Our house was haunted for 24 hours many years ago, mostly the garden. It’s a story I have told many friends over the years with a sadistic glee. My brother witnessed all of it. A few of us felt some of it near the end, most likely psychosomatically. I promised to one day make a film out of it. He left before I could. When the Astro Shaw people came foraging for stories, I pitched something called Some Have Entertained Angels Unaware, in which a retired policeman's wife dies in her sleep and the garden she built in their backyard becomes haunted. I was writing it as if it were Dialogue With A Woman Departed by way of Robert Aickman, the ghost story as a rumination on mourning. Somewhere along the way, the long, unwieldy title metamorphosed into Nephilim and the old cop became a youngish sound designer. The wife stayed dead, though, and the garden stayed haunted, but this time not by ghosts, the sudden loss of the love of one's life a trembly emotional underbubble. True to my intertextual tendencies, the soup in my head that I was drinking to feed the film swam with varieties of gristle (Lovecraft, Mexican haunted house films, various oddments of UFO lore, Philip K. Dick) but this is really, mostly, a film about what happened in our garden that day and I've been crossing every finger I can that I somehow pulled it off. Of course, it's entirely possible my brother made all of it up. If he did, either he was on shit with such potent head or he had a more out-there imagination than I give him credit for. Either way, he's probably laughing his ass off right now. The fucker.

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