Greek daimon was morally neutral: a spirit, a lesser divinity, a man's fortune. Socrates spoke of his daimonion as an inner voice. Plato's Cratylus even puns daimones with daemones, the knowing ones. Beekes traces the root to daiomai, to divide or distribute, the distributor of destinies. The flip happened in translation: Septuagint scholars around the 3rd century BCE used daimon for Hebrew shedim, foreign spirits, and the New Testament used daimonion only for evil ones. Augustine sealed it, mocking Apuleius for calling Socrates' spirit a god when by his own terms it should be a demon.
The story the old world told: every person had a daimon, a tutelary spirit born with them. Rome kept it as the genius, honored on birthdays with offerings. Your genius was you, slightly taller. When the word fell, the companion fell with it, and the whisperer on the shoulder was redescribed as a tempter.
The ancient-astronaut and occult revival reading: daimones as intermediaries between realms sound less like metaphors and more like functionaries, agents of a governing intelligence, which is why the old texts describe them delivering knowledge on request. The demonologists did not invent the operators; they inherited them and changed their clearance.
The word was executed by translation, not by theology. If one vocabulary choice can damn a concept for two thousand years, what else has language convicted without trial?