by Aaron Mahnke
They’ve called it the Dover Demon ever since that week in 1977. Others have come forward with similar sightings. One local man, Mark Sennott, has said there’d been a rumor in his high school in the early 1970s of something odd in the woods. Sennott even claimed that he and some friends observed something odd near Channing Pond in 1972 that fits the description from the later reports. Channing Pond, mind you, is right beside Springdale Avenue, where Taintor and Brabham said they saw their Dover Demon. Clearly, something was in those woods.
Like most legends, this one will continue to cause debate and speculation. There have been no further sightings since 1977, but even so, the Dover Demon has left an indelible mark on the town and surrounding area.
SHIFTING THE BLAME
We don’t like to be alone. But I think in the process of creating the stories that have kept us company for centuries, humanity has also invented convenient excuses. All of these human-like creatures have acted as a sort of stand-in for human behavior and accountability. In an effort to absolve ourselves from the horrible things we’ve done, we seem to instinctively invent other beings on which to set the blame.
But what if the “others” really were there, long before we wove them into our stories? What if they were less an invention and more a co-opting of something we didn’t fully understand? Perhaps in our effort to shift the blame, we altered the source material a bit too much, and in doing so, we buried the truth under a mountain of myth.
There’ve been countless theories surrounding the 1977 sightings in Dover. Some think it was a type of extraterrestrial known as a “gray.” Others have actually suggested that it was just a baby moose. I know, that does seem like an odd way to explain it. Only two moose sightings were recorded in Massachusetts in 1977, and both of those were out in the western part of the state, far from Dover. Add in the fact that a yearling moose weighs more than six hundred pounds, and I think it’s clear that this theory just won’t hold up.
But there is a different, more textured theory to consider. If you remember, Billy Bartlett saw the Dover Demon sitting on an old stone wall on Farm Street. Well, just beyond that wall is a large stone outcropping that the locals have always called the Polka Stone.
Some think that the stone’s nickname is a mispronunciation of a different word, though. The original name, they say, was the Pooka Stone. It could just be folklore, perhaps the tall tales of an early Irish settler, told to a group of children around the foot of an enormous stone. Unfortunately, we’ll never know for sure.
But if you really want to see for yourself, you’re always welcome to head to Dover and take a drive down Farm Street. The wall and the woods beyond are still there, still dark, and still ominous. Just be careful if you travel there at night.
You never know what you might see at the edge of your headlight beams.
ON THE SOUTHWESTERN corner of Iceland, just to the south of the city of Reykjavik, is a small peninsula that juts out into the cold waters of the North Atlantic. It’s known as the Álftanes peninsula, and although few people live there, the local government recently decided to connect the small stretch of land to the town of Gardabaer, a suburb of Reykjavik.
Last year, however, construction on the new road was brought to a halt. Standing in their way was a massive rock, twelve feet high and weighing an estimated seventy tons. According to highway department employee Petur Matthiasson, the rock has presented an unusual challenge to his department’s construction project.
Now, you have to understand something about Iceland. Much of the region is a vast expanse of sparse grass and large volcanic rock formations. The ground boils with geysers and springs, and the sky seems to be eternally gray and cloudy. So it’s important to recognize that there are hundreds—maybe thousands—of volcanic stones along the construction route.
So what could possibly be so important about this one particular stone? Why would the highway department go to such lengths, even covering the expense of hiring a crane, just to move one stone to a safer location?
The stone, they say, is inhabited. It is—as it has been for many long centuries—home to huldufolk, the “hidden people.” They are the size and shape of humans, and live in much the same way. Except, of course, they are invisible.
THE HIDDEN FOLK
In the late 1930s, another road construction project in the same area of Iceland was planned to cut straight through a hill known as Alfholl. From the beginning, though, the project was met with challenges. First, the money for the project ran out, and when funding resumed a decade later, construction encountered even more snags.
The machines that were used to cut through the hill started to break at an uncommonly rapid rate. Tools were damaged and lost. In the end, the road was simply built around the hill to avoid the digging altogether.
When the road was due for updating in the 1980s, the notion of demolishing the hill came up again, and more machinery was brought in to drill through the hill. After the first drill broke, another was brought in, but it too stopped working. After that, the workers refused to bring any of their tools near the hill out of fear that they would be lost or broken by the huldufolk who guard the place.
Iceland is a culture teeming with references to this invisible society of human-like creatures. In a recent survey, more than half of all people in the country—54 percent—said they believed in the existence of these creatures. But who are the huldufolk?
According to one Icelandic folktale, the hidden people can be traced back to Adam and Eve. The legend says that Eve had a number of children whom she hid from God. But God, being omniscient and aware of everything that happens, found them anyway.
In the story, God declared, “What man hides from God, God will hide from man.” As a result, these children of Adam and Eve vanished from sight and have lived alongside humans ever since, hidden from our eyes.
Wherever they came from, Iceland is apparently filled with them. They are described as being the same size as humans and usually clad in simple nineteenth-century Icelandic clothing, often green-colored.
The people of Iceland have another term for these creatures, though. They don’t use it as often, because they feel it’s not as respectful as “the hidden folk.” But it’s a word we all know, and its history and meaning run deep.
They call them elves.
THE ELVES OF THE WORLD
When we think of elves, most of us imagine the little people who help Santa Claus in his workshop at the North Pole. We picture tiny people with pointed ears who wear tall pointed hats. But that vision of elves is actually new, dating back only to Victorian-era fairy tales, when French stories of fairies were mixed and confused with more ancient tales of elves from the Celtic, Germanic, and Scandinavian peoples.
The oldest records of something resembling elves are from Anglo-Saxon England and medieval Iceland, though some records do exist in Germany as well. The characteristics are consistent across the continent, though: elves were described as human-like, they were said to be formerly divine creatures of some unknown origin, and they are portrayed as very, very dangerous.
In Norse mythology, elves were mainly thought of as females who lived in the hills and mounds of stones. The Swedish elves were said to be beautiful girls who lived in the forest with their king. And Scandinavian folklore describes them as fair-haired, dressed in white, and dangerous when offended.
In fact, in many folktales, elves were given the role of disease spirits. Elves could inflict horrible skin rashes on anyone who offended them, and this was called an “elven blow.” The only way to calm and satisfy them was to actually visit their homes—often large stones in the forest—and leave them an offering of food.
ELVES GONE WILD
Early on, elves were simply thought of as mischievous pranksters. Anything odd that happened during a person’s day could be blamed on the elves. A tangle in a person’s hair was called an “elf lock,” and birthmarks were referred to as “elf marks.”
Over time, however, the elf d
eveloped a darker reputation. Much like their cultural counterparts in other countries, such as hobs, leprechauns, hobgoblins, and trolls, elves came to be seen as highly dangerous. A deeply common thread through all cultures is how easy it is to offend them, and how terrible the consequences might be if that happened.
One such tale was that of the changeling. According to legend, elves would invade the home of new parents and swap out their infant child for a small elf. While the human baby would be wonderfully cared for back in the home of the elves, the surrogate that was left behind, the changeling, would be fussy and unhappy.
In Iceland there are tales of huldufolk kidnapping adults, who are then taken back to the hills to work for the little people. In their place the huldufolk leave emotionless, hollow copies of the ones who are taken. It was said that if someone you knew underwent a severe personality change—becoming depressed and listless—it was because he or she had been replaced by the elves.
It was also believed that elves could enter the dreams of a sleeping person and inflict nightmares upon them. In fact, the German word for nightmare is albdrücken, which literally means “elf pressure.”
You see, if it was horrible, unexplainable, or tragic, there was always one easy explanation that dominated medieval minds: blame it on the elves.
THE VILLAGES
But what if these were more than just folktales? If so, that might explain the incredibly similar stories that exist among the native tribes of the American Northeast.
In 2011, a nonprofit housing developer in the United States began the final stages of its plan to build a $19 million, 120-unit construction project known as The Villages. Everything about it looked promising. It would generate roughly $1.5 million in tax revenue for the town of Montville, Connecticut; it would create more than a hundred construction-related jobs; and once completed it would provide affordable housing to scores of local families.
Because The Villages was a nonprofit endeavor, the development company applied for federal funding to offset the costs. As a requirement for the funding process, the developer had to complete an archaeological survey of the 12.2-acre parcel of land.
That’s when things hit a snag.
The proposed building site, it turns out, encroached on Mohegan tribe property. The Mohegan people were an offshoot of the Pequots, originating in the seventeenth century in Connecticut. They have deep roots in the area there, and naturally, parts of their historic past are still present today.
Among the sensitive archaeological sites that the Mohegan tribe claimed were at risk were Mohegan Hill, Fort Shantok, and Moshup’s Rock, among others. None of those historic sites is unusual in any way, but when the Tribal Historic Preservation Officer for the Mohegans presented their case to the federal Housing and Urban Development department, there was one complaint that stood out among all the others. Creatures, they claimed, lived inside Mohegan Hill. The construction project threatened their very lives, and unless it was stopped, the “little people,” as they called them, would disappear, leaving the tribe unprotected from outsiders.
The Mohegan tribe has long believed in the existence of creatures whom they call the makiawisug, the “little people.” The stone piles on Mohegan Hill were said to have been built by them long ago, and served as protection from the outside world. These makiawisug have remained inside the hill ever since, guarding the stones and protecting the tribe.
These were powerful creatures that could protect and preserve the tribe, but if ignored or treated poorly, they could also bring great harm and chaos. Naturally, the Mohegan people became very good at managing their relationship with them.
One of the most prominent Mohegan tribe members of the last century was a woman named Gladys Tantaquidgeon, who passed away in 2005 at the age of 106. She was a tenth-generation descendant of the Mohegan chief Uncas, a prominent colonial-era leader, and was also a tribal medicine woman. Her role included maintaining her tribe’s knowledge of the makiawisug and how to interact with them.
According to Tantaquidgeon, there were four non-negotiable laws for dealing with the “little people.” First, serve and protect their leader and matriarchal deity, Granny Squannit. Second, never speak to them in the summer months, when they are the most active. Third, never stare directly at one, or else the creature will become invisible and steal your belongings. And finally, leave them offerings from time to time.
And so to this day, the Mohegans continue to make offerings to these creatures in hopes that they will continue their role as protectors and guardians. It is traditional to leave them an offering of cornmeal and berries, and sometimes even meat.
Sound familiar?
A CONNECTION TO THE PAST
The vast majority of people in the world don’t really believe in the existence of elves or hidden people living in the bones of the earth. One explanation as to why Iceland is different, though, has to do with the Vikings.
When they conquered a city, the Vikings had real-life enemies to focus their hatred on. When they settled Iceland, however, no one else was there to be defeated. Perhaps the huldufolk provided the excuse they needed to feel like conquerors in a land with no native inhabitants.
Other scholars believe that elves represent our connection to the earth of old. They are a sort of primitive environmentalism, a reminder of the way life used to be before urban sprawl and manufacturing left their marks on our world.
Whatever the reason, our ancestors firmly believed in these otherworldly beings who could bless or curse them at will. Elves served as an excuse for the unexplained, as solid ground when nothing else seemed to make sense. We might laugh it off today from our modern point of view, but centuries ago, elves gave people an opportunity to hope, or a reason to be afraid.
And remember Petur Matthiasson, the highway department employee in Reykjavik, Iceland? He’s made it very clear to journalists that he doesn’t believe in elves. But that doesn’t stop him from telling an odd story to those who ask.
Apparently his family came from the northern side of Iceland long ago. There, in the wild north country, the family claimed to have had a protective elf who brought good fortune to them. When they moved south, the family elf remained behind.
Petur recalls going on a camping trip in the north some years ago. Before he left, his father asked him to go and pay his respects to the elf and to thank her for the help she had given to his family.
Not being one to believe in the old stories, Petur forgot the request. The next day, despite an overcast sky and wet drizzle, he woke up sore and blistered by what he described as something like a sunburn. He could barely stand, in fact.
Did Petur experience some random, mysterious dermatological episode, or was he the victim of an elven blow from an angry family patron? As it was for his ancestors, the easiest explanation might just be the most otherworldly.
I GREW UP WATCHING a television show called MacGyver. If you’ve never had the chance to watch this icon of the 1980s, do yourself a favor and give it a try. Sure, the clothes are outdated, and the hair…oh my gosh, the hair. But aside from the bits that didn’t age well, MacGyver and his trusty pocket knife managed to capture my imagination forever.
Part of it was the adventure. Part of it was the character of the man himself. I mean, the guy was essentially a spy who hated guns, played hockey, and lived on a houseboat. But hovering above all of those elements was the true core of the show: this man could make anything if his life depended on it.
We humans have an innate drive to make things. This is how we managed to create things like the wheel, or stone tools and weapons. Our tendency toward technology pulled our ancient ancestors out of the stone age and into a more civilized world. Maybe for some of us, MacGyver represented what we wanted to achieve: complete mastery over our world.
But life is rarely that simple, and however hard we try to get our minds and hands around this world we want to rule, some things just slip through the cracks. Accidents happen. Ideas and concepts still elude our limit
ed minds. We’re human, after all. Not gods.
So when things go wrong—when our plans fall apart or our expectations fail to be met—we have this sense of pride that often refuses to admit defeat. So we blame others, and when that doesn’t work, we look elsewhere for answers. And no realm holds more explanation for the unexplainable than folklore.
Four hundred years ago, when a woman refused to follow the rules of society, she was labeled a witch. When Irish children failed to thrive, it was because they were changelings. We’re good at excuses. So when our ancestors found something broken or out of place, there was a very simple explanation: someone—or something—had tampered with it.
AN OLD EXCUSE
The idea of meddlesome creatures isn’t new to us. All around the world, we can find centuries-old folklore that speaks of creatures with a habit of getting in the way and making life difficult for humans. It’s an idea that seems to transcend borders and background, languages and time.
Some might say that it’s far too coincidental for all of these stories of mischief-causing creatures to emerge in places separated by thousands of miles and vast oceans, and so there must be something to these legends. But others would say it has nothing to do with either real creatures or coincidence, and that these tales are merely a product of human nature—we want to believe there’s something out there causing the problems we experience every day. A scapegoat, as it were.
Many European folktales include this universal archetype in the form of nature spirits. And much of it can be traced back to the idea of the daemon. It’s an old word and concept, coming to us from the Greeks. In essence, a daemon is an otherworldly spirit that causes trouble. The root word, daiomai, means “to cut or divide.”