Illustration by Pie Grande, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Although we’ve written about the various alleged sightings of “Bigfoot” in Connecticut, there’s one particular variation on the theme that we thought might be a little more fun to explore: The Legend of the Winsted Wildman!

That’s right—Connecticut’s own unofficial Bigfoot legend, the story of a large, hairy creature that “terrorized” the locals on two separate occasions, almost 80 years apart. You know, if you believe the stories.

The tale supposedly starts in August 1895, when the Winsted Herald reported “a large man, stark naked, and covered with hair all over his body, ran out of a clump of bushes.”

It was witnessed by town selectman Riley Smith, who was out in the woods with his bulldog, merrily picking berries and minding his own business when the creature came along, causing Riley to be “badly scared and his dog was fairly paralyzed with fear.” He described it as “a wild, hairy man of the woods, six feet in height,” and adding that “the man’s hair was black and hung down long on his shoulders, and that his body was thickly covered with black hair. The man was remarkably agile, and to all appearance was a muscular, brawny man, a man against whom any ordinary man would stand little chance.”

Over the next few weeks, the Wildman was purportedly seen by at least two other witnesses, whose descriptions matched Smith’s. The Winsted Herald speculated that the Wild Man may have been Arthur Beckwith, an escaped mental patient from the nearby Litchfield Sanitarium. The sightings soon stopped as suddenly as they had started, and the Winsted Wildman disappeared back into the woods and was forgotten about . . . for a while, anyway.

Almost eight decades later, the Wildman reappeared. In late July 1972, the Hartford Courant reported that a “strange, man-like creature” was observed by two young men on Winchester Road, near to Crystal Lake Reservoir. At a long distance near a barn they saw a figure “about eight feet tall and covered with hair” that walked upright and finally disappeared into the woods. When it was suggested that what they may have seen was a black bear, they replied that “It was no bear.”

Two years later, in September 1974, the Wildman was seen again, this time by two couples who had been parked at night by Rugg Brook Reservoir. They described to police being “terrified” by seeing a “six-foot, 300-pound creature covered with dark-colored hair” in the moonlight, and had fled the area immediately. The police went back to search and were unable to find any tracks or evidence.

Since then, there have been no other reports or accounts of the Winsted Wildman.

So what did witnesses see, if anything? A bear? A Bigfoot? An escaped mental patient? Or was it all just a hoax?

This nicely researched investigative piece by Brandon T. Bisceglia of the Hartford Skepticism Examiner sheds a bit more light on the story. It’s suggested that the original report may have been fabricated (or greatly embellished) by Louis Timothy Stone, the editor of the Winsted Herald in an order to create a sensation to help sell papers—a common practice at the time. Stone was known for creating fantastic stories, or dramatically exaggerating actual ones, especially tales involving unusual creatures. The Winsted Wildman certainly fits the bill.

The Examiner article also looks at the events from the 1970s—a decade where Bigfoot stories were at their apex (so to speak) and a time when the idea of a large, hairy primate-like creatures hiding in the woods of North America was certainly in the national consciousness. It’s easy to see how someone may have seen a black bear (which were just returning to the region) at night and in their panic, might have mistaken it for the legendary Sasquatch. The power of suggestion, right? It’s reminiscent of the Glawackus, which in all likelihood was a fisher cat, but was greatly exaggerated when the locals weren’t used to seeing the then-odd creature in the area.

Here’s another semi-recent story about the Winsted Wildman from the Bigfoot Encounters website.

Of course, we’ll never have a definitive answer without proof—and until someone captures the Winsted Wildman or he comes in from the woods to tell his story, it’ll remain another one of Connecticut’s fun mysteries.

As always, if you know of any other stories or sightings involving the Winsted Wildman, please pass them along!

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The Damned Story: Although the distinctive golden dome of the Connecticut State Capitol stands proudly as a symbol of democracy, there are some who believe it also shines as a beacon for otherworldly entities, in particular, the disembodied soul of a former governor.

Designed in the High Victorian Gothic style and constructed over seven years on the former grounds of Trinity College overlooking Bushnell Park at a cost of $2.5 million (nearly $56 million today), the impressive statehouse opened for legislative business in 1878. Home to the governor’s office as well as the Connecticut General Assembly, the building is on the National Register of Historic Places and is a glorious piece of eye candy, made from marble and granite and featuring all manner of sculpture, statue, portrait, mural, flag and historical object.

One item of particular interest is a bronze statue of former governor William Buckingham, which stands near the Capitol’s west entrance. Buckingham was a true statesman, serving four terms as mayor of Norwich before being elected governor in 1858. A popular leader, he was re-elected seven times, holding the office through the Civil War to 1866. He then went on to the U.S. Senate, and had that office when he died in 1875 at the age of 72.

For reasons no one has ever been able to explain, it’s believed that the spectre of the former governor roams the halls of the Capitol, even though the building didn’t open until three years after he died, and he never worked there. (We’re really never sure how anyone can identify a spirit given the general lack of features and low-light conditions, but hey, why not?) Still, there are those who believe that he had a special affinity for Room 324, which used to be used by lieutenant governors, one of whom during the 1920s claimed to have seen the ghost of Buckingham standing there. Over the years, other legislative members and staffers also have reported seeing unusual things, witnessing the door opening on its own and feeling cold spots in Room 324.

In the past, Capitol police have also admitted to hearing unexplained footsteps during the night.

Is the former governor visiting a building in death that he never set foot in during life? Or is it the shade of someone else, possibly looking for peace in a building that seems to be full of dispute?

Our Damned Experience: We’ve been in the Capitol building a number of times, but the only odd thing we’ve ever witnessed was the legislature agreeing on something.

If You Go: The State Capitol is located in Hartford, obviously, on Capitol Avenue. (Who’d a thunk it?) It is open to the public (and tax payers!) for both guided and self-guided tours year round, Monday to Friday.

As mentioned, the building itself is an architectural gem, and there an abundance of wonderful historical items and works of art on the premises. Well worth a visit for anyone.

“We found the grave and we have the organic remains,” said Norman MacDonald, president of the Ossining Historical Society, the organization that oversaw the process. “The bones were not found. They have disintegrated and became part of the soil upgrade. And we found the coffin nails.”

In short, no remains means no DNA testing, which means that the Old Leather Man’s identity will continue to remain a mystery.

That cheering you hear is undoubtedly from our friend Don Johnson of LeaveTheLeathermanAlone.com. And he says as much on his site:

Whether it was the micro-organisms, acidic soil, an innacurate map, or something else beyond our comprehension, there is no doubt another chapter has been added to this man’s incredible tale.  We now know that what remained of his physical form is truly one with the earth, while his legacy and legend continues to live on.

So although this chapter of the Old Leather Man’s saga appears to be closed, as Johnson so aptly suggests, there’s no doubt his story will continue. Earnest researchers as our other friend, Dan DeLuca, will now continue through archives, libraries and old attics—rather than the ground—seeking more pieces to this story.

The next thing is that what remains were exhumed were re-interred in the cemetery at a “safer” location, away from the bustling traffic of Route 9.

Maybe now, after all his wanderings, The Old Leather Man will truly be left to rest in peace.

Here’s a nice wrap-up of the story from NPR.

Invariably, my mind drifts to what it would be like if I had to stay outside and endure the elements … eventually, I think about the Old Leather Man, how he would be trudging endlessly through the snow along unplowed roads and byways, making his way slowly across frozen country lanes and fields. No protection from the biting cold aside from his leather garb as he walked, and after completing the day’s miles, only a dank shelter and small fire to enjoy. A few puffs on his pipe, and then to sleep, with a stone for a pillow. Brrrr….

What’s even more interesting is that, as I’ve repeatedly stated, for an anonymous wanderer who has been dead for over 130 years, it’s amazing that the Old Leather Man still commands the headlines. As you can see from the link, the New York Supreme Court has given the Ossining Historical Society permission to exhume the body of the Old Leather Man, a decision that has been met with a lot of debate, even right on this website.

On one side, we have interviewed Dan W. DeLuca, the author of The Old Leather Man, who has spent decades researching the legend, bringing to light an amazing wealth of information. He agrees that the Leather Man’s remains should be moved.

On the other side, we have also interviewed Don Johnson, high school teacher and founder of leavetheleathermanalone.com, who is staunchly opposed to exhuming the remains. As Don says, he’d like to see efforts concentrating on mapping the Leather Man’s footprints, not his DNA.

We’ve been to the grave of Old Leathery at Sparta Cemetery in Scarborough, and can attest to the fact that the grave is very close to Route 9, and have to agree that the safety argument is a legitimate one. Cars whiz past at speeds better than 55 mph less than a few feet away from the head stone, so visitors have to be cognizant or face possibly dire consequences. Moving the Leather Man’s remains to a safer place in the cemetery makes a lot of sense in that regard.

By the same token, I find myself agreeing with the idea that the Old Leather Man was quite intent on keeping mum his identity and the reasons why he did what he did. If I were in a similar position, I’d expect future generations to respect my privacy. Mapping the Leather Man’s DNA wouldn’t reveal his name or the reason why he wandered as he did. Plus, no crime has been committed here, nor are we looking for a paternity test of any kind — this isn’t “Maury,” right? — so there’s no need for a DNA analysis.

So I guess that puts me in the middle — move the body for safety, but don’t “disturb” the remains for DNA purposes. How’s that for sitting on the fence?

Well, we here at Damned Connecticut wi’ll be staying on the fence as the situation continues to unfold, and we will keep you up-to-date.

Of course, there’s a good chance that once the historical society starts digging, they won’t find anything, which would be fitting. One good mystery deserves another, right?

In the meantime, here is a three-part documentary about the Old Leather Man — Dan showed this at his recent lecture, and Don also has it on his site.

After decades of ships wrecking on the rocks of the shoal that extends from Fairfield Beach, it was decided that a lighthouse was needed to safeguard the area, and in 1874, the Penfield Reef lighthouse was completed. The main two-story granite-brick-and-wood structure was designed to accommodate a full-time keeper and assistant keeper, while the light tower — which rose more than 50 feet above the high-tide line — originally featured a revolving cast-iron lantern mechanism that had to be hand-wound. As with any lighthouse worth its (sea) salt, it also had a fog horn.

Ironically, the treacherous waters of Penfield Reef that necessitated the need for a lighthouse in the first place also make getting to and from the structure a dangerous exercise. Often keepers would experience serious difficulty making the relatively short trip in bad weather, and it was one keeper’s ill-fated journey that is believed to be at the source of the alleged haunting.

On December 22, 1916, keeper Fred A. Jordan decided that despite dangerous wintry conditions, he wanted to get home to his family to celebrate Christmas, and set out for the mainland shortly after noon. He didn’t get too far before the strong winds and rough seas capsized his rowboat, and he was tossed into the dangerously icy waters. He clung onto his small vessel and signaled for help.

Assistant keeper Rudolph Iten had seen the incident and immediately launched another boat to rescue Jordan. Unfortunately, the sea was angry that day (like an old man trying to return a bowl of soup) and the conditions were just too fierce. After a valiant effort, Iten had to abandon his rescue attempt. He continued to send distress signals to ships in the nearby area, yet it was to no avail. Jordan’s body was found three months later.

The old keeper was laid to rest, but Rudolph Iten reported that it was not the last he would hear from his former boss. On a dark and stormy night (because there are no other ones in lighthouse ghost stories, right?), Iten reported:

“Some days later on what was one of the worst nights in the history of Penfield, and the waves were dashing over the lantern, I was awakened – I was off duty – by a strange feeling that someone was in my room.  Sitting up I distinctly saw a gray, phosphorescent figure emerging from the room formerly occupied by Fred Jordan.  It hovered at the top of the stairs, and then disappeared in the darkness below.  Thinking it was the assistant keeper I called to know if anything was the matter, but he answered me from the lens room that all was well.

Much puzzled, I went downstairs and to my consternation I saw lying on the table the log-book of the lighthouse, with the page recording the drowning of Poor Jordan staring me in the face!”

Iten and subsequent keepers claimed to have seen the same misty figure on numerous occasions. Other keepers reported that they heard phantom footsteps or experienced other paranormal activity that they attributed to the “ghost” of the lighthouse.

The former keeper apparently also continued to safeguard others beyond the lighthouse well after his death. One account tells of a yacht that ran into trouble around the reef but was guided to safety by a rowboat manned by “a strange man who appeared amid the surf.” Another tale involves two boys who were thrown into the Sound when their canoe capsized, only to be saved by “a mysterious man who appeared from the rocks,” and who they couldn’t find any trace of after their rescue.

Like many other lighthouses, Penfield Reef Lighthouse was eventually automated in 1971, so reports of paranormal experiences have greatly dwindled. In the ensuing years, the U.S. Coast Guard replaced the original Fresnal lens and has made other upgrades to the structure so that it continues to be fully operational without the oversight of a keeper.

Then again, just because the Penfield Reef Lighthouse doesn’t need an operator any more, it doesn’t mean that the ghost of the former keeper isn’t still standing watch, maintaining his silent vigil and staying ready to come to the aid of those in danger.

Our Damned Experience: We haven’t been to the lighthouse, nor have we been saved by any mysterious strangers … yet. Maybe someone out there can shine some more light on this subject!

If You Go: The Penfield Reef Lighthouse can be seen from various spots along the Connecticut coast, in particular the Black Rock section of Bridgeport and Fairfield Beach. At low tide, it’s possible to walk on the rocks part of the way out to it.

Obviously, the lighthouse is best viewed from the Sound itself, although remember that the reason it was built in the first place is that it’s a treacherous area for watercraft. No need to add to the legend!

Recently, Dan kindly agreed to answer  some questions for us via e-mail about everyone’s favorite legendary wanderer.

Damned Connecticut: What inspired you to research and write about the Old Leather Man [OLM]?

Dan W. DeLuca: About 22 years ago an historian from Meriden asked me what did I know about the Old Leather Man and do I believe what was being written about him in the newspapers? The newspapers every year or so would revive his story, the Jules Bourglay story about The Old Leather Man.

I told her I did not know anything about him, only what was printed in the newspapers, but would do a little research and get back to her. That was 22 years ago.

Damned Connecticut: How long did it take to do the research and write the book?

Dan W. DeLuca: Researching off and on for about 20 years. To layout and publish the book, the process took about 1½ years. I’m still researching the “OLM or LM” and more and more information is still being uncovered, in the past three years I have more than doubled the information about him.

Damned Connecticut: What was the most surprising thing you learned about OLM while researching and writing the book?

Dan W. DeLuca: He was not Jules Bourglay and every major research over the years has made statements to that fact.

Damned Connecticut: What’s the most common inaccurate idea that people have about the OLM?

Dan W. DeLuca: There are a number of common inaccurate ideas that people have about him and I will list just a few. He did not travel his famous circuit of 365 miles every 34 days for 30 years but started in 1883 and only traveled the circuit for 6 years until he died on March 20, 1889. He would talk to people who talked French but he did not understand English ever well and only then would answered in grunts and hand gestures. He never begged for food, he was not Jules Bourglay, a tramp or hobo. He was not homeless, had many caves and rock/shelters and there was times he wound enter a house, only if he was invited in. He was not exempt from the tramp laws.

Damned Connecticut: What’s one thing that most people don’t realize about him?

Dan W. DeLuca: At one time he was gathering and preserving food, fishing, tanning leather and had a number of gardens in different locations. He was providing for himself and had a strong knowledge of Indian lore, which he was using to survive. All this information has been documented. I also believe he was trapping and hunting but do not have any documentation.

Damned Connecticut: In his day, the OLM was a bit of celebrity — newspapers detailed his travels, and everyone in the towns he passed through knew of him. What made him special as compared to other vagabonds or wanderers?

Dan W. DeLuca: The OLM was around before the Civil War and every one knew who he was. He was dresses all in leather, his suit was made from old boot tops stitched together with leather lacing, his shoes were carved from spruce wood about three quarters of an inch thick with leather uppers, there were water proof, a leather cap with a visor completed his costume all of his own make. He never stole anything, never begged, molested or hurt any one, he would only take what was freely offered him.

Chauncey Hotchkiss of Forestville, Connecticut, in 1885 documented the OLM’s famous clockwise circuit of 365 miles every 34 days. He always wanted to be on time to his next stop or eating place, people went out of their way to feed him what he liked, and they looked forward to his next visit.

Damned Connecticut: I’ve often wondered if maybe the OLM was legitimately mentally ill — possibly afflicted with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Is this possible? Or do you think there was another reason for his repetitive routine?

Dan W. DeLuca: I do not believe he was mentally ill, and at this time I believe he had an obsessive-compulsive disorder. Not only did he want to be on time, but when he set up his shelters, they were away neat and everything in its place, the way he stitched his leather suit, the lacing had to lay flat and not twisted. He made pipes to smoke tobacco for every one of his caves; all of his pipes were exactly the same. Everything he made had to be perfect.

Damned Connecticut: Why do you think he did what he did?

Dan W. DeLuca: Why do we do what we do? This was his way of life and he was surviving.

Damned Connecticut: I notice that many of the images in the book are from your personal collection — how much OLM-related items do you have? What’s the most interesting OLM item you possess?

Dan W. DeLuca: I have thousands of LM-related material and newspaper articles, hundreds of photographs of caves, eating places, people who fed him and period photos of towns he visited. One painting, ten original cabinet photographs and 40 postcards of him or his cave-rock/shelters.

The son of the famous LM researcher Leroy W. Foote who researched him for over 40 years gave me the most interesting artifact I have: A pipe made by the Leather Man.

Damned Connecticut: Why did he stay on that particular route? Was there something special about it?

Dan W. DeLuca: Before 1883 he was mostly providing food for himself and had many routes all over Connecticut, New York, Massachusetts, Vermont and it has been said Canada. This particular route or circuit was developed over time, and he made many friends that had started feeding him, most all of these towns accepted him for who he was, and left him alone to live out his life. He was no longer providing food for himself and was now dependent upon his friends for his nourishment.

Damned Connecticut: I know you’ve visited numerous stops along the route — have you ever tried walking the entire route?

Dan W. DeLuca: I have driven over his famous circuit many times but have never tried to walk it. The only person I know of, not counting the OLM himself, is Steve Grant, who in 1993 walked and wrote about his daily journey for the Hartford Courant. For years, it was his responsibility to “Keep the Legend Alive,” and he would give talks about his walk and the OLM at historical societies and libraries throughout Connecticut and New York.

When I started researching the OLM I followed the stories in the Hartford Courant and attended a few of Steve’s talks.

Damned Connecticut: Although the name Jules Bourglay is on his tombstone, the truth is that it’s a fabricated name created in a newspaper story that was more fiction than fact — who do you think the OLM really was?

Dan W. DeLuca: It’s a question that I have answered many times but cannot prove: I think he is part French Canadian and Indian, for some reason he was raised by his Indian grandfather. His grandfather taught him all the skills he needed to survived, and around 1880–1882 I think his grandfather died and he stopped making his trips up into Canada.

I also believe like LM researcher Allison Albee who said in 1937 when asked, who was the Leather Man? “Occasionally, legend and reality unite in the form of some remarkable soul who, through peculiarity or chance, assume a role resembling the mythical characters we read about in childhood’s fairy tales. The Old Leather Man was one of these.”

Damned Connecticut: Why do you think that 120 years later, people are still so fascinated by the story of OLM?

Dan W. DeLuca: He was a “mystery and legend” in his own time and very little was known about him. You have to remember that at one time he traveled over four states, great-great-grand parents, great-grand parents, grand parents and parents have passed down the “mystery and legend” and there were others who took it upon themselves to “Keep the Legend Alive.” Every year since the OLM died there has been a story about him in newspapers and someone going around giving talks about him. People like mysteries and legends, and the OLM was both.

It is also important not to forget the newspapermen, researchers, and people who spent a lot of time to “Keep the Legend Alive.” I would be remiss if I did not name some of them: Jonathan Tillotson Clark, Alexander Gordon Sr., Alexander Gordon Jr., William A. Gordon, Alfred E. Hammer, James F. Rodgers, Chauncey Hotchkiss, Isaac W. Beach, Lanning G. Roake, William P. Toms, Frank Knight, Allison Albee, Leroy W. Foote, Thomas J. Price, Elliot B. Hunt, Foster M. Johnson, L. Raymond Ryan, Nick Shoumatoff, Patricia E. Clyne, Bertram R. A. Smith, Edward McKeon Jr., Steve Grant and all the other anonymous people.

For about seven years railroad historian Leroy Roberts has been helping with the research and I would say he knows all most as much as I do about the LM; he is now working on the LM’s timetables and cave-rock/shelters. He donated his railroad collection to Thomas J. Dodd Research Center, University of Connecticut, and you can view some of his collection at Connecticut History Online.

Shirley Sutton has been to a number of my talks over the years and interviewed me about my research, for the past few years she has been going out giving talks.

And now added to the list is Ray Bendici, who is “Keeping the Legend Alive.”

Damned Connecticut: Finally, Steve wants to know: Why leather?

Dan W. DeLuca: Leather was easy to come by and it was plentiful; Keeps in body heat, protected him from the winter weather and from animals and snakes.

Dan adds: At this time I’m back researching, looking at microfilm, compiling more and new information on the OLM for a new book: 1889-1937 The Legend Continues.

If anyone has any information about him or his cave-rock/shelters they can email me at danwdeluca@aol.com

Here are some links to other sites.

• Wesleyan University Press
• “The Story of an Old Man and the Road”
• The Old Leather Man and James F. Rodgers
• The Leatherman’s Loop 2011 (10K road race)

Thanks again to Dan for taking the time and passing along all the great information. And we will do our best to keep the legend of Ol’ Leathery alive!

For centuries, Connecticut has been dependent on the sea — Native Americans spent a great deal of time on the water, fishing and harvesting oysters, and once the first Europeans arrived, thousands of livelihoods have been made by fishing, lobstering, clamming, whaling and catching other delicious water critters. Our coast has been critical to the settlement and development of the nation, not only because of the abundance of trading ports but also due to its vital role in the shipbuilding industry — literally thousands of ocean-going vessels have been launched from the shores of Connecticut.

In short, we’ve been on the sea a lot.

As such, eyes have been on the waves for hundreds of years and there have numerous sightings of unusual creatures in the waters around Connecticut — accounts of sea monsters being seen in New England date back to 1638. When newspapers started being printed, such events began to be chronicled on a more regular basis.

Like in much of the world where the sea plays an important role, there have been accounts of giant water snakes and squids as well as more unusual creatures, such as mermaids.

This site detailing the history of Lordship in Stratford has an excellent page dedicated to historical sea serpent sightings (as well as a mermaid sighting!). Although the entire page is well worth reading, here are a few gems –

• From Sept. 17, 1878 — A sighting off the shore of Stratford by Mr. Kelley, a “sober, trustworthy man”: Not far from the side of the vessel he saw the head of a monster raised several feet above the waves. The hour, about sunset, was light enough to show the creature plainly; it was seemingly not fifteen rods off. It was a horrible looking head, with a wide open month. The head disappeared and a portion of the body was shown, forming an arc under which it would have been easy, so far as space is concerned, to have driven a team of oxen. There were several smaller curves, indicating a long body. The object disappeared in a few seconds, before Mr. Kelly who was standing alone in the midship gangway could call anyone to see it. He describes the body as being as large round as that of a big horse.’
• July 18, 1895 — The first-person narrative of Capt. Obadiah Donaldson, whose crew allegedly fought off a 60-foot-wide octopus with 100-foot-long arms after accidentally crashing into it! He was in a deep sleep, and his snores could be heard quite a way off. But I was too late. The boat struck him amidships. He awoke in a jiffy. At first he thought we wore a nightmare, but he rubbed his eyes and identified us as enemies, though heaven know: I had no wish to fight him. He darted at us, kicking up the sea. One of his long arms came aboard and seized the forward steam windlass. He wound his arm around it, thinking, I suppose, that it was a sailor. The mate, with great presence of mind started the windlass, and in less time than it takes to tell it a couple of hundred feet of the arm was wound in, and we had the fish a prisoner. But we’d caught a Tartar. He began to pull at the boat, and I was afraid he meant to sink it and eat us at his leisure. The vessel rocked, and I thought she would capsize every minute. I called to Frank Taylor, the boatswain, to cut off the arm and he did so with a meat chopper. Eventually, the octopus was run off by a group of porpoises!
• July 18, 1909 — The tale of a Stratford lighthouse keeper, who confronted an odd creature from the water that was stealing his chickens. Pulling up the gun, Mr. Judson let fly with both barrels. There was a grunt of pain and a sound as of some heavy body struggling on the sand. Then all was still. Getting a lantern, Mr. Judson found on the beach a huge fish the like of which be never saw before. It resembled a flatfish or a skate as much as anything only is was nearly a yard long and was afterward found to weigh sixty pounds. The beast was almost black in color and differed from a flatfish in that it had a mouth that extended the entire width of its head and was armed with long, sharp teeth like those of a shark. The mouth when distended was large enough to accommodate a derby hat. Along the creatures back extended a row of sharp spines while over each eye, which was as large as that of a human being, was a feeler fully a foot in length. The strangest part of the whole fish was the presence on its underside of two flippers identically like those of a turtle.

Serpents have not only been spotted in the Sound — an 1886 story from The New York Times details how a 100-foot monster was encountered all the way up the Connecticut River in Cromwell. From the story:

Out of the froth rose a big black head as large as a flour barrel and with eyes as big as small plates. The head kept rising higher and higher until 10 feet of the neck appeared. The men didn’t stop to make a long or thorough examination, but they feel sure that the sea serpent must have been a clear hundred feet long.

The article goes on to say that despite many people coming out to see it, the creature was not seen again.

Sometimes it wasn’t always a pitched battle between man and beast, as witnessed in this July 3, 1881 article from the Times when a yacht with “a party of New-London gentleman” came across “a veritable sea serpent” between Montauk and Block Island, who “as the yacht passed, he raised his head and took survey of the surroundings. He was the color of gulf weed, mottled with black spots, and was about 40 feet long.” Apparently, the creature was out for a pleasure cruise, like the gentlemen aboard the ship.

Obviously, many of these sea serpent reports fall under the category of fictional “fish stories” while others are most likely exaggerated descriptions of encounters with genuine out-of-place denizens of the ocean, such as oarfish or manatees. Of course, there’s always a chance a few stories are genuine — the ocean is a big place, of which we haven’t even explored a fraction yet — but without any physical evidence, these reports will just remain stories.

Although sea serpent sightings have declined drastically over the last century, unusual things are still seen from time to time. In October 2008, an unidentified creature washed up on a New London beach, which drew a lot of “monster” speculation before it was essentially identified a badly decomposed raccoon.

Sadly, we have no particular monster associated with the state, say like a Nessie or Champ, although we’ve heard tales about Trappie, the mysterious creature that haunts the Trap Falls Reservoir in Shelton. (And by “have heard tales,” we mean “have tried to fabricate our own urban legend to no success.”)

Still, we will continue to hear stories of sea monsters and other freakish water creatures until Connecticut no longer has access to the coast, which won’t be for a long, long time.

Our Damned Experience: Despite spending countless hours laying about at Connecticut beaches as well as the occasional trip out on the Sound, we have yet to see any fierce sea beasties.

If You Go: The Connecticut coast and Long Island Sound are pretty much open to everybody — just head south from anywhere in the state and eventually you’ll hit the water.

If you ever see any sea serpents or monsters frolicking about the Sound, please let us know. Likewise, we will post any pictures of unusual creatures spotted near our shores.

Hunters, farmers and eyewitnesses reported the fierce animal originally as a huge cat, but as it remained elusive, the descriptions became more detailed, which only embellished the creature’s fast-growing reputation. It was variously described as part-dog, part-bear and part-cat, but all terror!

Some details of the Glawackus, according to Mysterious Creatures: A Guide to Cryptozoology, Vol. 1 –

Etymology: From town name — Glastonbury, Connecticut — plus “wacky.”

Variant Names: Granby panther, Injun devil.

Physical Description: Looks variously like a large cat or dog. Length, 4 feet. Height, 2 feet – 2 feet 6 inches. Black or tawny in color. Long tail, sometimes described as bushy.

Behavior: Emits blood-curdling screams.

Tracks: Like a puma’s.

Distribution: North-central Connecticut.

Gotta love the “behavior”!

According to Mysterious Creatures, after weeks of hearing the animal’s cries, finding odd tracks and only seeing glimpses of it, a full hunting party was organized to track down the Glawackus and solve the mystery. On Jan. 14, 1939, they set forth into the surrounding countryside, but despite a detailed search, nothing was found. Sightings continued for about another month before two miles of significant paw prints were found east of Glastonbury.

Over the next few months, Glawackus hunts became something of a local sensation, with groups exploring caves across northwest Connecticut and into the Berkshires. Here are some images from one such hunt in April of 1939, courtesy of a 1990 issue of the NSS News, a publication for the National Speleological Society — the bottom image staging an encounter with a “Glawackus” is priceless.

If you can’t read it, the captions says: “The Kill! Roger Johnson takes aim at the dreaded Glawackus in Twin Lakes Cave, Litchfield County, Connecticut. Photographer unknown.”

Apparently, the Glawackus was feeling the heat and went into hiding for about a decade and a half. In the mid 1950s, however, it resurfaced, again attacking animals and eluding capture or identification. This time, it traveled a bit, with sightings from Glastonbury all the way north and west to Granby.

Soon after that, however, the mighty Glawackus apparently disappeared altogether.

Was the Glawackus a fisher cat?

No one has ever come up with a definitive answer to the Glawackus’ identity, but many have speculated that it was either a rogue Eastern puma or other large cat that escaped from a local exotic animal collection. Others suggest that it may have been a fisher cat, which may be the likeliest explanation since the physical descriptions and behaviors are very similar, right down to the blood-curdling screams. Fisher cats were pretty rare in the state at that time, so that may have led to some of the confusion when first identifying the creature.

Despite not having been seen in decades, tales still persist of the Glawackus roaming the woods around Glastonbury. Misidentified animal or mythic creature? Only the Glawackus itself knows …

Our Damned Experience: We have yet to see a glawackus, but if anyone has any stories or experiences with the legendary beastie, or better yet, a photo, we’d love to know about it.

The Damned Story: Growing up in Milford, one of the local stories we all heard about was about a group of giant-headed mutants who lived on the outskirts of town, a band of inbred freaks who were ready to prey Deliverance-style on whoever was careless or unfortunate enough to wander into their midst . . . .

Of course, I’m talking about: THE MELON HEADS!

Apparently, this legend isn’t limited to Milford — recently, I was telling a work friend about them, and she didn’t believe me, so she Googled it and discovered (through the glory of Wikipedia) that in addition to being legends in other states (Ohio and Michigan), the Melonheads were also indigenious to Monroe, Seymour, Weston, Oxford, Southbury, Trumbull and my current hometown of Shelton! I also saw that like Milford, many of these towns had “Melon Head Roads” — in Milford (back when I was growing up), it was Zion Hill Road; in Trumbull, it’s Velvet Street (aka “Dracula Drive” — another legend for another day); and in Shelton, it’s Saw Mill City Road.

Now, in Connecticut, the Melon Heads are allegedly everything from a group of escaped mental patients to a lost colony of inbred mountain folk dating back to Colonial times. However, I read an article a few years back (I think in the Fortean Times) talking about a group of isolated Appalachain mountain people in the Southeastern U.S. (Tennessee, Kentucky, eastern Virginia) called the Melungeon. In short, it’s believed the Melungeon are mixed-race descendants of European outcasts, freed slaves and Native Americans — the damned of early American society, in a way — who decided to stay to themselves, and in general, away from the mainstream.

In the article, it also mentioned that the term “Melungeon” was sometimes bastardized into “Melon Head.” So, it’s possible — although I have no evidence to prove this, and I’m no anthropologist — that at one point, there was a group of people living quietly and independently in the backwoods of Connecticut who had characteristics similar to the Melungeon, and somehow got branded as such. Then, over time, that got changed to Melon Head, and since people tend to fear what they don’t know about or understand, the stories of boogie-man horror were attributed to them.

That ignorance was passed down through the years, and the rest, as they say, is legendary.

Our Damned Experience: Well, when I saw how close it was to our place of employment, I immediately dragged my non-believing friend (with some resistance) and another co-worker out on our lunch hour to take a ride down ol’ Melon Head Road. Being the middle of the day it was hardly a spooky ride, but as we drove along Saw Mill City Road, I could see why people might want to believe this could be Melon Head stomping grounds — it’s a narrow, twisting road past the Means Brook Reservoir and through isolated woods with lots of “No Trespassing” signs along the way. The roadway even becomes dirt for a short portion — while driving, I surreptitiously slipped my car into neutral, revved the gas hard and said, “Oh no, the chain fell off! We’re screwed!” which brought one of the best momentary expressions of abject horror I’ve ever had the pleasure of creating on another person’s face (my wife and kids included).

Needless to say, it was a pretty — and uneventful — drive. No banjo-playin’ mutants, no being bent over logs, no squealing like pigs, no Melon Heads. Then again, it was daytime, so who knows what happens after dark?

Update: On a spooky and misty day in December 2008, we returned to Saw Mill City Road and also paid a visit to Velvet Street, cameras in hand. We took a bunch of photos and although we were hoping to see a mailbox with a telling  name on it like “M. Ellen Head,” we didn’t encounter any mutants (unless you count the lone postman sitting alone in his truck sleeping or texting someone — we couldn’t tell, and to be honest, we hope that’s all he was doing).

If You Go: As mentioned, the three “Melon Head Roads” that we know of are Zion Hill Rd. in Milford, Velvet Street in Trumbull and Saw Mill City Rd. in Shelton. All three are public thoroughfares, although through private neighborhoods. If you do drive along any of them after dark, we do recommend exercising caution as the ones we’ve been along are dark and curvy. In the event that you are abducted by Melon Heads, please try to take pictures — we’ll be happy to post them here!

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Unlike other supposed witches, the story of Hannah Hovey — who apparently picked up the nickname Hannah Cranna while she was still alive — doesn’t culminate at the end of a hangman’s noose or in ashes around a stake. She lived a fairly comfortable life on her property near Cutler’s Farm Road in Monroe, dying of natural causes at the age of 77. (Hmm … isn’t 7 supposed to be a magical number? Just sayin’.) But obviously, her life wasn’t exactly ordinary, or she wouldn’t have be known to this day for allegedly dabbling in the black arts.

According to most accounts, her reputation as a witch didn’t begin until the demise of her husband, the good Capt. Joseph Hovey, an event with which Hannah was rumored to have somehow been involved. The tale goes that one night, Capt. Hovey went out for a simple walk and somehow toppled over a cliff, resulting in his untimely demise. Not believing that Capt. Hovey could’ve been the victim of an unfortunate accident, whispers started that Hannah had somehow bewitched him, causing him to become so dazed and confused he inadvertently fell to his death.

Hannah — whose shrewish behavior apparently hadn’t exactly endeared her to others while Capt. Hovey was alive — became even more loathesome after she became a widow. She often insisted that her neighbors give her free food and firewood, and if they didn’t immediately comply, she relied on her witchy reputation to threaten them. When one local farmer’s wife allegedly tried to deny her a fresh-baked pie, Hannah “cursed” her, so the story goes, and the poor woman was never able to bake again.

Another story tells of how after catching a man fishing for trout in a brook on her property without her permission, Hannah laid a curse on him and he never caught another fish. Over the years, other such incidents demonstrating her otherworldly prowess supposedly occurred, solidifying her infamy with — and power over — the locals. From her house on Craig Hill (allegedly guarded by snakes), she helped those who venerated her and poured down misery on those who crossed her.

Ultimately, it was her demise — and the odd events surrounding her burial — that truly cemented her legend.

It seems that Hannah kept a rooster named “Old Boreas,” which some suspected was her “familiar.” Shortly after the cock crowed its last, Hannah told a neighbor that her end was also near. “My coffin must be carried by hand to the graveyard,” she instructed. “And I must not be buried before sundown.”

Hannah Cranna died the next day.

As it was a snowing heavily, the locals decided that rather than follow her instructions, it would be easier to pull her casket across the snow on a sled. But as the procession started toward the cemetery, the coffin came off the sled and slid all the way back to her front door. They tried again, but met with more trouble. Rather than further incur the supernatural wrath of Hannah, they decided to just carry her to the graveyard. After much struggling, they eventually got the old witch into her grave, just after sunset. Happy to finally be rid of her, they returned to Hannah’s home, only to discover it completely engulfed in flames.

Obviously, that only served to burn Hannah Cranna, “The Wicked Witch of Monroe,”  into their minds forever.

Like with any good legend, there are stories that still revolve around her today, the most popular of which is that from time to time, the spectre of a mysterious woman will suddenly appear in the middle of Spring Hill Road, causing an unfortunate driver to swerve, lose control of his car — and eventually his life — as he crashes into the gravestone of Hannah Cranna.

Of course, Hannah’s gravestone is up on the hill overlooking the road and would require a spectacular aerial crash that would put Evel Knievel to shame, but why let that get in the way of a good urban legend, right?

As you might expect, David Phillips recounts the tale of Hannah Cranna in more detail in his Legendary Connecticut.

Our Damned Experience: We visited Gregory’s Four Corners Burial Ground on a rainy Sunday morning in September 2009.

As with the Old Leather Man, Hannah’s grave was ridiculously easy to find — right on the hillside in the front of the cemetery, overlooking the road and bright white. (If this is the original stone, it’s in amazing condition for being 150 years old!) Interestingly, it’s actually marked “HANNAH CRANNA” as opposed to Hannah Hovey — an early proponent for women’s rights? From the stories recorded about her, it seems as though she was a strong-willed woman who was not to be trifled with, and apparently that went for her husband as well.

As with many older cemeteries, the burial ground is not a very big parcel of land, and the majority of stones appear to be in their original condition — inscriptions worn, stones faded or toppled.

We didn’t see any unusual figures standing in the road, nor any spectral mists or apparations — not even so much as an orb. Then again, we haven’t crossed Hannah, so maybe she has no business with us. Yet.

If You Go: Gregory’s Four Corners Burial Ground is located on Spring Hill Road in Trumbull, right on the border with Monroe. It is near the junction of routes 111 and 25. As mentioned, Hannah Cranna’s white gravestone is right at the front of the cemetery, very close to the street.

It is open to the public, but like with any cemetery, we always suggest you be respectful during your visit. There’s no formal entrance or parking area, the road is a bit busy, so be careful where you leave your vehicle.
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