Lore - Episode 136: The Third Time

Episode Date: February 17, 2020

Folklore is our legacy. We humans have carried it with us everywhere we’ve gone in the world, and it anchors us to our roots and our community. But it also does something else: it gives us a place to hide our fear, to put it on a leash and control it. And there’s one story in particular that does that better than most. ———————————— Lore Resources: Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources Lore News: www.theworldoflore.com/now Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.com Access premium content!: https://www.lorepodcast.com/support See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Elizabeth Sawyer Elizabeth Sawyer stood on the gallows, waiting for her execution. Henry Goodcull, the local priest, read her confession out loud to her and the rest of the gathered crowd, and then she nodded in agreement. Yes, Elizabeth told him, it's all true. It's true that she formed a pact with the devil, who had given her the power to afflict her neighbors with all manner of pain and suffering. After all, they had refused to purchase brooms from her, so she used the power of the devil to kill their livestock

and even one or two of their young children. But that power came at a price. In return for it, the devil had asked that Elizabeth take in one of his servants, a creature known throughout folklore as a familiar. Her familiar was called Tom, and in exchange for the power that she would draw from it, Tom was to be allowed to feed from her, suckling at an odd patch of skin known as a witch's mark. Henry Goodcull hadn't believed the stories. After all, it was a bit too difficult to accept much of the details, even for a priest who believed in the supernatural nature of God. It all sounded too convenient, too contrived, and of course, it was all used to throw Elizabeth

in jail where she was awaiting her execution. So Henry had visited her, hoping to discover the truth. But the confession she gave him, the same one he would read from the gallows, backed up all of the tales. She had suckled Tom every day, and in return, she had wielded the power of the devil against the neighbors who had crossed her. And on April 19th of 1621, she hanged for those crimes. All of this would haunt the community she left behind for years to come. They would whisper about her evil powers and her crimes, about how counter magic was used to identify her and the morbid victory of her execution day.

But it was her familiar, Tom, who would be remembered the most. Because it sits on the edge between a modern belief and a much more ancient idea, an idea not represented by the behavior or powers she claimed it had, but by the very shape it had taken. A shape that continues to inhabit a terrifying place in folklore today. The Black Dog I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. The Black Dog Most historians trace the idea of the Black Dog very far into the past.

So far back, in fact, that the stories can be found well outside the realm of modern folklore. In fact, the Black Dog is present in the ancient mythology of many of the world's oldest cultures. Take Egypt, for example. The god Anubis was tasked with escorting the dead into the halls of judgment, where he would measure how worthy they were before granting them access to the afterlife. And of course, the shape given to Anubis is probably familiar to a lot of you, the body of a man, but the head of a wild Black Dog known as a jackal. But that occupation, serving as an escort to the dead on their way to the afterlife, wasn't unique to ancient Egypt. In fact, there is a similar deity in mythology of the Native

American tribe known as the Manameni. There, just as in Egypt, a great dog guards the bridge into the city of the dead. And in Aztec mythology, Sholot is a god in dog form who wanders the underworld, gathering the bones of the dead in order to use them to give humanity life. He also guards the sun as it retreats into the land of the dead each night, mirroring the same duties we see in countless other dog gods throughout the ancient world. There is even an ancient Bronze Age site in southeastern England that shows just how old these ideas truly are. Flagfen is a village that was lost to time, but has been uncovered and studied over the last few decades. And along with structures, weapons, and artifacts,

as well as England's oldest known wheel, workers there have also discovered remains. Some of the remains are clearly those of livestock used for food, as the markings on their bones clearly illustrate. But there is also a large number of objects that were buried as an offering, and beside it all, they discover the remains of two large dogs, dogs that had been ritually killed, most likely to serve as go-betweens for the farmers and hunters living there. No ancient dogs are as recognizable, though, as Cerberus, the guardian of the Greek and Roman world. In his earliest appearances, Cerberus was once described as the Hound of Hades, but the many centuries since then have added new elements

to his story. Cerberus serves as the guardian at the boundary between the underworld and our own. Even today, we can find Cerberus maintaining his old responsibilities as a guard dog in places like Hogwarts Castle in the world of Harry Potter. The Black Dog has been used as a guardian for thousands of years, always sitting between this world and the land of death, the underworld. But along the way, the folklore around it has evolved and taken on variations, and one of the most important changes has been its transformation into a creature that crosses that boundary into our own, literally walking among us. Which, of course, is the power behind the confession of Elizabeth Sawyer, isn't it? Because when a Black Dog could be a supernatural

visitor from the land of the spirits sent to Earth by the devil to harm the servants of God, the stories take on a new life. Distant mythology is suddenly replaced with immediate danger and constant risk. One story from the Middle Ages illustrates that idea perfectly. It's said that a man in England became frustrated that something was trying to dig up the recent grave of a local child. To discover who the guilty party might be, he hid himself near the grave in order to watch it during the night. After the sun went down, he discovered that the culprit was a large Black Dog who trotted into the graveyard to begin digging all over again. This man could have written the experience off as mundane. After all, wild dogs have always been common. But rather than call for

a dog catcher, he allowed his fear and superstition to drive him in another direction. He called for a priest. Stories like these can be found all over Great Britain, in fact, and just about every one of them attaches a local name to the Black Dogs that everyone feared. Names like Black Shuck, Black Shag, Padfoot, and Old Tom will sound familiar to many of us, especially after hearing about Elizabeth Sawyer's own Black Dog, Tom. But there are others. One historian named John Brand, writing in 1777, documented stories of a Black Dog that roamed the streets of Newcastle upon Tyne, like a ghostly specter. According to Brand, this otherworldly dog was known as a Bargast, a shapeshifting demon whose presence hinted at some impending tragedy, like some grim omen.

It was all enough to fill people with complete and utter dread. In fact, a common saying has grown up in the rich soil of the Black Dog folklore. If a man shall meet the Black Dog once, the legend says, it shall be for joy. If twice, it shall be for sorrow. And the third time, he shall die. Of course, as our world has advanced and matured, it might be easy to assume that belief in the Black Dog has faded away. But that's definitely not the case. From the mysterious hound of the Baskervilles featured in the Sherlock Holmes novel of the same name, to Padfoot and the Grim in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, stories of the Black Dog show no sign of fading

into the shadows of the past. In fact, if you know where to look, you'll find documented evidence of actual sightings of Black Dogs, reports from individuals who have set eyes on them and witnessed their power firsthand, or chronicles of those who have spoken to those witnesses and written it all down. Taken as nothing more than folklore, these are dark, entertaining tales that leave us feeling a little less safe. But if they are true, they raise some troubling questions, questions that are more difficult for us to answer. And the implications are terrifying. In 1938, Ethel Rudkin saw a Black Dog. She lived in Lincolnshire County in eastern England, not too far, in fact, from the jail where Elizabeth Sawyer waited for her execution in 1621.

But Ethel's troubling experience with a Black Dog didn't drive her away in fear. In fact, it propelled her to study. That's because she was a folklorist, and knowing that stories of the Black Dog had haunted her region for centuries, she set about collecting similar tales from her neighbors. It seemed that almost everyone in town had encountered the mysterious creature, at least once in the past, and she wanted to hear about those events. There are a number of people living, she later wrote, who have seen him, heard him, and even felt him. And these people were shaken by their sightings. In fact, it was her own experience with the Black Dog that made her a trustworthy person for them to tell their tales

to. She had become one of them, in a sense. She wasn't the first to record collections of stories about the Black Dog, though. I mentioned John Brand earlier, who published his own accounts in 1777. But one of the most troubling and visceral tales of the Black Dog can be found in the writings of a man named Abraham Fleming. And if the tale is true, it's absolutely stunning. According to Fleming, the events took place in 1577, in the parish church of a small town called Bungay. Most of the village had gathered for the Sunday Mass inside the parish church, and while they were inside, a powerful storm blew in unexpectedly. And to those who later spoke about it, it wasn't a normal storm. They said that the sky grew tremendously dark,

lit up every few seconds by a brilliant flash of lightning that seemed to make the stained glass windows glow in an eerie light. Rain slammed against the building, and thunder shook the very earth that the church sat upon. No one had expected it, and no one could remember another storm in their lifetime that equaled its power. But things were about to get worse. Suddenly, another flash of lightning filled the church with a momentary light, and everyone turned to see the figure of a dog standing in the center aisle. They described it as enormous and evil-looking, and most importantly, deep black. And this mysterious dog began to run quickly up the aisle toward the front of the church,

where a number of parishioners were kneeling in prayer. In a heartbeat, the dog was upon them, with its powerful jaws, it gripped the neck of one man and twisted so hard that his spine snapped, killing him instantly. The same fate awaited the man beside him, but then the massive dog turned round and faced the congregation. Snapping out with its powerful jaws, it caught another man on the back, and he crumpled to the floor like a wet rag. And then it was gone. The strange black dog that had appeared so suddenly, only to bring death into their midst, seemed to vanish just as quickly. But although it had disappeared, it would live on forever in the minds of the people who sat in that church that morning. And they weren't alone, either. It turns out that another nearby church

reported a similar experience. They too reported the great storm, one so powerful that it damaged their bell tower. And in the middle of that, the same black dog had appeared among them, where it killed two more men before burning a number of others. Even the doors of the second church were marred by long black scorches, like otherworldly claw marks. Within a year, the image of the black dog had become a sort of town mascot, and the stories have been repeatedly told over the centuries. Even today, visitors who know the story of the enormous black dog of Bungay visit the small village to see the scorch marks on the church doors, a reminder of the horror that had been experienced inside. Because to so many people, the story is just as real today as it was

back then. True or not, the story of a demonic beast that attacks a church fits the popular idea of the black dog. In fact, some scholars believe that one of the most common names for the creature, black shuck, comes from the old English word for demon. All of the details that folklore ascribed to it, the black fur, fiery eyes, and monstrous shape, all of it aligns neatly with what happened inside that church in 1577. Even if it turns out to be fake, at least the stories are consistent. And the stories haven't ended either. As late as 1996, locals have continued to report sightings of an enormous black dog, which is why it's no surprise when an amazing discovery was made in the ruins of Leaston Abbey in 2013, just 20 miles south of Bungay.

There, in a shallow grave among the broken walls of the abbey, researchers found the complete skeleton of an enormous beast. Were it still alive today, they believed that it would have been nearly 7 feet long and weighed in at over 200 pounds. But more shocking than its size and weight was the type of animal the bones belong to. It was a dog. Folklore is a lot like plant life. Given enough time, it spreads like a weed, filling new landscapes with fresh iterations of itself. And the primary agent in that migration is humanity. Wherever we go, so too does our folklore. So it should come as no surprise that as people spread from the old world to the new, they brought along that ancient belief in the black dog.

And while there are whole volumes of tales about sightings of the black dog in North America, there's one story in particular that I want to share with you. Harry was born in Connecticut in 1867. Just a little more than a year after his birth, his father William passed away, leaving Harry's mother Anne to care for the boy and raise him as best she could. And she did a fantastic job of it, too. By the time he was ready to head off to study at Trinity College, she had already taught him ancient Greek and Latin, giving him an advantage over many of his peers. After Trinity, he moved on to Harvard, where he studied geology. It was a pedigree that helped him launch a strong career, most of which was filled with

teaching and writing about geology. In fact, he wrote two articles in 1898 that are about the Connecticut landscape. But it's the first of those that I find most fascinating, because it's less about rocks and more about folklore. It was about an experience he had while studying at Harvard. Sometime around 1892, most likely, it was during that spring that he traveled south into his home state of Connecticut to visit an area known as the Hanging Hills. Someone had told him that the area there around West Peak was rich in geological formations that someone like him would enjoy, and so he set out with high hopes. Harry described his hike that day as a bit slow, due to how often

he felt compelled to stop and examine the various outcroppings and layers he noticed. Soon enough, he found a formation he wished to take a sample from, so he began the hard labor of chipping away at it, and it was during a short break from that hard work that he straightened up, turned to look down the path, and noticed something strange. It was a dog. It wasn't large, but it was as black as coal. It kept a distance from him, but after his task was finished and he continued his hike, the dog joined him, becoming something like a shadow as Harry wound his way through the hills around West Peak. He never feared for his safety, but he did notice one odd characteristic in the dog.

It never made a sound. At the end of a long day of hiking and work, Harry retreated back to his horse before heading into the nearby town. When he did, the dog quietly slipped off the path, vanishing into the shadows from where it had come. Later that night, he enjoyed a hearty meal beside the fire of an old inn, and he couldn't help but smile. It was, he noted, for joy. That day on the Connecticut Hills stayed with him as he continued his studies at Harvard. Then, three years later, he decided to return. This second trip would take place during the winter, so he invited a colleague to join him, a man named Herbert Marshall.

Marshall had hiked the Hanging Hills many times before, and in all seasons, and so he seemed like a good companion for the challenging journey. Once they met up at the foot of West Peak, they began their climb. Harry told Marshall about the dog he had befriended on his previous trip, and the other man nodded knowingly. He had seen the very same dog twice before while hiking through the hills there. In fact, locals had told stories about that black dog for years, long enough to make it a sort of legend in those parts. Uninvited, Marshall brought up the old saying I mentioned earlier.

If a man shall meet the black dog once, it shall be for joy. If twice, it shall be for sorrow. In the third time, he shall die. When he was finished, both men laughed, and then continued their hike. The weather wasn't very friendly, though. Soon enough, their hands were numb, and the wind had begun to lash at them like the winds of a storm. But both men were determined to reach the summit, so they continued following the path that clung to the side of the small mountain, Marshall always in the lead. Then, closer to the top, Marshall stopped in the middle of the path.

He didn't speak, but Harry watched as his friends slowly raised an arm to point up toward the looming peak. Against the pale sky and the falling snow, Harry could see a dark shape, the figure of a black dog, looking down on them from above. Marshall turned to look back at Harry, his face as pale as the sky above them. With his finger still aimed at the shape atop the peak, he groaned in a barely audible voice. It is the third time. He said. In an instant, the edge of the path crumbled beneath his feet, and Harry watched in horror as his friend vanished into the swirling snow and rocks below.

Harry turned and retreated down the path. He said it took him hours to make it back down to the bottom, but when he did, he quickly located Herbert Marshall's body. He had died upon the cold, snow-covered rocks at the foot of the mountain. Harry managed to return to town and gather a group of men to go retrieve Marshall's body. It took them hours, hours that Harry used to warm himself beside the fire. This time, there was no joy for him, only sorrow. But then again, that would make sense if he truly believed the legend that he and Marshall had recited before their hike began. When the men returned, they carried the body, but they also brought news.

Yes, they had found him exactly where Harry had told them to look, but Marshall's body wasn't alone. Standing over his corpse was a small, dark shape, easy to spot against the ice and snow. The shape of a black dog. The stories we tell have a way of following us everywhere we go. We humans are mobile creatures, and when we move and extend our boundaries into new places, we bring our folklore with us. And I sometimes wonder, perhaps that's an essential part of our survival. I think it's clear that this world is still a place of mystery and the unknown. We are still discovering brand new creatures and locations,

which has a way of leaving us guessing. What else is waiting for us around the next corner? What other dangers have we yet to encounter? Where should we place our fear? And the black dog answers a lot of those questions, if only in a non-specific sort of way, just as it has for thousands of years. When our ancestors' brains couldn't seem to find an answer to those noises and creatures they experienced, they filled in the blanks with story, and right up there among the most commonly used was the black dog. I guess what amazes me the most is the black dog's longevity. There are a lot of ancient beliefs that had faded away as we've grown as a species, but the black dog is still here,

still trotting along silently beside us, still lurking in the shadows. And I can't help but wonder why. Perhaps having something else to blame for our troubles helps us put a leash on our fears. Harry William Pynchon's experience in the hanging hills of Connecticut followed him for the rest of his life. He went on to graduate and earn a reputation in his field, and as I mentioned earlier, he published an article in 1898 about that tragic hike. But all the while, West Peak was like a beacon to him, tempting him to return. They say that Harry finally gave in and returned to the hanging hills later in his life, where he walked off into the shadows and never returned, hinting that he had his

third and final encounter with the black dog. It's a powerful ending to the story, with more than its fair share of drama. But sadly, despite being repeated frequently over the past century, his unnatural death is nothing more than a work of fiction. Harry William Pynchon actually passed away from pneumonia in 1910 at his home in Oyster Bay, New York. Yes, he was tragically young at just 42 years of age. But no, his death did not take place in the hanging hills in the shadow of a black dog he had seen for the third time. It was most likely a misunderstanding due to that article he'd written back in 1898. In that article, he closed with a fictional newspaper clipping about another man from the

U.S. Geological Survey who met the same fate as his old friend Herbert Marshall. It's an element of Harry's story that blurs the lines of truth, and casts doubts on the entire encounter. It might mostly be fact, or a complete fabrication. And sadly, we'll never know which. But even if the story turned out to be a work of fiction, the fear and superstition it tapped into was more than real, as evidenced by the rumors of his death. And that's the power of story, isn't it? Because true or not, every tale means something to someone. And as a result, it takes on a life of its own. It's a lot like the old adage we've heard before. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice,

shame on me. Fool me a third time. And that might not be anyone's fault in particular. It might just be the power of folklore. The Black Dog The Black Dog has taken many shapes over the millennia, and we've explored many of those today. Grim omens, friendly companions, and guardians of the other world. But there's an even darker side to these stories, and it's a lot closer to our modern world than you might believe. Stick around after this brief sponsor break, and I'll tell you one more tale of this ancient beast. The Black Dog

Carol was a cliché. She was a 12-year-old girl with a real pony. Two, in fact, Jojo and Peekaboo. But on April 30th of 1976, all of that changed. That's when her father Philip stepped outside to find both of the ponies had been killed during the night. He knew this because the creature that had killed them was still standing over their corpses, eating their bloody flesh with huge ravenous mouthfuls. Both of the ponies lay on their side in the grass of the backyard, where Carol had left them tethered the night before. The ropes still hung loosely from the trees to their halters, but they were no longer necessary. The first thing the creature had done, it seems, was rip out their throats. Philip described the beast as an enormous dog,

roughly the same size as the ponies it had slaughtered. He said it had elements of German shepherd and maybe rottweiler in its appearance, but it was like no dog he had ever seen before. It was big and black and deeply interested in its morning meal, and Philip, a big, strong firefighter, was afraid for his life. He grabbed a baseball bat that leaned beside the door and then took a step toward it, but he quickly stopped, perhaps because of fear or maybe because common sense finally took over. Whatever the enormous dog was, a bat wasn't going to do the job, so he quietly slipped back into the house and returned a moment later with a handgun. He aimed at the large shape and fired, assuming that it would be nearly impossible to miss,

but somehow he did. The sound of the shot did startle the creature, though, and it quickly bolted for the shadows of the trees at the back of the property, and then it was gone. But it wouldn't be the last time it would be spotted, and if I'm honest, that doesn't surprise me. Philip and his family lived in the Massachusetts town of Abington, one of the three points that make up the rough shape of the Bridgewater Triangle. It's a mysterious patch of land that has played host to all manner of unusual experiences, so a black dog doesn't seem out of the ordinary in that context. Still, Philip alerted the authorities, and the sheriff quickly set out to find and kill the

creature. They focused their attention on the edge of town, where civilization blurred into woodland and mystery, and as they did, the community spiraled into panic. People were afraid for their safety, for their children and pets and anything else that might be at risk outside, and as the panic spread, the police began to receive phone calls about sightings and rumors. At first, it was a trickle, but it quickly turned into a flood. By the end of the third day, the police had received over a thousand calls, hinting at just how deep of a nerve this mysterious dog had touched. A few people claimed that they saw the dog lurking behind the local ice cream stand. Another man said that he looked out his apartment window to see it in the woods

behind the building, its mouth dripping with a thick dark liquid. Blood, he suggested, maybe even human blood. News of the sightings even landed on the front page of the Boston Globe, which acted like gasoline on an open flame. Schools brought in police to guard their children during recess. Stores sold out of firearms, and Philip stayed busy, too, responding to a steady flow of requests from the police to identify animal remains in hopes that the beast had been killed. Later that week, the police brought in a special dog of their own, one that had been trained to track other animals. And it worked. For the first time since Philip had stepped outside his back door and spotted the beast, the police, working with that dog, finally spotted the creature they

were looking for. The officer, following the search dog, found the mysterious creature walking along a stretch of railroad tracks near the woods. Knowing that the animal had been reported as extremely dangerous, he aimed his shotgun at it from a safe distance and then fired. The shot echoed through the open air, and birds launched themselves into the sky from the trees around the tracks. But the enormous dog just stood silently, unmoving and unshaking and unafraid. And then, after a few nervous moments, it quietly turned and walked off into the woods, as if nothing at all had happened. The folks of Abington never saw the black dog again. But true to the power of folklore,

they've never forgotten it, either. And how could they? Because all of us have wondered about the danger that lurks in the shadow, about the things we don't understand that leave us feeling out of our depth. And for the people of Abington, the black dog was that nightmare come to life. It's almost as if they expected its arrival. And who knows when it might return. This episode was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research by Carl Nellis and music by Chad Lawson. Lore is much more than just a podcast. There's a book series available in bookstores and online and two seasons of the television show on Amazon Prime Video. Check them both out if you want more lore in your life. I also make two other podcasts,

Aaron Mankey's Cabinet of Curiosities and Unobscured, and I think you'd enjoy both. Each one explores other areas of our dark history, ranging from bite-sized episodes to season-long dives into a single topic. You can learn more about both of those shows and everything else going on over in one central place, theworldoflore.com slash now. And you can follow the show on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Just search for Lore podcast, all one word, and then click that follow button. When you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi. And as always, thanks for listening. you