by Morgana Best
Cordelia pulled off the road. “What was that?”
“Dunno. I’ll look.” I got out of the car and looked under it and behind, but there was not a thing in sight. I hopped back into the car. “I can’t see anything at all.”
“Weird. This place gives me the creeps. I’ll be able to do a good ghost story here. I bet the whole place is crawling with ghosts.” Cordelia quivered.
We continued on down to the entrance of the Hillgrove mine. Along the side of the road were green signs showing the businesses that had been in those particular locations back in the town’s heyday, such as, ‘Hillgrove Oyster Saloon,’ ‘Quinnell’s General Store,’ ‘Val Irwin Tobacconist,’ ‘Crough’s Hillgrove Hotel,’ and ‘Police Station Lockup.’ There were dozens of signs.
The road led straight to the Hillgrove mine, but there were high wire fences and huge, electronic security gates. A big sign on the entrance warned people to stay away, and another sign said, ‘Video surveillance.’
Cordelia turned the car in a circle in the parking lot and then we drove about fifty yards and parked at a little monument. “What sort of mine is it anyway, Misty?”
“The sign said gold and antimony.”
“What’s antimony?”
I shrugged. “No idea. I think it might be used in plastic production or something.”
Cordelia nodded and then laughed. “You know, this will sound crazy, but just then I had a feeling that someone was going to chase us.”
I laughed, but I’d had the same feeling too. I felt threatened, but not by anything human.
“Let’s go back to the museum. Remember, we saw a sign to it as we drove in.”
I readily agreed, but Cordelia pulled the car over every few metres so she could take photos of the green signs for her magazine article. “This town would’ve been quite big for a country town, and now it only has a population of just over ninety people.” I looked at my notes. “It used to have a population of three thousand.”
“That must have been ages ago,” Cordelia said.
“Yep, back in 1898. It even had its own stock exchange, as well as six hotels, two schools, four churches, a few banks, and a hospital. It even had a cordial factory and a school of the arts. They had electricity here back in 1895.”
Cordelia drove down a dirt road. “That’s pretty impressive. Look, here’s the museum, but I don’t think it’s open.” Cordelia parked the car under a big tree.
“Yes it is. See, that door’s shut, but there’s an open sign on it.”
“Oh, great.” Cordelia sounded less than enthusiastic. “This place is giving me the creeps. Lucky it’s broad daylight.”
Cordelia dragged me into the museum and made the requisite gold coin donation. In Australia, we have a one dollar gold coin and a two dollar gold coin, so a gold coin can be either. No one was in sight. The museum was filled with old photos of local families, regalia from Freemasonry, large samples of minerals, and old mining tools. Not a word about the massacres.
The building was light and airy, with high ceilings and huge windows. Nevertheless it was packed with spirits of the departed. I could hear the sound of ghostly children chanting a children’s rhyme. The museum had previously been a school and it seemed to me that several of the inhabitants had returned. It was a creepy feeling, but I did wonder why the spirits seemed to be at a distance.
I wanted to beat a hasty retreat, but Cordelia was fascinated by the photos and stories of early families.
I finally managed to convince her to leave. I was having trouble breathing again and I felt as if a wall was pushing against me.
I hurried out the front door and ran straight into someone.
When I saw who it was, I screamed.
Chapter 3
"Aunty June! What on earth are you doing here?"
Aunty June adjusted her wide-brimmed hat and held up a picnic basket. Waves of rose geranium perfume emanated from her. "I'm having a picnic, of course. There are no cafés in this town."
I rubbed my forehead. "Yes, I know that Aunty June, but what are you doing here? I mean, in Hillgrove?"
"I'm having a picnic, like I already told you." Aunty June lowered her red, bat-wing sunglasses momentarily to peer at me.
"But how did you know I'd be here?"
"I didn't, of course. This is a happy coincidence, isn't it! And you can give me a lift back to my motel because I caught a taxi all the way out here and I can tell you it was very expensive."
"Why didn't you drive here?" I asked her. I shot a look at Cordelia, who appeared just as puzzled as I was.
"I didn't know the way, so I thought it would be easier to get a taxi. Besides, I'm having a little holiday and I drove all the way to Armidale, so didn't want to drive any further." She shot me a wide smile as if it was all supposed to make sense.
It certainly didn't make any sense—not to me, at least. "I must say I'm surprised to see you, Aunty June."
"I'm just as surprised to see you too," Aunty June said, smiling and nodding as she spoke. She wasn't entirely believable. "And lovely to see you too, Cordelia. Come and help me finish my picnic. I have enough for three people."
"Three people? But you didn’t know we'd be here," I pressed.
Aunty June shook her head. "Of course not, dear. I always bring enough for three people. I never know quite how hungry I'll get."
Cordelia and I exchanged glances but allowed ourselves to be led down behind the museum to some tables and chairs. It seemed the museum continued over the grounds. Old farming implements lay around, all labelled with historic information.
Aunty June chose a table near an ancient farm cultivator. She opened her picnic basket and pulled out three metal cups.
"You have three cups?" I asked, suspicious.
Aunty June handed one to me. "They come with the set. Would you like the green one? Or maybe the purple one or the blue one?"
"The purple one," I said, knowing she would force me to choose.
"You’re lucky I turned up here since there are no cafés in town," Aunty June said as she poured us all some coffee. She reached into the picnic bag and produced a container from which she fished out all manner of delicious cupcakes, strawberry, chocolate, red velvet and others I couldn't identify by sight. Mountains of frosting topped each one.
"This is a feast," Cordelia said. “Have you had much of a chance to explore Hillgrove, Aunty June?" Cordelia always addressed Aunty June in that manner.
"Not really. I thought we could explore it together. I did drive up to the road where the mine is and then turned back to look for a nice spot for a picnic." She quivered. "There's something about this town, isn't there? Did you see the blue bottle tree at the end of this road?"
Cordelia frowned. "There's a blue bottle tree?"
I laughed at her expression. "Didn't you notice it as we drove in? Someone’s put blue bottles all over the branches of a tree. It's a hoodoo thing."
Aunty June agreed. "The bottles trap bad spirits."
I shuddered. I’d recently had my fill of trapped spirits and didn't want to hear about them anymore. "Aunty June, Cordelia’s here to do a story on Hillgrove ghosts.” It wasn't until the words were out of my mouth that I realised Aunty June hadn't asked us why we were there. That was suspicious in itself.
"There are plenty of ghosts," Aunty June said. “I'm sure you won't have any trouble writing an article." Her face suddenly went white, which was a feat considering her face was usually as white as a sheet. She gave a little twitch before looking over her shoulder.
"Does this place creep you out?" I asked her.
Aunty June bit her lip before answering. "It's not Hillgrove itself, but I do feel there is something else here, something that perhaps doesn't want us to be here."
"That's exactly how I feel," I said, but then realised I had said it in front of Cordelia.
Still, she didn't comment, and we were talking about ghosts, after all.
Aunty June was still speaking. "After we have lunch,
we should go to the cemetery. Cordelia, if you want to write about ghosts, a cemetery seems the obvious place to start. Sandwich, anyone?"
She pulled three huge packets of sandwiches from her picnic basket and deposited one front of each of us.
It was entirely too suspicious to me. It was clear Aunty June knew we were in Hillgrove, but how? And why did she feel it necessary to meet us here?
I pondered the matter throughout a bulging sandwich and a further two chocolate fudge cupcakes. "Aunty June, the last few times I’ve seen you, there's been a murder."
Aunty June smiled and nodded and kept eating her sandwich.
I pushed on. "Does that mean someone else is going to be murdered?"
Aunty June shrugged and kept eating her sandwich. When she finished, she said, "More coffee, anyone?"
I gave up. I would have to keep my ears and eyes open to see what Aunty June was planning.
After we finished our lunch, we headed back down the road looking for the cemetery.
Suddenly, Aunty June screeched, “Cordelia, turn here!”
Cordelia turned hard left, practically on two wheels, and then gingerly drove her Lexus down a bumpy dirt road. Luckily, the road was short and we parked on the corner of a narrow dirt lane, in front of a tourist sign with information on the cemetery. It said that the cemetery was first in use in 1890 and that there were 739 burials recorded, but that few of these headstones now remained.
“Cordelia, can you see the entrance? All I can see is an old fence in both directions.”
“Down there, I think.” Cordelia pointed down the lane.
I followed her direction and saw a small iron gate about two hundred yards down the lane.
“I’ll take some photos for the article,” she said, while I ferreted in my purse for nine coins. I’m always careful to observe protocol, spiritual protocol that is, when entering and leaving a cemetery. I always make an offering of nine coins in a little bottle of red wine, and ask permission to enter. I hadn’t thought ahead, or I would have had some wine with me. At least I had the nine coins.
Cordelia knows I’m a bit weird, so she thought me pausing at the gate seemingly muttering to myself and then throwing nine coins on the ground wasn’t too strange. Permission to enter from the spirit over the cemetery didn’t take long in coming; in fact, I had known we were welcome the moment we stepped from the car. It seemed as if there were many spirits inviting us in. I kept that to myself, of course.
I was saddened to see the graveyard hadn’t been tended for a long time. Trees were growing through actual graves and some headstones were buried under thick tree growth. Long grass was everywhere, and some monuments had tipped over.
The cemetery had a completely different vibe from that of Hillgrove itself. It was friendly and welcoming. I felt the spirits there wanted us to stay for some time. They obviously didn’t have visitors too often.
I could have spent hours, days even, in the cemetery. The tombstones were fascinating and certain graves were surrounded by exquisite wrought iron work. Some of the headstones were massive and ornate. It was sad to see the little graves of young children and to read of all the drowning victims. I realised I must have been walking on unmarked graves at times, but could do nothing but apologise aloud.
I walked out of the cemetery backwards and then insisted that Cordelia make three turns in the car after leaving the cemetery. She complained at length but did as I asked. Cordelia said that she wanted to call in at Bakers Creek Falls, the scene of a massacre and thus overflowing with ghosts, or so she’d been told.
“It’s on the way back to Armidale,” Aunty June informed us.
I wondered how she knew but figured there would be no point asking her.
We soon retraced our steps back to the Grafton Road and then took a left on the dirt road to Bakers Creek Falls. The road had washed away in parts and Cordelia slowed the Lexus to a crawl. “Misty, have you ever been on this road before? I don’t like the look of that bridge ahead.”
“Cars must go over it every day. There are recent tire tracks.”
“Who would drive out here?” Cordelia’s tone reflected her disbelief.
Aunty June piped up. “Massacreists, for one.”
Cordelia snorted. “Thanks, that’s comforting. I’m not coming back out here ever, not even if Skinny insists.”
I was wondering if there was such a word as massacreists as we drove back to the main road, past a sign that said, ‘Chinaman’s Gully Road,’ which pointed down a narrow, dirt road.
“Do you want to drive down there?” Cordelia asked.
“Yes, that would be great, thanks.”
Cordelia snorted rudely. “No way! I was joking. There’s no way I’d drive down that road. There’s no way I’m ever coming back here.”
Cordelia was still complaining by the time we reached the lookout at Bakers Creek Falls, just a short drive from the bridge. I had to go on foot to guide her into the parking area, as thick tree roots poked out everywhere above ground level and crisscrossed the entrance. There was another car in the parking area, but we couldn’t see any sign of people.
I hurried over to the viewing platform that overlooked the falls. Before me was a mass of perpendicular cliffs—I judged a half mile straight down into the gorge. The gorge ran as far as the eye could see. To say it was dramatic would have been something of an understatement. The huge slabs of granite were as magnificent as they were terrifying.
The one dramatic, giant, sheer drop continued for miles. It was as if someone had taken a knife and sliced cleanly downwards on two sides and then removed the middle section.
I was staring in awe when I realised that Cordelia, still in the parking area, was calling to me. She was pointing to the tiny public toilet. In Australia we call outdoor toilets ‘dunnies.’ This dunny was a ramshackle, wooden building. “I’m desperate,” she called. I nodded in reply.
After a few minutes, Cordelia emerged from the toilet and joined me on the platform. “That was disgusting. There are holes in the old wooden door. Why would there be holes in the door?” Before I could answer, she continued, “And there’s nowhere to wash your hands.” She held her hands out in front of her like a zombie and then pointed to Aunty June standing at the edge of the cliff. “Oh no, I’m afraid of heights. Can we leave?”
Just then, a man popped out of the bushes. We both screamed, much to his obvious amusement. “So sorry to scare you. I’m a local photographer, Ethan Williams.”
We introduced ourselves and I pointed to Aunty June who was looking over the edge of the guide rail.
He shook our hands. “I didn’t think there would be anyone here,” he said. “We rarely get tourists in these parts.”
I looked at him. He was young, I guessed mid twenties, and good looking in a boyish sort of way. “Are you taking photos of the cliffs?”
He laughed. “No way. I’m scared of heights. You won’t catch me anywhere near them.” He pointed to the brick wall. “This is as close as I get to the edge. Anyway, I’m a wildlife photographer.”
“What sort of wildlife?” Cordelia asked, with a hint of fear in her voice.
He shrugged. “All sorts, really. I managed to take some good photos of a snake just then. It looked like an Inland Taipan, but it’s probably only a Tiger Snake. We don’t get Inland Taipans this far east.”
I shuddered at the mention of two of the world’s most deadly snakes.
“Well, I’d best be off. Sorry again that I scared you.”
We nodded politely and he headed back to his car. We were walking over to Aunty June when another car drove in. A man got out and walked over to us. “Hello, ladies. A lovely day for sightseeing, isn’t it?”
We agreed and went to move on, but he spoke again. “I’m Gerald Wakefield, a local historian. If you have any questions, I’d be glad to answer them.”
Cordelia and I looked at each other and smiled.
“I do have some questions, if you wouldn’t mind,” Cordelia said.
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He smiled and nodded. “I live just around the corner. If I see people here on my way past, I usually drive in and ask them if they have any questions.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Cordelia said. “I always heard there were lots of ghosts here and at Hillgrove, but when I looked it up on the net, I couldn’t find anything.”
Gerald Wakefield stroked his chin. “Well, a taxi driver was murdered right here at the lookout, by an Armidale youth a few decades ago, and more recently, the Queensland escaped criminals murdered several men. And in historical times, there were individuals who went over the cliffs, and also mining accidents. There were plenty of drownings too, so it goes to follow that there would be lots of ghosts, if you believe in that sort of thing.”
I nodded. “Yes, I noticed that at the cemetery. A lot of children were drowned.”
“The cemetery? Most tourists don’t go there. What’s your interest in Hillgrove?”
I looked hard at Gerald. On a physical level, he looked about sixty, give or take five or ten years either way. His build was wiry, and he was very pale, no doubt thanks to his wide brimmed hat, which did not allow the sun to touch his features. His eyes were pale blue and glittery. On a spiritual level, I didn’t pick up anything: nada, nil, zilch. That’s unusual as I usually get some sort of vibe from someone new. I fervently hoped he wasn’t a ghost.
He was still waiting for Cordelia to answer, and finally she said, “We’re journalists for a paranormal magazine. I’m doing a story on Hillgrove’s ghosts.”
He looked mildly interested. “What’s the name of your magazine?”
“Ghoulzette.”
I groaned inwardly when Cordelia said the name. What a lame name! I always dreaded having to tell people the name of the magazine.
I need not have worried. Gerald clasped his hands in delight. “I love that magazine! I have a great interest in the occult. Here’s my card. Feel free to contact me. I’m only too happy to help.” He reached in his pocket, drew out two business cards, and handed one to each of us.
I turned it over. He seemed legit, albeit with a low budget for business cards. At least he was not a ghost.
