Dracula in Hallonbergen, the Grim Reaper in Vaxholm… and a haunted castle!
If there’s anything more terrifying than the very concept of horror, it’s children’s fascination with it. Is there anything that sends greater chills down the spines of overprotective parents than their kids being exposed to things that might seem spooky or inappropriate? Well, nowadays the threats have changed, although the worry remains. Yesterday’s bogeymen of video violence and blood-soaked video games have been replaced by today’s lurking dangers in the abyss of the internet. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that today’s parents were once the very kids who sat through those allegedly soul-destroying films and games — and survived. Which means their protective instincts have simply moved on to new, scarier monsters.
“WE’RE NOT CALLED MINI-KISS. WE ARE MINI-KISS!”
In a Dagens Nyheter article dated October 30, 1977, titled “The Cool Violence: Idols as Role Models for Violent Games,” journalist Ann-Charlotte Samec tackles what was, at the time, perhaps the most panic-inducing phenomenon of all: the already-overhyped glam rock band Kiss. These aging rockers, who still haunt the commercial music world like sellout phantoms, had sparked moral concern in ways only glam and greasepaint can.
Samec traveled to the Stockholm suburb of Hallonbergen with photographer Bertil Ericson, where they met a group of ten-year-old boys; Johan, Patrik, Mats, Fredrik, and Stefan (all of whom probably went on to become middle managers in municipal housing companies). The boys happily supplied the adult world with gloriously provocative quotes such as, “Violence is kind of cozy. That’s what’s good about Kiss: the violence…” and “Kiss aren’t nice boys. They get to do all the forbidden stuff.” Then there’s the quote that reads more humorous today: “We’re not called Mini-Kiss. We are Mini-Kiss!” (to those not familiar with the Swedish language, kiss actually means pee).
Much like the infamous Studio S episode “Who Needs Video Violence?” aired on December 2, 1980, the adults in this situation go out of their way to paint a picture of children’s inner worlds as realms of chaos: uncontrollable, dangerous, and riddled with violence and sex. Easy to laugh at today, at least if you’re willing to overlook the recycled panic over today’s “new dangers.”
But what really caught my eye in Samec’s article was a small paragraph about Hallonbergen’s great fear at the time: none other than Dracula himself. Yes, Bram Stoker’s old vampire. I’ve previously written about the werewolf seen in Trelleborg in the fall of 1972, which spread to Jakobsberg and eventually manifested as a howling mummy in Sätra in 1973. These events are easy to dismiss as mass hysteria, but they also serve as fascinating deep dives into how essential imagination is for children processing and making sense of the adult world. The werewolf and the mummy become stand-ins for all the confusing, scary stuff out there, and offer a simple, even educational, way to handle those emotions.
In her article, Samec claims that everyone in Hallonbergen lived in fear of Dracula, quoting an anonymous voice: “What if he comes to our house?” According to the story, Dracula had haunted the suburb “a few years ago,” ringing strangers’ doorbells dressed in a cape, holding a slab of raw meat, and threatening his victims with a knife. Was this an actual person? Or, like the werewolf and the mummy, a creature born from imagination?
To find out, we’ll need to dive back into the archives, to events that took place in November and December of 1973 — the same year the Sätra mummy made his final bandaged appearance. This Dracula feels like a direct sequel in a monster trilogy. Since the 1972 sightings likely stemmed from the Summer of Horror series shown on Swedish TV, it’s entirely possible that the spooky vibe carried on through the summer of 1973, which also featured a run of more modern horror and thriller films on public television.
DRACULA IN HALLONBERGEN
Back to Dracula. With sensational headlines like “Monster Terror in Hallonbergen: Stabbed by Dracula” (Expressen) and “When I Opened the Door, Dracula Was Standing There” (Aftonbladet), both published on November 30th, it’s clear the evening tabloids weren’t quite done milking the classic monster concept. That autumn’s monster-themed editions were probably a lucrative move. But this time, things were different. Unlike earlier cases, which mainly featured children as witnesses and charmingly innocent anecdotes — like someone finding the werewolf’s shoe or the mummy allegedly driving a Mercedes, this story took a darker, more disturbing turn.
A 28-year-old warehouse worker, Lennart Jonsson, living at Lötsjövägen 13, was watching TV with his sons, Micke and Stefan, when the doorbell rang. It was 8 p.m., and most likely the BBC soap The Brothers, episode Trump Card, was playing on the chunky TV set. Lennart, a man living the full experience of what was once welfare-state Sweden, reluctantly tore himself away from the latest Swedish obsession. Because who would ring the bell during that show?
“I walked over to the door and the boys followed. When I opened it, there was a man wearing a long black cloak with a hood pulled over his head. Around his waist, he had a broad leather belt, and hanging from it… was a large slab of raw meat.”
The man took a swing at Lennart, but the brave father grabbed his arm and tried to hold him. The vampire, however, broke free and took off running, with Lennart in hot pursuit. He caught up quickly, but suddenly felt a sharp pain in his hand. The would-be vampire had pulled a wide, heavy knife. Lennart had been slashed, forcing him to let go, and the assailant fled. One of the sons, Micke, was sobbing uncontrollably under the bed, terrified. Stefan didn’t even dare go to school the next day. An undeniably traumatic event.
Despite the drama and the bloodshed, the story had a relatively calm ending. Lennart finished his night at Karolinska Hospital, patched up and given a tetanus shot. The Expressen article offered a few more details, where Lennart (referred to as “John Lennart,” for reasons unknown) elaborated further. He said the man’s hood was pulled low over his face, that he had a beard and was heavily “painted” — an intriguing term. Most fascinating of all: unlike in Aftonbladet, Lennart claimed the meat slab was pierced through with needles!
Besides now being too scared to let his children out at night, or even let his wife walk alone after dark, Lennart casually dropped another detail into the story: “A few days earlier, a man dressed the same way attacked a woman nearby.” I couldn’t find any other articles reporting similar incidents, but according to Expressen, the Dracula-man had been terrorizing Hallonbergen’s children for the previous two weeks. Police reported 5–6 complaints during that time.
Perhaps in an effort to ease public panic, the police gave the vampire a less theatrical nickname: “The Cloak Man.” Not exactly comforting. “Of course people are scared, but we’re encouraging everyone to stay calm,” a police spokesperson said, in a surprisingly laid-back comment to Dagens Nyheter on December 1st.
I’ll return to “The Cloak Man” a bit later, but for now, let’s briefly analyze Dracula in Hallonbergen. Unless Lennart Jonsson and his sons were lying (which I highly doubt) it seems clear a violent individual was roaming the area in November 1973. But the real question is: how much were Lennart and the other unnamed witnesses influenced by the werewolf and mummy stories, which had flooded the media just months earlier?
That the attacker’s face was covered, yet witnesses claimed he had a beard and makeup, suggests that certain details were likely filled in afterward — consciously or not. Perhaps to help the police identify him, but also to intensify the fear experience. This wasn’t just any man. The vivid touch with the meat belt pierced with needles, is an especially bizarre detail. With all respect to Lennart and his sons, it feels a bit like a retroactive exaggeration, the kind our brains invent to give a horror story an extra boost. After all, memory is notoriously unreliable.
That said, of course we should take Lennart and his sons at their word. An attack clearly happened — but how memory processed and shaped it afterward is another matter. As mentioned, 5–6 reports were filed about the bearded Dracula-man, though they most likely referred to sightings rather than physical assaults. Just like the majority of the werewolf and mummy encounters, witnesses saw someone who violated the agreed-upon rules of everyday reality — and interpreted that experience (emotional reaction included) through the lens of what the media had been writing and what friends were whispering. It’s also implied that many of these sightings came from children, and as with our beloved werewolf and mummy, much of the story’s origin can probably be traced back to the imaginations of kids.
And indeed, we are onto something, if you’ve read my analysis of the events in Trelleborg, Jakobsberg, and Sätra, this type of mass reaction is anything but unusual. In fact, in the first of those articles, the one about the band Kiss, school psychologist Signe Olsson is interviewed. She says, “Much of what these ten-year-olds experience is perceived as threat and danger. At their age, it’s perfectly natural to dress up as Kiss.” She later adds, “We understand that Kiss means a lot to many of them. Through Kiss, they channel their own unhappiness. They gain adult power by becoming Kiss. But Kiss helps no one.”
Olsson is careful in her statements, likely trying to balance on a fine line: to side with concerned adults, while still acknowledging the children and their games. In the Kiss case, we also clearly see how the symbols of horror had shifted dramatically between 1972 and 1977, with new American icons taking over. From the monsters of Universal Pictures to a rock band and, as always, the adult world was equally horrified.
THE GRIM REAPER IN VAXHOLM
As it turns out, there was another hooded figure roaming the Stockholm area in 1972 — though he never gained quite the same media attention as the werewolf. Much like 1973’s Dracula, this figure wore a cloak and a hood and symbolized death itself: the Grim Reaper.
There’s not much information available about this particular episode, but according to Aftonbladet on October 11th, 1972 (just a month before the werewolf made his first appearance), a man dressed in a black robe and cape, armed with a scythe, had frightened local residents. Hundreds of people were reportedly involved in the hunt for him. Elderly citizens were too afraid to go outside, and every night around 9 p.m., teenagers would roam the streets on mopeds and bikes, hoping to catch a glimpse.
At one point, the Grim Reaper was nearly run over as he stood posing on the Pålsund bridge, but escaped at the last second. A recurring scene described by witnesses was that of the Reaper lighting a fire on a nearby hilltop. You’d see his silhouette moving around the flames, but as with all other monster sightings, he always vanished before anyone got close enough to identify him.
Many of the reports seem centered around Bogesund Castle and the surrounding wilderness. During the production of Spökjakt, a Swedish paranormal TV series for which I worked as editor and lead researcher across all seasons, I received detailed information from the castle’s guide, Mikaela Lodén, regarding the hauntings in and around the estate. There is no doubt that the site’s modern ghost lore is deeply intertwined with the later stories of the Grim Reaper.
THE HAUNTINGS OF BOGESUND CASTLE
Bogesund Castle, built by Count Per Brahe the Younger in the mid-1600s, has long been surrounded by tales of ghosts and supernatural phenomena. According to the castle guide, who has worked there for over a decade, the stories go back to her own childhood, when the castle stood shuttered and mysterious, already the subject of ghostly rumors in the nearby town of Vaxholm.
According to legend, the strange events and misfortunes surrounding the castle can be traced to a curse inscribed by Brahe himself on a commemorative stone in 1670. The inscription warned against altering the castle: if one dared, the Devil would strike and calamity would follow. Despite the warning, the owner Nils Albrecht von Höpken initiated extensive renovations nearly two centuries later; adding towers, a chapel, and new chambers. During these works, the architect Tor Medelplan died under mysterious circumstances at the age of 31. Not long after, von Höpken himself passed away and was buried in the newly built burial chapel. What followed was a string of misfortunes, and by the 20th century the castle had fallen into disrepair, something many still interpret as the result of Brahe’s curse.
Hauntings have been reported in various parts of the castle. In the cellar, visitors have seen a woman in an old-fashioned dress watching them, believed to be Countess Kristina Katarina Stenbock, Per Brahe’s wife, who died tragically in 1650. Her body was temporarily stored in the cellar before burial. Mediums have reported a putrid smell in the innermost room. Some accounts also claim that the first Nils von Höpken locked his children in the cellar.
The second floor, especially the new dining hall, is the most active area, with numerous reports of a woman in white appearing in the front-facing window, sometimes waving. One story tells of an elegantly dressed woman who quietly joined a tour group and observed them with curiosity. This might have been Carolina von Lantingshausen, wife of Nils von Höpken. Another woman in white is said to have pointed to a tile stove and claimed she had hidden her jewelry there.
In the Pink Cabinet, a room divider once tipped backward slowly and then righted itself without explanation. In the Red Salon, a strange rustling sound was heard for several seconds. In the adjacent Blue Drawing Room, a woman in a black cloak has been spotted. At parties, lights and music have mysteriously shut off without any technical explanation. During ghost tours in autumn 2019, at least two separate visitors claimed to see a small child crawling on the floor of an upstairs room.
In the Knights’ Hall on the fourth floor, where Brahe once hosted banquets, mediums have sensed important meetings and children playing. Visitors have reported hearing Renaissance music and the murmur of crowds. The guide himself once saw a woman in white standing silently in a doorway there, seemingly observing him. During one television shoot, a technician felt someone poke him in the back, then was shoved with force.
In the attic, mediums have sensed the presence of a locked-up boy, a woman who hanged herself, an elderly man, and former servants who once slept there. In one chilling incident, an eight-year-old boy pointed at the attic stairs during a tour and asked why a noose was hanging there, even though nothing was visible. Months later, several mediums claimed to see the same noose. It’s documented that von Höpken once locked his children in the attic, and that the attic later housed a macabre laboratory, complete with skeletons and organs in jars.
In the 17th-century Green Room, visitors report a restless atmosphere and a man pacing endlessly. In the mezzanine room on the third floor, during a taping of One Night at the Castle, mediums described a sinister man near the stairs who had abused staff members — possibly linked to the suicide in the attic. One of the show’s celebrity guests felt her dress being tugged by an invisible hand. In the 18th-century room, the third Nils Stefan von Höpken is said to have drowned his wife’s lover during a boat trip. Since then, a shadowy figure with a lantern has been seen moving from the lakeside dock through the forest and into the castle park, perhaps in search of justice… or revenge.
In Per Brahe’s bedroom on the third floor, mediums report a heavy energy, with sensations of illness and suffocation. A woman has been seen pointing toward the curse stone outside. The room is considered the most charged in the entire castle. Brahe died there on September 12, 1680. He has often been seen in the room below his former bedchamber (especially by staff during events) drifting through the halls in a slouch hat, as if his spirit cannot bear to leave the castle behind.
In the State Bedchamber, mediums have sensed a stern, male presence and heard women’s voices expressing discomfort and discipline. In the 1800s, staff were reportedly punished there. Guests have heard unexplained weeping and cries, possibly echoes of the servant class.
In the Winter Garden, the spirit of Gustaf Pettersson, the castle caretaker who barricaded himself there in 1946 when the castle was taken over by the state, is still said to linger. Finally, doors around the stairwells and salons have reportedly opened and shut on their own, even when the guide was alone in the building.
Outside the castle, a headless rider, said to be Herman von Höpken, who died in a riding accident, has been spotted galloping along the tree-lined avenue under the full moon. While the family crypt was looted in the 20th century, there are no specific ghost stories tied directly to it, only that members of the von Höpken family were buried there until 1967.
All this said, I must apologize for the automatic list format of these accounts, not the most dynamic writing I’ve done. Still, I include them here because they illustrate how certain places, like Sätraskogen Nature Reserve in the case of the mummy, seem to create and weave these kinds of stories. The landscape itself becomes a kind of storytelling engine. Events are projected onto these spaces, which then echo back with pattern and meaning, passed from witness to witness, story to story.
As a curious side note, the castle guide Mikaela Lodén later wrote a crime novel based on the legends surrounding Bogesund. Naturally, our hooded friend, the Grim Reaper, is a central figure in her book, Friherrens Testamente (The Baron’s Testament). It opens with a stormy night in the late 1990s, when a woman is startled by a dark-cloaked figure in the woods of Bogesund. Is it just a prank? A madman? Or the ghost of Baron von Hök, the nobleman who took his own life in the 1800s? The townspeople speak of nothing else. A week later, after the local golf club’s autumn party, a man is found murdered. During the festivities, the protagonist Lisa Strömberg thought she saw someone in a dark cloak slipping through the trees. Is the Grim Reaper the killer? Who hides beneath the cape and what do they want?
You can hear Mikaela herself speak (no english subtitles) about the castle’s ghosts in this clip from Spökjakt:
So what does all this mean? Is it a bit too easy to just call it mass hysteria? From Dracula and the Grim Reaper to these endless tales of hauntings in and around Bogesund Castle? I would argue that blaming it on some kind of mass psychosis is an oversimplification of the phenomenon, and with that said, I’m not claiming this is about real monsters or actual ghosts, although I can’t entirely rule out the latter. Because at its core, this is about people’s own subjective experiences entering some sort of alternative objective phase, albeit controversial and outside our usual norms of what one is supposed to experience, according to the rest of society.
Because who really decides what your experience is about? Just like the children and their way of coping with the terrors of the adult world, adults’ ghost encounters and other extreme experiences are a way of handling life, and perhaps more than anything, death.
In these three cases, the witnesses all deal with symbols of death, and possibly life after death. Dracula, who lives forever (at least until someone exposes him to sunlight or drives a stake through his heart), the ghosts of Bogesund and their eternal curse to wander and frighten tourists, and last, but absolutely not least, the Grim Reaper himself. If the werewolf and the mummy were about coping with adulthood and the future, these figures are about what comes afterwe’ve dealt with all that existential dread. And just like in good old human tradition, we always expect the worst.
Fred Andersson is a Swedish researcher and writer with over twenty years of experience in commercial television. He is currently releasing the book Northern Lights: High Strangeness in Sweden, published by Beyond the Fray Publishing. Follow him on Bluesky and Instagram.
All sources are from newspaper articles from the time, please contact me if you need further information.
The Swedish, original version, can be read here. The first part, on the subject of werewolves and mummies, can be read here and the Swedish version here.
