A man from Vianden, named D., was skilled in the black arts. He could make his body invisible and slip through any door, even firmly locked ones, or even through the keyhole. He seemed particularly set on stealing treats; for if anyone put food away in a cupboard or anywhere else, it was gone when they went to fetch it. When the cook was baking pancakes, he would whisk them away in an instant, without her knowing who had taken them or where they had gone.

D. was especially fond of disturbing the monastery. Late at night one could hear banging and rumbling there, and people often thought a heavy body was rolling down the stairs; but when they went to see what it was, nothing was to be found. Several times a shadow had been noticed on the wall, and shots had even been fired at it, but all in vain.

Then the old servant who lived next to the monastery took a silver bullet and had it blessed by the monastery’s prelate. One evening, when he thought he saw a shadow on the wall moving toward the clock case, he quickly grabbed his firearm and fired at the clock. The shot hit—and, O horror—there before him, lying in his own blood, was D., dead.

They immediately sent for his mother and his wife, and that evening the body was quietly taken up to the Gösberg. When they were almost at the top, the horses refused to go any farther. They were drenched in sweat from head to hoof. The carter, who was from Walsdorf, declared he could not move them on. The priest who was accompanying the corpse begged him not to stop, but to drive on up to the height.

The carter, however, demanded to know what he was carrying; otherwise he would not sacrifice his horses. Then the priest said:

“Well then, if you are steadfast, look over my left shoulder and you will see your load.”

What the farmer saw there must have been terrible, for when he came home the next morning, his formerly dark-brown hair was white as snow. The priest had the body buried up there on the mountain.

Erasmy.