December 12, 2025 • 32 mins
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
The White Feather Hecks by Don Peterson. It all started
with a Dutchman a Pennsylvania, A Dutchman named Peter Sheinberger,
who toiled a weather beaten farm back in the hills.
A strong, wiry man he was. His arms were knotted
sections of solid hickory, forming themselves into gnarled hands and
(00:22):
twisted stubs of fingers. His furrowed brow, dried by the
sun and cracked in a million places by the wind,
was well irrigated by long rivulets of sweat. When he
went forth in the fields behind his horse and plow,
it wasn't long before his hair was plastered down firmly
to his scalp. The salty water poured out of the
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deep rings in his ruddy neck and ran down his
dark brown back. As he grew older, the skin peeled
and grew loose. It hung on him in folds, like
the brittle hide of a rhino. It seemed that the
more years he spent in his field behind the plow horse,
the more he slipped back into the timeless tradition of
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his forefathers. He was a proud descendant of a long
line of staunch German settlers, commonly known as the Pennsylvania Dutch.
He grew up in his fundamental religious sect, having never
known any other environment. He was exposed to the sun, soil,
and wind from the early days of his childhood, and
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along with the elements, he also was exposed to the
evils of the hexary. The hexory or witchcraft, was something
that was never doubted or scoffed at by his people.
Then why should he, a good Pennsylvania Dutchman doubt or
scoff at such tradition. Perhaps had he moved away from
his ancestral lands and had been cultured in modern communities,
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been educated and raised in other schools, he might have matured.
But having no time for any other diversions than might
be found on his rust homestead, he grew up behind
the plow horse, tramping in the dark, stony pasture, land
eking out his meager existence from the black fields of Pennsylvania.
(02:12):
Now Peter's life could have gone unnoticed among these forgotten hills,
except for the strange visit of Martin G. Myerstone, student
of German history. It was a cold night when Peter
met Meerstone. Peter had been sitting up rather late, pondering
over an old yellowed book by the light of a
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kerosene lamp. The pale flame flickered about the walls, sending
shadows scurrying back and forth, creating all types of weird
shapes and designs. Peter huddled over the withered pages, every
now and then, glancing up at the walls to watch
the fantastic games that light and dark were playing. Then
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putting his book aside for the night, he prepared to
go to bed. He went over to the window to
draw the shutters, stopping for an instant to peer out
into the gloom along the stony path that ran from
his house to an old footbridge about fifty feet away.
Curling up from the gorge, mist seemed to play among
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the rotted planks. It rose and fell in great bellowing blankets,
sometimes concealing the structure from view. Peter was about to
latch the shutter and leave when his attention was focused
upon a figure that seemed to emerge from the fog,
sort of fading in from nowhere. It made its way
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across the narrow span like some ghostly apparition. The mist
enveloped his legs and clouded his features. Peter drew back
in terror, for the mere appearance of the man coming
out of the darkness was enough to fill his infant
brain with the visions of death and hexory. As the
figure drew closer, Peter saw that it was wearing a cloak,
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all the more godly it appeared with a cloak sailing
behind him in the wind, like some devil's banner. Peter
just stood transfixed as he watched the stranger come up
the winding road to his house, slamming the shudder. He
hurriedly fastened it and then turned to the door to
bolt that also too late. The door was thrown open,
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revealing a tall man clothed in black. His face was
wreathed in a wide grin, a grin that seemed to
make fun of the grayish pallor of his face and
the ominous appearance of his wild garb. Before the man
stepped inside, Peter made a mental image of the scene,
for it was to be firmly embedded in his mind
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so that he would never forget the slightest detail for
the rest of his life. The wind blowing about, the
fierce visage, tossing up the long strands of hair, the
massive veined hand that clutched the wrought iron thumb latch,
and the way that the lamp struck his face, highlighting
the thin, ridged nose and high cheek bones. Peter Sinberger,
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Eh the man spoke in perfect German, Peter Semberger, the
last of your clan here in America. It was several
seconds before Peter could muster up enough courage to answer him.
Drawing back slowly, he braced himself against the table, and
in a thick guttural German, asked, who are you? The stranger?
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Shut the door and drew the bolt. He crossed the room, and,
with an air of one who was accustomed to having
his own way wherever he went, scanned the shelves of
Peter's larder with a practiced eye. Peter watched him closely
as he drew down a bottle of wine, broke the
neck against a beam above him, and settled down in
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Peter's easy chair. He poured a glass full and shoved
it across the table toward the anxious Peter, and then
poured another glass for himself. Myerstone, the Stranger, finally answered
Martin G. Myerstone, Then, draining his glass, he added, student
of German history. All this was beyond Peter's comprehension. No
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one ever had the audacity to walk into his house
and help himself to whatever he wanted. It was indeed
unheard of in his tiny social world. Well what are
you staring at, Myerstone boomed out, Take my cloak, please,
then be seated, we'll talk. Taking the cloak and draping
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it over a wooden peg in the wall, Peter moved
cautiously around the foreboding character that monopolized his small house,
carefully seating himself opposite the man. He moved the table
so that it set between them as a protective barrier.
I'll make myself clear to you, Myerstone explained, for I
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want my stay to be as brief as possible. He
poured himself another glass of wine, then settled back in
a chair, half closing his eyes. You see, you might say,
of German history or folklore. I am in the process
of writing a collective history of the Pennsylvania Dutch folk,
their habits, beliefs. And he broke off for an instant
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as he leaned forward across the table, staring into the
frightened eyes of Peter and their superstitions shifting his chair
around in order to get benefit from the heat of
the fireplace. Myerstone went on, Now, I went fats Sheinberger,
authentic facts. I am prepared to pay you well for
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your trouble, but I insist on information that has backed
up with sound, accurate truth. Peter became more relaxed, bestill
slightly uneasy. He didn't like the attitude of this man, Meerstone.
He was too sure of himself altogether too cocky. But then,
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on the other hand, he had said they would be
a financial gain from any business that he could transact
with him. Money was something that Peter knew he needed
in order to keep his farm going, and any income,
however small it may be, would be welcomed gratefully. Yes,
he decided that he had better endure the rudeness of
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this man. For a few seconds. However, the tall stranger
seemed to lose all of his cockiness, and a somber
look crept over his jovial features. Have you ever heard
of the hecks of the white feather? Peter thought a
moment before he replied, yes, I have heard of it. Then,
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nervously he fingered his glass of wine that he had
not as yet touched. Raising it up to his lips.
He sipped it slowly as he stared at Myerstone over
the rim of the glass. Yes, I have heard of it,
he repeated. Good, good, you have heard of it. Now
you will tell me about it. Of course, I want
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to know all about it, how it is practiced, the results,
and so forth. Is that why you came here only
to learn of the white feather hecks? Myerstone climbed to
his feet and paced the room. Yes, he said. Peter
noted a sad tone in his voice, and he waited
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for him to say more. Yes, Myerstone continued, I have,
like you, heard of the hecks of the White Feather.
I have traced it down to several families, but none
could tell me anything about it that was factual. Half
of the stupid fools made up stories as they went along,
some concocting the biggest bunch of asinine tales that I've
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ever heard. But you, Peter, are a descendant of the Sinbergers.
I know for a fact that Otto Sinberger practiced the
White Feather hex and passed the power on down to you,
your father. From there it stopped. However, there must be
some record of it in your family. You are in
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possession of the books of your grandfather, aren't you. I
have several of his books, some of them I have
read well, Myerstone waited. Did you come across anything about
the Hecks? Yes, answered Peter, I read about that which
you mention splendid. Now we are getting somewhere. Can you
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find me the book that tells of it? Peter finished
drinking his wine and setting the glass upon the table.
He slowly rose and faced Myerstone with a look of superiority,
plain about his rustic features. No, I am afraid not.
You see, I have burned the book. Myerstone's face went white.
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You burned it, yes, said Peter. I don't wish to
have anything to do with such black magic. It is
better burned. But you must remember the Hecks. Although the
book is destroyed, you still have the information in your head. Nine.
I could never forget it if I wanted to, replied
Peter reluctantly. If I could burn my memory also, it
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would be better. Meerstone went back to the fireplace and
placed several chunks of wood on the blaze. A bright
orange glow leaped out from the hearth and danced mockingly
over his pallid brow, hiding his lank jowls and the
shadows cast by the cheekbones. Like some grim specter. He
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rose up, towering above the little dutch Man. Peter had
only to look into his eyes to see the imperative
request that lingered behind the hollowed sockets. Throughout the remainder
of the night, Peter, almost in spite of himself, racked
his brain to bring back to mind everything that was
mentioned in the book about the he of the White Feather.
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The idea was clear enough, but the minute details, the
infinite possibilities from mistake, and the exacting specifications concerning the
experiment were blurred in his memory. He knew that with
time he could bring back everything that he had read,
but it would take deep concentration and perhaps many days
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of trial and error to determine the right path that
they must follow in order to have success. Myerstone, realizing
that any distraction would break Peter's train of thought, sat
quietly in the corner, finishing off the Dutchman's supply of wine.
He watched Peter closely through his slitted eyes, and it
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seemed that his compelling stare was the only force that
could drive the frightened Peter on. Every so often, Peter
would glance up and see Myerstone leaning back in the corner,
half concealed by the deep shadows. Only his partially opened
eyes could be seen flickering in the fiery glow of
the hearth. Then he would cover his face with his
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large knotted hands, work the twisted fingers through his hair,
and tried to bring back to mind the evil recipe.
The glow in the fireplace gradually died down to make
room for the streams of morning dawn. Peter blinked sleepily
and got up to stretch a bit outside. The dull
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morning light worked its way over Peter's farm. Clouds of
mist still poured up from the gorge, circling the bridge
and creeping up the bank across the fields. Peter unlatched
the heavy oaken door and went outside to the outbuildings. Meanwhile,
Myerstone had started a fire in the stove and was
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placing slabs of bacon in the pan. Nothing like a
good old fashioned peasant's breadthreakfast, he laughed as Peter came
in the door. Several minutes later, So you brought a goat, eh,
he noticed, Are you figuring on starting in soon? Peter
sat a small kid on the floor and watched it
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scamper about the room looking for an exit. Yes, we
might as well. I don't like this business at all.
I wished to get it over with as soon as possible,
and Peter eyed Myerstone squarely. I expect to be paid
well for my trouble. He was trying to make himself
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believe that that was his only reason for complying with
Myerstone's demands. Actually, he was not so sure. As the
heat of the noonday sun blasted down on their backs,
Myerstone watched Peter pass a feather freshly plucked from a
white leghorn under the nose of the bleeding kid. Myerstone
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listened carefully to what Peter was telling him. The breath
of the victim had to be spread over the feather
before anything further could be done. Tie him, commanded Peter.
Myerstone held the goat by the scruff of his neck
and fastened a halter about him. The other end was
secured to a stake, allowing the kid to run about
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in a circle of ten feet or so in diameter.
We will leave him for a while, said Peter, as
he walked back to the kitchen. Myerstone followed in the
Dutchman's footsteps, and when they were inside, he listened intently
as Peter recited a monosyllabic chant over the feather. The
chant is easy enough to learn, Peter assured him. You
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will master it quickly. I understand so far, Myerstone said.
Then that is all Peter finished, except that you can
hang the feather up and watch it grow red red. Yes,
Peter explained, that is the only you can tell if
the hecks has worked. Peter went to a chest at
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the foot of his bed and drew out a small
box of sewing utensils. He broke off a piece of
black thread and replaced the box in the chest. Now
I'll show you what I mean, Peter spoke wearily as
he tied the feather with the thread and suspended it
from one of the rafters in the room. Just sit
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and watch. It was not many minutes before a light
red tint crept up the feather's quill, spreading slowly outwards
toward the fringed edges. Deeper and deeper grew the intensity
of the color until it reached a pure blood fread.
Hurry outside, cried Peter. You can see the goat in
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its last seconds of life. Myerstone hurried after the Dutchman,
jerking at the halter. The goat bleeded in agony, prancing
up and down frantically. Its eyes grew horribly bloodshot, and
finally closed with a feeble, choking sigh. The animal dropped
over on its side, its legs still twitching spasmodically. Myerstone
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bent over the hairy form and examined the head, now
wet with perspiration. Nothing can be done for the beast, no,
Peter looked on with a touch of pity in his eyes.
Nothing can be done once the feather has turned red,
as if the death of the kid was their cue.
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Masses of thick thunderheads turned over with a deep, rumbling thunder.
The sky became crystal clear, and a greenish glow could
be seen working its way across the horizon. The sky
darkened as the glistening thunderheads, now taking on an ominous coloring,
warned the farmers of the impending storm. It was later
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that evening rain drummed against the slate roof of Pear House,
and reverberated through the rooms to where Myerstone and the
Dutchman sat by the fire in silence. Myerstone broke the
still atmosphere by putting forth a question that Peter somehow
knew would be coming sooner or later. I wonder how
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the hecks would react on a human being. Peter hoped
to end the topic by answering him quickly and not
beating around the bush trying to evade the question. It
would kill him eventually. Maybe not so quick as a goat,
but it would kill him. What do you mean not
as quickly as a goat? Do you think it would
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take more time on a human? Perhaps? I have heard
of cases in which the hects, once it was started,
dragged on for many days. I see Myerstone sat back again,
thinking to himself. Peter didn't like this. He wanted to
get rid of Myerstone. Well, you have your information. I
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showed you how the Heck's works, so why not pay
me and leave. Myerstone got up and laughed in the
Dutchman's face. Crossing to the larder, he brought down a bottle,
cracking the neck on the beam above, just as he
had done the night before. A wave of apprehension overcame
Peter as he realized the old flip attitude of Myerstone's
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was coming back. That meant definite trouble, and Peter began
to fear the consequences. So why not pay me and leave?
He again ventured, Or do you want something else? Peter
knew that he didn't need to ask that last question,
for already he realized the grim experiment that was playing
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about in Myerstone's head. Yes, I just told you what
I wanted. I want to see the hecks on a
human before I go. Why you have your information? Why
do you want to see it work on a man?
My stupid little peasant friend? Do I look like a
student of history? For the first time, Peter actually looked
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at Meerstone and saw him for what he was. Of course,
he couldn't be a student. No student would act as
he did, or even look as he did. The words
jammed in his throat as he was about to voice
a reply, Ha, Martin G. Meerstone, student of history, student
of German history. No, my little oxen friend, I am
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no more a student of history than you are, but
I need the hecks for other reasons which do not
concern you. Then, as if he were contemplating a great
new joke, he continued, But on the other hand, maybe
the future of the white feather hecks does concern you.
Meerstone's voice was drowned out by a heavy rumbling of
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thunder and the increased splashing of rain on the windows,
but somehow Peter seemed not to notice. Somewhat later, Myerstone
stepped quietly over to the sleeping form of his host.
Peter had been over twenty four hours now without sleep,
and although the old Dutchman had tried desperately to fight
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off the drowsiness that overcame him, the recent excitement of
the day had finally taken its toll. Lightning struck nearby,
followed with an ear splitting blast that shook the house
to its rocky foundations. Pieces of slate flew off the
roof and were carried away into the night. The rain
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poured down in a great deluge, blurring the window, making
it impossible to see in or out. Myerstone held out
a glistening white feather in its long, spidery fingers. He
placed it within a few inches of Peter's nose and
watched the delicate edges riffle in the Dutchman's breath. Crossing
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to the table, he leaned over the white fluff and
breathed the short German incantation over it. How it glistened
in the firelight. He bent closer and closer as he
whispered the magic words that Peter had taught him, his breath,
ruffling the feather playing about in the fringe softness. He
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hung up the feather by a thread and watched it
hop back and forth in the center of the room.
Peter awakened and saw Myerstone sitting by the fire, noting
every movement of the feather. What are you doing, eh?
Myerstone swung around and glared at the bleary eyed Dutchman.
Sit down. He commanded, sit down and watch the feather
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turn red. Peter didn't need to be told that it
was his feather. He knew by the merciless eyes of
Myerstone that everything was over. So you would determine to
find out what would happen if the hects were tried
on a man. Peter was surprised at how easily he
took his fate. There was no need of excitement. This
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was his end, and there was no changing it. Yes,
I had to know, for I can't leave until I
have a complete record of all the results. Myerstone certainly
was not cocky. Now he looked almost ashamed of himself
as he sat there nervously watching a man's fate swing
by a silken thread. I am sorry, Peter, my friend,
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but that is how it must be. You are a
stepping stone to a glorious reckoning that will soon take
place the hecks of the White Feather. I can hardly
believe that I have at last tracked it down, and you, Peter,
are the last witness, the last link in the chain
of those who know the secret. And how can it
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better end than by your becoming a part of the secret.
Peter realized he had not much longer to live, and
nothing he could do to Myerstone would change his fate.
Perhaps he could say, of others, though, what is this
glorious reckoning you were speaking about? As soon as I
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see how your case ends, I'll be able to go
ahead and release my vengeance on those stupid, bungling fools
who have thwarted my progress in the black arts. They
claim to speak in the name of humanity no less
in that case, exclaimed Peter, I won't let myself be
a foothold for your damned work. It is of the devil,
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and I'll have no part of it. Shut up, fool,
you are a part of it already. Not if my
body is destroyed before you can get hold of it.
Peter played his trump card. He quickly sprang back and
slipped out the door into the storm. Myerstone jumped up
after him, but it was too late. He peered out
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into the raging tempest, making out the figure of Peter
struggling with the hatch on the horse barn. He pulled
his cloak about him and started towards Peter to stop him.
The rain beat his face, blinding him momentarily, and before
he could see clearly, a dark mass, pounded by swift hoofs,
spattering mud all over him down the road sped Peter
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on the horse, down the road and towards the footbridge.
Myerstone ran a few steps and halted. He heard the
hollow staccato of horses hoofs on the planks for an instant,
followed by a splintering crash that rumbled up from the gorge.
A long guttural cry pierced the black gloom as man
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and horse plunged down to the seething death awaiting them.
Cursing savagely. Myerstone trudged back through the rain to the house.
He slammed the door shut and threw his cloak on
Peter's bed. There was one more bottle on the shelf.
He smashed the neck and poured a glass. If one
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could see him bent over the table, sending silent curses
into his wine, he could readily imagine the feeling of
defeat that had spread over Myerstone's countenance. The idiot, a
Dutchman who had to play the hero's part and save
other lives by ending his own, made Meerstone fairly sick. However,
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all was not over, so the Dutchman had died. The
hechts had worked a lot sooner than he had expected,
though now he certainly would be delayed in his progress,
for he had counted on examining the body for any
traces left that would suggest something out of the ordinary.
One thing, however, he had learned, was that the hects
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at least worked on humans. The mangled body that was
being washed over the rocks would be enough proof on
that score, Myerstone poured another drink. He leaned back in
the chair and placed the glass to his lips. He
was tilted so far back that as he raised the
wine to a drinking position, it blocked his view of
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the room. As he slowly sipped it, however, the room
began to come into view the ceiling first, and slowly
the wall. His eyes focused on a piece of thread
hanging from the ceiling, and as the wine sank lower
and lower in the glass, the thread grew longer and longer,
until in one last swallow he was able to see
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the end of the line. Milestone's hand went stiff as
he looked at the thread, for on the end of
it was a pure white feather. In an instant, Milestone
realized that the hects had not worked. Peter's death at
the bridge had been a grotesque coincidence. Had the untimely
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plunge in the rapids been the result of the hecks,
the feather would have long since been red. Therefore, the
tragedy was no more than an accident, and Mirestone's hands
were innocent of the dutchman's blood. That realization, of course,
did bother him for he was not concerned whether or
not he was responsible for Peter's death, but he was
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genuinely worried in the failure of the hecks. He wondered
if he had done something wrong, if he had, the
last link that could have corrected him was broken. From
here on in he was on his own. He calmed
himself and began to think. He retraced everything that he
had done to see if he couldn't have found some
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margin in which error could have crept in. He remembered
how carefully he had bent over the feather, reciting the
exact words taught him by Peter. He especially remembered that
part of the hecks, for hadn't the feather been ruffled
by his breath when he spoke? Gradually, the truth began
to dawn on Myerstone. His own breath must have released
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Peter from the hecks. The last person's breath that touched
the feather would feel the sting of the power. Myerstone
sat back, dumbfounded. He was to be his own guinea pig.
What ghastly horror was he in for? Would he die
quickly like the goat? Or would his death be prolonged
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over a period of days. Like Peter had suggested, he
gripped himself. It wouldn't do to lose control of his senses.
There must be a way out of the predicament. But
Peter said that as soon as a feather turned red,
there was no turning back. Ah, there's the answer. The
feather is still white. There's still a chance. Myerstone grabbed
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his cloak and raced for the door. He must get
an animal, another goat perhaps, and expose the feather to
its breath. He must hurry lest the spell will start working.
The slippery mud dragged him back and impeded his progress,
but he struggled on through the blinding storm towards the barn.
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It was so black outside that he could hardly make
out the all. At once he saw the barn looming
ahead of him. Which door every second counted, He would
try the first one. He came to. Wait, what's this?
Holding his cloak, Marstone turned and fumbled with some barbed
wire fencing. It had snagged him in the dark, and
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he soon became hopelessly entangled in it. Crying and shrieking.
He tore the cloak from his shoulders and ran on
in his shirt sleeves. He wrenched open a door and
sprawled in the barn, head first. On his hands and knees.
He scurried across the mealy floor to the goat stall.
The kids sprang in terror as he lurched in, drunkenly,
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grabbing about in the dark for one of them. Catching
one by the hind leg, he groped his way out again.
Thrusting his shoulders forward, he slid through the gripping mud,
tearing his way through the engulfing rain with his free hand.
His leg left numb from the wounded by the barred wire,
and a trickle of blood was running down his shins.
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Without thinking, he reached down to rub the wound, but
quickly yanked his hand up again. What was that horrible
sensation he felt as he passed his hand over the
flesh he saw He couldn't see in the rain, but
his leg told him that it was something hairy, almost bristly.
He ran on towards the house, stumbling in the treacherous mud.
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Once he fell completely down in the slime, wiping the
dripping earth from his face, heels told again that something
was wrong. His cheeks verified his shins. Story of a
rough jagged caress. Holding his hand in front of his face,
he saw, amidst a flash of lightning, a curling black claw,
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bristling with long, ragged hairs. Screaming hysterically, he dropped the
kid and fell forward into the door of the house.
The latch gave way with his weight, and he tumbled
into the cottage, dancing madly. On the end of her
thread was a blood red feather.
The White Feather Hecks by Don Peterson. It all started
with a Dutchman a Pennsylvania, A Dutchman named Peter Sheinberger,
who toiled a weather beaten farm back in the hills.
A strong, wiry man he was. His arms were knotted
sections of solid hickory, forming themselves into gnarled hands and
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twisted stubs of fingers. His furrowed brow, dried by the
sun and cracked in a million places by the wind,
was well irrigated by long rivulets of sweat. When he
went forth in the fields behind his horse and plow,
it wasn't long before his hair was plastered down firmly
to his scalp. The salty water poured out of the
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deep rings in his ruddy neck and ran down his
dark brown back. As he grew older, the skin peeled
and grew loose. It hung on him in folds, like
the brittle hide of a rhino. It seemed that the
more years he spent in his field behind the plow horse,
the more he slipped back into the timeless tradition of
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his forefathers. He was a proud descendant of a long
line of staunch German settlers, commonly known as the Pennsylvania Dutch.
He grew up in his fundamental religious sect, having never
known any other environment. He was exposed to the sun, soil,
and wind from the early days of his childhood, and
(01:27):
along with the elements, he also was exposed to the
evils of the hexary. The hexory or witchcraft, was something
that was never doubted or scoffed at by his people.
Then why should he, a good Pennsylvania Dutchman doubt or
scoff at such tradition. Perhaps had he moved away from
his ancestral lands and had been cultured in modern communities,
(01:51):
been educated and raised in other schools, he might have matured.
But having no time for any other diversions than might
be found on his rust homestead, he grew up behind
the plow horse, tramping in the dark, stony pasture, land
eking out his meager existence from the black fields of Pennsylvania.
(02:12):
Now Peter's life could have gone unnoticed among these forgotten hills,
except for the strange visit of Martin G. Myerstone, student
of German history. It was a cold night when Peter
met Meerstone. Peter had been sitting up rather late, pondering
over an old yellowed book by the light of a
(02:32):
kerosene lamp. The pale flame flickered about the walls, sending
shadows scurrying back and forth, creating all types of weird
shapes and designs. Peter huddled over the withered pages, every
now and then, glancing up at the walls to watch
the fantastic games that light and dark were playing. Then
(02:54):
putting his book aside for the night, he prepared to
go to bed. He went over to the window to
draw the shutters, stopping for an instant to peer out
into the gloom along the stony path that ran from
his house to an old footbridge about fifty feet away.
Curling up from the gorge, mist seemed to play among
(03:15):
the rotted planks. It rose and fell in great bellowing blankets,
sometimes concealing the structure from view. Peter was about to
latch the shutter and leave when his attention was focused
upon a figure that seemed to emerge from the fog,
sort of fading in from nowhere. It made its way
(03:35):
across the narrow span like some ghostly apparition. The mist
enveloped his legs and clouded his features. Peter drew back
in terror, for the mere appearance of the man coming
out of the darkness was enough to fill his infant
brain with the visions of death and hexory. As the
figure drew closer, Peter saw that it was wearing a cloak,
(03:59):
all the more godly it appeared with a cloak sailing
behind him in the wind, like some devil's banner. Peter
just stood transfixed as he watched the stranger come up
the winding road to his house, slamming the shudder. He
hurriedly fastened it and then turned to the door to
bolt that also too late. The door was thrown open,
(04:22):
revealing a tall man clothed in black. His face was
wreathed in a wide grin, a grin that seemed to
make fun of the grayish pallor of his face and
the ominous appearance of his wild garb. Before the man
stepped inside, Peter made a mental image of the scene,
for it was to be firmly embedded in his mind
(04:42):
so that he would never forget the slightest detail for
the rest of his life. The wind blowing about, the
fierce visage, tossing up the long strands of hair, the
massive veined hand that clutched the wrought iron thumb latch,
and the way that the lamp struck his face, highlighting
the thin, ridged nose and high cheek bones. Peter Sinberger,
(05:05):
Eh the man spoke in perfect German, Peter Semberger, the
last of your clan here in America. It was several
seconds before Peter could muster up enough courage to answer him.
Drawing back slowly, he braced himself against the table, and
in a thick guttural German, asked, who are you? The stranger?
(05:27):
Shut the door and drew the bolt. He crossed the room, and,
with an air of one who was accustomed to having
his own way wherever he went, scanned the shelves of
Peter's larder with a practiced eye. Peter watched him closely
as he drew down a bottle of wine, broke the
neck against a beam above him, and settled down in
(05:47):
Peter's easy chair. He poured a glass full and shoved
it across the table toward the anxious Peter, and then
poured another glass for himself. Myerstone, the Stranger, finally answered
Martin G. Myerstone, Then, draining his glass, he added, student
of German history. All this was beyond Peter's comprehension. No
(06:12):
one ever had the audacity to walk into his house
and help himself to whatever he wanted. It was indeed
unheard of in his tiny social world. Well what are
you staring at, Myerstone boomed out, Take my cloak, please,
then be seated, we'll talk. Taking the cloak and draping
(06:32):
it over a wooden peg in the wall, Peter moved
cautiously around the foreboding character that monopolized his small house,
carefully seating himself opposite the man. He moved the table
so that it set between them as a protective barrier.
I'll make myself clear to you, Myerstone explained, for I
(06:52):
want my stay to be as brief as possible. He
poured himself another glass of wine, then settled back in
a chair, half closing his eyes. You see, you might say,
of German history or folklore. I am in the process
of writing a collective history of the Pennsylvania Dutch folk,
their habits, beliefs. And he broke off for an instant
(07:16):
as he leaned forward across the table, staring into the
frightened eyes of Peter and their superstitions shifting his chair
around in order to get benefit from the heat of
the fireplace. Myerstone went on, Now, I went fats Sheinberger,
authentic facts. I am prepared to pay you well for
(07:38):
your trouble, but I insist on information that has backed
up with sound, accurate truth. Peter became more relaxed, bestill
slightly uneasy. He didn't like the attitude of this man, Meerstone.
He was too sure of himself altogether too cocky. But then,
(07:58):
on the other hand, he had said they would be
a financial gain from any business that he could transact
with him. Money was something that Peter knew he needed
in order to keep his farm going, and any income,
however small it may be, would be welcomed gratefully. Yes,
he decided that he had better endure the rudeness of
(08:20):
this man. For a few seconds. However, the tall stranger
seemed to lose all of his cockiness, and a somber
look crept over his jovial features. Have you ever heard
of the hecks of the white feather? Peter thought a
moment before he replied, yes, I have heard of it. Then,
(08:42):
nervously he fingered his glass of wine that he had
not as yet touched. Raising it up to his lips.
He sipped it slowly as he stared at Myerstone over
the rim of the glass. Yes, I have heard of it,
he repeated. Good, good, you have heard of it. Now
you will tell me about it. Of course, I want
(09:04):
to know all about it, how it is practiced, the results,
and so forth. Is that why you came here only
to learn of the white feather hecks? Myerstone climbed to
his feet and paced the room. Yes, he said. Peter
noted a sad tone in his voice, and he waited
(09:25):
for him to say more. Yes, Myerstone continued, I have,
like you, heard of the hecks of the White Feather.
I have traced it down to several families, but none
could tell me anything about it that was factual. Half
of the stupid fools made up stories as they went along,
some concocting the biggest bunch of asinine tales that I've
(09:47):
ever heard. But you, Peter, are a descendant of the Sinbergers.
I know for a fact that Otto Sinberger practiced the
White Feather hex and passed the power on down to you,
your father. From there it stopped. However, there must be
some record of it in your family. You are in
(10:08):
possession of the books of your grandfather, aren't you. I
have several of his books, some of them I have
read well, Myerstone waited. Did you come across anything about
the Hecks? Yes, answered Peter, I read about that which
you mention splendid. Now we are getting somewhere. Can you
(10:31):
find me the book that tells of it? Peter finished
drinking his wine and setting the glass upon the table.
He slowly rose and faced Myerstone with a look of superiority,
plain about his rustic features. No, I am afraid not.
You see, I have burned the book. Myerstone's face went white.
(10:53):
You burned it, yes, said Peter. I don't wish to
have anything to do with such black magic. It is
better burned. But you must remember the Hecks. Although the
book is destroyed, you still have the information in your head. Nine.
I could never forget it if I wanted to, replied
Peter reluctantly. If I could burn my memory also, it
(11:17):
would be better. Meerstone went back to the fireplace and
placed several chunks of wood on the blaze. A bright
orange glow leaped out from the hearth and danced mockingly
over his pallid brow, hiding his lank jowls and the
shadows cast by the cheekbones. Like some grim specter. He
(11:39):
rose up, towering above the little dutch Man. Peter had
only to look into his eyes to see the imperative
request that lingered behind the hollowed sockets. Throughout the remainder
of the night, Peter, almost in spite of himself, racked
his brain to bring back to mind everything that was
mentioned in the book about the he of the White Feather.
(12:02):
The idea was clear enough, but the minute details, the
infinite possibilities from mistake, and the exacting specifications concerning the
experiment were blurred in his memory. He knew that with
time he could bring back everything that he had read,
but it would take deep concentration and perhaps many days
(12:23):
of trial and error to determine the right path that
they must follow in order to have success. Myerstone, realizing
that any distraction would break Peter's train of thought, sat
quietly in the corner, finishing off the Dutchman's supply of wine.
He watched Peter closely through his slitted eyes, and it
(12:44):
seemed that his compelling stare was the only force that
could drive the frightened Peter on. Every so often, Peter
would glance up and see Myerstone leaning back in the corner,
half concealed by the deep shadows. Only his partially opened
eyes could be seen flickering in the fiery glow of
the hearth. Then he would cover his face with his
(13:08):
large knotted hands, work the twisted fingers through his hair,
and tried to bring back to mind the evil recipe.
The glow in the fireplace gradually died down to make
room for the streams of morning dawn. Peter blinked sleepily
and got up to stretch a bit outside. The dull
(13:31):
morning light worked its way over Peter's farm. Clouds of
mist still poured up from the gorge, circling the bridge
and creeping up the bank across the fields. Peter unlatched
the heavy oaken door and went outside to the outbuildings. Meanwhile,
Myerstone had started a fire in the stove and was
(13:53):
placing slabs of bacon in the pan. Nothing like a
good old fashioned peasant's breadthreakfast, he laughed as Peter came
in the door. Several minutes later, So you brought a goat, eh,
he noticed, Are you figuring on starting in soon? Peter
sat a small kid on the floor and watched it
(14:15):
scamper about the room looking for an exit. Yes, we
might as well. I don't like this business at all.
I wished to get it over with as soon as possible,
and Peter eyed Myerstone squarely. I expect to be paid
well for my trouble. He was trying to make himself
(14:35):
believe that that was his only reason for complying with
Myerstone's demands. Actually, he was not so sure. As the
heat of the noonday sun blasted down on their backs,
Myerstone watched Peter pass a feather freshly plucked from a
white leghorn under the nose of the bleeding kid. Myerstone
(14:57):
listened carefully to what Peter was telling him. The breath
of the victim had to be spread over the feather
before anything further could be done. Tie him, commanded Peter.
Myerstone held the goat by the scruff of his neck
and fastened a halter about him. The other end was
secured to a stake, allowing the kid to run about
(15:19):
in a circle of ten feet or so in diameter.
We will leave him for a while, said Peter, as
he walked back to the kitchen. Myerstone followed in the
Dutchman's footsteps, and when they were inside, he listened intently
as Peter recited a monosyllabic chant over the feather. The
chant is easy enough to learn, Peter assured him. You
(15:42):
will master it quickly. I understand so far, Myerstone said.
Then that is all Peter finished, except that you can
hang the feather up and watch it grow red red. Yes,
Peter explained, that is the only you can tell if
the hecks has worked. Peter went to a chest at
(16:04):
the foot of his bed and drew out a small
box of sewing utensils. He broke off a piece of
black thread and replaced the box in the chest. Now
I'll show you what I mean, Peter spoke wearily as
he tied the feather with the thread and suspended it
from one of the rafters in the room. Just sit
(16:25):
and watch. It was not many minutes before a light
red tint crept up the feather's quill, spreading slowly outwards
toward the fringed edges. Deeper and deeper grew the intensity
of the color until it reached a pure blood fread.
Hurry outside, cried Peter. You can see the goat in
(16:46):
its last seconds of life. Myerstone hurried after the Dutchman,
jerking at the halter. The goat bleeded in agony, prancing
up and down frantically. Its eyes grew horribly bloodshot, and
finally closed with a feeble, choking sigh. The animal dropped
over on its side, its legs still twitching spasmodically. Myerstone
(17:12):
bent over the hairy form and examined the head, now
wet with perspiration. Nothing can be done for the beast, no,
Peter looked on with a touch of pity in his eyes.
Nothing can be done once the feather has turned red,
as if the death of the kid was their cue.
(17:32):
Masses of thick thunderheads turned over with a deep, rumbling thunder.
The sky became crystal clear, and a greenish glow could
be seen working its way across the horizon. The sky
darkened as the glistening thunderheads, now taking on an ominous coloring,
warned the farmers of the impending storm. It was later
(17:56):
that evening rain drummed against the slate roof of Pear House,
and reverberated through the rooms to where Myerstone and the
Dutchman sat by the fire in silence. Myerstone broke the
still atmosphere by putting forth a question that Peter somehow
knew would be coming sooner or later. I wonder how
(18:17):
the hecks would react on a human being. Peter hoped
to end the topic by answering him quickly and not
beating around the bush trying to evade the question. It
would kill him eventually. Maybe not so quick as a goat,
but it would kill him. What do you mean not
as quickly as a goat? Do you think it would
(18:38):
take more time on a human? Perhaps? I have heard
of cases in which the hects, once it was started,
dragged on for many days. I see Myerstone sat back again,
thinking to himself. Peter didn't like this. He wanted to
get rid of Myerstone. Well, you have your information. I
(19:00):
showed you how the Heck's works, so why not pay
me and leave. Myerstone got up and laughed in the
Dutchman's face. Crossing to the larder, he brought down a bottle,
cracking the neck on the beam above, just as he
had done the night before. A wave of apprehension overcame
Peter as he realized the old flip attitude of Myerstone's
(19:23):
was coming back. That meant definite trouble, and Peter began
to fear the consequences. So why not pay me and leave?
He again ventured, Or do you want something else? Peter
knew that he didn't need to ask that last question,
for already he realized the grim experiment that was playing
(19:44):
about in Myerstone's head. Yes, I just told you what
I wanted. I want to see the hecks on a
human before I go. Why you have your information? Why
do you want to see it work on a man?
My stupid little peasant friend? Do I look like a
student of history? For the first time, Peter actually looked
(20:06):
at Meerstone and saw him for what he was. Of course,
he couldn't be a student. No student would act as
he did, or even look as he did. The words
jammed in his throat as he was about to voice
a reply, Ha, Martin G. Meerstone, student of history, student
of German history. No, my little oxen friend, I am
(20:30):
no more a student of history than you are, but
I need the hecks for other reasons which do not
concern you. Then, as if he were contemplating a great
new joke, he continued, But on the other hand, maybe
the future of the white feather hecks does concern you.
Meerstone's voice was drowned out by a heavy rumbling of
(20:51):
thunder and the increased splashing of rain on the windows,
but somehow Peter seemed not to notice. Somewhat later, Myerstone
stepped quietly over to the sleeping form of his host.
Peter had been over twenty four hours now without sleep,
and although the old Dutchman had tried desperately to fight
(21:13):
off the drowsiness that overcame him, the recent excitement of
the day had finally taken its toll. Lightning struck nearby,
followed with an ear splitting blast that shook the house
to its rocky foundations. Pieces of slate flew off the
roof and were carried away into the night. The rain
(21:34):
poured down in a great deluge, blurring the window, making
it impossible to see in or out. Myerstone held out
a glistening white feather in its long, spidery fingers. He
placed it within a few inches of Peter's nose and
watched the delicate edges riffle in the Dutchman's breath. Crossing
(21:56):
to the table, he leaned over the white fluff and
breathed the short German incantation over it. How it glistened
in the firelight. He bent closer and closer as he
whispered the magic words that Peter had taught him, his breath,
ruffling the feather playing about in the fringe softness. He
(22:16):
hung up the feather by a thread and watched it
hop back and forth in the center of the room.
Peter awakened and saw Myerstone sitting by the fire, noting
every movement of the feather. What are you doing, eh?
Myerstone swung around and glared at the bleary eyed Dutchman.
Sit down. He commanded, sit down and watch the feather
(22:39):
turn red. Peter didn't need to be told that it
was his feather. He knew by the merciless eyes of
Myerstone that everything was over. So you would determine to
find out what would happen if the hects were tried
on a man. Peter was surprised at how easily he
took his fate. There was no need of excitement. This
(23:02):
was his end, and there was no changing it. Yes,
I had to know, for I can't leave until I
have a complete record of all the results. Myerstone certainly
was not cocky. Now he looked almost ashamed of himself
as he sat there nervously watching a man's fate swing
by a silken thread. I am sorry, Peter, my friend,
(23:25):
but that is how it must be. You are a
stepping stone to a glorious reckoning that will soon take
place the hecks of the White Feather. I can hardly
believe that I have at last tracked it down, and you, Peter,
are the last witness, the last link in the chain
of those who know the secret. And how can it
(23:47):
better end than by your becoming a part of the secret.
Peter realized he had not much longer to live, and
nothing he could do to Myerstone would change his fate.
Perhaps he could say, of others, though, what is this
glorious reckoning you were speaking about? As soon as I
(24:08):
see how your case ends, I'll be able to go
ahead and release my vengeance on those stupid, bungling fools
who have thwarted my progress in the black arts. They
claim to speak in the name of humanity no less
in that case, exclaimed Peter, I won't let myself be
a foothold for your damned work. It is of the devil,
(24:30):
and I'll have no part of it. Shut up, fool,
you are a part of it already. Not if my
body is destroyed before you can get hold of it.
Peter played his trump card. He quickly sprang back and
slipped out the door into the storm. Myerstone jumped up
after him, but it was too late. He peered out
(24:52):
into the raging tempest, making out the figure of Peter
struggling with the hatch on the horse barn. He pulled
his cloak about him and started towards Peter to stop him.
The rain beat his face, blinding him momentarily, and before
he could see clearly, a dark mass, pounded by swift hoofs,
spattering mud all over him down the road sped Peter
(25:16):
on the horse, down the road and towards the footbridge.
Myerstone ran a few steps and halted. He heard the
hollow staccato of horses hoofs on the planks for an instant,
followed by a splintering crash that rumbled up from the gorge.
A long guttural cry pierced the black gloom as man
(25:37):
and horse plunged down to the seething death awaiting them.
Cursing savagely. Myerstone trudged back through the rain to the house.
He slammed the door shut and threw his cloak on
Peter's bed. There was one more bottle on the shelf.
He smashed the neck and poured a glass. If one
(25:58):
could see him bent over the table, sending silent curses
into his wine, he could readily imagine the feeling of
defeat that had spread over Myerstone's countenance. The idiot, a
Dutchman who had to play the hero's part and save
other lives by ending his own, made Meerstone fairly sick. However,
(26:19):
all was not over, so the Dutchman had died. The
hechts had worked a lot sooner than he had expected,
though now he certainly would be delayed in his progress,
for he had counted on examining the body for any
traces left that would suggest something out of the ordinary.
One thing, however, he had learned, was that the hects
(26:40):
at least worked on humans. The mangled body that was
being washed over the rocks would be enough proof on
that score, Myerstone poured another drink. He leaned back in
the chair and placed the glass to his lips. He
was tilted so far back that as he raised the
wine to a drinking position, it blocked his view of
(27:00):
the room. As he slowly sipped it, however, the room
began to come into view the ceiling first, and slowly
the wall. His eyes focused on a piece of thread
hanging from the ceiling, and as the wine sank lower
and lower in the glass, the thread grew longer and longer,
until in one last swallow he was able to see
(27:23):
the end of the line. Milestone's hand went stiff as
he looked at the thread, for on the end of
it was a pure white feather. In an instant, Milestone
realized that the hects had not worked. Peter's death at
the bridge had been a grotesque coincidence. Had the untimely
(27:44):
plunge in the rapids been the result of the hecks,
the feather would have long since been red. Therefore, the
tragedy was no more than an accident, and Mirestone's hands
were innocent of the dutchman's blood. That realization, of course,
did bother him for he was not concerned whether or
not he was responsible for Peter's death, but he was
(28:07):
genuinely worried in the failure of the hecks. He wondered
if he had done something wrong, if he had, the
last link that could have corrected him was broken. From
here on in he was on his own. He calmed
himself and began to think. He retraced everything that he
had done to see if he couldn't have found some
(28:29):
margin in which error could have crept in. He remembered
how carefully he had bent over the feather, reciting the
exact words taught him by Peter. He especially remembered that
part of the hecks, for hadn't the feather been ruffled
by his breath when he spoke? Gradually, the truth began
to dawn on Myerstone. His own breath must have released
(28:53):
Peter from the hecks. The last person's breath that touched
the feather would feel the sting of the power. Myerstone
sat back, dumbfounded. He was to be his own guinea pig.
What ghastly horror was he in for? Would he die
quickly like the goat? Or would his death be prolonged
(29:13):
over a period of days. Like Peter had suggested, he
gripped himself. It wouldn't do to lose control of his senses.
There must be a way out of the predicament. But
Peter said that as soon as a feather turned red,
there was no turning back. Ah, there's the answer. The
feather is still white. There's still a chance. Myerstone grabbed
(29:35):
his cloak and raced for the door. He must get
an animal, another goat perhaps, and expose the feather to
its breath. He must hurry lest the spell will start working.
The slippery mud dragged him back and impeded his progress,
but he struggled on through the blinding storm towards the barn.
(29:56):
It was so black outside that he could hardly make
out the all. At once he saw the barn looming
ahead of him. Which door every second counted, He would
try the first one. He came to. Wait, what's this?
Holding his cloak, Marstone turned and fumbled with some barbed
wire fencing. It had snagged him in the dark, and
(30:18):
he soon became hopelessly entangled in it. Crying and shrieking.
He tore the cloak from his shoulders and ran on
in his shirt sleeves. He wrenched open a door and
sprawled in the barn, head first. On his hands and knees.
He scurried across the mealy floor to the goat stall.
The kids sprang in terror as he lurched in, drunkenly,
(30:42):
grabbing about in the dark for one of them. Catching
one by the hind leg, he groped his way out again.
Thrusting his shoulders forward, he slid through the gripping mud,
tearing his way through the engulfing rain with his free hand.
His leg left numb from the wounded by the barred wire,
and a trickle of blood was running down his shins.
(31:05):
Without thinking, he reached down to rub the wound, but
quickly yanked his hand up again. What was that horrible
sensation he felt as he passed his hand over the
flesh he saw He couldn't see in the rain, but
his leg told him that it was something hairy, almost bristly.
He ran on towards the house, stumbling in the treacherous mud.
(31:27):
Once he fell completely down in the slime, wiping the
dripping earth from his face, heels told again that something
was wrong. His cheeks verified his shins. Story of a
rough jagged caress. Holding his hand in front of his face,
he saw, amidst a flash of lightning, a curling black claw,
(31:49):
bristling with long, ragged hairs. Screaming hysterically, he dropped the
kid and fell forward into the door of the house.
The latch gave way with his weight, and he tumbled
into the cottage, dancing madly. On the end of her
thread was a blood red feather.
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The Burden
The Burden is a documentary series that takes listeners into the hidden places where justice is done (and undone). It dives deep into the lives of heroes and villains. And it focuses a spotlight on those who triumph even when the odds are against them. Season 5 - The Burden: Death & Deceit in Alliance On April Fools Day 1999, 26-year-old Yvonne Layne was found murdered in her Alliance, Ohio home. David Thorne, her ex-boyfriend and father of one of her children, was instantly a suspect. Another young man admitted to the murder, and David breathed a sigh of relief, until the confessed murderer fingered David; “He paid me to do it.” David was sentenced to life without parole. Two decades later, Pulitzer winner and podcast host, Maggie Freleng (Bone Valley Season 3: Graves County, Wrongful Conviction, Suave) launched a “live” investigation into David's conviction alongside Jason Baldwin (himself wrongfully convicted as a member of the West Memphis Three). Maggie had come to believe that the entire investigation of David was botched by the tiny local police department, or worse, covered up the real killer. Was Maggie correct? Was David’s claim of innocence credible? In Death and Deceit in Alliance, Maggie recounts the case that launched her career, and ultimately, “broke” her.” The results will shock the listener and reduce Maggie to tears and self-doubt. This is not your typical wrongful conviction story. In fact, it turns the genre on its head. It asks the question: What if our champions are foolish? Season 4 - The Burden: Get the Money and Run “Trying to murder my father, this was the thing that put me on the path.” That’s Joe Loya and that path was bank robbery. Bank, bank, bank, bank, bank. In season 4 of The Burden: Get the Money and Run, we hear from Joe who was once the most prolific bank robber in Southern California, and beyond. He used disguises, body doubles, proxies. He leaped over counters, grabbed the money and ran. Even as the FBI was closing in. It was a showdown between a daring bank robber, and a patient FBI agent. Joe was no ordinary bank robber. He was bright, articulate, charismatic, and driven by a dark rage that he summoned up at will. In seven episodes, Joe tells all: the what, the how… and the why. Including why he tried to murder his father. Season 3 - The Burden: Avenger Miriam Lewin is one of Argentina’s leading journalists today. At 19 years old, she was kidnapped off the streets of Buenos Aires for her political activism and thrown into a concentration camp. Thousands of her fellow inmates were executed, tossed alive from a cargo plane into the ocean. Miriam, along with a handful of others, will survive the camp. Then as a journalist, she will wage a decades long campaign to bring her tormentors to justice. Avenger is about one woman’s triumphant battle against unbelievable odds to survive torture, claim justice for the crimes done against her and others like her, and change the future of her country. Season 2 - The Burden: Empire on Blood Empire on Blood is set in the Bronx, NY, in the early 90s, when two young drug dealers ruled an intersection known as “The Corner on Blood.” The boss, Calvin Buari, lived large. He and a protege swore they would build an empire on blood. Then the relationship frayed and the protege accused Calvin of a double homicide which he claimed he didn’t do. But did he? Award-winning journalist Steve Fishman spent seven years to answer that question. This is the story of one man’s last chance to overturn his life sentence. He may prevail, but someone’s gotta pay. The Burden: Empire on Blood is the director’s cut of the true crime classic which reached #1 on the charts when it was first released half a dozen years ago. Season 1 - The Burden In the 1990s, Detective Louis N. Scarcella was legendary. In a city overrun by violent crime, he cracked the toughest cases and put away the worst criminals. “The Hulk” was his nickname. Then the story changed. Scarcella ran into a group of convicted murderers who all say they are innocent. They turned themselves into jailhouse-lawyers and in prison founded a lway firm. When they realized Scarcella helped put many of them away, they set their sights on taking him down. And with the help of a NY Times reporter they have a chance. For years, Scarcella insisted he did nothing wrong. But that’s all he’d say. Until we tracked Scarcella to a sauna in a Russian bathhouse, where he started to talk..and talk and talk. “The guilty have gone free,” he whispered. And then agreed to take us into the belly of the beast. Welcome to The Burden.