A Hollow, a Book, and the Smell of Rain — On the Hex-House of Rehmeyer’s Hollow
There is a hollow in southern Pennsylvania — deep, wooded, secretive — where the shapes of hills cradle a story that smells of rainwater, eggs, whispered prayers, and old hurt. It is the story of the The Long Lost Friend, of faith-healing and folk magic, of suspicion and fear, and of a man named Nelson D. Rehmeyer whose death left a scar on the hollow that still echoes.
The Long Lost Friend was no tome of modern science or medicine. Compiled in the early 1800s by a German immigrant healer, it was a ragged collection of charms and cures: how to cure warts or snakebites, to protect cattle from witchcraft, to cast spells or hexes, to heal the sick — even animals — by what might seem like superstition, but was for believers a hand reaching through fear toward hope. (Haint.Blue)
Powwowing, Braucherei, and the Culture of Healing
For generations the people of the hollow practiced this folk-medicine tradition, known as powwowing or braucherei — not as a performance or spectacle, but as part of everyday life. Rainwater boiled with an egg, left by an anthill; whispered words, stitched in silence; charms carried close to the body. Remedies drawn from fear and faith, from desperation and tradition. (Haint.Blue)
To many outsiders, these practices seemed strange — arcane, even dangerous. To some, they were a comfort, a last hope for the sick, the poor, the bruised. Among the hollow’s folk, the powwow-doctor was not a curiosity but a quiet anchor. Nelson Rehmeyer was that anchor. As both farmer and healer, he treated neighbors and strangers alike; rumors say he asked for nothing or only the barest of thanks. (Haint.Blue)
Fear, Hexes, and the Night of Blood and Fire
But fear can twist faith into suspicion. Among those treated by Rehmeyer was a young man plagued by illness — what locals called “opnema,” a wasting sickness attributed to hexes. Over time his life unraveled: his children died, his job vanished, his mind frayed. Convinced he’d been cursed, he turned his fear outward. Along with two others, teenagers drawn in by ruin and superstition, he was told that the only cure was to destroy Rehmeyer’s book — or bury a lock of the healer’s hair deep into the earth. (Haint.Blue)
On the night of November 27, 1928 — Thanksgiving Eve, under the glow of a full moon — they walked into the hollow, ropes and plans in hand. When Rehmeyer refused their demand for the book, violence erupted. The old man was bound, bludgeoned, forced to the floor. Then they soaked him with oil, piled blankets and mattresses over him, set the house aflame, and fled. (Haint.Blue)
Their plan counted on fire to erase the crime. But fire, like faith, is fickle. The house didn’t burn down. The victim’s blood and burnt flesh doused the flames — a grotesque self-extinguishing. Days later a neighbor discovered the body. The trio was soon caught; in a trial that shocked newspapers across the country, they were convicted. (Haint.Blue)
Aftermath — Memory, Silence, and the Struggle for Legacy
In the wake of the murder, powwowing — once a quiet tradition of healing — became heated public scandal. The trial was sensational, headlines smeared superstition, and for many in Pennsylvania the once-normal ways of the hollow became a mark of shame. (Haint.Blue)
Years passed. The house fell silent. Woods reclaimed broken windows. Trees ascended through the floorboards. But the hollow remembers. A great-grandson of the murdered man, Rick Ebaugh, inherited the house. He carries with him not only the scars of history but a pocket watch said to have stopped at the exact minute of Rehmeyer’s death. He has tried to restore the house — to show the floor where blood once pooled, to set a glass over the charred hole in the wood so visitors can imagine what transpired. He plans to open the home to the public, to tell the story of healing that became hatred, of hope that turned to horror. (Haint.Blue)
But local officials denied his request to make the house a formal historical site. Some in the township would rather the story remain buried. The hollow seems to resist being exposed — as if the woods themselves sigh in relief when the past is left alone. (Haint.Blue)
The Hollow Whispers Still — and We Should Listen
I find myself drawn to this tale not only for its darkness, but for the fragile human threads it reveals. Faith healing, folk magic, community trust — these are not cartoon tropes of witches and curses, but real beliefs borne from real fear, hardship, longing. The rituals born of desperation — rainwater, eggs, anthills — feel like whispers of humanity trying to claw hope from the soil.
And then there is the murder: the conflation of fear and superstition, the turning of kindness into suspicion — a horror wrought not by demons, but by people. The hollow is not haunted by ghosts or curses, but by memory: what happens when trust becomes fear; when tradition becomes taboo; when a book meant to comfort becomes the spark of violence.
Perhaps that is the real magic. Not in spells or charms. But in memory, in the hollow’s silence, in the slow tellings of the old book, and the slow reckoning of history.
