FATHERS OF THE NEPHILIM

A ghost story set at Christmas

Inspired by M R James

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Introduction

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This is a true account of events that happened some twenty years ago. Being unable to put my thoughts down in an orderly fashion I am indebted to my friend, the Reverend Shawcross, for his kind assistance.

In the year 1888 I took the position of schoolmaster at St Aethelwolds, Priors Bollerton, in the county of Yorkshire. It was a small private school of some 150 boys, mostly from colonial and military families. The pretty Queen Anne building was in good repair and the Headmaster, one Kendrick, was inclined to favour me. I was pleased with the appointment (what a fool I was) having resisted the calls of the family business. "Trimbudget and Purser" were little more than moneylenders in my eyes and I wanted no part in the thing.

I went up at the start of the Michaelmas term and began my duties. Things went smoothly and I was happy to remain over the Christmas 'vac ', to mind a handful of boys with families overseas. Relations with my own family were still glacial so it suited me well. How I bitterly regret that decision.

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Regarding the library

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The library was perhaps the prettiest room in the whole school (or the 'old Coll' as the boys referred to it). It was light thanks to its west facing windows that caught the sun of an afternoon. It was also blessedly quiet. The 'no talking' rule was strictly applied and a repeat offender might be 'given licks'. On the whole, the boys respected the restriction.

The contents of the library were a source of interest to me, being something of an antiquarian. There was a small collection of books from the old Priory, half demolished during the Reformation. You might say they were looted or rescued, according to your persuasion. They were kept firmly under lock and key and were only available to the masters not the pupils. 'The old Coll' also had a number of historical chronicles of considerable local interest. They'd been left as part of an endowment by a former Head. I'd resolved to look through this fascinating collection during the yawning expanse of the Christmas 'vac'.

Christmas Eve heralded the start of the festive season. We sat at table overseeing the boys at dinner but things were more raucous and less formal than was usual. Afterwards, we took port, brandy and cigars in the Masters' Common Room. I remember that Hayward hogged the fire, standing in front of it, legs apart. It seems an odd thing to recall so vividly but perhaps it was the devilish light that shone about him that now seems like a portent.

I know that I refused a third port and made my excuses to Kendrick. My little 'Christmas treat' (oh Lord, what folly) was to begin my reading in the library. How I wish that I'd never even set foot in there, or indeed in the school. Had I known I would have run until I'd left the very county; death by exhaustion would have been preferable.

The bestiary

I took the key from the librarian's drawer and raised the shutter on the restricted selection of books. The room was well lighted with gas; how risky it must have been in the days of candlelight. Truthfully, I now wish that a dropped candle had long burnt the place to the ground.

The 'genius loci' made me pick 'Hubert's Bestiary' from the shelf: would that I had been struck dead instead. It was a long, slim volume bound in calfskin. I glanced at the title page and saw that it had been produced in 1785 by a local publisher, Jewitts, of the High Street. It contained twenty pages of a thirteenth century bestiary and a researcher's observations about them. My interest pricked I carried it over to a desk to inspect.

Master Hubert – a long extinct Prior – was typical of the enquiring yet ill-informed medieval mind. His imagined beasts, based on fable and anecdote, were fantastic creatures if a little crudely drawn. There was the expected parade of headless men and one-legged beings so typical of that age. The penultimate work was rather better done. Indeed, it seemed as if painted from life (which was apparently impossible). Several tall figures were, at first glance, angelic. Then one's gaze saw beyond the wings and shining faces and noted the small cruel eyes, the sharpness of the white teeth, the tapering fingers that ended in claws. When considered properly they were quite unpleasant to look at and seemed to be staring back at me from the page. There was a later scribble in the margin but it was so badly faded it was impossible to make it out. I was not displeased to turn the leaves to see the writer's observations on the picture. I read with interest:-

"…perhaps the most interesting of the surviving pages. Where it not impossible one might believe that the good Prior had actually seen these horrible creatures. No name is given to them but faint marginalia suggests that they are the fathers of the Nephilim."

In this so-called enlightened age, when many people doubt and mock scripture and the traditions of the church, it may be wise to clarify this text. Genesis 6:2 says:-

"That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose".

The sons of God are often taken to be 'fallen angels' meaning those beings that fell, like their master, from grace. The progeny of such coupling were the 'giants' or 'Nephilim' – shadowy figures that academics and theologians like to squabble about. I turned back to the illustration and at that point my evil genius prompted me to say the fatal words, "I wish that I might see such a thing!" I followed it with a foolish laugh. It is never wise to mock the dark. Respect it, fear it, hate it, and fight it. That is the path of wisdom. Never mock or challenge its existence.

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The dark angel

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The room immediately felt different. The increase in temperature was instant and obvious. I was warmly dressed for a cold night and now suddenly felt clammy. Beads of perspiration gathered on my forehead. The lamps dimmed and flickered as if the pressure was suddenly off the gas. By way of contrast the air smelt like I'd always imagined the burning sands of the Middle East must smell. It soon became positively sulphurous.

At that point I could have exited but, although mystified, I was not yet afraid. What a terrible error on my part. Moments later a cloud of dust began to rise in front of me. I couldn't have left through the door however much I might then have wanted to. There was a horrible beating of tiny wings like a million locusts in flight. A low but perceptible buzzing sounded like a nest of hornets about to burst free. The dust cloud dispersed leaving a thin layer of white sand over everything in its proximity

"You look upon Semerkhet, child of man," said the figure in a deep, impressive voice. I can't positively say that it spoke in English or, indeed, that it spoke at all. Nevertheless, that was my understanding. Semerkhet must have been nine or even ten feet in height. He was slender with a long, tanned face, dark eyes and wicked teeth. His hair was short and curled about his ears. The robe he wore was long and opulent. He gave the impression of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh brought terribly to life. It was at that moment that my reason was overset. All the horrors of hell are true. A fallen angel, one of the rebels against heaven itself, was before me. Be careful what you wish for, they say, as you might just get it. I got it – in spades!

Frantically I clawed at the bestiary and tore the picture from the binding. "Noooo," screamed Semerkhet in a voice that chilled me to my very marrow. His mouth opened wide like the maw of 'the pit'. I began to rip the paper into shreds in a frenzy of terror. "Stop!" cried the apparition frantically running his hands over his body as if he could feel himself being torn apart. He began to fade and there was the thrumming sound again of a myriad tiny insects flapping. The page lay in pieces on the desk before me. The dark angel had gone, leaving only the fine dust.

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Postscript

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I know that you will doubt me, as I sit here, repeating my story to my friend. I believe that he will represent what I have said fairly and accurately. I cannot leave this place, the room with its soft walls, nor remove the jacket so firmly buckled at the arms. In fact, I do not want to leave for I feel safe here where I will never read a book again.

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THE END