Month: October 2016

In the first episode of Netflix’s hit series Stranger Things, four boys—Dustin, Lucas, Will, and Mike—are sitting around a basement table playing a spirited game of Dungeons & Dragons. It’s nighttime, and a sense of foreboding hangs over the scene, established by the show’s opening just seconds before when a lab worker fell victim to an unseen creature chasing him down the corridors of a mysterious government facility.

Suddenly, Mike, the Dungeon Master, reveals the mother of all D&D monsters—the one most feared by the other players.

“The Demogorgon!” Mike yells as he slams the game piece down.

As fans of the show well know, the Demogorgon is more than just a formidable foe from a popular role-playing game. It’s also the name the boys give the creature that breaks out of the Upside Down realm, abducts Will, and terrorizes the small town of Hawkins, Indiana. Moreover, it’s a symbol of unspeakable evil, a shorthand for the chaos that visits the otherwise predictable lives of this Anywhereville, USA.

That evil has a long history behind it. Indeed, Stranger Things is only the latest in a collection of novels, epic poems, and other works stretching back centuries that reference the terrifying name.

Beginning in the Middle Ages, the Demogorgon was characterized as a powerful, primordial demon. In Paradise Lost, John Milton’s 1667 epic poem about the fall of man, Demogorgon is “the dreaded name,” and in Milton’s earlier Prolusion 1, Demogorgon is explained as the ancestor of all the gods in ancient mythology. In Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, written circa 1590, the title character invokes the name of Demogorgon while calling upon the demon Mephistopheles. Edmund Spenser, in his allegorical poem The Faerie Queene, describes Demogorgon as one of the rulers of hell, residing “Downe in the bottome of the deepe Abysse … Farre from the view of the Gods and heauens blis,” while in Moby-Dick, Starbuck refers to the white whale as “demigorgon” to the Pequod’s heathen crew. Fast forward more than 100 years, and Hunter S. Thompson is name-checking the Demogorgon in The Rum Diary.

But the Demogorgon’s starring role came in Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound, published in 1820, in which it overthrows Jupiter, king of the Gods, and frees the title character from 3000 years of torture. The Romantic poet imagined the Demogorgon not as a creature, but as a dark, shapeless god residing in a cave deep in the underworld.

I see a mighty darkness
Filling the seat of power, and rays of gloom
Dart round, as light from the meridian sun,
Ungazed upon and shapeless; neither limb,
Nor form, nor outline; yet we feel it is
A living Spirit.

So powerful was the Demogorgon that it transcended physical form and, like a Medieval Voldemort, was too terrible a name to say or spell out.

With Dungeons & Dragons, the monster finally took shape: Standing 18 feet tall, it had a scaly, reptilian body, tentacle arms, and two giant baboon heads. It could charm, hypnotize, drain away life force, or make you deadly ill. It was called “The Prince of Demons.” Truly, chaos was its calling card.

In Stranger Things, the Demogorgon became something different—a dark, twisted creature resembling a cross between a werewolf and a Venus flytrap. A general of hell? Lord of the underworld? Maybe not. But with its otherworldly menace and point of origin—a dusky, alternate plane where tiny particles swirl about like falling snow—the creature is every bit vintage Demogorgon.

So who created the Demogorgon? The oldest known mention comes from, of all things, an ancient typo. In a 5th century commentary on an epic by the Roman poet Statius, the Christian scholar Lactantius Placidus referenced “Demogorgon, the supreme god, whose name it is not permitted to know.” Sounds scary, but scholars today believe Placidus’s “Demogorgon” was a misconstruction of the Greek word for “demiurge,” the creator of the physical world. The name conjured up the Gorgons of Greek mythology—the three sisters with snakes for hair, Medusa being the most famous—and stoked the imaginations of future writers. In the 14th century, the Italian author Giovanni Boccaccio included the Demogorgon in his genealogy of mythical creatures, the Genealogia deorum gentilium, thus securing its place in the cultural lexicon.

A name, of course, is just that. What’s more important is what a name signifies, which in this case seems to be a fear of the unknown, a fascination with realms beyond. Stranger Things may be a love letter to the ’80s, but its marauding demon carries on a timeless tradition. Long live the Demogorgon.

Your high-brow Halloween soundtrack has arrived. BBC Radio 3’s Words and Music, a show that sets poems and other writing to classical music, celebrates the holiday with an episode on witches and sorcerers.

The 74-minute episode features a diverse cast of magical individuals from the literary canon, including the Wizard of Oz’s Wicked Witch of the West, Goethe’s 1797 poem “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” C.S. Lewis’s titular villain of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Christopher Marlowe’s play Doctor Faustus, and Shakespeare’s magician Prospero from The Tempest. The classical music by composers like Tchaikovsky and Vivaldi is interspersed with theme-appropriate blues and jazz hits like Nina Simone’s “I’ll Put a Spell on You” and Eartha Kitt’s “I’d Rather Be Burned as a Witch.”

Listen to the program over on the BBC website.

[h/t BBC]

Know of something you think we should cover? Email us at tips@mentalfloss.com.

 
The role of Count Dracula was not one that Henry Irving wanted. More than a century ago, the actor refused the part in a staged reading of Bram Stoker’s exciting new novel, released in 1897. Yet Irving would never entirely shake the specter of the intense, sensual vampire—a character that scholars say he himself inspired.

Abraham “Bram” Stoker grew up in Ireland in the mid-1800s. A sickly child, he spent many days and nights in bed while his mother Charlotte filled his ears with tales of monsters and ghouls, disease and death. But Stoker grew healthier as he got older, and by the time he left home for university, he was a hale, red-haired giant. Bram had become a jock, but a well-read jock, exchanging doting and passionate letters with his idol Walt Whitman.

After college, Bram followed in his father’s footsteps and entered civil service. He might have stayed there, too, were it not for the lure of the theater. So eager was Stoker to immerse himself in Dublin’s dramatic scene that he began volunteering at night as a theater critic for the Dublin Evening Mail—despite the fact that the paper already had paid staff writing reviews.

It was in his capacity as a critic that Stoker first encountered Henry Irving in 1877. The actor was playing the lead role in Hamlet—a well-worn part by any measure, yet Stoker felt that Irving brought a depth and freshness to the performance that had never been seen before.

 
Stoker was instantly enchanted. He returned to see a second performance, and then a third, writing a new review each time. Intrigued by the attention, Irving invited an ecstatic Stoker to a dinner party.

An after-meal recitation by Irving cemented the night in Stoker’s mind forever. Even in a dining room the imposing actor commanded his audience with almost mesmeric power. “Outwardly I was as of stone …” Stoker wrote years later in his book Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving. “The whole thing was new, re-created by a force of passion which was like a new power.” When the poem concluded, Stoker “burst out into something like a fit of hysterics.”

That night, he wrote, “began the close friendship between us which only terminated with his life—if indeed friendship, like any other form of love, can ever terminate.”

Irving was flattered by the younger man’s avid attention and enjoyed his company. The two began spending more and more time together, sometimes talking until sunrise. Irving offered Stoker a job as his business manager. Stoker quit his office job (much to his parents’ chagrin) and gave himself over to a life in the theater.

It was a good fit: Stoker was a thoroughly educated man and a gifted manager with a head for figures. Irving’s theater, the Lyceum, blossomed under Stoker’s careful and devoted attention. Yet despite his talents and hard work, which kept him away from his wife and child for days, even months at a time (Bram married Florence Balcombe in 1878; the two welcomed their son Irving—ahem—one year later), Stoker never sought attention or acclaim.

Even if he had, he likely would not have had much luck. Someone once asked Irving if he had a college degree. “No,” he drawled, “but I have a secretary who has two.” The “secretary” he spoke of so dismissively was Stoker.

This seemingly symbiotic relationship—Irving as vainglorious master, Stoker the humble servant—went on for decades. “Being anywhere with Irving was contentment for Stoker,” historian Barbara Belford wrote in her 1996 book Bram Stoker: A Biography of the Author of Dracula.

But trouble comes to us all, even the happiest pairs. Stoker had continued to write, scribbling on scraps of paper in the scarce moments he wasn’t working or spending with Irving. (The relationships between Stoker and his wife, and between Irving and his, had long since grown cold). In 1897, those scraps became a book.

Dracula told the story of a naïve young middle-class man held prisoner by a powerful, sensual count.

“His face was a strong—a very strong—aquiline,” protagonist Jonathan Harker wrote in his fictional journal, “with high bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils, with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion.”

As Harker came to learn, the vampire Count Dracula would never see his own reflection. But Irving might have. “Somewhere in [Stoker’s] creative process,” Belford writes, “Dracula became a sinister caricature of Irving as mesmerist and depleter, an artist draining those about him to feed his ego. It was a stunning but avenging tribute.”

Irving may have been the most obvious, immediate inspiration for Stoker’s count, but he was not the only one. Many elements of Dracula’s past were lifted wholesale from history and legends surrounding Vlad the Impaler. Some scholars argue the dramatic, articulate count represented a monstrous version of Stoker’s sometimes-friend Oscar Wilde, whose public trial and shunning took place just one year before the novel was written. And there may have been a variety of other inspirations for Stoker’s tale. Yet Belford, and other scholars, believe much of Dracula’s looks and character were based on Irving [PDF].

In order to protect theatrical rights to his novel, Stoker quickly shaped it into a script and organized a staged reading at the Lyceum, offering the lead role to the theater’s leading man—by then one of the most famous actors in the Victorian era. Irving turned it down. Instead, he watched dolefully from the audience as someone else brought the vampire to life. The reading ended. Irving retreated.

A nervous Stoker found the actor in his dressing room. “How did you like it?” he asked.

“Dreadful,” Irving said.

Two years later, Irving sold the Lyceum out from under Stoker’s nose.

Six years after that, Irving died. But Stoker never forgot their fateful first meeting the night of the dinner party. “So great was the magnetism of his genius, so profound was the sense of his dominancy,” Stoker wrote, “that I sat spellbound.”

Depending on who you ask, clowns are either harmless fun or the stuff of nightmares. But no matter where your opinion falls, there’s a lot going on beneath the face paint of this surprisingly old profession. There’s even a story behind the iconic red nose: It can be traced to a member of the Fratellini family named Albert, who originated the Auguste clown archetype—complete with the world debut of the bright red clown nose. Now make like a clown car and stuff as many of these facts in your head as you can.

1. THERE REALLY ARE A LOT OF CLOWNS IN CLOWN CARS.

It’s tempting to think the clown car gag is an illusion, but according to Greg DeSanto, executive director of the International Clown Hall of Fame and Research Center, “There’s no trick to the clown-car gag.” He told Car and Driver that “there are no trap doors in stadium floors, and the cars are real cars.” Instead, the car is gutted of its interior, and all windows are painted over except for a peephole for the driver, who sits on a milk crate. “Then,” DeSanto said, “it’s a matter of shoving in the clowns.” A compact car can fit between 14 and 21 clowns.

2. YOU CAN ATTEND GRIMALDI’S FUNERAL—AND DANCE ON HIS GRAVE.

Joseph Grimaldi was one of the world’s first circus clowns, and he made his biggest mark on the profession in 1806 with his rogue-meets-fool clown character. Pantomime clowns—a.k.a. Joeys—get their clown makeup from him. Grimaldi’s work is honored by his present-day peers every year on the first Sunday of February at the Holy Trinity Church in London. You can celebrate one of history’s greatest clowns, too, by heading to north London, where artist Henry Krokatsis installed musical tiles over his grave. Tap your feet to play “Hot Codlins,” a tune Grimaldi was known for.

3. THE CREEPY CLOWN FAD HAS BEEN AROUND SINCE THE ’80s.

Mysterious clown run-ins currently abound, but this isn’t the first time people have used clown costumes to frighten their community. In 1981, there were reports of men dressing as clowns and harassing school children in Boston. Later that spring, Kansas City kids reported being chased by clowns. Sightings have popped up in the news periodically ever since. The World Clown Association has had to contend with their profession being besmirched by these jokers, and they’re not happy about it.

4. CLOWNS MUST FOLLOW THE EIGHT CLOWN COMMANDMENTS.

Being a clown is no laughing matter, and Clowns of America International asks professionals to follow the Clown Commandments. They include “remember[ing] that a good clown entertains others by making fun of himself or herself and not at the expense or embarrassment of others,” promising not to smoke or drink when in makeup or costume, and to “remove my makeup and change into my street clothes as soon as possible following my appearance, so that I cannot be associated with any incident that may be detrimental to the good name of clowning.”

5. THERE’S CURRENTLY A CLOWN SHORTAGE.

With standards rising for clowning, and its popularity amongst millennials falling, clowning just isn’t what it used to be. The World Clown Association, the nation’s largest clown trade group, says membership is down about 28 percent since 2004. A lifetime career as a clown can also be daunting due to low pay and tough competition. In 2013, Ringling Brothers only had 26 clowns in its three circuses.

6. CLOWNING WAS ONCE CONSIDERED A FEMINIST ACT.

In 1895, The New York Times dubbed Evetta Mathews “the only lady clown on earth.” The newspaper was being hyperbolic (lady clowns Amelia Butler and Irene Jewell Newton were Mathews’s predecessors), but, as a female clown, the 25-year-old was a rare sight for her time, and her clowning was framed as an example of women’s emancipation. Mathews herself said that despite her circus family disapproving, she felt like she had chosen her big top career well. Being a clown meant fewer chances of being injured and more opportunities to write her own skits.

7. YOU CAN VISIT A CLOWN MOTEL NEXT TO A GRAVEYARD.

If you happen to roll into the tiny town of Tonopah, Nevada and prefer your motels on the spooky side, check into the Clown Motel for the night. A desert oasis made of pure nightmare fuel, you’ll find clown dolls and images everywhere you turn. Don’t forget to enjoy the view while you’re there, either: This motel is right next door to an early-1900s graveyard.

All images courtesy of iStock unless noted otherwise

Cindi Hagley looked at the spot where the woman had been bludgeoned to death and paused. It had happened on the front lawn of an expansive property in the Midwest, with distinctive landscaping work acting as a backdrop for the media that had descended on the scene. The arrangement of flowers and other foliage would be familiar to anyone in the area who had looked at a local newspaper.

“What you need to do,” she told the seller’s agent, “is change the lawn. Rip it up. Plant something else. Make it look softer.”

Like an FBI profiler called in to consult with local authorities on a murder, Hagley had been summoned by the property’s representatives for advice on how best to market what’s known in the business as a “stigmatized home”—a slice of real estate that’s been the site of a violent crime or one purported to harbor spirits. As one of just a few realtors who specializes in houses with tumultuous histories, Hagley knows how to rid a listing of negative connotations.

It’s a skill that goes beyond simple remodeling. In many cases, Hagley is approached to market houses that owners are convinced are a hub of disturbing paranormal activity. That might require psychic consultations, signed disclosure forms, or the presence of a rabbi.

In 12 years, she has never failed to close on a haunted property. “Marketed properly,” she tells mental_floss,” I don’t believe a stigmatized home should sell for a penny less than market value.”

Hagley grew up in Southern Ohio experiencing what she calls a “sensitive” awareness to peculiar activity. When she was in high school, her family unknowingly moved into a home that was once a funeral parlor. “Faucets would turn on by themselves,” she says. “There were apparitions, noises in the basement. I believe it was haunted.”

After a stint in network television ad sales, Hagley made a move into real estate. While preparing for her first open house, she sensed movement out of the corner of her eye. When she asked the seller if she had ever noticed anything unusual, the seller said that her boyfriend had seen some sort of apparition.

Hagley believed her. She also wondered how a ghost could potentially affect the value of a home. “I asked my broker if I had to disclose that,” she says. “And I did. It can affect the material value of a home.”

California requires sellers to be forthcoming if a property is “stigmatized”—that is, if it has been the site of a death within the past three years, if it was home to drug manufacturing, or even if a spirit is believed to inhabit the premises, which are all considered psychological impactions that can affect a buyer’s perception of the home. It’s one of roughly 25 states that have such a mandate on the books, urged by a desire for real estate sales to be transparent (and made more relevant by the fact that one in five Americans have seen a ghost). A California appellate court once ruled in 1983 that such a belief can lawfully have a material effect on price. (A woman bought a house and was not informed five people were murdered in it. She was unhappy, sued, and won.)

Hagley studied the requirements carefully and became intrigued by the potential for a sub-specialty in her business. “Not long after that house, I had two homes where people had died a natural death,” she says. “No one else was an expert in this, so I just decided to run with it.”

Word of Hagley’s willingness to tackle properties with lurid histories spread: Sellers started reaching out and requesting her services. If they claim their house is haunted, Hagley will arrange for a walk-through to see if she can observe any unusual activity herself. She’ll also interview the homeowner to get details of what he or she may have experienced. Historical research on the address might lead to a possible cause of the disturbance—if someone was murdered there, or if previous owners had expressed concern over ectoplasmic squatters.

What Hagley does next depends on whether she considers the spirits to be generally benevolent or not. “Some buyers will be okay if the spirits are believed to be gentle,” she says. “Sometimes they need to be removed.”

If it’s the latter, Hagley has a psychic she works with regularly. Other times, prospective buyers will request that a representative of their church perform a kind of spiritual audit on the home—a “bless and assess.”

“I’ve had priests and rabbis walk through,” she says. “I’ve held séances. I’ll do whatever the prospective buyer feels they need to do.”

If someone is still unsure, Hagley offers to call a caterer and let them stay in the house over two or three nights. Safe in the knowledge that the dark doesn’t lead to any kind of real disturbance, they’re more likely to stand behind their offer.

Hagley doesn’t openly advertise homes as haunted or stigmatized. That kind of publicity just results in crime scene tourists or would-be ghost hunters wasting her time, she says. Instead, buyers interested in a home are told about its colorful history in person, with written disclosure forms sent as a follow-up.

Hagley is not required by law to get into details. “I might say, ‘There was a death on the premises in 2014,’ or ‘The seller believes there is paranormal activity here,’” she says. “I’m not going to say, ‘Someone was swinging from the chandelier with a gunshot wound to the heart.’”

If an interested party presses for details, Hagley will explain further: “At least 75 percent of people just don’t care. If they do care, I have three or four final offers in already. Someone is going to buy it if they don’t.”

Although Hagley hangs a shingle, Past Life Homes, to remind people of her unique skill set, she says less than 3 percent of her business comes from stigmatized deals; most of her homes are high-end luxury properties. Past Life is simply a way to satisfy both her curiosity about spectral entities and to assist sellers who may feel their home is unmarketable.

Despite her spotless record, she won’t take on everything that crosses her desk. “Recently, I got a call to consult on a haunted house in West Virginia,” she says. “I found out the owners had been offering Halloween tours, opening it as a haunted attraction. To me, that’s taking advantage of spirits. And while I don’t like to say I’m superstitious, I don’t want to piss them off.”