I am that most wretched of men – he who knows he lives because another has died.

Indeed, not only do I live but can now prosper whereas once I may have feared to live, feared to have seen that which would herald my doom.  But this was no altruistic act by an unknown benefactor on my behalf.  No, he acted for his own preservation – for he beheld that which sealed his plight.

My name?  My name is unimportant to this story – the name of de Hasmere, the name of my ancestors, however, is much more germane.

For I am descended from that cursed line.

That cursed male line.

And here must my story start…

--x--

‘De Hasmere!

Thy sons will fear my funeral bell

For it summons them down to fiery Hell!

Black Moon doth rise to fill their sight

And Death will strike by end of night.

I will forever my vengeance take

‘Gainst thy offspring for hatred’s sake,

Thus your generations fall and die

While mine, in turn, will live and thrive.’

So spoke Father x, priest of the parish of St Barnabus, as he cursed one male child in every generation issuing from the line of Sir Roger de Hasmere.

A strange thing, you may wonder, for a priest to utter but Father x had suffered such torment at the hand of de Hasmere’s eldest son that action must now be taken.  For Mortimer, the said eldest son, had brought shame and ignominy upon Father x’s family.  And though these were harsher times, with life held cheap, the brutal rape of the priest’s innocent young daughter was too much for any father to bear, even for this otherwise placid and pious man of God.
The local shire reeve, not wishing to jeopardise his own standing with the powerful de Hamere’s, had returned a verdict of no consequence and now the priest, no longer able to look his daughter nor the child born of that unlawful union in the face, had sworn such a curse – and, even now, was preparing to offer up his own life as sacrifice to his God, hoping that the older, vengeful face of Jehovah, rather than the more benign Christian deity he prayed to,  would hear his forlorn cry in the wilderness.

Thus it was he climbed the wooden stair case of the bell tower of the church of St Barnabus on that frosty Christmas Eve in the year of Our Lord 1465 – he would not preside over the joyous birth of his Saviour for another year while his daughter’s child – his grandson – represented such shame and dishonour.

He looked out from the bell tower across the village toward the manor of the de Hasmere’s and gathered up the thick bell rope from the deep gloom of the long drop below.  Tying a strong knot in the end of the rope, he placed the noose around his neck and, with the words of the curse burning within his mind, stepped from the ledge into the blackness.

The coils of the rope unwound quickly as he fell and the silence of that Holiest of nights was suddenly and startlingly broken by the loud ringing of the great bell as the line snapped tight.

The priest was found the next morning as the congregation gathered for early morning service.  When the church doors were opened the ghastly sight of Father x’s hanged, frost-rimed body greeted them, swaying softly at the foot of the bell tower, the rope creaking under his weight, his neck broken but with a look of such terrible hatred still apparent on his face that it was some days before any had the nerve to enter the church and cut him down.  Indeed, the church, once the body was removed, ceased to be a place of worship and over the years fell into ruins, the only stones to remain standing were, curiously, those of the bell tower.

Mortimer de Hasmere also died that night – the very moment the deathly chimes of St Barnabus shattered the air, a shadow passed upon him and he simply fell dead to the floor, a look of sheer terror upon his face.

--x--

Christmas Eve, as perhaps you can imagine, has always been a time of morbid curiosity in my family – for over ten generations now a strange and always inexplicable death has befallen one male descendent of Sir Roger de Hasmere. Of course, over time rumours grew of a legend, that of a curse, Father x’s terrible curse against my family, and, no matter how widespread the family line may have become, the legend of the curse has travelled with it.

I, myself, first heard of the curse as a young boy – a tale deliciously told at Christmas time by all those who had survived the age of thirty – the age at which Mortimer de Hasmere had been struck down – a tale which has terrified every youngster in every generation for the past three hundred years.  Terrifying because the truth of the legend has been so potently proven – for once every thirty years all male descendents of Sir Roger see a hideous black moon rising in the winter sky during the advent season and, once every thirty years, without fail, one male under the age of thirty has died.  And, at that exact moment, the silent and rusted bell of St Barnabus, still hanging within its decaying tower,  chimes its deathly toll to mark another chapter of Father x’s  retribution.

Pray, then, you only see the silvery light you know

That never you see the Black Moon rising or catch its horrid glow

But if you see the moon I see then know your time is short

And know the precious blood we share is tainted by la lune d’mort

As we shall see…

--x--

Father y lit the advent candles on the altar of the church of St Barnabus.  

He was newly appointed to the parish, this was to be his first Christmas service to his new congregation, and he took great satisfaction in the fact that he, a young priest, had been entrusted with the care of this old church.  Of course, this was not the original church of St Barnabus within the parish – that particular building stood a little way past the extents of the current graveyard.  Indeed, the old crumbling gravestones lay haphazardly intermingled with the ruined blocks of masonry from the decayed church, its roof having long since fallen into the once hallowed aisle of the central knave.  The only still free-standing construction of that ancient place of worship was the bell tower, wherein still hung the original bell – no thief nor robber had ever ventured into the tower to steal it on account of the fear still felt by the local folk  toward that building.  For, as Father y had found out during his initial discussions with his parishioners, many hundreds of years ago a priest had committed suicide within the church and it was as a result of this tragedy that services had been re-housed in the new, much younger, church.

Father y smiled to himself, warmly accepting and indulging the superstitious and somewhat naïve fears of these country folk.  Of course, it was a terrible thing for a man, let alone a man of God, to commit the sin of suicide, and for that act to have been committed in the house of the Lord made Father y cross himself as if to ward off the blasphemy of even remembering the story.

He lit the final candle, ensuring the wick had caught, that there was no draught to extinguish the flame, and looked around the church checking for himself that all was properly secured before leaving for the night.

It was dark as he locked the doors, the full moon providing ample illumination through the graveyard.  

[more to go here]As the hideous black moon rose ever higher in the night sky it filled the small window at the top of the bell tower as surely as it filled the eyes and mind of Father y.  He stared in terror as he saw a ghostly blue rope begin to slowly unwind from the inside of the ancient bell.  Time seemed to stand still as the air in front of him began to shimmer, his breath, cloudy in the winter air, grew cold in his mouth, as the ghost of Father x appeared on the small ledge that ran around the bell tower.  

The apparition began to pull the luminescent rope up from the blackness, forming coils at its feet where it lay like that ancient serpent.  It paid no attention to the living man, instead it proceeded to enact those final moments from so long ago.  Father y, the need for action burning away the freezing fear in his brain, reached out and took up a strong timber from the wooden staircase.  With all his might he swung at the top of the bell, where the iron ring was secured to the decaying overhead beam.  He struck repeatedly, with more frenzy, as the ghost began to tie a noose into the rope.  

As the noose passed over the ghost’s head, Father y heard a sudden crack as the great weight of the bell, under the fury of his repeated blows, began to splinter the wood of the beam that had supported it for so long.

The ghost seemingly startled by the slight shifting of the bell looked up from its labours, directly into the eyes of Father y.  Its eyes glowed with a Hellish red flame as it peered within the very soul of the priest and saw its own destruction, saw the priest raise the heavy timber to strike the final blow against the bell.  In those moments, as the blow struck home, there appeared a look of recognition upon the face of the ghost, a look of terrible realisation, and sorrow as the bell finally broke free of the bonds which shackled it close to Heaven.  

With a slow heavy movement the bell began to fall.

Father y, the exertions of his labour heavy upon his brow, grasped the narrow rail for support as he watched the bell fall into the blackness.  

He looked at the ghost, still stood at his side, also watching the descent, and perceived the ghost’s raiments were as his own priestly garb, he noticed the hair was cut in similar fashion to his own, saw that they both stood in similar manner upon the rail, and realised that the shape of the face and nose were decidedly of common trait.

His thoughts, however, were cut short as the ghost, turning toward him with tears running down its cheeks, its hand reaching out as if in greeting, simply faded from sight as the bell smashed into the solid flag stones of the church floor below.  

The silent air of the Holy night was ripped apart by the crashing noise of iron violently splitting asunder and with it, from the greater darkness beyond the tower, the sound of thousands of bells from the churches of other parishes rang out in celebration of another Christmas morning…

--x--

In the year of Our Lord 1795, Father y was found dead at the foot of the bell tower of the church of St Barnabus – found lying upon the shattered remains of the ancient bell.  It was reported that he had been somewhat irrational in the last days before Christmas of that fateful year and it was widely supposed that he had fallen to his death while under the influence of his strange malady.

Among the village folk there were whisperings that he had been the final victim of Father x’s curse against the de Hasmere line but none could have known that he was, in fact, descended ultimately from both the de Hasmeres and Father x’s dishonoured daughter – the progeny of Mortimer’s rape.

Nor could any know that, once the ghost of Father x had been finally called to Judgement and the curse ended, so the unholy protection sworn by Father x of his own line must also come to an end…