In the quiet farmland of York County, Pennsylvania, in a small rural area known as Rehmeyer’s Hollow, the winter of 1928 carried more than just cold winds through the hills. It carried fear. Deep, old-world fear that had lingered in the Pennsylvania Dutch communities for generations. This fear was rooted in powwow, a form of folk healing blending Christian prayer with ritual, symbols, and whispered incantations. To outsiders it seemed like superstition. To those who lived by it, it was something far more powerful.
At the center of the story was Nelson Rehmeyer, a local powwow doctor known for his knowledge of charms, spells, and cures. He was a large, imposing man, living alone in a weathered farmhouse tucked deep into the hollow. Some sought him out for help with illness or misfortune. Others feared him, believing he possessed the ability to curse as easily as he could heal. In a region where belief shaped reality, reputation alone could be dangerous.
Not far away lived John Blymire, a young man convinced his life had been ruined by a curse. His crops failed. His health faltered. His luck turned sour at every turn. Desperate for answers, Blymire turned to another powwow practitioner, John Curry, who confirmed his worst fears. According to Curry, Blymire had been “hexed,” and the source of that curse was none other than Rehmeyer.
Curry offered a solution, but it was not a simple one. To break the hex, Blymire would have to confront Rehmeyer directly. The cure required a ritual steeped in symbolism and fear. He would need to obtain a lock of Rehmeyer’s hair and a book of spells believed to hold the power of the curse itself. Some versions of the ritual even called for blood. Whether Blymire fully understood the implications or simply clung to hope is unclear, but he agreed.
On the night of November 27, 1928, Blymire, accompanied by two younger men, Wilbert Hess and John Curry Jr., made their way into the hollow. The farmhouse stood silent in the darkness, its isolation amplifying the tension of what they were about to do. When they entered, they found Rehmeyer at home. What began as an attempt to force compliance quickly spiraled into violence.
Accounts differ on exactly what happened inside that house, but the end result was clear. Rehmeyer resisted. A struggle broke out. He was beaten, strangled, and ultimately killed. In a final, desperate act—whether to destroy the supposed curse or to cover their crime—the men set fire to the house. Flames consumed the structure, lighting the hollow with an eerie glow that night, as if the land itself bore witness.
The crime shocked the region and quickly drew national attention. When the three men were arrested, their defense was as startling as the murder itself. They claimed they had not acted out of malice but out of fear. They believed they were victims of a supernatural attack and that their actions were necessary to save Blymire’s life. The idea that belief in a hex could drive men to murder fascinated and disturbed the public in equal measure.
The trial revealed just how deeply rooted powwow traditions were in the community. Witnesses spoke of charms, spells, and protections as if they were ordinary parts of life. The courtroom became a stage where modern law confronted ancient belief. In the end, the jury rejected the supernatural justification. John Blymire was convicted of first-degree murder, though his sentence was later reduced. The others received lesser sentences.
In the years that followed, Rehmeyer’s Hollow became known by another name—Hex Hollow. The story lingered, passed down as both a cautionary tale and a piece of dark folklore. Some said the land never truly forgot what happened there. Others claimed strange occurrences persisted in the area, as if the fear that fueled the crime had never fully left.
Today, the Hex Hollow murder stands as one of the most chilling examples of how belief, isolation, and desperation can intertwine. It was not simply a killing, but a collision between tradition and reason, where fear of the unseen proved just as deadly as any tangible threat. In the quiet hills of Pennsylvania, the echoes of that night still seem to linger, carried on the wind through a hollow that once burned with more than fire.