Apocryphal
Definition
1 : of doubtful authenticity : spurious
2 often capitalized Apocryphal : of or resembling the Apocrypha
The word refers to writings or statements whose purported origin is in doubt.
Consequently, the adjective apocryphal describes things like legends and anecdotes
that are purported to be true by way of repeated tellings but that have never been proven or
verified and, therefore, most likely are not factual. Both apocrypha and apocryphal derive,
via Latin, from the Greek verbal adjective apokrýptein, meaning "to hide (from), keep hidden
(from)," from krýptein ("to conceal, hide").
Consequently, the adjective apocryphal describes things like legends and anecdotes
that are purported to be true by way of repeated tellings but that have never been proven or
verified and, therefore, most likely are not factual. Both apocrypha and apocryphal derive,
via Latin, from the Greek verbal adjective apokrýptein, meaning "to hide (from), keep hidden
(from)," from krýptein ("to conceal, hide").
It was your typical early afternoon, post lunch, pre afternoon slump that occurs before the afternoon
lectures - you know the the hazy gap after the morning rush of “Oh shit my alarm didn't go off and
class is in twenty minutes, can I get away with not washing my hair?? No? Shit, where's my dry
shampoo, oh right I lent it to Sheila for the festival so the dozy cow's probably left it in a field in Wales
with actual dozy cows. 15 minutes. Oh, plaits, plaits will hide the grease right? Cool. Why do I have no
clean socks?? Where the hell are they?? Sod it, flip flops it is. The rain will clean my feet at least.”
lectures - you know the the hazy gap after the morning rush of “Oh shit my alarm didn't go off and
class is in twenty minutes, can I get away with not washing my hair?? No? Shit, where's my dry
shampoo, oh right I lent it to Sheila for the festival so the dozy cow's probably left it in a field in Wales
with actual dozy cows. 15 minutes. Oh, plaits, plaits will hide the grease right? Cool. Why do I have no
clean socks?? Where the hell are they?? Sod it, flip flops it is. The rain will clean my feet at least.”
Of course, my clean socks always turn out to be in my clean sock drawer. For some reason, whenever
I'm late, the drawer seems to warp into another dimension so when I open it, only random space
debris appears, not a clean sock to be had. Of course, when I drag my soggy, inadequately clad feet
home, the drawer miraculously resets and displays an entire drawer of snuggly clean cotton foot
covers.
However I digress, where was i? Oh yes, it was the hazy post lunch gap where we'd eaten our fill and
the next lecture wasn't for another hour. We were mellow, replete and idly wondering if we could risk
skipping the next lecture, bearing in mind the risk of losing credits and an irate lecturer the next time
you attended, and instead go home for a nap.
I confess, my pyjamas were calling me.
I was idly looking out the window across the sun streaked court, planning the best route home that
would avoid most classrooms and, more importantly, the teachers favourite travel routes, when one of
us, I can't remember which one, asked:
'do you know the ghost story associated with this place?'
The too cool for school (despite their parents shelling out a small fortune or an easy to live without
organ to get them in here) cynics amongst us scoffed at this. The whole property used to be a privately
funded primary school - what possible tragic or dramatic event could have happened here to generate
a ghostly legend.
I said nothing. As a history student, I could think of several things that could happen to a group of
young children, isolated from the outside world in an environment run by people with money and few to
no outside restrictions.
More than several in fact.
But I said nothing as a) I didn't want to bring down the mood and b) I didn't want to be labelled as a
potentially dangerous weirdo. In such a small community, it's not healthy to stand out like that. For a
happy college life, being a mild, non-entity was the safest bet.
So I'd keep my tales of child soldiers , enforced labour camps and experimental subjects to myself.
People did not like to be reminded of the darker side of humanity after all. Ever.
The teller of the tale, not deterred at all by this apparent scepticism, continued with his tale.
“No seriously, it's dead cute, haha, pun intended. Apparently , they used to make the kids take care of
these goldfish for one of their coursework projects, only, you know kids, kept forgetting to feed them
and such like, so they kept dying and they kept just flushing them down the loo. So every year you get
all these fish flushed away to the great beyond and apparently there were so many accumulated fish
corpses that all the local pet shops refused to sell to them and the school eventually had to stop the
projects as there was a public outcry about animal cruelty.”
“How is that a ghost story?” One of us asked.
“I'm getting to that bit.” the speaker said impatiently. “according to the cleaning staff, at night, after
everyone's gone home, the light goes all funny - like you're underwater? And all these ghostly little fish
swim about the classrooms. They say it's like being inside a fish tank.”
There was a pause as we digested this.
“That's.. A really weird ghost story.”
Totally random we all agreed. “I didn't even know you could get animal ghosts .” One of us said.
An odd little story to be sure. One that would sink into your consciousness and maybe resurface in
about ten or twenty years, maybe over some drinks with old friends, maybe on a first date after a failed
marriage as you're trying to appear interesting and you say, “I heard the oddest story once.”
But usually, no more than that.
Nothing really occurred until the second lecture of the afternoon. We were in, what once would have
been, the conservatory. The plants and various insect life had long been removed to make way for the
various desks and chairs now scattered about the area, all facing the board at the front, but it was still
a large, glass walled building.
The afternoon sun was filtering in through the ill fitting and basically useless blinds some fool had tried
to make fit over the glass roof and some of the windows, but it was to no avail. The sun was determined
to swamp the room and the thick heat of it had us all in sun drunken stupor. The lecturer was gamely
doing their best but we could see the sweat trickling down their faces like their whole body was weeping
in its' desire to stop.
Stop what?
We were in such a daze that, when it happened, it took awhile for us to realise that we weren't, in fact,
dreaming.
At first it looked like the room had suddenly become dusted with glitter. The sun streaming through the
gaps became alive with golden dust motes, so many in fact that you could almost think it was solid bands
of liquid gold that were being poured through the windows.
Yet this was still firmly in the realms of possibility - the room was dusty and made of glass - lots of chances
for optimal illusions to a tired and bored mind.
It was when bits of the gold broke off and began swirling independently around the room that things
began to get weird. Especially when they shone bright gold even when they wandered into the shadows.
By now, people were beginning to dopily take note of what was going on around us. A few stood up
uncertainly, as if perhaps they should evacuate. No one was sure. The lecturer at the front gestured as
if to indicate they should sit down, then hesitated, unsure themselves about the best course of action to
take.
One young buck decided to take the initiative and prowled over to the nearest gold lump, his devoted
girlfriend hanging back and hanging on to the edge of his jacket, ready to yank him to safety with all her
weedy strength if necessary.
He peered at the fuzzy gold mess.
“it's a fish!” he announced in startled tones. “some sort of weird fish.”
All at once we could see it. Before the phenomena had been so bizarre our minds had failed to
comprehend what we were seeing. Hearing someone put a clear, albeit unlikely, label on it meant our
minds could now process it and we could clearly see that the conservatory was indeed full of flying golden
fish.
At once the rest of us rose from our seats and went to stare at the magical floating fish swimming around
our classroom. They were elegant, they were classy, completely indifferent to us clumsy bipeds and
wonderfully magically surreal. It was like one of those ultra rare occasions where you wake up inside a
dream.
Or it was until some daft girl simpered “It's so cute!” and tried to pet it.
I'm sure you've seen those deep sea documentaries where they have those freaky looking blind fish
with all the teeth.
Triple the amount of teeth.
Suddenly the class was full of screams and shouts and thrown chairs, quickly followed by the sound
of breaking glass as some frightened soul smashed one of the glass walls in order to flee faster.
We raced from the room, only to find further turmoil throughout the school. The fish had invaded the entire
property and people, from pupils to staff to lecturers were running for their lives.
I finally made it to the exit, bleeding from a head wound that I'd got when another student shoved me into
the corner of a locker in their desperate headlong run to escape. I doubt they even knew they'd done it.
I looked back at the school. I could see the fish from here, swimming through the classrooms, flashing
gold as the shoal went through its various maneuvers.
They were still beautiful, when seen from a distance.
****
A month later I met up again with people from class. Even now, people were talking about it. It was
summer after all and none of the good television shows would be on until autumn at the earliest.
“Did they say when the school would be opening up again?” someone asked.
“No one knows for sure yet. Apparently they're still scouring the school, trying to find out what caused
all of us to hallucinate.”
Mass drugged hallucinations is what the authorities had decided to go with. Certainly, many of my
fellow students had appeared to suffer the aftereffects of substance abuse.
“Didn't they say it was some sort of mushroom spores in their attic?” Someone suggested.
“I heard,” someone else interjected with a superior smirk, “that when they thought the water had been
contaminated they dug along where the water main came to the surface and they found load of child
and fish skeletons buried there!”
General expressions of disgust and disbelief followed this announcement. The speaker shrugged,
unconcerned. “hey, it's just what I heard.”
Even so, it was agreed, some jokes went too far and that had been far too distasteful.
Like I said, people do not want to acknowledge the darkest side of humanity.
“Can anyone remember what the name of the place was, before it was changed? My girlfriend asked
me and I can't remember and Google doesn't have any record of it.” someone asked.
No one seemed to know.
“Bluebells.” I said quietly. “it was called Bluebells.”
I'm late, the drawer seems to warp into another dimension so when I open it, only random space
debris appears, not a clean sock to be had. Of course, when I drag my soggy, inadequately clad feet
home, the drawer miraculously resets and displays an entire drawer of snuggly clean cotton foot
covers.
However I digress, where was i? Oh yes, it was the hazy post lunch gap where we'd eaten our fill and
the next lecture wasn't for another hour. We were mellow, replete and idly wondering if we could risk
skipping the next lecture, bearing in mind the risk of losing credits and an irate lecturer the next time
you attended, and instead go home for a nap.
I confess, my pyjamas were calling me.
I was idly looking out the window across the sun streaked court, planning the best route home that
would avoid most classrooms and, more importantly, the teachers favourite travel routes, when one of
us, I can't remember which one, asked:
'do you know the ghost story associated with this place?'
The too cool for school (despite their parents shelling out a small fortune or an easy to live without
organ to get them in here) cynics amongst us scoffed at this. The whole property used to be a privately
funded primary school - what possible tragic or dramatic event could have happened here to generate
a ghostly legend.
I said nothing. As a history student, I could think of several things that could happen to a group of
young children, isolated from the outside world in an environment run by people with money and few to
no outside restrictions.
More than several in fact.
But I said nothing as a) I didn't want to bring down the mood and b) I didn't want to be labelled as a
potentially dangerous weirdo. In such a small community, it's not healthy to stand out like that. For a
happy college life, being a mild, non-entity was the safest bet.
So I'd keep my tales of child soldiers , enforced labour camps and experimental subjects to myself.
People did not like to be reminded of the darker side of humanity after all. Ever.
The teller of the tale, not deterred at all by this apparent scepticism, continued with his tale.
“No seriously, it's dead cute, haha, pun intended. Apparently , they used to make the kids take care of
these goldfish for one of their coursework projects, only, you know kids, kept forgetting to feed them
and such like, so they kept dying and they kept just flushing them down the loo. So every year you get
all these fish flushed away to the great beyond and apparently there were so many accumulated fish
corpses that all the local pet shops refused to sell to them and the school eventually had to stop the
projects as there was a public outcry about animal cruelty.”
“How is that a ghost story?” One of us asked.
“I'm getting to that bit.” the speaker said impatiently. “according to the cleaning staff, at night, after
everyone's gone home, the light goes all funny - like you're underwater? And all these ghostly little fish
swim about the classrooms. They say it's like being inside a fish tank.”
There was a pause as we digested this.
“That's.. A really weird ghost story.”
Totally random we all agreed. “I didn't even know you could get animal ghosts .” One of us said.
An odd little story to be sure. One that would sink into your consciousness and maybe resurface in
about ten or twenty years, maybe over some drinks with old friends, maybe on a first date after a failed
marriage as you're trying to appear interesting and you say, “I heard the oddest story once.”
But usually, no more than that.
Nothing really occurred until the second lecture of the afternoon. We were in, what once would have
been, the conservatory. The plants and various insect life had long been removed to make way for the
various desks and chairs now scattered about the area, all facing the board at the front, but it was still
a large, glass walled building.
The afternoon sun was filtering in through the ill fitting and basically useless blinds some fool had tried
to make fit over the glass roof and some of the windows, but it was to no avail. The sun was determined
to swamp the room and the thick heat of it had us all in sun drunken stupor. The lecturer was gamely
doing their best but we could see the sweat trickling down their faces like their whole body was weeping
in its' desire to stop.
Stop what?
We were in such a daze that, when it happened, it took awhile for us to realise that we weren't, in fact,
dreaming.
At first it looked like the room had suddenly become dusted with glitter. The sun streaming through the
gaps became alive with golden dust motes, so many in fact that you could almost think it was solid bands
of liquid gold that were being poured through the windows.
Yet this was still firmly in the realms of possibility - the room was dusty and made of glass - lots of chances
for optimal illusions to a tired and bored mind.
It was when bits of the gold broke off and began swirling independently around the room that things
began to get weird. Especially when they shone bright gold even when they wandered into the shadows.
By now, people were beginning to dopily take note of what was going on around us. A few stood up
uncertainly, as if perhaps they should evacuate. No one was sure. The lecturer at the front gestured as
if to indicate they should sit down, then hesitated, unsure themselves about the best course of action to
take.
One young buck decided to take the initiative and prowled over to the nearest gold lump, his devoted
girlfriend hanging back and hanging on to the edge of his jacket, ready to yank him to safety with all her
weedy strength if necessary.
He peered at the fuzzy gold mess.
“it's a fish!” he announced in startled tones. “some sort of weird fish.”
All at once we could see it. Before the phenomena had been so bizarre our minds had failed to
comprehend what we were seeing. Hearing someone put a clear, albeit unlikely, label on it meant our
minds could now process it and we could clearly see that the conservatory was indeed full of flying golden
fish.
At once the rest of us rose from our seats and went to stare at the magical floating fish swimming around
our classroom. They were elegant, they were classy, completely indifferent to us clumsy bipeds and
wonderfully magically surreal. It was like one of those ultra rare occasions where you wake up inside a
dream.
Or it was until some daft girl simpered “It's so cute!” and tried to pet it.
I'm sure you've seen those deep sea documentaries where they have those freaky looking blind fish
with all the teeth.
Triple the amount of teeth.
Suddenly the class was full of screams and shouts and thrown chairs, quickly followed by the sound
of breaking glass as some frightened soul smashed one of the glass walls in order to flee faster.
We raced from the room, only to find further turmoil throughout the school. The fish had invaded the entire
property and people, from pupils to staff to lecturers were running for their lives.
I finally made it to the exit, bleeding from a head wound that I'd got when another student shoved me into
the corner of a locker in their desperate headlong run to escape. I doubt they even knew they'd done it.
I looked back at the school. I could see the fish from here, swimming through the classrooms, flashing
gold as the shoal went through its various maneuvers.
They were still beautiful, when seen from a distance.
****
A month later I met up again with people from class. Even now, people were talking about it. It was
summer after all and none of the good television shows would be on until autumn at the earliest.
“Did they say when the school would be opening up again?” someone asked.
“No one knows for sure yet. Apparently they're still scouring the school, trying to find out what caused
all of us to hallucinate.”
Mass drugged hallucinations is what the authorities had decided to go with. Certainly, many of my
fellow students had appeared to suffer the aftereffects of substance abuse.
“Didn't they say it was some sort of mushroom spores in their attic?” Someone suggested.
“I heard,” someone else interjected with a superior smirk, “that when they thought the water had been
contaminated they dug along where the water main came to the surface and they found load of child
and fish skeletons buried there!”
General expressions of disgust and disbelief followed this announcement. The speaker shrugged,
unconcerned. “hey, it's just what I heard.”
Even so, it was agreed, some jokes went too far and that had been far too distasteful.
Like I said, people do not want to acknowledge the darkest side of humanity.
“Can anyone remember what the name of the place was, before it was changed? My girlfriend asked
me and I can't remember and Google doesn't have any record of it.” someone asked.
No one seemed to know.
“Bluebells.” I said quietly. “it was called Bluebells.”
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