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Updated: June 19, 2025
Mirestone's voice was drowned out by a heavy rumbling of thunder and the increased splashing of rain on the windows. But somehow Peter seemed not to notice. Somewhat later Mirestone stepped quietly over to the sleeping form of his host.
But having no time for any other diversions than might be found on his rustic 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. Now, Peter's life could have gone on unnoticed among these forgotten hills, except for the strange visit of Martin G. Mirestone, student of German history.
It was a cold night when Peter met Mirestone. Peter had been sitting up rather late pondering over an old, yellowed book by the light of a kerosene lamp. The pale flame flickered about the walls sending shadows scurrying back and forth creating all types of weird shapes and designs.
I know for a fact that Otto Scheinberger practiced the white feather hex and passed the power on down to your father. From there it stopped. However, there must be some record of it in your family. You are in possession of the books of your grandfather, aren't you?" "I have several of his books. Some of them I have read." "Well," Mirestone waited. "Did you come across anything about the hex?"
He poured a glass full and shoved it across the table towards the anxious Peter, and then poured another glass for himself. "Mirestone," the stranger finally answered, "Martin G. Mirestone." Then, draining his glass, he added, "Student of German history." All this was beyond Peter's comprehension.
Taking the cloak and draping 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," Mirestone explained, "For I want my stay to be as brief as possible."
Now, you will tell me about it, of course. I want 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 hex?" Mirestone climbed to his feet and paced the room. "Yes," he said. Peter noted a sad tone in his voice, and he waited for him to say more. "Yes," Mirestone continued.
The idiot of a Dutchman who had to play the hero's part and save other lives by ending his own made Mirestone fairly sick. However, all was not over. So the Dutchman had died; the hex 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.
"Yes," answered Peter. "I read about that which you mention." "Splendid, now we are getting somewhere. Can you 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 Mirestone with a look of superiority playing about his rustic features. "No, I am afraid not. You see, I have burned the book." Mirestone's face went white.
Mirestone 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 in the shadows cast by the cheekbones. Like some grim spectre he rose up, towering above the little Dutchman.
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