by Joe Nickell
It was difficult to escape the thought that she was going to great lengths to please her lover—even to the point of consciously feigning possession, which she appeared to withstand, no doubt as a supposed indication of her faith, and perhaps inflicting the markings on her body that seemed signs of divine approval. (The markings were no more than scratches and were located just where a right-handed person, like her, could have made them.)
It is even possible she was directed to feign the phenomenon by her boyfriend—hence, perhaps, their having invited the media to their home. I could not help but note the timing: it was only days before Halloween.
DEVIL IN THE GRAVEYARD
A more sensational—or sensationalized—case of alleged demonic attack was the subject of a 1991 book titled The Black Hope Horror. I was asked to look into the claims of the authors, Ben and Jean Williams, in preparation for my appearance on The Maury Povich Show (taped March 2, 1992).
Reportedly, in 1980, after the Williamses moved into their Texas home in a subdivision at Crosby, Texas, they learned that their house site had once been a cemetery for poor blacks—the abandoned Black Hope Graveyard. After neighbors began to suffer from stress and to experience some strange happenings, suing developers for $2 million on the grounds that (as the Houston Chronicle reported) the developers failed to inform them about the graveyard and that their disturbing of the graves had agitated the spirits of the dead. The Chronicle added: “The story told in court sounded like the script for a low-budget remake of the movie Poltergeist, which concerned a family's struggle to cope with ghosts who revolted because the family's home had been built over their graves” (Tutt 1987).
After a neighbor's court case was underway, the Williamses began to report even more extensive and persistent paranormal phenomena (which, they claimed, extended back to the time they moved in). Every odd occurrence—snakes in the backyard or an infestation of ants in the house, for instance—was interpreted as further evidence of demonic activity. So was the simple malfunction of their automatic garage door. When their eight-year-old granddaughter came to live with them and often saw “shadowy presences,” this was considered more proof, even though the girl loved to “daydream” and “pretend” and had “imaginary playmates” that she talked with (Williams, Williams, and Shoemaker 1991, 33, 60–61, 124).
Of all the phenomena they attributed to “the force”—which they equated with “the Devil”—the most profound was the death of their daughter Tina. However, although tragic, her death need not be attributed to the supernatural. She suffered from Hodgkin's disease, which had been in remission, but she then acquired a virus that caused her immune system to attack her heart muscle. She died, in fact, of “a massive heart attack” (Williams, Williams, and Shoemaker 1991, 172–73, 223, 227–29).
In fact, the Williamses were emotional, religious people, given to outbursts—Jean to crying and Ben to shouting at whomever would challenge him—as they demonstrated on Maury Povich. Jean Williams avidly read books on “supernatural and paranormal phenomena” and at times almost wished she were a Catholic so she could “attempt an exorcism.” When it became awkward to carry a Bible throughout the house, she bought a crucifix, and “the time came when she was walking the halls…, reciting prayers aloud, carrying the crucifix in one hand and a thirty-eight pistol in the other.” Ben Williams, an asthmatic with elevated blood pressure, sometimes attributed his experiences to “nerves” (Williams, Williams, and Shoemaker 1991, 32, 43, 71, 179, 203, 204).
Ida Ruth McKinney, the then seventy-nine-year-old ranch owner whose father had once owned the subdivision property, said, “I think it's a hoot. Just ridiculous.” Insisting that she had never so much as heard a “boo” on the property, she added, “I think somebody's a little off in the head or wants a little money” (Horswell and Friedman 1987). Referring to the case's similarity to Poltergeist, McKinney said, “Maybe we'll see a sequel from this.” Indeed, on March 3, 1992, CBS aired a made-for-TV movie based on the Williamses’ story called Grave Secrets: The Legacy of Hilltop Drive. However, as one reviewer observed, “The ghosts aren't as convincing as they should be, and the movie is not scary enough to quicken your pulse” (“Grave Doubts” 1992). (For more on this case, see Nickell 1995, 139–48.)
THE SNEDEKERS’ DEMONS
In 1986 the family of Allen and Carmen Snedeker (respectively a stone-quarry foreman and former bowling alley cocktail waitress) moved into a former funeral home, the Hallahan House, in Southington, Connecticut. Bizarre phenomena soon began with the oldest son, Philip. He reported seeing spirits, and his personality changed drastically: for example, he reportedly broke into a neighbor's home, telling his mother he wanted a gun so he could kill his stepfather. A seventeen-year-old niece who lived with the Snedekers claimed an unseen hand fondled her on occasion as she lay abed. Other phenomena were reported: strange noises, and even alleged demonic attacks on Carmen Snedeker.
At this point the Snedekers brought in notorious “demonologist” Ed Warren and his “clairvoyant” wife Lorraine. The pair made a business—some would insist a racket—of spirits. They came to be called many things, ranging from “passionate and religious people” to “scaremongers” and “charlatans” (Duckett 1991). Already having helped promote the Amityville “horror” and a similar West Pittston, Pennsylvania, “nightmare” (Curran 1988), the Warrens continued their modus operandi of arriving at a “haunted” house and transforming it into one of a “demonic” nature, in keeping with their own medieval-style Catholic beliefs.
Soon the Snedekers were repeating their claims on national TV shows—notably on Sally Jessy Raphael—to promote their book with the Warrens, In a Dark Place (Warren et al. 1992). This was written with professional horror-tale writer Ray Garton and its release was timed for Halloween promotion, 1992. I had earlier appeared with Carmen Snedeker on The Maury Povich Show (previously mentioned). My investigation intensified when Sally Jessy Raphael producers sent me an advance copy of the book by the Warrens and Snedekers, and invited me on the show. Still later I visited Southington as a guest of one of the Snedekers’ neighbors, whom I met on the show.
She was Kathy Altemus, and she shared with me her journal of events relating to the Hallahan House, beginning in mid-July 1988. The journal (written records alternating with news clippings) was revealing. For example, a TV program mentioned the sound of chains clanking in the house, but Altemus's journal shows that the noise was most likely from a passing truck that had made a sound like it was “dragging a chain.” Other events also had credible explanations, some attributable to various passersby mentioned in the journal as “pulling pranks on the ‘haunted house’” (Nickell 1995, 137).
The Snedekers’ landlady—who had served them with an eviction notice for failing to pay their rent—had responded to the supernatural claims. She said that she and her husband had owned the property for two and a half years and had experienced no problems with it. Similar views were expressed by the Snedekers’ upstairs neighbor, who called the Warrens “conartists.” And still more information came to light—regarding Philip Snedeker's drug use and other misbehavior. As to the “unseen hand” that the niece had reported, Philip was actually caught fondling her while she slept, and he had attempted to have sex with his twelve-year-old cousin. The police took him to a juvenile detention center, where he was diagnosed as schizophrenic (Warren et al. 1992, 145–47).
Several knowledgeable people labeled the Warren-Snedeker-Garton book fiction. The landlady's husband said, “It's a fraud. It's a joke. It's a hoax. It's Halloween.” He added, “It's a scheme to make money.” Those comments appeared in a newspaper article (Schmidt 1992), brilliantly titled “Couple Sees Ghost; Skeptics See through It.” Given the publicity-seeking actions in the case and the timing of the book for Halloween promotion, one may doubt the motives of those involved. If the case did not actually originate as a hoax, I concluded from my original investigation (Nickell 1995, 139), one could hardly be blamed for thinking it was transformed into on
e.
Indeed, some of the coauthors of the Warrens’ books have reportedly admitted that Ed Warren (d. 2006) told them to make up incidents and details to create “scary stories” (Nickell 2006). And Garton has now effectively repudiated the book, saying that family members—who had serious problems “like alcohol and drug addiction”—were unable to give a consistent account and told “different stories” (“Ray Garton” 2009).
Munich's twin-towered Frauenkirche (“Church of Our Lady”)—erected between 1468 and 1488—has a curious legend. It stems from an impression in the foyer's pavement that is said to be Der Teufelstritt, or “the Devil's step.”
LEGENDS
Supposedly the architect, Jörg von Halspach, made a pact with Satan, who agreed to supply money for the church's construction so long as it was built without a single window in view; otherwise the builder would forfeit his soul. When the church was completed, the architect led the devil to a place where he could view the well-lit nave, yet where no windows could be seen due to their being hidden by the great pillars. Furious, the devil stamped his foot, “leaving his black hoofed footprint in the pavement” (McLachan 2001).
Actually the imprint (see figure 55.1) is not a hoofed one at all, but rather “a footprint of a human being,” as it is correctly described in a church flyer (“Black Footprint” n. d.).
One could write an entire treatise on footprints in stone. In addition to those of fairies are footprints of various holy persons, including the Buddha, Jesus Christ, angels, Christian saints, and others, notably the devil (see, for example, Thompson 1955, 1:178–79). Of these, some may have been the effect of imagination applied to natural markings in rock, while others may have been pious frauds.
As to the folktale of the Teufelstritt, it exists in a number of variants (as folklorists say) that give evidence of the oral tradition behind it.
The greatest divergence in the varied tales is whether Satan stamped his foot in anger or out of triumph and glee. The latter versions, including the church's own flyer, tend to omit any interaction between the builder and devil and instead have Satan sneaking a view of the newly built church. Standing on the spot from which no windows can be seen and thinking that a windowless building is laughable, “in triumphal happiness he stamped into the floor, where he left this footprint in the ground.” But as he took a further step, he saw the many windows: “Out of an anger he changed himself into a great wind and hoped he could blow the building down. But he failed; and since that time there is always a wind blowing around the towers” (“Black Footprint” n. d.).
Despite the variations, all of the accounts focus on the concept of a vantage point from which none of the huge windows can be seen. This is a very real effect, but only if we ignore the great stained-glass window on the opposite end of the church. While that is a replacement (the church was largely destroyed during World War II bombings but later underwent years of restoration), unfortunately for the legend makers there was a window there at the time of the church's completion in 1488. The legend of the nonvisible windows must therefore have originated after 1620, when the window was blocked by a baroque high altar (remaining so until 1858 [Die Frauenkirche in Munchen 1999, 10]), thus completing the illusion of no windows.
EXAMINING THE SITE
Moreover, examining the Frauenkirche's legendary footprint, I concluded that it was itself incompatible with its accompanying folktale. Whereas the foyer's pavement is a checkerboard pattern of red and gray marble, the imprint is not in one of those paving stones. Instead (as shown in figure 55.1) it is in a smaller inset square—apparently made of concrete and covered over (except for the footprint) with a hard, mustard-colored material that has suffered some cracking and breaking.
The next morning, while I examined and photographed the spot more extensively, Martin Mahner—executive director of the Center for Inquiry Europe—was able to strike up a conversation with the churchwarden. He admitted that the imprint was not genuine, stating that the floor had been restored and that the Teufelstritt was merely a reconstruction.
The churchwarden was uncertain whether the “original” footprint had been destroyed or perhaps was in a museum or in storage somewhere. However, the other evidence of a post-1620 creation still demonstrates that the Teufelstritt and its attendant legend are apocryphal.
A possibly innocent explanation is that the original footprint was put there by a stonemason when the floor was reportedly redone in 1671 (Schmeer-Sturm 1998). It could have been placed merely to mark the spot from which churchgoers could observe what was, after all, an intriguing little illusion. Then, after that purpose was no longer remembered, the legend could have been coined—by that notorious legend maker, Anonymous.
The case of “The Devil's Footprints” is a classic of the “unsolved” genre, having been featured in Rupert T. Gould's Oddities: A Book of Unexplained Facts (1928, 1964); Frank Edwards's Stranger Than Science (1959); C. B. Colby's Strangely Enough (1971); Rupert Furneaux's The World's Most Intriguing True Mysteries (1977); Martin Ebon's The World's Greatest Unsolved Mysteries (1981); and many other anthologies and compendia of the unexplained. The fullest account, complete with the original source material, is given by Mike Dash in Fortean Studies (1994).
THE TALE
Colby tells the story in concise form:
There was no denying the footprints in the snow on the morning of February 9, 1855. The odd tracks appeared in several towns in South Devon, England. Residents of Lympstone, Exmouth, Topsham, Dawlish, and Teignmouth all reported the same thing. During the night some weird and uncanny creature had raced in a straight line through these towns, covering a hundred miles and more and leaving behind the tracks nobody could identify.
Each track, about 4 inches in length and 2¾ in width, was exactly 8 inches apart. They were roughly shaped like a hoofprint and were promptly christened “The Devil's Footprints” by all who saw them. Even the conservative London Times printed a report of the footprints in the snow….
Going straight across country, the tracks never swerved. They were found upon the top of 14-foot walls and they crossed the roofs of barns and houses, went up and over snow-covered piles of hay and even appeared on the tops of wagons which had been left out all night.
It was as if the creature had leaped up or down, for the tracks showed no apparent change of pace or speed. In many places it was reported that the snow had been “branded” away or melted from the ground where the “feet” had touched….
Over the hundred-mile course, the distance between the tracks never varied from the regular 8 inches, yet how could anyone or anything travel that far in a single night without varying its stride?
Too many people saw the tracks for it to have been a joke or a local phenomenon. In some instances the prints vanished at the edge of unfrozen ponds or rivers, and appeared again exactly in line on the opposite side, to race away in that straight and mysterious flight across the sleeping countryside. And in all that distance, no one saw it, no one heard it. Only the tracks remained as evidence of the creature's passing.
(See figures 56.1–56.3.)
Some sources, like Edwards (1959), incorrectly give the date as February 7, 1855, the confusion resulting from early reports mentioning the night of the eighth. By the seventeenth the story had reached the national newspapers, which published correspondents’ accounts through mid-March. Experts from the Zoological Gardens in Regent's Park and from the British Museum were silent, but others offered theories that postulated everything from an escaped kangaroo to birds, rats, cats, foxes, and other creatures. No kangaroo was on the loose, but the naturalist Sir Richard Owen (1855) claimed the solution to the mystery was a badger, based on his interpretation of published drawings and descriptions of some of the tracks. But Owen's solution, like those of others, failed to account for all of the reported factors. As one writer noted, a badger could not have “jumped a fourteen-foot wall or squeezed through a six-inch drain pipe, let alone have left clear marks on the sill of a second-st
orey window!” (Brown 1982).
So what is the solution? It begins with the acknowledgment that “no one explanation will cover all the reported factors” (Brown 1982). But that statement is meant to imply some further, unknown source—perhaps, as many of the mid-nineteenth-century rural South Devon folk thought, the devil himself.
CONTAGION
Suppose, however, we postulate that the various reports are manifestations of what psychologists call contagion—a term I like to define by an example: in 1978, in Holland, a media alert regarding a small panda that had escaped from a zoo in Rotterdam resulted in some one hundred panda sightings made all over the country, yet, as it turned out, the panda had been killed by a train a few yards from the zoo and obviously no one had seen the rare animal (Van Kampen 1979). How do we explain the many sightings? The answer is contagion: an idea or concept that is spread by suggestion, somewhat analogous to a contagious disease. In other words, people's anticipations can lead them to misinterpret what they have actually seen. One person perceives out of the corner of his or her eye a dark shape crossing a yard; thus a dog becomes a “panda.” Someone driving in the countryside sees a rustling in some bushes, and so what is actually a native wild animal triggers another panda sighting. Soon, hoaxers will get in on the act and phone in bogus reports. Not surprisingly, contagion is easily recognizable in many paranormal events such as certain UFO and monster “flaps” (Nickell 1995).
Just as there were many sightings attributed to a single panda on the loose in the case in Holland, many factors must surely have been involved during that brief period of near hysteria in February 1855 in South Devon. In fact, although Furneaux (1977) continued to treat the case as a mystery, he briefly suggested the basic explanation of the case:
On 8 February there had been a slight thaw; more snow fell that night and a freezing wind got up at dawn, enlarging and distorting, perhaps, the prints of hundreds of badgers, otters, rats and cats.