The Cursed Photograph of the Lancaster Witch

The Urban Legend

In the summer of 1921, a Berks County man named Phil A. Gelul packed his Folding Pocket Kodak Model G camera and set off into the wooded ridges north of Reinholds. He wasnโ€™t looking for deer or wildflowers. He was hunting something whispered about in taverns and around farmhouse hearths. Something the Pennsylvania Dutch spoke of only in hushed tones. Gelul was seeking the fabled Lancaster Witch.

The hills there were no ordinary woods. For generations, they had been home to powwow doctors, practitioners of Braucherei, Pennsylvania Dutch folk healing. A skilled powwower could lay hands on the sick, recite charms to stop bleeding, or scratch protective hex signs into barn doors to ward off the evil eye. Farmers carried copies of The Long Lost Friend, a book of prayers and remedies said to protect against misfortune.

But just as light casts shadows, whispers told of those who used such knowledge for darker purposes. For every powwower who cured an illness, there was another accused of sowing one. It was in these same hills, neighbors said, that the Lancaster Witch wandered. Her charms twisted to curses, her blessings turned to blights.

Gelul knew the tales. Still, he pressed on, convinced his camera could capture truth where superstition reigned.

He found her in a clearing, standing before a weathered barn. She was barefoot, her hair wild and gray, her face obscured as though blurred by smoke. Her eyes fixed on him with a coldness that made his hands tremble.

As Gelul raised the Kodak, she spokeโ€”once, twice, three timesโ€”warning him not to take her picture. โ€œNo pictures,โ€ she hissed, her voice carrying the same old-world cadence as the powwow healers of the valley. In Lancasterโ€™s Amish country, it was already believed that photographs could steal a piece of the soul. But the witchโ€™s warning carried sharper teeth, an unspoken threat.

Gelul ignored her. The shutter clicked several times in rapid succession.

That night, back in his Berks County home, Gelul collapsed at the dinner table. His wife, Elsie, heard him gasp about the womanโ€™s face before he crumpled to the floor. Within twenty-four hours, he was dead.

When the roll of film was developed, every frame came out black except one. The lone surviving image showed the woman in her apron, her body firm, her face an indistinct blur as though the camera had captured something that resisted being seen.

A historically blurred photograph of a woman in an apron standing near a weathered barn, with a chicken in the foreground.
Close-up of the Lancaster Witch

Some said Gelul died of natural causes from a stroke, heart failure, or exhaustion from his trek through the mountains. But the misfortunes did not end with him.

Elsie Gelul, hoping to preserve her husbandโ€™s work, handled the photograph herself. Within days, she fell into a wasting fever. Though she recovered, neighbors whispered that the witch had marked her, leaving her thin and frail, her health never fully restored.

Years later, a collector of oddities acquired the photograph. He made a sport of showing it off in Ephrata taverns, daring men to gaze into the witchโ€™s face. Not long after, his barn was consumed in a midnight blaze. He swore a lantern had toppled. Others muttered the flames were payment for mocking her.

In the 1970s, a Lancaster college student borrowed a copy for a folklore paper. Days later, he was killed in a crash on Route 222. Officially, the rain-slick road was to blame. But friends swore he had joked about the photo only hours before mocking the blur of her face, saying it looked like a mask. Witnesses at the scene whispered he had swerved to avoid a shadowy figure in the road.

Pennsylvania has known witches before. Margaret Mattson, tried in Chester County in 1684, was accused of bewitching cattle. William Penn himself presided over her case. But unlike Mattson, the Lancaster Witch was never dragged before a court. She is remembered not in records, but in whispers and in one uncanny photograph.

The image survives, though many refuse to keep a copy. They say the curse isnโ€™t in the story but in the picture itself. To gaze too long is to invite the same fate as Gelul and those who came after.

So, if you dare to look upon the photograph of the Lancaster Witch, let your eyes linger only for a moment. And whatever you do, donโ€™t mock her blurred, inhuman face.

A woman in a long dress and apron stands in a grassy clearing near a weathered barn, surrounded by trees and a chicken in the foreground.
Phil A. Gelul’s 1921 photograph of the Lancaster Witch

The Truth

As chilling as the story of the Lancaster Witch might be, the reality behind the infamous photograph is far less sinister. The legend first surfaced online in 2020 on a subreddit called The Mystic Lighthouse, where users share tales of the paranormal, unexplained, and downright spooky. That postโ€”simply titled โ€œThe Lancaster Witchโ€โ€”paired the eerie photo with the tale of Phil Gelulโ€™s untimely death. From there, it spread across the internet, with Spanish-language accounts giving it the widest circulation beginning in 2024. Most recently, it was picked up by ABC27, which helped cement the witch in Susquehanna Valley folklore.

But the photograph itself? Not a cursed relic at all. The image actually shows Frances โ€œGrandmaโ€ Hardenbergh, snapped in 1921 at her Catskill Mountains farm in the Beaverkill River Valley near Roscoe, New York. Far from a malevolent witch lurking in the woods of Lancaster County, Grandma Hardenbergh was simply tending her land when the shutter clicked. The photo originally appeared on The Friends of Beaverkill Community website around 2008, on a page documenting the Hardenbergh family.

Unedited photograph of Frances Hardenbergh, taken at their farm in 1921. ๐Ÿ“ธ: The Friends of Beaverkill Community

And that name, Beaverkill, sounds like something out of a horror story, doesnโ€™t it? Perfect for a haunted river valley. But donโ€™t let it fool you. The word kill is Dutch for โ€œcreekโ€ or โ€œriver.โ€ So Beaverkill literally means โ€œBeaver River.โ€ Not quite so terrifying after all.

So, while the Lancaster Witch may not be real, her legend has taken on a life of its own. Which, when you think about it, might be the most haunting thing of all.

Read stories like this in Uncharted Lancasterโ€™s Ghosts, Monsters, and Tales of Adventure book. This 283-page book is packed with 64 unforgettable stories, all set right here in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.


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