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November 15th 1887
'Prof. Gerehardt's claim that the 11' skeleton recovered by her dig team, near the foot of Ben Nevis, may well date to the Nephilim Epoch- post-Adamic, pre-Diluvian, demands immediate attention.
Her description of it's axial support structure is described as a morphological impossibility for human life, suggesting hybrid origins beyond known pathology, possibly divine interference.
If proven, this specimen predates all known civilizations and may represent a lost lineage erased by the Flood. The implications are staggering.
Ref: Genesis 6:4
Adam and Eve: The beginning of humanity, cast out of Eden.
Generations of early humans: Including Seth, Enoch, and Methuselah.
Nephilim Era: A mysterious period when “the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men.” The Nephilim were born- giants, warriors, anomalies.
Noah’s Time: The world becomes corrupt, and the Flood is sent to cleanse it. The Nephilim are said to perish, though some legends suggest remnants survived…
Prof. Gerehardt sent a telegram requesting an urgent meeting.'
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"IMMEDIATE ATTENTION. SPECIMEN EXCEEDS ALL KNOWN PATHOLOGICAL LIMITS. ITS AXIAL SUPPORT STRUCTURE IS A MORPHOLOGICAL IMPOSSIBILITY FOR HUMAN LIFE. REQUIRES IMMERSION MICROSCOPY. URGENT SECRECY. MEET BLACK DOG TAVERN, MIDNIGHT WEDNESDAY."
We met in The Black Dog Tavern at 7pm. This nefarious establishment nestles deeply in a cobbled alleyway near the docks- a place where gaslight struggles to pierce the perpetually smothering Glasgow air. It is locally known as a haunt for smugglers, a place of salacious meeting and anyone with secrets too volatile for polite society. In truth I am shocked that Miss. Gerehardt should even be aware of the existence of such places.
If the outside of the establishment was bleak, then the inside... thick with the stench of unwashed humanity, stale beer and pipe tobacco; heavy, smoke blackened oak beams and a roof that sags like an old man's shoulders. Gerehardt had chosen a back booth of dark, scarred wood, tucked into an alcove where the shadows are deepest; allowing us to conduct our urgent anatomical discussion over the din of the common room without being overheard.
"Professor Gerehardt, what is the immediate crisis that required this- this theatrical summons?"
Gerehardt leaned forward, her eyes bright. "It is a consequence of the Magma-scope's initial test, Doctor- the one you witnessed for the Royal Society this past summer. That test, utilizing the caldera's energy, caused a subtle, but profound, geological disturbance in the glen below the estate."
"A tremor?" I asked, recalling the pressure readings.
"A shift, Doctor. Just enough to crack the protective soil layer covering a buried chamber. Within days, a local crofter, tending his flock, discovered a massive protrusion of bone- bone that clearly did not belong to any local fauna."
"And your team excavated it?"
"My excavation team, working with local crofters and all haste, uncovered the rest. The Nephilim skeleton was lying in an ancient, collapsed igneous tube, a natural vault sealed since the Flood. It was the energy you helped us harness that opened that vault. You, Doctor, are as much the discoverer as I."
At this statement I was suddenly overcome with the heavy weight of responsibility. "You, trust the locals? The crofters who have seen this skeleton?"
"Without a doubt, Doctor. My family name carries great weight and respect and I honour that. Not a word will be spoken by a single one."
"The danger is not the crofters," I confessed, my voice low and ragged with shame. "The danger is me. I confirmed the skeleton's existence and location to the Society before I left London. They have known of it since the moment I boarded the train."
She held up a hand, smiled and spoke softly. "I know, Doctor."
With that conclusion she continued, speaking of the Axial Support Structure; I immediately understood the reference is anatomical. Morphological Impossibility; the specimen's shape and structure defies the laws of form necessary for a human body to function. Gerehardt is claiming it cannot be a simple human medical anomaly. Immersion Microscopy; her direct and urgent request for a specific tool implies that the proof is visual and exists at the cellular level, the Haversian systems gentlemen, and cannot be seen with the naked eye. The scarred table, at which we sat, was lit only by a single, sputtering tallow candle with its sickly, yellow glow only adding to my feeling of overwhelming nausea. She then slid a thin slice of the femur across the table, for my inspection. I had only intended this to be a brief meeting, but my curiosity, piqued, has lead me to travel back to Fort William with Gerehardt.
We made all hast to Glasgow's Queen Street Station to catch the late evening train, the carriage ride through cobbled streets jarring my poor bones. I don't recall the journey being so bleak at my earlier visit, but then it was summer. The platform was found bustling, even at this late hour and I clung on to my single bag of luggage for fear the ragamuffins might steal it from me.
The train carriage was crowded, the atmosphere thick and smoky, and the rattling and jarring does not even bear thinking about. Coal dust clung to my coat, my hair, my eyelashes. The train paused for an hour at Stirling for the passenger's comforts. I ordered a pot of steaming tea, but the long wait gave us barely time to refresh ourselves before we were required to re-board the train. The journey continued through the night and into the next day with another pause at Crianlarich. The journey felt endlessly longer this time. Each mile seemed to resist our progress. Fatigue pressed down on me, but Gerehardt hardly seemed to notice. Indeed I challenged her on this.
"Professor, this compartment is stifling. And the odour is... distracting. How can you bear it?."
Her response, "Bear it, Doctor? I barely register it. The smell of coal and grime is merely the perfume of progress. Your focus is far too narrow. You worry about the smell when we are on the verge of proving that our entire accepted history- is based on a lie!"
I fear, by this time I had not the strength to spar with her.
On our eventual arrival in Oban, some 36 hours since we left Glasgow, was so bitterly cold my extremities were numbed beyond all feeling and no amount of stamping and rubbing could afford me any warmth. Gerehardt marched onward from the train platform and I followed her as quickly as I might along the damp streets as lanterns flickered in the mist. The quay was shrouded in sea mist and the steamer only visible by its lamps glowing like votive candles. There was no boarding ceremony- only the passing of a few coins to the steward as we made our way aboard.
The steamer left the quay and soon the waters began to roil. I found the steward, and for a few coins more managed to procure a small cabin. I found it small, damp, the atmosphere thick with the smell of brine and the vessel's oily machinery. My stomach, still protesting the jolting train journey, now battled the unrelenting pitch and roll of the steamer. I attempted to focus on the structure of the sliver of femur; it's texture, it's strength, unlike any bone I had ever encountered before; neither belonging to man nor beast, but the very attempt to visualize static patterns in my mind was betrayed by the constant, nauseating motion. I theorized that the imbalance in the inner ear was affecting my visual cortex, inhibiting my ability to process complex data. But this clinical detachment failed; I was simply sick, and the profound realization that a creature capable of such a thing existed made the world outside my cabin feel suddenly and terrifyingly unstable.
I tried to sleep, but the bitter cold, no heating, a threadbare blanket and the relentless rocking of the steamer only increased my nausea and annoyance ten-fold. Barely moments had passed and a loud and persistent knocking at my cabin door. I urged the knocker to go away, but the voice of Miss. Gerehardt called out stating a simple, undeniable fact.
"Doctor, your sickness is caused by the internal ear's inability to reconcile the body's position with the eye's visual field. The cure is simple: align them." That said she entered my cabin and forcefully insisted I leave to join her on the deck. I must admit that standing on the deck, clinging to the railings, my focus on the dark mountains in the distance, even though bitterly cold, was preferrable to the nausea, which now seemed to be settling.
The day passed into evening and soon Fort William emerged from the mists, Ben Nevis looming like a sentinel above. The town was already settling down for the night and I pushed aside my extreme discomfort. Gerehardt, I must admit is made of some stern mettle. She whistled loudly, like a street hawker, and a cab pulled over. She spoke in the local dialect and we were soon on our way to Caisteal Inbhir Lòchaidh, the Gerehardt family estate where we were met by Seonaid, the housekeeper, who ushered me into the house and straight to the guest room. A fire roared in the grate and no less than three bedpans warmed the bed. Her kind ministrations saw me into that warm haven and a deep sleep quickly overcame me.
"These pages are extracted from the private diary of Dr. Wren, recorded in his own hand, November 1887. With Dr. Wren’s express permission, these entries are preserved in the archives of the Gerehardt estate. They are presented here not as narrative, but as testimony- an observer’s record of events surrounding the Nephilim specimen
go to Chapter 3- The Bone and The Glass
(C) Jane Wileman 2025