History & Folklore Folk Stories Granny Myers's Curse From Pennsylvania Mountain Stories by Henry W. Shoemaker, Bradford Record Publishing Co., Bradford PA 1908 That belief in witchcraft still exists in the United States cannot be denied, as the newspapers every now and then print accounts of doings of alleged witches in remote parts of the country. But nowhere does it flourish and its teaching defy the advance of modern enlightment to such an extent as in the mountains of Central Pennsylvania. A typical case of Pennsylvania witchcraft is that of an old Swiss, Christ by name, who tills a sixty-acre farm on a bleak mountain top along what is known as the "Pine Road," that runs from Jersey Shore to Loganton. His house stands back a hundred yards from the road. The original structure was built of logs, but as more prosperous days ensued, a frame mansion was "tacked" on the less imposing log cabin. Not another house can be seen from the windows, which look over a dreary expanse of fire-swept summits, "slashings" and abandoned clearings. The gable of the large barn, standing between the road and the house, is covered with bear paws, nailed in disorderly profusion. Several sets of buckhorns adorn the slanting roof of the nearby corncrib. With such surroundings, it is not surprising that people become easy prey to mental vagaries, and live in terror of persons possessing supposed supernatural powers. Formerly Christ had his brother, Michael, whose house was two miles up a secluded hemlock hollow, for "next door" neighbor, but alleged spirit rapping and apparitions, culminating in the suicide of an old man named Righter, who made his home with the family, caused Mike to move to a farm nearer town and neighbors. At present, Christ's nearest neighbors are the family of an old woman whom we shall call Granny Myers, reputed among the mountaineers as a witch, and famed for the potency of her spells, who lived in a windowless shanty three miles away. One fall, about ten years ago, some of Christ's cattle broke into the Myers buckwheat field, and one was mysteriously shot. Threats of criminal prosecution were made, until one night Granny Myers strode into Christ's kitchen, and, in the presence of several witnesses, cursed the farmer, his wife and daughter in these words: "Christ, you shall shrivel to death with rheumatics, your woman shall develop a cancer, and your daughter shall cough up blood until she fades away." Then she went out, slamming the door after her, leaving the Christs in a state of nervous collapse. Several months passed by; it was the month of February, the Pine Road was deep in snow and not even a single sled could navigate, but a little thing like this could not daunt old John Dice, the witch doctor from the river bottom, who, clad in his familiar coat of Confederate gray, knee deep in slush was bound for a vendue in the east end of Sugar Valley. As he passed the Christ farm, a withered figure hobbled to the fence and waved his hand at him. "Shon, come here," he called. "My woman is dying mit der cancer, my girl is coughing up blood and I'm dying mit der rheumatics." The witch doctor climbed the gate and followed the farmer to his house. Mrs. Christ, complaining of terrible pains in her side, lay moaning on a sofa, and the nineteen-year-old daughter, worn almost to a skeleton, dragged herself about the house coughing every few minutes. "Granny Myers done it," was all they would say. The witch doctor, who understood the trouble at a glance, promised to have the spell removed within the week, and before an hour was at the hut of the alleged witch. On his way, in a snow covered lot, he noticed four miserable horsed huddled together, protecting themselves as best they could from the cruel winder wind. All told they had but two eyes and one good tail among them, these cast-offs from the dispersal sale of the Williamsport Traction Company—now operated by trolley. Granny Myers, a tall, rawboned woman with a long nose and enormous hands, was smoking her clay pipe by the stove, when her old enemy, who never knocked, came in, shaking the snow from his boots. "Go over to Christ's and tell them you have taken that spell off, or, mark my word, it's now Friday, by next Monday your four horses will be dead, and you will follow them." That was all John Dice said before he resumed his tramp to the vendue. The next Monday, true to his promise, he appeared at Granny Myers's door, a scythe and a poleaxe, purchased at the vendue, slung over his massive shoulders. Granny heard his footsteps and was on hand to meet him. "You old de[v]il," said she, "meh crobaits are all four dead and I was to Christ's a'yesterday." When the witch doctor revisited the Christ kitchen a vastly different scene met his eyes. Christ, humming to himself, was mending a rocking chair; his smiling wife lifting a heavy kettle from the stove, while his buxom daughter was setting the tea table. "Von't you stay to supper, Shon?" said Christ, the old hex's taken off the spell, an' we're ahl well again."