Aftermath Of The Highgate Vampire

How can I tell my struggle without also telling my adversary’s story? What follows is part, albeit an important part, of the puzzle - though I make no claim to this being more than an arbitrary wander down the long corridor of years wherein memory stirs.

Autobiographical detail is provided to dispel falsehood in a work concentrating predominantly on two protagonists: one an exorcist, namely myself; the other a demoniac. I should emphasise that this man is not my arch-enemy. He is merely a pawn of my arch-enemy who is the Devil.  Recounting observations and experiences unveils material, some of which is hitherto unrecorded. These matters need to be shared. The reality of what happened no longer exists - it is now lost in time - yet the truth cries out for a voice for those who might one day benefit from this testimony.

I have been and remain absolutely open and honest about my beliefs. These have not altered or wavered over the decades. They are more at home in a past age when such views were normal and commonplace amongst clergy and laity alike. I have always subscribed to the existence of God, the Devil, angels, demons and those parasitical and predatory demonic entities known as vampires. I have not hidden my knowledge and opinion, having exposed both on innumerable television and radio programmes.

That notwithstanding, I accept that in today’s materialistic, hedonistic, sceptical and cynical world my traditional doctrinal beliefs and experiences struggle to be heard and invariably suffer rejection and ridicule by all who dismiss the supernatural. It is necessary to establish my position in advance and to introduce my private life early on. Only then can a truer picture emerge of the whole for I am not just recounting a conflict between two opposing camps - I am baring my soul as someone who is by no means perfect, but someone nonetheless with faith, feelings, hopes and aspirations.

One of the subjects of this book is a man called David Farrant. Few will have heard anything about him unless they have a particular interest in the dark side of human existence where vampires and demons dwell, and can remember a time when his scandals hit the headlines in England. Beyond brief moments of infamy in newspapers, and latterly other people’s books, he will probably not be recollected. However, nobody is more willing to publicise his notoriety than himself. An example is the following which he posted on his own internet message board on 6 April 2007:

“Rev Christopher Neil-Smith was called into Wormwood Scrubs Prison in November 1974 after a man sharing a cell with me and one other became convinced that he had become possessed after we had conducted a séance in the cell one night. He would wake up screaming in the cell and swore that some 'evil spirit' had entered him. Naturally, as I was in there for allegedly conducting 'witchcraft ceremonies' in Highgate Cemetery, I was held to blame for his condition. He was moved out of the cell, but the next thing I heard was that the Rev Neil-Smith had been called in to 'exorcise' him in the prison chapel. A 'trustee' was present and I got the full story. The prison governor was present, the prison chaplain and a couple of other people. During this 'exorcism', Neil-Smith violently shook this man's head and repeated several times ‘Drive out the evil powers of David Farrant!’ … This took place at the end of 1974 which was after the publication of Neil-Smith's book. I'm sure it would have been included otherwise as I doubt the Rev Neil-Smith would have forgotten it!”

Immediately one is struck by the use of “allegedly” by him in reference to witchcraft at Highgate Cemetery; something he widely publicised and wrote articles about at the time; indeed, something for which he was sentenced to a not insignificant jail term. In prison he wrote further articles about his witchcraft ceremonies in the graveyard, one such article being published in a magazine. Yet in 2007 these incidents were relegated to having been “alleged” by others to have occurred. This modus operandi of creating scandals, boasting about them for a period and then later denying their intrinsic elements, would permeate his life. First he was a vampire hunter. Then he denied ever hunting vampires. Next he was a necromancer and black magician. Then he denied engaging in necromancy and black magic. And so on. All this in the face of recorded interviews at the time where he can be heard confirming doing what he later denied. There is also television footage which gives the lie to much later revisionism. Why does any of this matter? The answer is contained in this book, which should also serve as a warning to all who dabble in the occult, whether for thrills, publicity or for real.

I feel I should say a little something about the person to whom this work is dedicated. Diana Wynne Brewester (née Pryce) was born in Neath, South Wales, on 19 July 1944. She began working as a bank clerk, but was drawn to the performing arts and became proficient in dancing. Her father was a policeman, which gave her an interest in crime investigation that developed into a passion for law. He was also a Freemason and this might have had some influence on Diana’s drift into various aspects of the occult in her early years. In the wake of her father’s death, however, she discovered papers amongst his regalia that gave her pause for thought. What she found disturbed her enough to cause her to apply the brakes to her own immersion in occultism. She eventually turned to Catholicism. This all happened after her arrival in London where she worked as a model for various fashion companies. It was in London that we met.

Diana was quite tall with blonde hair and green eyes. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was exceptionally glamorous; an enchantment that remained with her to the end. Diana was my secretary throughout the 1980s and 1990s. She was also my friend and comrade. More than that, Diana, like me, was an only child. Our birthdays were just four days apart. We immediately became as close as any brother and sister. As our blood relations died off, one by one, we became each other’s family. She had grown to know my parents in their last years. Diana’s support was always unflinching. She would always help people where she could. In her twilight years she helped her elderly neighbours with errands, nursing them when they were sick. Ironically, she was alone at home when she passed into the Lord’s safekeeping just before Christmas 2003, having been diagnosed with cancer in the previous September. News of her illness she restricted to just three people. Due to her throat being affected by the cancer we could no longer hold a proper telephone conversation, as she could barely speak at all and allowed none of her friends to visit her during her illness. This was probably because she had always been so glamorous and would not permit anyone to become distressed at seeing her in a bad way. She was undergoing radiotherapy until her sudden demise in the third week of Advent. Whatever she suffered, she suffered alone. Yet her letters to the end were full of good cheer. She looked painfully thin and wan in her latter years, but this did not halt her adventures which included regular visits to Denmark to visit a friend and to Germany for trips along the Rhine.

Diana accompanied me in 1986 on a pilgrimage to Newstead Abbey and Hucknall Torkard Parish Church where Lord Byron’s remains are interred below in the family vault. I often felt that here was someone who would accompany me to the ends of the Earth. She was a devoted friend, a dedicated supporter of our mission and believer in our Faith. There will never be another like her, and I shall miss her more than words can express. Yet she, too, was not free of the machinations of the Devil’s Fool. It saddens me deeply that this close friend and colleague was to suffer in her last months such vile abuse from a public nuisance and malicious pamphleteer who shared the initials of the appellation he has been given. This man disseminated nonsense of the most depraved nature about Diana in his self-published tracts that also revealed her private address. All this occurred in the period immediately prior to Diana’s fatal illness and subsequent death in 2003. This purveyor of the diabolical always posted his malice to his victims; namely those whom he maligned and whose character he attempted to destroy by way of falsehood. Such practices, in one form or another, have a history that traces back to the late 1960s. Diana became one in a long line. This made her a recipient of the pamphlets produced in his bed-sitting room at Muswell Hill. She naturally reported the matter to the police who arrested and charged him with harassment in December 2002, but sadly to no avail. He managed to wriggle off the hook, and it merely spurred him to persist with his vicious hate campaign.

Diana tried to deal with the assault on her character by attempting to laugh it off. Yet it must have caused her immense distress and there is no way she would have wanted this man’s coterie knowing her personal whereabouts. On 28 September 2003, having been diagnosed with cancer, she wrote me the following: “Farrant just gets more and more unbelievable, he’ll never stop.” I was to receive just two further letters from my dear friend. The man responsible for all this unpleasantness was never mentioned again between us in the final weeks of Diana’s life, but it had already been established earlier in the year that she feared she was being followed on some occasions.

Diana Brewester died on 16 December 2003 and was cremated one month later at 11.00am on 16 January 2004 at Islington and St Pancras Cemetery. Father Hubert Condron of St Joseph’s Catholic Church and I blessed the coffin with Holy Water during the funeral service as we each took it in turns to address those present. Panis Angelicus played as the curtains finally closed across the coffin containing Diana’s remains. Her ashes now repose in a private chapel under the auspices of our Church. Those who attended the funeral included old acquaintances I had not seen for years. Among them was someone I first met almost forty years earlier; someone I did not at first recognise due to his changed appearance. Anthony Hill greeted me warmly with a handshake before taking his seat in the chapel. Afterwards, as groups started to disperse and wander back to their vehicles in various parts of the vast cemetery, I walked down a lane of tombs with Anthony before bidding him farewell. He told me he was quitting England to live in a sunnier country with his second wife, Lucy.

“So you’re not coming back?” I enquired. “Only to visit,” he answered, adding: “It’s just not the same any more.” Indeed, nothing was quite the same any more in the new century. Anthony’s parents were both deceased and his only sibling had been left the greater portion of an inheritance by his recently departed mother. We walked a little further down that lonely avenue of graves on one of the coldest and dankest days in recent memory. I was struck by the fact that Anthony wore nothing on his head. He must have been absolutely freezing and our skin was almost starting to take on the hue of my purple biretta headwear. Despite the cold and solemnity of the occasion, there still remained a warmth from long ago that had returned to embrace this last meeting. Someone else would later remark that, even in death, Diana brought friends together. Things had not always been so warm. Suspicion once lurked due to Anthony cuckolding and even colluding with the Devil’s Fool. But that was now all in the past.

His vehicle was outside the graveyard. We reached the point of departure, and, slowly coming to a halt, turned, faced each other and shook hands. As we did so, Anthony placed an envelope within my grasp. Then, leaning forward, and in a hushed tone that was quite unnecessary in view of the fact that only those resting quietly in their tombs were in hearing distance, whispered: “Here’s a little something for old times’ sake.”

I slipped the slightly bulky envelope into my pocket, and thought little more about it. Different matters dominated that day. Anthony’s grey, watery eyes reflected just how low the temperature had reached on that bleak January day, and I recalled how they once used to contain a glint of mischief and mirth. That was in another era when optimism loomed and the world was young. Now his eyes were sad and serious, as were the times in which we found ourselves. The moment passed. Mouths exhaled more mist as we each struggled to form some semblance of a frozen smile. I waved as Anthony receded into the dismal veil beyond where foreign climes beckoned. 

X Seán Manchester