Maria took another sip of coffee and grimaced. There were grains floating in her cup. She drained it, crushed the cup in her fist, and tossed it into the trash. Then she continued poring over the clippings.
LeHorn had supposedly practiced powwow—a rustic mix of magical disciplines, folklore, and Judeo-Christian teachings and mythology. The same superstitious beliefs were known as hoodoo in the Southern states, but here in Central Pennsylvania, it was called powwow. Its history was as mixed as its structure. The Susquehanna Indians had a form of shamanism called pawwaw. When the first German settlers arrived in Pennsylvania, they brought with them a magical discipline called Braucherei. Over time, the two beliefs mixed, and became known as powwow.
Powwow practitioners relied on a book by John George Hohman called The Long Lost Friend. First printed in 1819, this was the primary powwow sourcebook. Its material was derived from many different sources, including the Hebrew cabala, African tribal beliefs, German mysticism, Gypsy lore, Druid ceremonies, and ancient Egyptian teachings. The book offered an eclectic range of cures, spells, and magical protections. There were remedies for everything from pink eye to cholera to parasites in livestock. Maria guessed that none of the recommendations were approved by the American Medical Association. There were also numerous spells, chants and incantations, complete with symbols and lists of ingredients. Two other tomes that were usually included in a powwow library were a three-volume set by Albertus Mag-nus entitled Egyptian Secrets, and The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses, which was supposedly based on magic and cures that Moses learned while he lived in the house of the Pharaoh.
Powwow doctors, who cured their patients using magic and methods from The Long Lost Friend, were mentioned in several articles. They had been quite prevalent in the area up until the late sixties. Many of the county’s older residents visited powwow doctors before consulting a physician. Nelson LeHorn had been just one of several well-known powwow practitioners in the area. Others had included Nelson Rehmeyer (murdered in the 1930s for his copy of The Long Lost Friend); a woman who lived along the Susquehanna River named Mary Knowles, considered a witch by her neighbors, who’d passed away in 1941; and an Amish resident of neighboring Lancaster County named Amos Stoltzfus, who’d died in 1980.
What Maria found most surprising was that in a county with a population of over 373,000 people, powwow was still practiced in some of the more rural parts. She shook her head. How could anybody still believe in this superstitious nonsense? Especially today, with all of the advances in modern science and medicine? Growing up in Paramus, there had been no magic, no witch doctors. Instead, there were shopping malls and boutiques, espresso bars and cafes, cell phones and community activism. Here she was, a three-hour drive away from home, and it felt like she’d gone back in time. Yes, York, Pennsylvania, had all of the luxuries that Paramus, New Jersey, had offered, but beneath that veneer, there was a weird, backwoods mentality. It was depressing, and yet, she wanted to know more. Maria was fascinated with LeHorn. The entire tragic story would make great fodder for a true-crime book. But what she discovered next was even more bizarre.
Alive or dead, Nelson LeHorn had remained an enduring, if somewhat infamous, figure. For years following his disappearance, there were purported sightings of him in the hollow and surrounding woods, but subsequent searches turned up nothing. Others reported that they’d seen his ghost walking among the trees. But otherwise, things quieted down again. There was the occasional UFO sighting or encounter with a hellhound. Usually these reports involved couples who’d gone to the hollow after dark, looking for a secluded spot to party or get amorous.
Then, in the spring of 2006, things heated up again. A witches’ coven took up residence in the hollow, practicing black magic rituals and worshipping LeHorn as a deity. They were involved in several murders and disappearances, including several people connected to a local author named Adam Senft.
Adam Senft had lived in the area all his life. By 2006, he’d had some national success as a midlist novelist. He’d written three mystery novels: When the Rain Comes, Cold as Ice, and Heart of the Matter. Senft was inextricably tied to LeHorn’s Hollow, and not just by acquaintances whom the coven had murdered. On the night the forest fire destroyed the hollow and some of the surrounding acreage, another murder victim had been found in Senft’s home. A homicide detective named Ramirez cleared Senft of any wrongdoing, but Maria was unable to find a conclusive follow-up on who had committed the crime. Ramirez retired soon after, and moved to south Florida. She made a note to track down his contact information, if possible. He might have more background information not available in the archives.
Six months after the fire and the murders, Adam Senft killed his pregnant wife, Tara, in the exact same manner that LeHorn had murdered his wife twenty years earlier—by pushing her out of the attic window. At his trial, Senft claimed that the baby was half human and half goat—the malignant offspring of a satyr. He’d killed his wife to prevent its birth. He also claimed that the creature had been summoned by none other than Nelson LeHorn. Despite the best efforts of the district attorney, Senft’s defense lawyer was able to secure an insanity plea—something that was normally very difficult to do in the Pennsylvania court system. He was remanded into the custody of officials as a “forensic”—basically criminally insane—patient and currently resided in the White Rose Mental Health Facility in East York.
Nelson LeHorn had murdered his wife because he believed she’d slept with the devil. Adam Senft had done the same because he believed his wife had slept with a satyr. The psychoses were remarkably similar. Could both be linked to the hollow’s Goat Man mythos?
Maria was intrigued. There was far more she could do with this story than just a fluff piece in the local paper. The possibility of a true-crime book, or even a series of them, was tantalizing. The more she uncovered, the greater the possibilities became.
Her headache forgotten, Maria glanced at her watch. She still needed to meet with the Ghost Walk’s own er, Ken Ripple, later that evening. It took her another hour to make copies of all the articles. By the time she was done, she’d decided on her next course of action. She’d finish the write-up on the Ghost Walk and get it turned in on time, but then, she’d start collating her information and put together a book proposal.
She also decided to track down Ramirez, the detective who had originally cleared Senft in the first murder, and then try to secure an interview with Adam Senft himself. She anticipated a lot of red tape with the security hospital, but was sure she could cut through it. Maria had been lucky enough to nurture some professional relationships and contacts among several individuals employed within the county’s medical system.
Maria packed up her copies and hurried out of the newspaper’s offices without saying good-bye to Miles. She whistled on her way through the parking garage. Her headache had vanished. For the first time in a long while, she felt excited by an assignment. She couldn’t wait to dig deeper. Her gut told her that there was more to this story—a hidden narrative woven between the newspaper articles and records. The public details were dark, no doubt, but she suspected that beneath the surface, it was even darker.