(Read on October 25, 2025)

Autumn always feels like something’s shifting. The days grow shorter. Trees let go. And shadows stretch just a little farther. It’s spooky season—ghouls, goblins, zombies—the whole phantom parade. But not everything that haunts us wears a costume or hides behind a carved pumpkin. Some things slip quietly through the cracks of memory, lingering in forgotten corners.

Spend any time in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, and one thing becomes clear: this place doesn’t just keep its traditions—it lives them. Across rolling hills and sprawling farmlands, faith and folklore are woven together, creating a muted, enduring magic.

The stories echo back to the 17th and 18th centuries, when German-speaking settlers first arrived—wooed by William Penn’s promise of religious freedom. They brought with them a rich tapestry of Old World ways—a belief system where faith, healing, and a touch of magic often walked hand in hand.

Make no mistake: the Pennsylvania Dutch believed in witches—not the storybook kind with warts and broomsticks, but real people. Neighbors, even. With nothing more than a glance, they were said to curse livestock, spoil butter, or stop hens from laying. 

In these early settlements, there were no doctors, no newspapers, and few explanations. The unknown was everywhere. So they sought protection from what they knew—or thought they knew—to shield families and communities from unseen forces.

Not quite magic, not quite medicine, Braucherei—or powwow—was a quiet tradition passed down through generations. If you had a fever, an elder might whisper a prayer over you, lay a cool hand on your forehead, or offer a bitter tonic—never revealing exactly what was in it. It all felt a little mystical, but it was always rooted in faith, not fantasy. Even now, walking these hills, you can feel the echo of those old beliefs—steady and strangely comforting.

Before we go any deeper, let’s untangle something. The term powwow comes from an Indigenous language—specifically from the Narragansett and Massachusett peoples. It referred to a healer, priest, or spiritual leader. The root of the word traces back to Proto-Algonquian and roughly means “he dreams.” European settlers borrowed the term for their own healing practices, and over time, its meaning shifted.

For the Pennsylvania Dutch, Brauchers—or powwowers—combined Bible verses, whispered prayers, and protective charms into a distinctive sacred tradition. Here, healing wasn’t just treating symptoms—it was restoring harmony between body and spirit. But this wasn’t mere folk medicine—it was something older, stranger. Powwowing tapped into forces beyond ordinary understanding—or so the practitioners believed. Some even whispered it might summon darker powers, the Devil himself lurking just out of sight.

Even the word Brauch is steeped in mystery. Some say it means “to try” or “to use,” while others trace it to the Hebrew bracha, meaning “blessing.” Either way, it was about shaping the world with faith, words, and willpower. These secrets were treasured like forbidden heirlooms. Murmured from parent to child. They guided every act of care—what to say, how to act, how to influence the world with words.

So, picture a healer rubbing a wart with a potato, then pressing it into the earth beneath a dripping tree under the waning moon. The exercise was meant to convince the witness that the wart would vanish as the spud decayed in silence. Can you imagine watching it? Slightly uncanny.

At the heart of Braucherei lies a curious collection of texts, spells, and rituals—chief among them, The Long Lost Friend. I’ll skip the original German—my pronunciations are… questionable at best. Written by Johann Georg Hohman, it quickly became the go-to grimoire for Pennsylvania Dutch powwowers. Hohman, a German immigrant who arrived in Philadelphia in 1802, settled near Reading, right in the heart of the Pennsylvania Dutch community. Between 1802 and 1846, he printed and sold broadsides and chapbooks sharing his knowledge of herbal remedies, charms, and magical healings.

The Long Lost Friend first appeared in German in 1820, and Hohman translated it into English in 1846 under the cumbersome title The Long Secreted Friend, or a True and Christian Information for Every Body. A smoother edition followed a decade later: The Long Lost Friend; a Collection of Mysterious and Invaluable Arts and Remedies for Man as well as Animals. The “Pow-Wow” label didn’t appear until late 19th-century reprints, when Spiritualism and fascination with “Indian Spirit Guides” in séances were all the rage.

Hohman didn’t stop there. He either wrote—or had attributed to him—several other works, including Our Lord Jesus Christ’s Childhood-Book, and The Strange Historical Description of Joachim and Anna. Some of these texts continued to appear long after Hohman disappeared sometime after 1846, leaving a legacy that still puzzles scholars. Historian Don Yoder, an American folklorist who specialized in Pennsylvania Dutch, Quaker, Amish, and other Anabaptist traditions—called Hohman “one of the most influential and yet most elusive figures in Pennsylvania German history.” Honestly, he might as well have stepped straight out of a folk tale.

But powwowers weren’t limited to Hohman’s works. They also drew from older European grimoires, like Albertus Magnus’s Egyptian Secrets. Dating to the early 18th century and later translated into English by L. W. deLaurence, it spans three volumes of spells, prayers, and tips—from healing to hunting—guiding both daily life and mystical practice. Some of the lore is bizarre, and a few passages hint at hidden meanings.

Another favorite was The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses, an 18th- or 19th-century grimoire allegedly penned by Moses as lost books of the Hebrew Bible. Filled with spells and magical symbols, it claimed to recreate Biblical miracles, bring good fortune and health, influence the weather or people, and even contact the dead. Originally printed in German pamphlets, an 1849 edition helped the text spread across Europe and to German American communities. Over time, these incantations crossed cultural boundaries, shaping African American hoodoo (a folk magic system focused on practical work with herbs and roots), Caribbean magical practices, and European occult spiritualism alike.

But powwowers didn’t just read these books. They mixed spells and charms, crafting secret compendiums passed down like family recipes, carefully hidden from prying eyes. These texts were so feared they were whispered about as devilish “hex books,” yet for those who practiced Braucherei, they were tools of protection, healing, and—sometimes—mystery itself.

Now, it’s worth mentioning that there’s never been just one way to become a powwow—like in almost any magical tradition, there are different paths. Some people believe the practice has to be passed down in an unbroken line, often from male to female. That was common historically, but it wasn’t the only way to learn the craft.

Other accounts show that powwowing often ran along same-gender lines in families, from father to son or mother to daughter. But some folks rejected that entirely, insisting the skill should only be passed across genders.

And not all magic in these communities was friendly. Hexes—curses cast by someone nursing a grudge—were very real fears. The practice was called Hexerei, or Pennsylvania Dutch black magic. And here’s the twist: some powwowers doubled as “hex doctors,” specialists who could break curses and restore balance.

Afterall, everyday life was steeped in superstition. Born with a caul—a piece of the amniotic sac covering a newborn’s head? Good luck. Break a mirror? Seven years of misfortune. Find a horseshoe nailed above your door? Consider yourself protected—it was said to keep away sphooks, or evil spirits. And the black cat? Bad luck if it crosses your path—but lucky if it chooses to walk into your home. Go figure.

Remedies were just as strange as the omens. A toad’s foot nailed above a stable door could ward off witches. Burning an old dishcloth might keep snakes away, because snakes weren’t just pests—they were linked to witchcraft.

Even the weather carried hidden messages. Folks believed the skies on All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days could predict the next six weeks—critical knowledge for farmers. And if you saw crows flying high, brace yourself: a storm was likely brewing. Nature itself became a kind of mystical weather forecast.

One of Pennsylvania’s most infamous powwow stories unfolded in Rehmeyer’s Hollow—known to locals as Hex Hollow. Nestled in North Hopewell Township, York County, the forested valley takes its name from the Rehmeyer family, who settled here in 1844. 

At the center of this tale was Nelson Rehmeyer, a farmer and practitioner of powwow. Unlike the sinister image often conjured in legend, his work—like that of most powwow practitioners—focused on healing, protection, and maintaining spiritual and physical balance. Some neighbors respected him; others feared him. 

In November 1928, John Blymire, a man plagued by misfortune and convinced he had been cursed, sought guidance from a local woman named Emma Knopp—better known in folklore as Nellie Noll. Knopp advised Blymire that Rehmeyer was the source of his troubles. She insisted that to break the supposed curse, Blymire needed Rehmeyer’s copy of The Long Lost Friend, and a lock of his hair. The instructions were eerie and precise: burn the book and bury the hair eight feet underground.

On the cold morning of November 27, Blymire, along with his accomplices John Curry and Wilbert Hess—both of whom also believed they had been wronged by Nelson—went to the Rehmeyer home. They demanded the book and the lock of hair. When Nelson refused, fear and superstition escalated into unthinkable violence. The three men murdered and mutilated him, believing this horrific act would lift the curse. They then set fire to his body and the house itself, hoping the flames would erase all evidence—and perhaps even the lingering magic they feared.

But the fire did not consume the house. Rehmeyer’s charred body was discovered two days later, on Thanksgiving Day, November 29. Locals whispered that perhaps his powers—or the hollow itself—had resisted destruction. 

The trial of Blymire, Curry, and Hess in January 1929 became a national sensation. Newspapers recounted every grisly detail, and the story has lingered ever since as a chilling example of how superstition, fear, and misunderstanding can collide with tragic results. 

Today, Rehmeyer’s Hollow remains a place of quiet curiosity.  The house still stands as private property, guarded by descendants—and a modern security system–as if the past itself were keeping watch.

A bit closer to home is the story of Mountain Mary.  Mary lived in the secluded hills of Pike Township, just beyond the Oley Valley. While there’s very little concrete information about her life, the story has endured for more than 200 years—and that only adds to her mystique.

Born Anna Maria Jung in Germany around 1749, Mary emigrated with her parents and two sisters, arriving in Philadelphia sometime between 1764 and 1773. The family settled in Germantown, but their peace was shattered during the Battle of Germantown in 1777. It is believed Mary’s father perished in the fighting, and the family retreated to the hills of Berks County, seeking refuge in the quiet of the countryside.

Mary was widowed young. Her husband, Theodore Young, was killed during the Revolutionary War, leaving her to carve out a life of quiet purpose. For at least three decades, she lived on the family’s 42-acre farm, where her log cabin, spring house, and even a small cemetery—where her mother and sisters were laid to rest—became the center of her world. It is here she tended cows, cared for beehives, and gathered medicinal plants she used in crafting her powwow remedies.

Word of her skill and kindness spread far and wide. Travelers came on foot and horseback, seeking her counsel and care. Known to locals as “Barricke Mariche” (barrick mar-a-shey), she welcomed visitors with bread, cheese, preserves, and a warmth that made them feel at home. 

Now Mary’s fame wasn’t tied to a single miracle. It was the quiet power in her presence, the skill that seemed to bridge the natural and the unseen, that made her remarkable. What fascinates folklorists most is how she embodied the very roots of Powwow traditions, weaving together practical healing, Christian prayers, and herbal remedies. She treated both people and animals, offered counsel, and drew on knowledge passed down through generations—a living example of Powwow magic long before it had a name.

Historical records provide glimpses into her life. Her 1813 will refers to her as “Leddich”—a single woman, leaving most of her estate to her niece. Upon her death in 1819, her estate was valued at over $600 in cash, a considerable sum for a woman living alone in the early 19th century.

Even today, two centuries later, Mountain Mary’s story lingers in the valleys of Berks and Montgomery Counties—a reminder that some spirits leave more than history; they leave a presence felt in the land itself.

Powwow wasn’t the only magic in Pennsylvania Dutch folklore. In the shadows of the forests and valleys, there was another kind of practitioner—the Hexenmeister, or “witch master.” Related to the Braucherei tradition, a Hexenmeister was not the same as a Powwow master. The two paths sometimes crossed, but their roots and purposes were very different.

Hexenmeisters were men who walked the narrow line between the everyday and the supernatural. From the Middle Ages into the mid-20th century, they served as folk doctors, wise men, and spiritual troubleshooters—the ones people sought out when illness, misfortune, or something unexplainable struck. They could cure a sick child, protect a home, or solve problems no ordinary skill could touch. Some whispered they could bend luck, glimpse hidden truths, or even summon forces beyond comprehension. Wherever practical knowledge met the unseen, the Hexenmeister was there. They were not always seen as evil, but they were always mysterious. 

Unlike Powwow practitioners, who found their strength in Christian faith and protective prayer, a Hexenmeister channeled power from older, darker sources. He drew from the European occult, where charms, symbols, and secret knowledge stirred unseen forces—the realm of demons, curses, and the darker edges of magic.

As time moved on and science began to replace superstition, their image shifted. The healer became the sorcerer; the wise man, the suspected witch. What had once been respected became feared, tangled in whispers of curses and witch trials. By the mid-20th century, belief in their power had mostly faded—but the stories lingered. Even now, the Hexenmeister lives on in Pennsylvania folklore, a reminder of when magic and faith walked side by side, and the boundary between the natural and supernatural was never quite clear.

Another mysterious figure in Pennsylvania German folklore is the Schlangafrä (schlang a frey). Her name comes from the German words Schlange, meaning snake and Frau, meaning woman. In these tales, she appears as a magical woman connected to snakes: sometimes a healer who can communicate with or control them, and sometimes a darker figure tied to witchcraft. She’s like a mythical fairy queen linked to spring and renewal, said to transform into a rabbit—or even the morning star. Snake symbolism hints at hidden knowledge and supernatural power, making the Schlangafrä a truly eerie presence in local stories.

Then there are the Will-o’-the-Wisps—or flickering lights hovering over marshes and forests at night. People once believed these were spirits or tricksters, leading travelers off safe paths, sometimes into bogs or quicksand. The name combines “will” with “wisp,” meaning a small flickering light. Scientists now explain them as natural gases igniting in the air—but that eerie, unsettling feeling? Still very real.

Spectral dogs, or black dogs, roam the folklore world in a similar vein. Appearing mostly at night with glowing eyes and a commanding presence, these ghostly hounds might serve as protectors, guides, or omens of misfortune or death. Stories of them stretch across Europe—particularly England and Germany—and they intersect with the same shadowy realm where Pennsylvania German folklore, and eventually Powwow, took shape.

Even though Will-o’-the-Wisps and spectral dogs aren’t part of Powwow itself, practitioners were aware of these spirits and used prayers or charms to protect against them. And speaking of protective magic, Powwow includes charms like the Boonastiel (boon a steel) which was designed to bring good fortune, protection, or healing. The meaning of “Boonastiel” is a bit mysterious, but it’s linked to rituals or incantations guarding against evil spirits, illness, and bad luck. These charms could be spoken prayers, written Bible verses, or small objects carried for protection. One typical charm might go:

“By the sign of the holy cross and the blood of Jesus, may no evil come near me or mine, neither sickness nor sorrow, now and forevermore.”

Simple, powerful, and deeply rooted in Christian faith, Boonastiel charms were used when someone was sick, before a journey, or anytime evil was feared. 

Another example is the Bells Nickel, a Powwow charm involving bells. Bells were believed to hold spiritual power, their ringing scaring away evil spirits and negative energy. The “nickel” part likely refers to something small but mighty, like a coin used as a lucky token. In Powwow rituals, bells might literally be rung around a person or home to cleanse harmful influences. The Bells Nickel charm calls on this protective power, blending sound, faith, and symbolism to keep people safe.  It is a perfect example of how everyday objects became magical tools.

By the 1920s, as modern medicine advanced and cultural attitudes shifted, Braucherei largely went underground. Powwowers who had once advertised openly began practicing quietly behind closed doors, keeping the tradition alive in secret.

Field research in the 2000s by scholar David W. Kriebel found that most practitioners had moved toward religious healing, cautious of being labeled old-fashioned, “Dutchy,” or even crazy. Only a few continued using traditional spellbooks or manuals beyond the Bible. Religious opposition didn’t help: some saw Braucherei as devil’s work, while others believed healing belonged strictly to organized churches. Despite this, Kriebel documented many individuals still maintaining the old practices.

Since the 1990s, parts of Braucherei have experienced a revival in unexpected places. Neopagan and Wiccan practitioners, such as Jenine E. Trayer—writing as Silver RavenWolf and studying under traditional powwower Preston Zerbe—reinterpreted old material as folk-Christian magic. Another movement, Urglaawe (urg gla), meaning “original faith”, seeks to reconnect with Pennsylvania German roots, favoring the term Braucherei over “powwow” and reviving ancient practices in a modern context.

Over the years, as Pennsylvania Germans migrated south and west into Appalachia and the Ozarks, they carried their healing traditions with them. Powwowing evolved, blending with local folk magic and leaving a legacy that continues quietly today.

Folklore isn’t some dusty relic—it’s cultural DNA. It shows who we are through art, music, and rituals, and it evolves with us. We are each part of a long, messy chain of humans passing stories, songs, jokes, and traditions from one generation to the next. Folklore is everywhere, even if you don’t realize it.

As more people rediscover its roots, Braucherei’s blend of history, mystery, and reinvention endures. From spellbooks and whispered charms to modern reinterpretations, its customs may seem strange—or even a little eerie—through modern eyes. But they were born from real fears: illness, loss, misfortune, the mysteries no one could explain. In a world before antibiotics or forecasts, charms and prayers offered something precious: the illusion—or perhaps the proof—of control. Protection, hope, meaning in the face of the unknown.

Today’s practitioners may no longer live by lamplight or carry The Long Lost Friend, yet their impulse feels timeless—the same longing to heal, to protect, to find light in what we cannot see. Braucherei endures because it speaks to that unbroken faith: that light, in one form or another, will always find its way through darkness.

So, as the leaves fall and the air grows cool, keep an eye on the shadows in your kitchen. You never know what old stories might still be lingering. After all, not everything that haunts us wears a mask.

Whether you’re someone who knows the story or someone just discovering it for the first time, this letter is for you.