Vampires and Watchmen: The Medieval Undead in Icelandic Sagas
Walking Corpses of the North
In the folklore of medieval Scandinavia – and especially in the Icelandic sagas – the dead did not always rest quietly in their graves. Tales abound of corpses that reanimate and walk among the living, causing havoc and horror. Unlike the incorporeal ghosts of later tradition, these Norse undead (often called draugar) were physical revenants – literally walking corpses with formidable strength and substance. Far from being mere wisps or illusions, they could wrestle with the living, wield weapons, and even be killed a second time (often only with great difficulty). The concept of the undead in medieval Iceland blurs the line between life and death: these beings are neither fully alive nor truly dead, a liminal state that made them especially terrifying to saga audiences.
In the sagas and tales, we encounter a rich variety of such revenants. They go by many names and descriptions – draugr (a revenant or animated corpse), aptrgangr (literally “again-walker,” one who walks after death), haugbúi (“mound-dweller” in a grave mound), even tröll (troll) or fjandi (fiend) in some accounts. These medieval terms were not used with scientific precision, and categorizing the undead can be challenging. A single restless corpse might be called a troll by frightened villagers, a ghost by saga narrators, and a draugr by modern scholars. This chapter explores the medieval Icelandic undead through a semi-scholarly lens, drawing primarily on Ármann Jakobsson’s influential study “Vampires and Watchmen: Categorizing the Medieval Icelandic Undead.” We will introduce the different types of undead beings described in the sagas – from the apturganga who rise of their own accord, to the uppvakningur raised by sorcery, to the sullen mound-dwellers who guard their burial treasures. Along the way, we will meet some of the most notable revenants from the sagas – figures like Glámr, Víga-Hrappr, Þórólfr Lame-Foot, Sóti, and Raknarr – and see what makes them such enduring legends. Key themes of haunting, selfishness, and even “infection” (as when the curse of undeath spreads like a vampiric plague) will be highlighted. Finally, we will consider how people of medieval Iceland dealt with these undead foes – from ancient burial practices meant to prevent a corpse from walking, to drastic measures like burning or decapitation – and reflect on what these tales reveal about medieval attitudes toward death, memory, and fear.
Despite the macabre subject, our journey will be an informative one. The sagas’ undead are more than just spooky tales; they are windows into how medieval Icelanders understood the boundaries between life and death, and into the fears and values of a society caught between pagan past and Christian present. In a land of long dark winters and isolated farms, it is perhaps no surprise that the restless dead loomed large in the imagination. So, light your torch and steel your nerves – it’s time to visit the twilight realm of the medieval Norse undead.
Defining the Undead: Draugr, Troll, or Fiend?
One of the first challenges in discussing the medieval undead is terminology. Modern audiences often use the Old Norse word draugr as a catch-all term for these walking corpses, but medieval texts themselves use a patchwork of words. Draugr in Old Norse literally could mean a corpse or ghost, but it also had more everyday meanings (such as a tree trunk or “dry wood,” metaphorically applied to dead bodies). Saga writers did not always label an undead creature explicitly as a draugr. For example, in Grettis saga the famous revenant Glámr (who will be discussed in detail later) is never called “draugr” in the text – instead the story refers to him as a “troll” (tröll) because of his monstrous deeds. The local people, struggling to explain the deadly haunting, conclude some sort of troll or evil spirit is at work, illustrating how the concept of draugr overlaps with the broader notion of “troll” as any malignant supernatural being. Likewise, the word “fiend” (fjandi, often meaning demon or devil) might be used to describe an especially malevolent undead. When the corpse of Þórólfr Lame-Foot was exhumed in Eyrbyggja saga, he was found horrifyingly unchanged – “blue as Hel and big as an ox” – and “as like to a fiend as could be”. Such descriptions blur the lines between a reanimated dead human and a demonic presence.
Rather than a strict taxonomy, medieval Icelanders seemed to categorize the undead by appearance and behavior. If a dead person was seen walking and causing harm, it scarcely mattered what one called it – it was a threatening draugr in effect, even if other words (troll, ghost, fiend) were applied. Modern scholars have tended to use draugr as a convenient term for all these undead, even retroactively applying it to cases where the sagas use different words. The important thing is that all these terms refer to the restless corporeal dead unique to Norse tradition. They are not disembodied souls or harmless apparitions; they have physical form, lethal power, and ill intent.
Another key term is aptrgangr (or afturganga in modern Icelandic), literally “one who walks again.” This was essentially a synonym for a revenant – emphasizing the act of rising and walking after death. In the sagas, a character might say someone “became an aptrgangr,” meaning their corpse got up and started roaming unbidden. We also see reimleikar, meaning “hauntings,” to describe the restless dead’s activity. All of these terms highlight either the action (walking, haunting) or the nature (monstrous, demonic) of the undead rather than giving them a single technical name.
For clarity, this chapter will use undead, revenant, and draugr somewhat interchangeably, as modern readers do, but it’s worth remembering the sagas’ own fluid vocabulary. The medieval Icelandic undead occupied a conceptual space that overlapped with ghosts, monsters, and demons. They were, in a sense, all of the above – a walking corpse could be at once the spiteful spirit of a deceased person and a kind of monster loose in the world. This ambiguity, as Ármann Jakobsson notes, is precisely what made them so frightening. The living could never be entirely sure what they were dealing with: the familiar face of a dead neighbor, now unnaturally reanimated? A predatory spirit taking a corpse for a joyride? Or some pagan monster drawn to death and decay? In many cases, it was all these at once.
Before diving into specific types of undead, it is useful to outline the broad categorization that folklorists and saga scholars have identified. Nineteenth-century Icelandic collectors like Jón Árnason sorted ghost stories into subtypes that remain handy today. Specifically, Ármann Jakobsson points out three relevant categories preserved in folklore collections:
(1) apturgaungur – those who rise from the dead of their own accord,
(2) uppvakningar (also called sendingar) – those who are raised from the dead by sorcery, and
(3) fylgjur – a different kind of spirit, more like a familial follower or guardian spirit. The third category, fylgjur, does not concern us here since fylgjur were not malevolent undead but rather spiritual attendants (often harbingers of fate for a particular family). It’s the first two categories – the ones based on origin of the undead – that map onto saga literature most directly. In short, some saga revenants rise unbidden from their graves, while others are forced up by magic.
Jakobsson compellingly calls the former type “vampires” and the latter “watchmen” in a metaphorical sense, which we will explore shortly.
Let us now examine each major type of medieval Icelandic undead, their characteristics, and examples of each from the sagas. Along the way, we will see how these categories sometimes overlap – for instance, many of the self-willed undead also function as watchmen guarding something – but the distinctions help us understand the different “breeds” of revenant that populate the lore.
Aptrgangar: Those Who Rise Unbidden
The aptrgangar (singular aptrgangr) are the classic self-starting undead – those who return “of their own accord,” without any outside help. In folkloric terms, we might call them revenants or “restless dead.” These are individuals who, for one reason or another, refuse to stay in the grave. The sagas often suggest that an aptrgangr’s restless state is caused by some powerful emotion or misdeed: excessive greed, unresolved anger, or a lust for vengeance or recognition. Crucially, an aptrgangr materializes on its own, driven by its own will or by some curse, rather than being conjured by someone else.
Many of the most infamous saga ghosts fall into this category. They often were difficult people in life, who become dangerous after death. The saga authors hint that the character of a person could influence their afterlife: an evil or malicious person might be far more likely to haunt the living once dead. For example, in Laxdæla saga we meet Víga-Hrappr Sumarliðason, called “Killer-Hrapp” for his violent deeds. Hrappr is an excellent example of an aptrgangr. Before dying, he deliberately prepares to haunt: he has himself buried in the doorway of his farmhouse – effectively planting himself in the middle of his home – so that he can “not desert his land” even in death. Sure enough, after Hrappr dies and is interred on his property, he does not rest. He begins roaming his farmstead, Hrappstaðir, terrorizing the living. Laxdæla saga says Hrappr’s ghost so thoroughly menaced the household that the farm was eventually abandoned altogether. He was no passive spirit confined to a grave; rather, he walked openly about the farmyard, even sinking into the earth to evade capture at one point. Hrappr’s haunting was motivated by selfish clinging to his territory – unlike many treasure-hoarding ghosts (whom we’ll meet later), his “treasure” was simply the land he refused to relinquish.
What makes Hrappr especially noteworthy is that he intended to become an undead watchman. He had been a profoundly unpleasant, unjust man in life and apparently saw undeath as an opportunity to continue “living” on his own terms. Another scholar notes that Hrappr actually planned to become a ghost, as did some others like Raknarr (whom we will meet shortly). In other words, these were not accidental hauntings – they were the result of a willful, malicious choice made before death. This idea of “preparing” to be undead underscores how aptrgangar were often seen as extensions of the deceased’s personality, not mindless zombies. They had motives and reasons “of their own” for lingering. Greed, envy, hatred, or sheer cussedness – such traits could propel a soul to become an aptrgangr.
Another famous aptrgangr is Glámr, from Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Glámr was a Swedish laborer who came to an isolated valley in Iceland as a shepherd. He was a surly pagan who hated Christian observances; on one fateful Yule (Christmas) night, he went out in a blizzard and met a dreadful fate. When Glámr’s body is found the next day, he is blue and grotesquely swollen, an early sign that something is amiss (his corpse already looks like a draugr even before burial). Sure enough, Glámr rises from death and terrorizes the area. The saga paints Glámr as a particularly destructive undead: he breaks into farms at night, smashes things, kills livestock and even people. One victim is found with “his neck broken and every bone in his body crushed,” a testament to Glámr’s uncanny strength. Locals, as mentioned, refer to this marauding entity as a troll because of its inhuman ferocity. Glámr’s haunting continues until the hero Grettir comes to face him. In a dramatic nocturnal showdown, Grettir wrestles the giant corpse. Even for the mighty Grettir – a legendary strongman – Glámr nearly proves too strong, and the fight is described as an even match for a time. Finally, Grettir manages to cut off Glámr’s head and place it by the corpse’s buttocks, a rather gruesome “final touch” to ensure this aptrgangr won’t rise again. (This method of decapitation and inversion – putting the head near or between the legs – was a known Norse tactic to neutralize a ghost for good. The logic may have been symbolically severing the body’s animation, or simply making it more difficult for the spirit to find its head and reorient.) Even in defeat, however, Glámr has the last word: he lays a curse on Grettir. Glámr’s bulging dead eyes paralyze Grettir in fear, and he speaks a prophecy that Grettir’s strength will fade and darkness will terrify him henceforth. Indeed, after that night Grettir is never the same; he becomes plagued by ill fortune and a morbid fear of the dark. This element – the infectious curse – will be discussed later, but it shows that the aptrgangr could “live on” in a victim’s life even after being physically destroyed.
Aptrgangar like Hrappr and Glámr are essentially “self-starters” among the undead. They rise from their graves due to their own evil nature or strong will. Medieval Icelandic authors and later commentators frequently attribute this to the person’s character in life. As one modern summary puts it, “Any mean, nasty, or greedy person can become a draugr. Ghosts and draugr refuse to follow the prescribed path of death, selfishly staying on Earth when they are supposed to move on.”. The selfishness of the undead is a recurring theme: whether it’s jealousy, greed for treasure, or sheer obstinacy, these revenants cling to what they loved in life (or to their grudges) instead of dying properly. They are often described as “walking because of their own cause”, not due to an external spell. This made them fundamentally different from another category of undead: those raised by sorcery. Before exploring that, however, we should note that many aptrgangar also double as “watchmen” – a term Jakobsson uses for ghosts that guard something. Víga-Hrappr, for instance, guarded his land like a grim watchman, and many draugar jealously guard burial mounds or wealth. We will delve more into the watchman role in a later section on mound-dwellers. First, let us look at the other major origin of the undead in saga lore: witchcraft and sorcery.
Uppvakningar: The Sorcery-Raised Dead
Not all undead in the sagas rise spontaneously. Some are deliberately summoned or created by magical means. The Old Norse term for such a creature is uppvakningur (plural uppvakningar), meaning “one who is woken up (raised up).” A common translation is simply “a sending” (sendingr), implying something or someone sent by a sorcerer to do their bidding. In English we might call these necromantic undead – essentially zombies under someone’s control. Jakobsson notes that Jón Árnason’s folklore category “uppvakningar eða sendingar” refers to ghosts “who are raised by others with magic”. This distinction between ghosts that get up on their own (apturgaungur) versus those awakened by sorcery was understood in the Middle Ages and persists even into modern stories.
So what did an uppvakningur look like in medieval saga literature? In truth, examples in the Íslendingasögur (family sagas) are relatively few – most ghosts there seem to rise of their own accord rather than as the result of a spell. However, magic-induced undead do appear more clearly in some of the legendary sagas (fornaldarsögur) and later folklore. For instance, medieval Icelandic law codes explicitly forbade sorcery that could raise corpses. The fact that lawbooks warned against people “waking the dead” suggests that it was considered a real (and dangerous) possibility in the medieval mindset. In Eyrbyggja saga – a text rich in ghost stories – there is an implication that in later times, “unclean spirits” could invade corpses and make them rise, a concept likely influenced by Christian ideas of demonic possession. These would also count as uppvakningar, since the animation comes from an outside spirit rather than the person’s own soul.
Several sagas and tales outside the family sagas give us dramatic necromantic showdowns. One famous example comes from Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss, where the draugr King Raknarr (whom we will discuss more as a watchman) is said to have had himself buried alive with treasure. Though he wasn’t exactly raised by another, his case borders on ritual: it’s as if he performed sorcery on himself to ensure he’d live on as a revenant. More straightforward cases involve witches or sorcerers raising the dead. In Hrómundar saga Greipssonar (a legendary saga), the hero Hrómund meets an undead enemy, Þráinn, who is effectively a sorcerous zombie guarding a burial mound. The text even describes how Þráinn shape-shifts during combat, turning into a “cat-like creature” to suffocate Hrómund – a very supernatural encounter. While the saga doesn’t explicitly show a magician in the act of raising Þráinn, the context (full of spells and witchcraft) implies that dark arts are at play.
Later folklore (and indeed much later, early modern tales) have plenty of “sendings” – dead bodies reanimated by sorcerers to harm someone. The Icelandic word sending in ghost lore often refers to a malicious spirit or ghoul sent by a witch. These could even be constructed from corpses, as in the notorious tilberi or zombie-like servants in Icelandic folk legend (though those are usually assembled creatures rather than revenants of a known person). The key idea is that magic can force a soul (or a demon) into a corpse, creating a puppeteered undead. Jakobsson observes that this idea lasted well into modern times, and indeed in pop culture we still distinguish between **“natural” undead like Dracula (who rises by his own curse) versus “artificial” ones like Frankenstein’s monster (who is literally built and animated by a scientist). The medieval Icelanders similarly recognized both modes.
To give a concrete saga example: in Grettis saga, there is a sorceress named Þuríðr who at one point uses magic to curse Grettir (she drives a wooden stake with runes into his lair). While she doesn’t raise a corpse, she demonstrates the kind of witchcraft that could just as well have been used to animate the dead. Eyrbyggja saga offers a glimpse too – when a place is heavily haunted (the wonders at Fróðá), the saga eventually attributes it to not just the dead woman Þórgunna’s displeasure but to Satan’s meddling, implying an external evil animating the dead. It even mentions that one of the ghosts might have been inhabited by an “unclean spirit” – essentially a demon causing the corpse to walk. This is the Christianized version of a sorcery-raised undead (with the Devil as the sorcerer, so to speak).
Outside of Iceland, in the broader Norse world, there were tales of Saami shamans or Finnish sorcerers raising corpses to fight or to reveal knowledge. Snorri Sturluson in Heimskringla recounts King Olaf Tryggvason using a sorcerer to temporarily raise a dead man to question him – a rare benign use of necromancy. While that is not a saga of Icelanders, it reflects a known motif: the dead could be interrogated if revived, showing a perhaps practical side to uppvakningar in legend (as sources of information, not just horror).
In summary, uppvakningar in medieval lore were the result of intentional magic. They highlight a belief that death was not always final if forbidden arts were involved. While not as common in the grounded family sagas, the concept was “real and important in the Middle Ages”, enough that people told stories and made laws about it. The existence of this category also indicates how people made sense of different undead: If an apparition was terrorizing people, one might ask, “Did it rise on its own (apturganga) or did someone send this upon us (uppvakning)?” The latter could imply an enemy at work, using sorcery.
Before moving on, it’s worth noting that in Jakobsson’s analysis, the difference between apturganga and uppvakningur is like the difference between the classic vampire and the classic zombie: one comes back due to its own cursed condition, the other is an instrument of another’s will. Both are undead, but their agencies are different. In many saga cases, however, the line blurs – a restless ghost might later be controlled or banished by ritual, or an initially sorcery-raised corpse might develop its own agenda. Nonetheless, keeping this origin distinction in mind helps us appreciate the variety of undead lore.
Mound-Dwellers and Other Watchmen
A great number of Icelandic saga undead serve a very specific purpose: they act as guardians or “watchmen” over some place or treasure. Often, this place is their burial mound – hence the term haugbúi (mound-dweller) for a subtype of draugr that stays put in its grave hill. These ghosts are usually motivated by greed or duty to guard their earthly goods. Jakobsson calls them “spectral watchmen” because they remain tethered to their inheritance or treasure, like vigilant sentinels even after death. In many ways, they resemble dragons in mythology – in fact, Norse literature draws a parallel between dragons and these treasure-hoarding undead. The dragon Fáfnir in the Völsunga saga sits on his hoard and kills intruders; an undead mound-dweller does much the same (though in human corpse form). Both are often seen as a kind of curse attached to great wealth: if treasure was buried with a person, that person’s restless spirit might linger to guard it, making the hoard dangerous to plunder.
Most medieval Icelandic ghosts belong to this watchman category, according to Jakobsson’s survey. They are “attached to a treasure or their land,” typically not roaming far beyond it. These undead guardians are usually not aggressive unless their domain is violated. A mound-dweller may lie quiet for years, as long as no one intrudes on its grave or property. But disturb the mound, and the draugr will rise in rage, often exuding a fearsome stench and witchcraft to fend off the grave-robber. Medieval sources describe these ghosts using foul smells and illusions as weapons – for example, the mound-dweller might cause a reeking fog or assume a horrific visage to scare people away. (The mention of “foul-smelling witchcraft” is apt; many sagas note the stench of decay accompanying a draugr, which could have been viewed almost as a magical poison or miasma to weaken opponents.)
Typically, sagas introduce mound-dweller stories in the context of heroes seeking treasure. A brave (or greedy) adventurer hears of a rich burial and decides to dig into it, knowing it may be guarded by an undead. These episodes become contests of courage: the living hero versus the undead “watchman.” A classic example occurs in Grettis saga when Grettir, early in his career, breaks into the burial mound of Kárr the Old. Kárr was a Viking buried with his wealth and weapons. As Grettir delves in, Kárr’s corpse animates to defend the grave. A wrestling match ensues in the dark confines of the barrow. Grettir manages to subdue Kárr, behead him, and burn the body, thereby claiming a famous sword from the tomb. This scene demonstrates several hallmark traits of the mound-dweller: he did not wander abroad killing people; he only rose when his lair was invaded. He also was unnaturally heavy and resistant – the saga notes it was difficult to move his body, as if rooted to the spot (a detail also said of Þórólfr Lame-Foot’s corpse being immovably heavy until levered out). Once “killed” again, however, the treasure becomes accessible. Such tales no doubt served as both adventurous entertainment and a caution (or perhaps encouragement!) regarding grave-robbing.
We have a couple of named examples of these watcher-draugar from earlier: Sóti and Raknarr. Both are described as Viking warriors who turned into mound-dwelling ghosts, and both are explicitly said to guard great treasure. In Harðar saga ok Hólmverja (the Saga of Hord and the Holm-Dwellers), the outlaw-hero Hörðr and his companions confront Sóti. Sóti had been a Viking buried with wealth, and indeed Hörðr seeks him out to retrieve this wealth. The saga recounts how Sóti’s undead form attacked the intruders with ferocity. At first, the fight went badly – one account says “the fight looks like it will be in Sóti’s favor” until one of Hörðr’s men uses a sacred candle or wax to weaken the ghost. Eventually, they manage to defeat Sóti and take the treasure. Meanwhile, in Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss, we have the story of Raknarr the Viking, which is one of the most vivid undead encounters in saga literature. King Raknarr of Helluland, as noted, was said to have himself buried alive with his treasure – an extreme measure to remain a guardian. Long after, during the Christian era, Raknarr’s draugr appears at King Óláfr Tryggvason’s court at Christmas, throwing down a challenge: he invites a hero to come to his mound and claim the treasure if he can. This is almost a chivalric duel with a ghost, and Bárðr’s son Gestr accepts the challenge. When Gestr and his men journey to Raknarr’s barrow, they experience a fantastical adventure filled with ominous visions and monsters on the way, underscoring that entering a haunted domain was like stepping into an otherworld. Upon reaching the mound, Raknarr reveals himself – “amazingly evil to look at” – and a fierce fight breaks out. Raknarr exhibits “trollish frenzy,” a berserk strength that nearly overwhelms Gestr. In the end Gestr only triumphs by lopping off Raknarr’s head. Following established practice, he places the severed head by Raknarr’s buttocks before re-burying the corpse. This ensures Raknarr will not rise again. The reward, of course, is the treasure. Both Sóti and Raknarr stories emphasize that these undead remain in their mounds until challenged by a bold adventurer. They are the quintessential watchmen, eternally on guard.
Jakobsson notes that Víga-Hrappr, whom we met earlier, is a “not a typical spectral watchman” only because he did not stay quietly in a tomb – instead he roamed his farmstead. But Hrappr is still a watchman in the sense that he guarded his land (his inheritance) rather than a treasure hoard. In effect, his farm became his grave mound. This is a reminder that “treasure” for an undead might be not just gold but any prized possession or property. Most watchmen-draugar, however, “are kept here by treasure” and can be seen as part of the curse on great wealth. Greed thus plays a huge role: their greed binds them to earthly things, and conversely their presence curses those things, making them dangerous.
Interestingly, these watchmen are often less overtly malignant than the roaming vampires (to borrow Jakobsson’s categories). Jakobsson observes that the majority of medieval Icelandic ghosts fall in this watchman group. They “rarely attack outside their own mound” and mostly trouble people who seek them out. That said, their existence could have secondary effects on the living: for example, farmers might avoid entire areas known to be haunted by a mound-dweller. We saw that after Hrappr’s hauntings, Hrappstaðir farm was abandoned. In Eyrbyggja saga, after the wicked Þórólfr Lame-Foot died and became a revenant, his haunting grew so bad that “most of the farms were abandoned because of it”. Thorolf at first haunted his own farm (killing cattle and people there), and when that farm was emptied, his restless spirit ranged further, even wandering to another farm, Ulfarsfell, to cause trouble. This is a sort of escalation unusual for a watchman-type ghost, earning Thorolf a reputation as one of the most dangerous undead. Eventually, people banded together to dig up and dispose of Thorolf’s body. As Eyrbyggja saga recounts, Thorolf’s corpse was found uncorrupted and monstrously bloated; the men had to use lever poles to heave him out of the grave due to his weight, and he was “blue as Hel” with an ugly, fiendish look. They dragged him to a pyre and burned him to cold coals, scattering the ashes in the sea. Only such complete destruction ended Thorolf’s reign of terror. (Even so, folklore in the saga adds a post-script: a cow licked his ashes and later gave birth to a freakish calf believed to carry Thorolf’s evil – a supernatural folktale detail that underscores how taint can linger even after the draugr’s demise!)
The watchmen and mound-dwellers highlight a fundamental Norse belief about the dead: the grave could be a home. Vikings often buried their chieftains with wealth, weapons, maybe even horses or ships, as if equipping them for a continued existence. Saga ghosts take that idea literally – the dead do continue a shadowy existence in the grave, and some jealously hold onto their possessions. In a way, these stories rationalize why valuable grave goods don’t just lie around to be picked up: there’s a fearsome guardian attached. They also might reflect a cultural warning: disturbing graves is both sacrilegious and perilous.
“Vampires”: Hungry Ghosts and the Walking Plague
We come finally to the most ominous type of undead in the sagas – the ones that behave not just as solitary predators or local spooks, but almost like a contagion among the living. Jakobsson uses the label “vampires” for these, not because they drink blood (Norse undead generally do not suck blood like Dracula), but because they display a “parasitic” or infectious quality, transmitting death and undeath to others. In saga literature, this is a relatively rare but dread scenario: a ghost’s presence causes a chain reaction of deaths, almost as if undeath were epidemic. Modern scholars have likened certain saga episodes to an outbreak of vampirism, where one undead begets another and so on.
The prime example comes from Eyrbyggja saga’s famous “Haunting of Fróðá” (Fróðárundur). In this episode, a farm at Fróðá is struck by a mysterious series of supernatural occurrences after a woman named Þórgunna dies there. Þórgunna, from the Hebrides, is a Christian woman with some supernatural airs about her. On her deathbed, she makes the household swear to burn her bed and bedding – she likely suspects that otherwise ill will follow. The farm folk, unfortunately, disobey and keep the fine bedclothes. Thereafter, strange things happen: Þórgunna’s ghost is seen, and soon other people in the household die unexpectedly – and those who die rise up to haunt in turn. Each night, the living see a procession of the recently dead, dripping seaweed (as if coming from the sea) walking into the hall and sitting by the fire in stony silence. One by one, several servants die and join this morbid gathering. It’s as if the initial curse or unrest (Þórgunna’s anger) is infecting others with death, creating more undead. Scholars explicitly describe this as an “epidemic” of hauntings. Indeed, Jakobsson notes that the case of Þórgunna was referred to as an epidemic in commentary. Here we have what might be termed Norse “vampirism”: not blood-drinking, but a draugr that “begets another by turning his victim into one of his kind.” In the Fróðá tale, the living finally seek help from a Christian priest, who conducts a vigil and ritual that puts the dead to rest – essentially an exorcism by faith. The troublesome bedgear of Þórgunna is also burned, satisfying her last wishes and likely freeing her spirit. With that, the chain of undeath is broken and life returns to normal at the farm.
Another example of contagious undeath is Þórólfr Lame-Foot (Þórólfr bægifótr) whom we met earlier. Þórólfr’s haunting in Eyrbyggja saga starts as a watchman type (he’s angry about his land and feud matters), but after his first confrontation (where he causes the death of his son Arnkell), he becomes even more malevolent. The saga explicitly says that as soon as his enemy Arnkell was dead, Thorolf “straightway took to walking” and slew both men and beasts at will. He depopulates the area; no one can live at his farm, and neighboring farms suffer. This already sounds like an outbreak, but it goes further: after being reburied once, Thorolf’s ghost later kills a shepherd, who then himself becomes an undead the next night – a direct case of one draugr creating another, like a bite of a vampire creating a new vampire. In fact, one account states: “a shepherd is killed by a draugr and rises the next night as one himself”. This is essentially zombie logic in a 13th-century saga. Thorolf’s saga ends, as we saw, with a community effort to dig him up and burn him, finally stopping the carnage. But not before we see how one powerful restless dead can turn an entire district into a nightmare of death.
Even Glámr in Grettis saga has a whiff of this contagion theme. When Grettir arrives at the valley, it is said that an evil spirit was already haunting the place – some unseen force was terrorizing the area before Glámr died. But after Glámr’s corpse rises, the previous ghostly presence seems to vanish, replaced entirely by Glámr. It’s as if Glámr “caught” the curse from that haunted location. In Jakobsson’s words, commentators have surmised that Glámr, “by contamination, was turned into an undead (draugr) by whatever being was haunting the farm” before. This resembles the folkloric idea that an undead can “pass on” its condition: the spirit or curse jumps to a new host. Glámr essentially became the new vampire of the valley after encountering the original. And then Glámr in turn “infects” Grettir with a curse (albeit not turning Grettir undead, but blighting his life). The idea here is that evil begets evil; undeath can spread like a disease if unchecked.
It is notable that while most draugar are solitary menaces, the sagas took special interest in these escalating hauntings, perhaps because they carry a sense of dread similar to modern zombie plagues or vampire epidemics. In these stories we see the community in peril, not just individuals. It likely tapped into very deep fears: the unstoppable spread of death, and the sense that one corpse can lead to many if proper precautions (burial rites, burning, etc.) are not observed.
Jakobsson’s use of the term “vampire” for this type is also a bit tongue-in-cheek, connecting medieval Icelandic ghosts to later European vampire lore. In fact, when Bram Stoker’s Dracula was first translated into Icelandic in 1901, the translator chose to call Dracula a “manndraugur”, literally a “human-draugr”. This charming detail shows that Icelanders recognized Dracula as essentially akin to their own old walking dead: an apturganga who comes from his grave and creates more of his kind. The translator Valdimar Ásmundsson evidently felt that the draugr concept was the closest native equivalent to a vampire. And indeed, the only major difference is the blood-drinking. In terms of horror function – spreading undeath, preying on the living at night – the saga draugr and the vampire are spiritual cousins.
To summarize this category: these “hungry” or plague-like undead are those who actively seek out the living, not just to scare or defend, but seemingly to increase their own numbers or territory. They have a predatory, parasitic aspect, like an incubus or vampire that feeds on life energy. They cause sickness, madness, and death. Often the only solution is a hero or a holy intervention. Grettir serves as the classical hero for Glam (though he suffers for it). In the Fróðá saga, it’s the power of Christianity (a priest with holy rites) that dispels the walking dead. This hints at an underlying theme: the shift from pagan to Christian paradigms. The “vampiric” draugar are frequently defeated by Christian symbols (crosses, churches, priests) or by heroes who often align with Christian virtue or at least divine favor (e.g., Grettir recites verses to God for strength at one desperate moment with Glam, though he was no saint). The contagious undead thus provide a stage for emphasizing the triumph of order over chaos, and faith over devilry.
Dread and Defense: Combating the Undead
Faced with such fearsome foes, what did medieval Icelanders imagine one could do to prevent or combat the undead? The sagas and folklore provide a number of practical measures and dramatic remedies. These range from simple preventative folk practices during funerals, to epic showdowns where a hero physically destroys the creature or a priest exorcises it.
Firstly, preventative measures at burial were important. The living took steps to ensure a deceased person stayed deceased – especially if the person seemed likely to walk (remember, those known for malevolence might be suspected candidates for unrest). One widespread practice was to restrain the corpse in subtle ways. For instance, the dead might be placed in the coffin with their toes tied together, or with needles driven through the soles of their feet or feet nailed to the coffin. The logic was that if the corpse tried to move, these bonds or pains would hamper it. Another precaution was to lay a open pair of scissors on the chest of the deceased. This perhaps had a magical or apotropaic function – iron scissors forming a cross-like shape might ward off evil, or symbolically “cut” any ties that would let the corpse rise. Straw could be placed under the shroud, and sometimes special runes or symbols might be drawn to protect the grave. In some sagas, bodies of troublesome folk are buried in remote places or at crossroads, so their ghost will be less able to find its way home (the idea of burying at crossroads appears in broader European lore too, as a way to confuse the spirit).
A fascinating Icelandic custom was the use of a “corpse door.” When removing a body from the house for burial, bearers would not carry it out through the normal door. Instead, they often broke a hole in the wall (or opened a special hatch) and carried the coffin out that way. They would then reseal the opening. The belief behind this was probably that the ghost would not know how to re-enter the house, since the route by which it left was gone. Effectively, they tried to trick the deceased’s spirit – you can leave, but you can’t come back in. At the threshold, some rituals involved rotating the coffin or lowering and raising it three times (perhaps to ritually “confuse” the spirit or say goodbye). All of these practices show a healthy respect for the possibility that a dead person might return. As one source quips, the Norse took care so that “the dead was then carried outside for burial through the ‘corpse door’, which was simply a hole in the wall” made for that occasion. The fact that this was done simply indicates it was normal – better safe than sorry.
Despite precautions, sometimes an undead still popped up. Then more direct action was required. The sagas are replete with instances of communities or individual heroes confronting a draugr physically. Typically, the decapitation of the corpse is a key step in neutralizing it. We have seen this in multiple examples: Grettir cutting off Glámr’s head; Gestr beheading Raknarr; presumably Hörðr’s men beheading Sóti; and the final dealing with Thorolf’s corpse involved burning (though if fire had not fully consumed him, decapitation would likely follow). In general, the formula for a pesky revenant was: exhume it, cut off the head, place the head by the feet or buttocks, and burn the remains. The burning is to destroy the body utterly – many sagas stress that partial measures won’t do. Thorolf’s saga specifically says it took a long time for the fire to catch on his corpse (as if the corpse itself resisted burning), but they persisted until it was ash. Afterwards they scattered the ashes in the sea to be extra sure. Similarly, Víga-Hrappr in Laxdæla saga was eventually dug up by the hero Óláfr “Peacock” and burned to cinders, after which his haunt ended.
Another tactic was reburial in a safer place. If a ghost haunted a specific location, people might relocate the bones to consecrated ground. A classic example: the bishop Jón Arason (16th century, but folklore) supposedly ended a local haunting by having the restless remains dug up and moved to a churchyard. In sagas, after the Fróðá episode, they ensure all the newly-dead are given proper church burial, which helps end the unrest. In Thorolf Lame-Foot’s first round of haunting, his son Arnkell initially tries a reburial – they move Thorolf’s body to a remote headland and build a cairn. For a while it works, but once Arnkell (who maintained the burial site) died, Thorolf walked again. Only burning solved it in the end. So reburial on holy ground was a known remedy but not foolproof if the spirit was exceptionally nasty or if the reburial wasn’t done right.
In some cases, Christian ritual was the weapon of choice. As Iceland converted (around 1000 AD) and sagas were written down in the Christian era, many ghost stories conclude with the intervention of Christianity. A priest will bless the haunted site, reciting the mass or reading scripture, effectively exorcising the evil. In Eyrbyggja saga, after the Fróðá hauntings, the local chieftain (himself newly Christian) calls a Christian priest named Kjartan to hold a service at the farm. During the ceremony, each ghost is said to appear one final time and then be banished in the name of God, until the hall is clear. The last to appear is Þórgunna, who comes in a cloud of smoke; when she vanishes, the hauntings cease. The saga attributes the end of the troubles to the power of the Holy Mass. This dramatizes the notion that the church can succeed where saga heroes might fail, by appealing to a higher power to put the dead to rest. Another saga, Gísla saga, mentions a woman who sees the walking dead and eventually has a priest drive them away. As Christianity took root, belief in demons as the cause of such things may have increased, thus priestly exorcism became a logical solution.
In purely secular fights with draugar, however, it’s often down to raw courage and strength. Grettir is celebrated because he dared to grapple with the undead when others ran. Many times the stories emphasize how fearful the haunting was, and how the general populace or household was too scared to confront it (people fleeing at the sight of Glámr, etc.). It takes a special individual (often an outsider or a hero-in-training) to face the draugr head on. This is a recurring motif: battling a draugr is almost a rite of passage for a hero. It proves physical strength, but also spiritual fortitude – one must not be overwhelmed by fear or the ghost’s evil eye. In Grettir’s case, he wins but is spiritually wounded (cursed with fear). In Bárðar saga, Gestr is nearly bested until he calls on God, indicating even heroes need help beyond themselves when it comes to these unearthly foes.
One more subtle method of combating an undead (or preventing one) is fulfilling the deceased’s last wishes or resolving unfinished business. Often, a saga ghost’s motivation is tied to something left undone or a slight. Þórgunna wanted her bedding burned; when it finally was, she no longer haunted. Another ghost in Eyrbyggja, the shepherd who died, only started haunting because no one had sung funeral prayers for him – once they did, he rested. So, medieval Icelanders certainly believed a proper funeral and respect for the dead was crucial. If hauntings occurred, one question would be: Was something not done right? Maybe the body wasn’t properly buried, or an injustice wasn’t corrected. In some tales, settling a feud or paying a debt on behalf of the dead calms their spirit.
The Living, the Dead, and the Unrestful Memory
The medieval Icelandic undead were more than just ghost stories to scare people (though they certainly did that well). They served a cultural function, embodying fears and moral lessons about death and memory in that society. These tales reveal a world where death was a thin veil, easily torn if proper care was not taken. Every Icelandic farmstead had ancestors in its yard and stories of strange sights in the dark of winter. The undead personified the idea that past wrongs and powerful emotions can linger after death – literally haunting the living.
One obvious insight we gain is about burial practices and beliefs. The elaborate precautions – tying toes, special doors, etc. – show that Icelanders viewed death as a process that needed managing. A good death involved rituals to ensure the dead did not yearn for life again. Conversely, a “bad death” (sudden, violent, or with unresolved issues) could result in a restless corpse. Thus, these stories reinforced the importance of performing funerals properly and behaving well to your kin and neighbors (so no one dies harboring a grudge). In a sense, the undead in sagas are the personification of a bad reputation or an unresolved conflict living on. Medieval Iceland had no police or centralized authority – social order depended on honor and reciprocity. A tale like Víga-Hrappr’s suggests that a man who was “unfair” and treacherous in life might continue to plague the community after death. It was a way of saying: wicked deeds never truly die; they come back. Likewise, the “selfishness” of ghosts staying for treasure or land is a caution against excessive attachment to worldly goods. Generosity and humility, virtues in a tough communal farming society, stand opposed to the draugr’s greed and obstinacy.
The theme of haunting as memory is also poignant. A draugr is essentially a memory that won’t die – often the memory of some injustice or horror. For example, Thorolf Lame-Foot’s haunting could be read as the land’s memory of his tyranny; only when his body is destroyed (and symbolically, when new Christian values arrive) is the land free of that dark memory. The Fróðá ghosts force the living to remember Þórgunna’s instructions (which they had ignored). Glámr’s curse on Grettir ensures Grettir will remember Glámr vividly (in nightmares and fear) all his life. In a culture with no written records on headstones, saga ghosts are story-forms of remembrance – albeit traumatic ones.
Another function of these undead tales is to explore the boundary between pagan and Christian worldviews. Many scholars have noted that the sagas often use ghost stories to subtly contrast heathen superstition and Christian faith. The earlier ghosts like Glámr (who hated church) are defeated by a hero who occasionally invokes God. Later hauntings are solved by priests. The restless dead are frequently called “devils” or attributed to Satan in saga narration once Christianity is in play. This framing might have helped medieval Christian Icelanders process their pagan heritage – draugar and such could be reinterpreted as the work of the Devil or of pagan sorcery, something the new faith can overcome. At the same time, the persistence of these legends shows that pre-Christian folk beliefs in revenants remained vivid, adapted but not erased by Christianity. The cultural psyche did not simply turn ghosts into metaphors; they still told literal ghost stories, but layered new meaning on them.
Emotionally, what fear did the undead embody? On one level, they plainly express the terror of death and corpses. A society that buried its dead on homestead land would have intimate familiarity with decomposition – the draugr’s bloated, blue-black appearance and stench match what a body might look like in cold ground. So the horror is partly the uncanny animation of what should be decaying. It forces people to face the physical reality of death in a confrontational way. On another level, the undead embody fear of the dark and isolation. Many hauntings happen at night or during the winter. The Icelandic winter with its long darkness must have made the imagination run wild; ghosts like Glámr strike on winter nights, and the terror of darkness is a motif (Grettir’s fear of the dark after Glámr could mirror any child’s fear rationalized as a curse). They also often happen in isolated settings – a farm in a valley, a remote mound – reflecting the reality of Icelandic life: farms were scattered, help was not always near, and in those lonely settings one’s mind could drift to things that go bump in the night.
Ultimately, the saga undead stories reaffirm a kind of moral and social order by showing how disorder (the dead rising) can be set right. A ghost is a violation of nature’s order. The responses – whether by a strong hero or a priest or communal action – illustrate that courage, wit, and proper rites can restore balance. Grettir, by slaying Glámr, becomes a protector figure (even if cursed, he saved the community). Burning Thorolf allows people to return to their farms. Laying the Fróðá ghosts to rest allows life (and Christian peace) to resume. Each time an undead is defeated, it’s a little victory of the living over death and fear.
Yet, there’s an interesting ambivalence: the sagas also treat some ghosts with a dose of sympathy or tragedy. The undead are often trapped by their own vices or by curses. They could be seen as victims of fate – for instance, Þórgunna didn’t intend evil, she just wanted her instructions followed. In some tales (mostly later legendary ones), a ghost might even assist the living once its anger is soothed. This suggests that the boundary between a harmful ghost and a benevolent ancestral spirit was permeable, depending on how the living behaved. Honor the dead, and they rest; wrong them or covet their goods, and they rise in anger.
In conclusion, the medieval Icelandic undead are richly drawn figures that allowed saga tellers to explore fear of the unknown, the weight of the past, and the struggle to maintain social and spiritual order. They were monsters, yes, but monsters with meaning. A modern reader can enjoy these tales as spooky adventures – proto-horror stories of medieval Europe – but also appreciate their cultural resonance. They dramatize the idea that we coexist with our history (the dead), and if we aren’t careful, that history can quite literally rear up and grab us by the throat. The undead of the sagas remind us that the past is never entirely gone – in the dark of a winter night, it might just knock on the door (or perhaps, break through the wall) and demand acknowledgement.
Sources:
Ármann Jakobsson, “Vampires and Watchmen: Categorizing the Medieval Icelandic Undead,” JEGP 110 (2011): 281–300.
Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar (Saga of Grettir the Strong), in which Grettir fights the undead Glámr.
Eyrbyggja saga (Saga of the Ere-Dwellers), chapters 31–34 (Thorolf Lame-Foot’s haunting) and 52–55 (the wonders at Fróðá).
Laxdæla saga, chapter 17 (Víga-Hrappr’s haunting of Hrappstaðir).
Harðar saga ok Hólmverja, episode of Sóti’s mound (Saga of Hord).
Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss, episode of Gestr’s encounter with Raknarr’s ghost.
Hilda Ellis-Davidson, The Road to Hel (1943) – on Norse beliefs about the afterlife.
Jacqueline Simpson, Icelandic Folktales and Legends (1972) – on later folklore of draugar (shapeshifting, etc.).
Medieval Icelandic law codes (Grágás) – prohibitions on raising the dead by witchcraft.
Archaeological and folk evidence of burial practices (tying toes, corpse door).
Av Theodor Kittelsen - Theodor Kittelsen, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=225212
This is quite fascinating. Even though my father was Icelandic, I’d never heard these stories. I’ve only known about the Sagas because our ancestor is Snorri Sturluson. My father was born in a sod house in the far north of Iceland and had a very tough childhood. He didn’t see a car until he was 12. When he was five years old he was quite sick. He and his mother rode by horseback to the nearest doctor, a day’s ride away. Now Iceland is very prosperous but back then it was one of the poorest countries in Europe.
This looks really interesting! I’m looking forward to reading it when I have a few moments!