Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction

by James Doig

  “There’s one thing that has been worrying me dreadfully,” she said. “Oh, do you think it possible that she—that it could have had anything to do with Scot’s death?”

  “I do not think so,” I replied, though I must confess that the idea did cross my mind. “It seems quite impossible that anybody could have got into the house without our knowledge. Scot would certainly have barked. He slept at Una’s door, which is next to mine and I am a very light sleeper. That night, I remember, I was particularly wakeful.”

  She seemed relieved. “I am so glad to hear you say that. But it was odd, wasn’t it? Poor Scot!”

  Yes, the whole business was odd. It perplexed and troubled me. I could not help feeling nervous on Margery’s account, and was sorry that I had promised to keep silence to Nora about what she had told me. I went round to Dr Gleeson’s house but found that he was not likely to be in until late, so merely left a message that I would call early the following day.

  It was a good thing that Tom Mitchell was tired after his shoot the previous day, and that he overslept himself the next morning, so that instead of being in the breakfast-room as usual at half-past eight, he was shaving in front of a window which looked straight across to Miss Crosson’s balcony. The old lady had added this balcony to her house, and her bedroom gave on to it by a French window. This window was open, and as Tom stood with his razor in his hand before his dressing-table, he heard suddenly a wild shriek and thought that he recognised the voice of Margery, for whom he had a distinct tenderness. Immediately upon the cry, came a crash of falling china and the over-turning of a piece of furniture. Then Tom saw Margery dart in terrified fashion through the window of Miss Crosson’s room on to the balcony and through another window into the house. A moment later, she was followed by a maniacal figure in a white nightgown with grey witch-locks streaming down her back and some gleaming weapon in her hand.

  At first Tom could hardly realise that this was Miss Crosson herself, but not a second passed before he was flying out of his room, down the stairs and out into the garden. I saw him from the side window of the dining-room rush to where a ladder stood against the wall dividing our demesne from that of Miss Crosson, vault the wall and disappear. It was the work of a few moments to summon the man-of-all-work and despatch him also over the wall, while Nora and I ran by the longer route to our neighbour’s garden.

  There we beheld a strange sight. Tom had seized Miss Crosson in her pursuit of Margery, who stood white and trembling a few paces off. He held the demented old lady by her wrists, and she struggled and snapped at him in a paroxysm of frenzy. The large knife he had wrested from her hand was stuck point downwards in one of the tiny graves beside the wall. It was a curved bread-knife with a sharp, broad blade—a truly, murderous weapon.

  The madwoman was overpowered at last and Dr Gleeson sent for. He pronounced her a raving lunatic, and, as soon as Margery’s father arrived, steps were taken to place her under restraint.

  “I have been afraid for some little while that things were wrong,” the doctor said to Nora. “There was a look in Miss Crosson’s eyes once or twice when I came across her that made me suspect mischief. I watched her walking by herself and apparently holding an imaginary conversation—one might have fancied that she was talking to a ghost—which I considered a very bad sign, and only yesterday I was casting about in my mind what I had best do. Not having been consulted professionally, of course it was difficult for me to put myself forward, but I felt that for the sake of poor little Miss Grieve, some action should be taken.”

  Margery’s story was that Miss Crosson’s maid being ill that morning, she had herself carried up the old lady’s breakfast-tray and had found her sitting up in bed gesticulating curiously and talking to herself. At sight of the tray an uncontrollable impulse seemed to take possession of her. She jumped up, snatched the bread-knife, aimed with it at her niece, and the girl had barely time to evade the attack by making her escape through the window.

  Later on, it became known that quite recently Miss Crosson had written to a friend of her youth confiding a secret trouble which preyed upon her mind, and would, she declared, drive her to do some desperate deed. The friend was in India and did not receive Miss Crosson’s communication in time to warn the old lady’s relatives. In that letter, Miss Crosson told how for years she had been haunted by the apparition of a dead man, a late butler in her family, who had been dismissed for acts of cruelty to animals, and having afterwards developed homicidal mania, had died in an asylum. Miss Crosson’s description of her familiar tallied exactly with that given by the girl Etta of our phantom visitor. He talked to her, Miss Crosson said, and prompted her to kill animals at first and then human beings. In the beginning he had visited her only at intervals; latterly his presence had become practically continuous and his evil promptings more and more insistent. It was, in fact, a tale almost similar to that of poor Beatrix Bray’s tragic obsession.

  THE GHOST OF BRIGALOW BEND, by “Wanderer”

  Western Mail, 16 December 1898

  “Wanderer” was the pseudonym of a prolific West Australian author who wrote short stories and journalism for the Western Mail and other newspapers around the turn of the twentieth century.

  “Say, Tom, I want you to go out to Brigalow Bend. The roan bull has strayed away from his mob, and Christy says he cut the beggar’s tracks going in that direction. I’m awfully sorry to have to send you today, but I can’t help it. You’re the only man on the station who can track the brute in that country, and he’s too valuable to lose. The boss gave ₤200 for him only last month.”

  The speaker was George Dalrymple, manager of Violet Bank, a cattle station on the headwaters of the Dawson, where I was employed as overseer. I had just ridden up to the hut after a hard morning’s work, and was looking forward to a luxurious swim in the big waterhole, followed by an afternoon’s spell, for it was Christmas Eve, and all hands were to knock off at dinner-time.

  “Bless the bull!” I exclaimed (“bless” wasn’t exactly the word), swinging myself from the saddle. “It’s a bit rough on a man to lose his Christmas dinner and all the sport afterwards for the sake of that beast. Why in blazes didn’t Christy go after him himself? He might have found him easily if he’d taken the trouble to look.”

  “He did run the tracks as far as he could, but after a while they led into that patch of rough country beyond the Box Flat, where he lost them altogether. You know Christy’s not a star at that game. I’m certain you’ll find the bull somewhere about the Bend. He camped there one night on the road up, and tried his best to break away with some scrub cattle that sneaked up during the night. At all events he’s gone in that direction, as I said before, and he must be found, Christmas or no Christmas. I wouldn’t send you if I could help it, but who else is there? All that country round the Bend would puzzle a blackfellow since the Brigalow got a start on it, and if it comes to tracking you’re the man for the job. You can sleep in the hut tonight if you go straight to the Bend, that is, if you’re not scared. I think I’ve heard you say you don’t believe in ghosts?”

  “Not I,” I replied. “I might have been afraid of old Lanty in the flesh, but I don’t think his spirit can hurt me, even if it does ‘walk.’ I’ve never seen a ghost either, nor do I believe any man who says he has.”

  Dalrymple looked at me curiously for a moment, and then said, “Perhaps you’re right, but—well, never mind. I was going to say something, but I’ll wait ’til you come back. You’d better make a start as soon as you’ve had some dinner, and perhaps you may pick the bull up before sundown. If not, you can go on to the Bend.”

  Of course, I had to obey orders. So, with a hearty malediction on imported cattle in general and the roan bull in particular, I departed to saddle a fresh horse and roll up my blankets, so as to be prepared for two or three days’ camping out. Then there was a supply of tucker to be procured. I sighed as I thought
of the feast our cook was making ready for next day’s dinner. I would be out of all that, as well as the subsequent festivities. I could only carry some bread and meat, and, of course, the indispensable quart-pot. Accordingly, having made all my other preparations, I invaded the kitchen in search of the necessary eatables.

  “My word,” said the cook, when I had explained my errand, “that’s a bit o’ bad luck right enough. I tell you what, though; you shan’t go without a bit of my puddin’ after all. It’s been boilin’ all day, so it’ll be fit to eat by this time. I’ll take it out o’ the pot an’ cut you off a hunk; then if you take a four-quart billy with you you’ll be able to warm it up, or you can fry it on the coals. Eh, how will that do?”

  “First rate, doctor,” I replied (a cook is called “doctor” or “poisoner” in the bush, accordingly as his dishes are excellent or otherwise.) “I’ll be camping in that old hut at the Bend tonight most likely, so I’ll want something extra good to keep my courage up.”

  The cook stared at me open-mouthed when I mentioned the hut.

  “You’re not goin’ to camp in that infernal shanty?” he gasped.

  “Of course I am,” I answered, laughing heartily at his awe-stricken expression. “I don’t take any stock in old women’s tales about ghosts or such-like rot. If there was a murder committed there, what then? Some swagman suffering a recovery camped there soon after the crime, I suppose, and mistook the little fellows who were chasing him for the murdered man’s ghost. I’m surprised to find you as superstitious as the rest, upon my soul I am.”

  “I’ve heard a lot of ’em talk like you,” replied the cook, shaking his head solemnly, “but they all changed their tune after they’d tried sleepin’ in that hut. Do you mean to tell me a good buildin’ like it would be allowed to stand empty if there wasn’t somethin’ uncanny about it? No bally fear! You ask the boss. He’ll tell you he wouldn’t camp there for a year’s wages. You’re only been here a few months, an’ don’t know how many’s been scared pretty nigh out o’ their seven senses by old Lanty’s ghost. You’ll sing another song when you come back, I’ll bet a dollar.”

  “All right,” said I, “I’ll bet you a sovereign neither Lanty’s nor any other man’s ghost can make me camp in the open when there’s a comfortable bunk to sleep in. Not but what I’d prefer the open air myself in summer time, but I mean to sleep in that wonderful hut tonight, just for spite. I mustn’t dawdle here any longer; I’ve got thirty odd miles to ride. Give me that duff, and make your mind easy about Lanty. From all accounts he’s gone to a place where the climate’s so hot that he’d perish if he attempted to show his nose back here.”

  The “doctor” cut off my share of plum pudding, and wrapped it up in a bag, grumbling to himself the while about “youngsters who fancied they knowed more than men old enough to be their fathers.”

  “If the ghost does come, doctor,” said I, weighing the parcel in my hand, “I’ll just bash him in the forehead with this, and I’ll guarantee it’ll lay him effectually.” Then, dodging a rolling-pin and sundry other handy utensils, I beat a retreat towards my horse, followed by such a blast of profanity as made me quite certain our worthy “dough-banger” had served his apprenticeship to bullock driving.

  At the time of which I write—a year in the early seventies—there was no finer cattle country in Australia than on the Dawson. Fairly open, splendidly grassed and watered, and comparatively easy of access, it was indeed a paradise for the herds that roamed, free and untrammelled by hateful wire fences, over it’s broad plains, or sought a noonday shelter in its cool forest glades. But even then the deadly Brigalow had begun to lay its grip upon the land. Slowly at first, then, as its seedlings became more widely scattered, by leaps and bounds, the useless scrub overspread forest and plain alike, telling no uncertain tale, to those who watched its almost miraculous growth, of abandoned homesteads, starving cattle, and ruined owners. In no part of the world—and I have wandered in many lands—have I seen such an alteration in the appearance and prosperity of a district as has taken place within the past twenty-five or thirty years on the Dawson. For scores and scores of miles, where I can remember wide, rolling downs, with here and there an islet of shady forest, the country is covered with Brigalow scrub so dense as to be absolutely impenetrable to either man or beast. Nothing lives there, save, perhaps, an occasional kangaroo-rat. Where thousands of cattle found herbage so luxuriant that it grew rank in spite of their cropping there is now not one single blade of grass, for the Brigalow is merciless; no other herb or plant may grow beside it. Some day, perhaps, a plan may be devised for ridding the country of this scourge. At present it defies man’s puny efforts; and, if cut down or grubbed up, bursts with the next rain into a fresh and vigorous existence, twenty young trees springing where one has been destroyed.

  As I jogged along northward on this Christmas Eve, however, the possible extinction of both cattle and squatter did not trouble me much; indeed, had I known for a certainty that one of the former—the roan ball to wit—was about to “peg out,” I would have rejoiced exceedingly. As the cook had observed, I had not been long on the station; in fact, I had only recently returned from a trip with an exploring party in Central Australia, and I had been looking forward to having a real good time at Christmas. The men on Violet Bank, from the manager down, were a very decent sort, and they had “spread themselves” in making preparations for the festive occasion. It was too bad! Instead of enjoying a good dinner, with a sing-song, or, perhaps, a “buck dance” to follow, I would be stuck in an old deserted hut all by myself, with nothing to enliven me but the prospect of a visit from old Lanty’s wraith. True, I had brought a bottle of whisky with me out of the case provided by the manager, but what was that I was too young to find any pleasure in drinking “Jack Smithers,” and I could scarcely expect the ghost to join me. He would be “spiritual” enough already.

  The frequent mention of Lanty’s name recalled to my mind the story of his tragic end. The yarn, as it was told to me, ran thus:

  Some ten years earlier, the hut to which I was now proceeding was occupied by an old shepherd—the run was under sheep at the time—whose violent temper and readiness in using the sheath-knife which he always carried, had earned him a most unenviable reputation in the district. Lanty Moore, as he was called, was a typical “old hand,” scarred deeply both in body and soul by his experiences at Port Arthur and other penal settlements; a drunken old wretch when he had the chance; quarrelsome and blasphemous at all times. No hutkeeper could live with him, and he would have been speedily sacked but for his undoubted skill in the management of his flock. No other shepherd on the river lost so few sheep or kept his charges in such tip-top condition. Therefore Lanty’s employer bore with his vagaries as best he could, sending him one hutkeeper after another as fast as he frightened them away. At length, however, he met his match. On coming home one evening with his flock he found a new mate installed in his hut, which was built on a bend of the river where one of the first patches of Brigalow began to spread. Hence the name Brigalow Bend. The new arrival was a youngish man, quiet and inoffensive to all outward appearance, but with a lurking devil in his long, narrow, black eyes, which portended an exceedingly stormy time for whosoever woke him up thoroughly. He, too, made but a short stay, but his departure was due to somewhat different circumstances from those which had caused his predecessors to make themselves scarce. The very morning after his arrival Lanty began to give him a taste of his quality. He found fault with the damper, swore the mutton was rotten and the tea “not fit to sluice out a sewer in hell.” The newcomer listened for a few moments in silence; then, when Lanty paused for breath, said:

  “I’ve heard tell of you, my joker, an’ I kin see I was told no lies. There’s only one way o’ dealin’ wi’ your sort. Coma outside an’ take your shirt off!”

  Lanty glared in speechless astonishment. Who was this whippersnapper who bearded h
im thus? The idea of a crossbred gum-sucker talking fight to him! Then the torrent of his wrath burst its bounds, and he sprang at his challenger, grinding out a stream of blistering profanity from between his clenched teeth. Smash! The hut keeper’s right caught him square between the eyes, and Lanty staggered back against the rough slab wall half-dazed by the blow. In a few seconds he recovered, and, whipping out a murderous-looking sheath-knife, again rushed to the attack, his eyes red with the lust of blood, his face blotched and mottled with passion.

  Quick as thought his antagonist snatched up a heavy iron bar which did duty as a poker, and, springing lightly aside to avoid the thrust which Laney aimed at his heart, brought his weapon down with tremendous force on the shepherd’s unprotected head. No skull however thick and tough, could withstand such a blow, and Lanty fell forward without a groan, bespattering floor, table, and wall with blood and brains. Then the slayer coolly rolled up his swag and made his way to the head station, where he recounted to an awe stricken circle of listeners the particulars of his crime just as I have set them down here.

  The manager, knowing the dead man’s insatiable appetite for rows at all times and seasons, believed the hut-keeper’s story; and, holding that the latter had not been guilty of murder, but had committed justifiable homicide, advised him to make tracks before the police got wind of the affair. At first he talked of giving himself up and seeing the thing through, but finally took the manager’s advice and departed without beat of drum.

  Soon after he had disappeared men began to whisper that his story was a fabrication; that he had known Lanty before, and had followed him to this out of the way spot for no good purpose; that instead of killing the old man in fair fight he had taken him unawares and brained him as he lay asleep. Certain indications in the hut pointed to the probability of this hypothesis, but by the time suspicion of foul play had hardened into something like certainty, the murderer had vanished, nor could a trace of him be found in the district.