One of those monks copying texts misread the Greek version of “demiurge” and conflated it with “gorgon” and created the word “demogorgon”. The name itself is based on a medieval typo. And the Demogorgon is an ancient reference, though one traceable only in bare threads and whispers. The monster manuals and bestiaries of these games are wondrous things, stuffed full of gorgeous art and descriptions of creatures that draw on all manner of mythology from every culture the world over. The etymology of the Demogorgon outside of roleplaying games is fascinating in its own right. It’s a word that carries with it powerful meaning and metaphor. And so when El and the boys call the monster the Demogorgon, it’s not just shorthand, it’s not just D&D fan service, and it’s not just the story’s cute way of labeling its monster. It meant that unimaginable destruction and inevitable death was stalking you. It was a metaphor for the ultimate fight, for the evil that could not be defined it was so powerful. Its physical description bears little resemblance to the beast in Stranger Things: it had two heads like those of a baboon and stood twenty feet tall. It was called the Prince of Demons, and was worshipped as a god by the denizens of the abyss. It was nigh on unkillable, a creature that dwelt in the darkness and erupted out of it to cause madness among all who saw it. It was legendary among players, perhaps second only to the Tarasque. We remember endless hours spent on bicycles, wandering the tiny woods that seemed vast and impenetrable, straining to hear through the crackle of walkie-talkies, and playing Dungeons and Dragons in basements aclutter with the detritus of middle America.įor those who weren’t Dungeons and Dragons nerds (and it’s never too late, go down to your local game shop and they’ll find you a seat and show you how to fall in love with it), the Demogorgon wasn’t just a run of the mill monster, and it certainly wasn’t something just tossed in the show offhand by its creators. We remember the stories we read set in the present-day of that time, but we also remember being the kids who lived in that time. The nostalgia hits hardest not because it imitates the stories of the time (despite doing a stunning job of doing exactly that), but because it serves us a double dose. The nostalgia isn’t a load-bearing part of the fiction, but for just the right age range of individuals it ignites something more than simple memories of the eighties. It’s a good story, and one that would work just fine shifted to the modern day, or back fifty years with little adjustment. Stranger Things is the best thing on Netflix right now, a perfect storm of both nostalgia and of just plain good fiction of the sort we associate with beaten up paperbacks read beneath the covers by flashlight.
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