansson walked through the Finnish woods toward Lake Bodom. The silence felt wrong. Then he saw the collapsed tent, blood everywhere, a pair of lifeless feet protruding from the entrance.
One year earlier, army conscript Mauno Kiviaho searched the forests around Tulilahti. When he spotted the sharpened stick jutting from marshy ground, his stomach tightened. Beneath thick logs and peat lay two young women who had been missing for weeks.
Twelve years later, in 1972, a young woman arrived at a campsite near Kytäjä Manor to find three young men dead in their tent, all shot in the head.
And in 1984, a family on holiday drove down a side road in Swedish Lapland. Fifty meters from the main road, they saw a collapsed tent with something bulging underneath the canvas. A lifeless hand stuck out from beneath the fabric.
Four cases. Four tent murders. Spanning twenty-five years across Finland and Sweden. Some solved, most not. All sharing disturbing similarities that have haunted investigators and true crime researchers for decades.
Today, for this episode, we're doing something different. We're bringing together cases you've heard on our podcast before – some were recently re-released for context: The Tent Murders at Appojaure, Lake Bodom, Tulilahti, and the Viking Sally attack. We'll examine the patterns, the connections, and the questions that still remain unanswered. What links these brutal attacks? Were they connected? Or do these similarities reveal something darker about how easily violence can find us in our most vulnerable moments?
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Camping has long been part of life in the Nordic countries. In Finland and Sweden, especially in the years following the Second World War, it represented freedom, normalcy, and healing. Tents were cheap, the forests familiar, and nature wasn’t something to fear – it was something people trusted. After months of long, dark winters, summer brought a magnetic pull. The sun hung late in the sky, lakes thawed, and forests burst back to life. For many, it meant a break from the cities. For young people, it meant freedom – cycling through the countryside, sleeping under canvas, and choosing your own path. For families, it meant campfires, weekends by the lake, and a sense that nothing could go wrong.
But that belief would not last.
Between 1959 and 1984, a series of violent attacks shattered the sense of safety in these peaceful landscapes. In every case, the victims were doing what thousands of others had done before them – pitching a tent, settling in for the night, and trusting the silence of the Nordic summer. Some of the most haunting details begin before the first tent murder ever occurred. In 1953, seventeen-year-old Kyllikki Saari was cycling home from a prayer meeting in the small Finnish community of Isojoki. When she didn’t come home, her family raised the alarm. Searches began quickly. But weeks passed with no sign of her. Five months later, her body was discovered in a forest clearing. She had been buried beneath branches and peat. A sharpened stick had been planted upright in the ground above the grave.
That same detail would appear again six years later.
In July of 1959, Eine Nyyssönen and Riitta Pakkanen, two experienced travelers, were on a cycling holiday through eastern Finland. On the evening of the 27th, they set up camp near Lake Kermajärvi, in a quiet clearing known as Tulilahti. The campsite wasn’t remote by Finnish standards. It was peaceful, a place people chose because it felt safe. That night, two local boys arrived by boat. They talked for a while, showed the girls how to fold birch bark into decorative boxes, then left. By morning, Eine and Riitta were gone.
Three weeks later, Mauno Kiviaho was walking through marshland not far from the campsite. He noticed a spruce sapling planted in the ground. Beneath logs and peat were the remains of the two young women. Investigators quickly noted that two weapons had been used – one blunt, one sharp. At least one of the victims had been found without clothing, though the medical examiner concluded there was no evidence of sexual assault.
What set this case apart wasn’t just the violence – it was the behavior that followed. Their tent had been moved and hidden. Their bicycles were transported to the lake and sunk in deep water. Clothing was scattered in different locations. And again, above the grave, a sharpened stick was planted upright in the earth. The similarities to Kyllikki Saari’s burial raised questions. Was it the same killer? A copycat?
Police focused their investigation on Runar Holmström, a Swedish man with a petty criminal record and access to a blue moped. He was arrested and charged, but the case against him was thin and relied on circumstantial details. He died by suicide the following year. Many who’ve revisited the case believe he was innocent.
Tulilahti would go on to become one of Finland’s most disturbing cold cases. A crime marked not by panic, but by patience and control. Less than a year later, the silence would be broken again.
On the evening of June 4th, 1960, four teenagers pitched a tent on a narrow headland at Lake Bodom, just outside Helsinki. The group – Seppo Boisman, Irmeli Björklund, Anja Mäki, and Nils Gustafsson – were looking forward to a night of camping in a popular recreation area. It was close to the city, familiar, and seemed safe. But sometime in the early morning hours, someone approached their tent and attacked them through the fabric. A knife was used. A blunt object was used. Irmeli, Anja, and Seppo were killed. Nils Gustafsson survived, though with serious injuries – a broken jaw, head trauma, and stab wounds.
Some of their belongings were taken or moved. Their motorcycles were left behind. Like Tulilahti, the attack at Lake Bodom was sudden, violent, and seemingly calculated. The killer struck while the victims were asleep, attacked through the tent canvas, and remained at the scene long enough to disturb evidence.
The investigation became one of the most debated in Finnish history. Over the decades, suspects came and went. False confessions were made. In a controversial move, Nils Gustafsson – then in his 60s – was charged with the murders more than forty years later. The case against him fell apart in court. He was acquitted and later awarded compensation.
When Saari, Tulilahti, and Bodom are viewed together, a pattern starts to take shape. Young victims. Nighttime attacks. No clear motive. In Tulilahti and Bodom, the killer struck through tent fabric – attacking blind. And in each, there were signs of post-crime manipulation: tents moved, belongings disturbed, bicycles hidden or sunk. Yet without physical evidence, the similarities remain just that – suggestive, but inconclusive.
Twelve years after Bodom, in May of 1972, another tragedy unfolded. In Hyvinkää, southern Finland, three boys – Kai Tapani Hyväkkä, 14; Esa Hyväkkä, 17; and Veijo Häkkinen, 18 – set up camp near Kytäjä Manor. They didn’t realize the land was part of a private estate. That night, the owner of the manor, Kai Vähäkallio, spotted their tent. Angry over what he saw as trespassing, he armed himself with a pistol and walked out to confront them. Without warning, he opened the tent and fired. All three boys were shot in the head and died instantly.
Vähäkallio confessed and was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. He served six. In 1979, he died by suicide.
Unlike the other cases, this one was solved immediately. The motive was clear, the killer known. Yet it shared the same disturbing detail: young people asleep in a tent, unaware, and killed without a chance to react.
Twelve years after Kytäjä, the violence resurfaced—this time, in the remote forests of Swedish Lapland. Dutch couple Marinus and Janny Stegehuis were travelling through Scandinavia in July 1984. They camped by Lake Appojaure, a peaceful, secluded area popular with tourists.
That night, someone approached their tent. Using a filleting knife likely taken from an outer pocket of the tent, the attacker stabbed both of them repeatedly. The assault was prolonged and violent. The next day, their bodies were discovered. Rain had fallen, washing away footprints and trace evidence. Several belongings were missing. Later, some turned up in different locations, suggesting the killer had lingered at the scene to remove or move evidence.
Years later, the case was caught up in the false confessions of Sture Bergwall – also known as Thomas Quick. Under heavy medication, he claimed responsibility for multiple crimes, including Appojaure. But his testimony was later discredited, and all convictions overturned. No evidence ever linked him to the murders.
The Appojaure case remains unsolved.
Three years after that, in September 1987, another attack occurred – this time not in a forest, but aboard a ferry crossing the Baltic Sea. German students Klaus Schelkle and Bettina Taxis were asleep in sleeping bags on the open deck of the MS Viking Sally. In the early morning hours, someone bludgeoned them with a heavy object. Klaus died from his injuries. Bettina survived but remembered nothing. No motive was ever found. A Danish man was charged in 2020, but acquitted. The case remains open.
Across all these cases, common threads begin to emerge. The victims were young. Ordinary people. They were not targeted for who they were, but where they were – and how vulnerable they happened to be. Each attack took place in summer. Each setting was remote or exposed – by lakes, in woods, or on a ferry deck. In most, the attackers used knives, blunt force, or both. In each, victims were sleeping and defenseless. In several, items were moved, hidden, or deliberately destroyed. And in more than one case, a sharpened stick was left above the grave.
Were they all connected?
Some investigators have considered the possibility of a single killer. But the gaps are long: decades apart. The geography spans two countries. While serial killers have operated over time and distance, the spacing here challenges that idea. If someone was in their twenties in 1959, they’d have been nearly sixty by the time of the Viking Sally attack.
Others suggest these might be copycat crimes. The Lake Bodom case was covered widely. But the burial method seen in Tulilahti came before that media storm – before Bodom ever happened. Appojaure occurred more than twenty years later, in a neighbouring country. Media influence doesn’t fully explain the pattern.
One name does appear across several investigations: Hans Assmann.
Born in Germany, Assmann lived in Finland throughout the 1950s and into the early 1960s. His name first surfaced in connection with the 1953 murder of Kyllikki Saari, after witnesses placed his car in the Isojoki area around the time she disappeared. He was questioned, but no charges were brought. Decades later, a former investigator stated that Assmann had privately claimed involvement in Saari’s death, describing it as accidental and followed by concealment. This account has never been officially verified, and no formal confession was recorded or made public.
During the investigation into the Tulilahti murders in 1959, Assmann’s name appeared again. His wife later stated that he had been in the Heinävesi region that summer and was familiar with the area. Witnesses also reported seeing German-speaking men nearby in the days leading up to the murders, though no direct identification was ever made. Once again, Assmann was questioned but not charged.
After the Lake Bodom murders in June 1960, Assmann sought medical treatment at a hospital in Helsinki. He arrived disheveled, with blood on his clothing, dirt under his fingernails, and initially gave a false name before identifying himself. He was questioned by police and had an alibi supported by multiple witnesses. Some investigators later argued that he should have been examined more closely, while others concluded the evidence was insufficient to pursue him further.
Assmann’s name also surfaced in connection with the deaths of Elli Immo and Sirkka-Liisa Valjus, both young women found dead under circumstances that were never fully resolved. In each case, the deaths occurred in rural or semi-rural settings, with limited witnesses and unclear sequences of events. Official rulings did not lead to criminal charges, but Assmann was questioned due to his presence in the relevant areas and his associations at the time. As with the Saari case, no single piece of evidence was strong enough to move the investigations forward.
What ties these cases together is not a confirmed method of killing, but a repetition of circumstances. The deaths occurred in isolated environments. Discovery was delayed. Evidence suggested time spent at or near the scene rather than hurried flight. In both the Saari and Tulilahti cases, concealment beneath peat and branches was accompanied by a sharpened stick placed above the burial site — a distinctive detail that has drawn sustained attention. If Assmann had been responsible for one of these crimes, investigators could not easily dismiss the possibility of his involvement in the other.
Hans Assmann was never charged in any case. He later moved to Sweden. Some theorists have speculated about a possible connection to the Appojaure murders, but no verified evidence has ever linked him to that crime. Assmann died in 1997.
His name endures not because of proof, but because of proximity — to places, to moments, and to a series of deaths that never found clear answers. Whether those connections reflect coincidence, investigative limitation, or something more remains unresolved.
And what about the other suspects? Runar Holmström – charged in Tulilahti, died in custody. Nils Gustafsson, tried for the Bodom murders, was acquitted. Sture Bergwall falsely confessed and was later exonerated. In case after case, the people pursued by investigators turned out not to be the ones responsible.
Perhaps these were separate crimes, committed by different people, shaped by similar conditions. Isolated campsites. Sleeping victims. A lack of forensic tools. Public pressure to find answers. The Nordic wilderness is vast and sparsely populated. For someone with violent intent, these landscapes offer silence, space, and the ability to disappear.
The truth may never be known. What we do know is this: the victims weren’t reckless. They were ordinary people doing ordinary things. Camping. Traveling. Sleeping under the stars. And yet, their stories reveal how quickly a moment of peace can become one of unimaginable horror.
Whether these crimes were the work of a single killer, shaped by media, or simply cruel coincidence, the impact is the same – families left without answers, and a haunting question that still lingers: How safe is the silence of the forest?
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