by Perry, Kyle
But Madison believed in all that sort of stuff: one of the reasons her YouTube channel had grown so big, besides the fact she was drop-dead gorgeous, was that she uploaded her own ghost tours around town, as well as seances and overnight stakeouts. While Jasmine didn’t believe in that stuff, there was no denying that Madison’s ghost stories got views.
And what earned her the most views were videos on the Hungry Man Abductions – the mystery of the five girls who disappeared in 1985 and were never found. In Limestone Creek, those disappearances were never far from anyone’s mind.
Madison was a genius when it came to creating consumable content. When you combined her looks with her varied content: make-up and fashion tips, social issues, hauntings and ghost tours and Dark Tourism, it was no surprise her channel had grown so popular. But it was the Hungry Man stories and theories that had taken her to another level; all of Tasmania, all of Australia, was still hung up on that story.
But God help anyone who mentioned the Hungry Man or the 1985 disappearances at school. Kids had been suspended for just singing the rhyme in the corridor. The whole town shied away from the topic. Old ladies at the coffee shop would give you dirty looks if you joked about it to the barista.
The school bus began its ascent towards the expansive school grounds, which were nestled halfway up the escarpment. Jasmine rode the rest of the way in silence, looking out at the bushland that crowded the road, dense and thick, white gum and dogwood and ferns and scrub, a cliff on one side and a steep drop on the other.
Her dad had once made a joke about this road, how the bush in that gully was so thick you could just chuck a body from the side of the road and no one would ever find it: it could sit mere metres from the asphalt and never been seen again, especially since the scavenger Tasmanian devils with their wicked strong jaws would make short work of the body. Mum had hit Dad in the arm after that comment, made a scathing remark about how the girls from 1985 still hadn’t been found and reminding him that his own daughter was in the car, listening to his every word.
Of course years later, when Mum was dead and Dad was significantly more prone to getting drunk, he had rambled on about a guy he used to kick around with who had been desperate for money and so had taken on a hit from one of the gangs. It was only $3000, but he did it anyway. He brought the mark – a dog from a drug case – up here from Hobart, killed him, and rolled his body into the bush somewhere on this road. That was years ago, and as far as she knew, no one had ever found the body.
They came around the corner and the grassy grounds of the school opened up. The bus rolled down the school driveway, the sun disappearing behind the leafy branches of the conker trees that lined the way. Jasmine noticed that Yani was one of the first to leave the bus, fleeing across the car park before Madison could reach her.
The walk to Homegroup seemed to take no time at all. The four of them stuck together, Madison interviewing them about the coming trip, twirling her hair with one finger.
They passed the Year 7 area, and a few boys who worshipped Madison called out to her; they passed the Home Economics block, which smelled of concrete dust and mildew, closed off for renovations that had been happening for years; passed the weird alternative kids who sat out the front, hiding the cigarettes they were obviously smoking.
When they passed the library, and the staffroom beside it, Jasmine slowed. She caught the eye of Mr Michaels, one of the teacher’s assistants. He was only twenty-one, with a bit of scruff on a cinderblock jaw and dazed-looking brown eyes.
Those eyes were watching her as they passed, as she knew they would be. She returned his smile. He bared his crooked teeth, his joy infectious, his happiness at seeing her so genuine. The problem wasn’t that he was dopier than a sheep, it was that she’d recently found out he’d done wrong by her dad. It didn’t matter that he was hot and authentic and treated her right – she was loyal to her dad first. She had to break up with him. The thought made her sad, but she liked the buzz of vengeance.
When the Fab Four sat down in home group there was excitement in the air. The mountain camp was part of the compulsory Outdoor Education curriculum of Year 10 PE, although these days they split up the boys and girls as it had been too difficult to keep them out of each other’s tents. The boys had gone last week, so now they were sitting on the girls’ desks and telling them about the strange noises they’d heard in the dark up there.
‘Like a demon. Low, rasping. It whispered things to me . . .’ Tyler Cabot flicked back his hair.
‘Oh, really?’ said Cierra, eyebrows disappearing up into her blue fringe. ‘And what did it tell you?’
‘It said, “Cierra thinks you’re hot, and she’s thinking of you right now . . . in her bed . . . her lights off . . .”’
‘Ah, I get it, you were dreaming,’ said Cierra. ‘Did you wake up with something sticky in your Spider-Man undies?’
The boys hooted like monkeys. Tyler grinned. ‘Why don’t you check?’ He pulled out the front of his shorts.
‘Ewwww,’ Cierra squealed. Georgia dry-retched, hiding her face in Madison’s shoulder.
‘Nah, I’ll tell you what I heard,’ said Jye Calloway, his school shirt unbuttoned to bare his singlet. ‘Coming from Mr Michaels’ tent . . . it was Miss Ellis’s voice.’ He thudded his palm against Jasmine’s desk and started groaning. ‘Oh, Jack! Oh . . . JACK!’
The boys fell about laughing again.
Jasmine didn’t think it was that funny.
It was lucky none of the teachers had heard. Mr North, the PE teacher, was sitting with the footy boys, chatting, and Miss Ellis was marking attendance on her computer at the front of the room. As well as Homegroup, she took Literacy and History, although a district school had to make do with what it had and she taught other things too when called upon. She wore her hair in a stylish ponytail with a red ribbon and large hoop earrings – which were not at all practical for a bushwalk, but she almost always wore them. She’d once given the Fab Four a little lesson on ‘Big Hoop Energy’, and after that Cierra had gone for months only wearing hoop earrings.
Miss Ellis was full of those little tips and tricks. She was open with all her students about her own mental health; her grief at the loss of her niece, Denni King, but also her turbulent upbringing, her dad dying from drink-driving and her mum OD’ing and orphaning Miss Ellis and her two sisters.
Miss Ellis had a glowing face, with freckles across her nose that made her look both sun-kissed and yet kind of like a British model. She was fit – always into bushwalking, or jogging, or boxing. Most teachers treated the cool kids or good-looking kids differently: with that half-desperate ‘please, let me be cool too’ kind of attitude that even adults seemed to have, which Jasmine found a bit depressing. But not Miss Ellis. She treated everyone the same. Even if she talked to you like she’d seen all your secret Snapchats. All of the girls at Limestone District were fiercely protective of her – especially since the tragedy. Denni King had been one of their own, after all.
Jasmine caught more than a few of the boys checking out Miss Ellis’s bum as she turned to wipe something off the board, including Mr North, who unfortunately would be coming with them on the camp. Jasmine had it on good authority that he took steroids, which not only made him big as a brick shithouse but also made him want to root like a rabbit. All of the girls knew that, and some of them loved it and used it, while some others were quite rightfully creeped out by it, including Jasmine.
Joining Miss Ellis and Mr North on the camp was Mr Michaels – Jack – her sweet, secret, ditzy, soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend. Supervising thirty hormone-ravaged teenage girls. They were heroes, really.
‘Alright, ladies,’ shouted Mr North above the noise. ‘Grab your things and we’ll head out to the oval. Hand in your phones and don’t whinge. You all agreed to it. This is a wilderness experience not a spend all day on your phone experience, and yes, I will give them back so you can take photos when we reach the lookout, tomorrow.’
Madison, of course, on
ly handed over a fake phone: an old iPhone she hadn’t used since last year. Her real phone was hidden in her bra, even though, as Georgia pointed out, Mr North would happily search there.
Jasmine followed along with the group as they headed out onto the oval, from where they would hike directly to the campsite.
The October skies above were blue and cloudless. The track was rough: thin, lined with gravel and roots and rocks, edged by mountain needlebush and native laurel that snagged on socks and shorts, and scratched bare legs. The air was heady with eucalypt. Bird noises filled the air, loudest from the flock of yellow-tailed black cockatoos flying overheard, their harsh caws sounding through the trees.
‘A storm is coming,’ commented a girl behind Jasmine. ‘When they all fly somewhere like that, they’re looking for shelter from a storm.’
‘Bullshit,’ said her friend. ‘Forecast says we’re good.’
‘I’m telling you, the birds know better.’
‘Alright, bird-whisperer.’
Jasmine focused on where she was placing her feet, the ascent already growing steep, the pack heavy against her back. She was one of the smallest in the class, but she’d push through. She’d carry this damn pack all the way.
Dimly, she hoped there wasn’t a storm coming. They’d been enjoying the warm weather they’d had the last few days. Indian summer, came Dad’s voice in her mind. Warm weather that will last a week and then we’ll get another month of storms . . .
She shivered. Something did feel a bit weird in the air.
The trees and scrub beside them soon gave way to a burbling creek of yellow-brown silt, smelling loamy. One girl had stopped to fill up her empty bottle, even though they were barely five minutes into the hike, and another was trying to convince her there was wallaby poo in the water.
Five minutes later, the creek wended away from the path and they reached the first real milestone of the trip: the Hanging Tree. Jasmine could tell when they were drawing close, because all the laughter stopped.
It was a crooked King Billy Pine, with spreading branches and wide roots. A freak of nature, it had three trunks instead of one; the two smaller, stunted trunks twisted away from the central one like tortured arms. It stood in a rocky clearing all of its own.
Nestled in its roots and the blanket of pine needles were ribbons and bouquets of flowers – some fresh, some old and plastic – as well as framed photographs. A large rusty sign on a post read: LIFELINE – NEED SUPPORT? – WE WILL LISTEN – 13 11 14.
Carved into the trunk was a large and messy capital A, dull red from where someone, long ago, had spray-painted the carving, keeping the bark from growing back.
It was called the Hanging Tree by the locals. Five people had hung themselves on this tree: all at separate times, none of them related. There had been two other suicide attempts. The first was found trying to climb the tree with a rope and the second was intercepted on the way up the escarpment.
The first known hanging on the tree had been the Aboriginal man Theodore Barclay. Everyone knew his name. He had been the number-one suspect in the 1985 Hungry Man disappearances. He killed himself before a trial could be held, after his house had been burned down and he’d been bashed to within an inch of his life by vigilantes.
Then, over the years, three other hangings, right up until last year: Denni King. She had gone to the school’s farewell dinner, then come up here that same night to kill herself. It rocked the community to the core, and changed Jasmine’s life.
She stood watching the tree, suddenly aware she was holding her breath. She let it go.
Scarlett Watkinson, the straight-backed and big-boobed year-level captain, laid a bouquet at the base of the tree. They were beautiful roses, in pink paper. They looked like they should’ve been a bride’s bouquet. The thought made Jasmine feel sick.
Miss Ellis was crying. Jasmine’s heart went out to her. She didn’t deserve any of this.
Mr North blinked a lot, too, fighting back the tears. He was married to Miss Ellis’s sister, Monica, and so he had been Denni’s uncle. Jasmine’s heart didn’t go out to him, though. Bum-chin, steroid-munching fuck.
Madison was crying now as well, smudging her make-up. Jasmine, Cierra and Georgia huddled around her, drawing comfort from one another. Madison had been the one who’d found Denni’s body. She’d been filming at the time, live-streaming a ghost hunt. The plan had been for her and Denni to film it together, so Denni had told Madison to meet at the Hanging Tree right after the farewell dinner. That way, they both would look amazing on camera, up in the creepy bush in their beautiful dresses.
Clearly Denni had wanted Madison to be the one to find her body, and for the whole discovery to be live-streamed. A white dress, her tattoos visible on her bare arms, her brown braid piled up on top of her head with a golden hairnet . . . hanging by the neck.
The incident made Madison’s subscriber numbers skyrocket, but of course it was horrible. Jasmine still had nightmares about Denni’s body – she had been watching live. Aside from her mother dying, it was the worst thing that she’d ever experienced. The video had done the rounds afterwards, before all the images were taken down. Georgia had told Jasmine that if you googled it, you could still find some of those stills of Denni’s body on foreign blogs.
Jasmine rubbed Madison’s back through her jacket. A separate knot of girls kept glancing their way, whispering to each other. Some people believed Madison had been in on it, had known what Denni was planning and went along with it for the views. Jasmine scowled at the girls and they looked away.
The wind grew stronger, and the branches of the Hanging Tree groaned and creaked. An eerie chill ran down Jasmine’s back, and she knew she wasn’t the only one who felt it. One girl nearby jumped, as though the tree itself had spoken. It seemed a good cue to continue: girls started getting ready, pulling their backpacks on.
But not Bree Wilkins. She stood all alone, on a flat rock that was raised like a stage. Her scowl could’ve been felt a mile away. Angsty Bree.
She looked Jasmine’s way. Jasmine held those angry pale eyes for a moment, until Bree’s lips curled back in a sneer and Jasmine turned away in what she hoped was a dignified fashion.
They all continued on, Miss Ellis taking off her glasses to wipe her eyes. Mr North was comforting her, his massive hand low on her back.
And so, on they went, deeper into the bush, towards the bluffs, the wind howling up the escarpment.
I will not back out, I will not back out, I will not back out.
An hour later, they came to a small clearing ringed by sassafras trees, with soft grass, a bench carved into a log. A sign detailed the three hiking tracks that split here: a short hike to the Devils Gullet lookout, a five-and-a-half hour loop along the top of the Tiers, and the three-hour walk they would be doing, to the Western Bluff lookout. As well as the incredible view, there was a campsite there, by the historic Trapper’s Hut from the 1900s. Jasmine had seen it before. It was built out of bark and logs. You were allowed to camp in it, but it was scary as hell.
The whole group stopped to drink and eat and complain, and someone shrieked when they found a tiger snake curled up nearby. ‘I know it’s an early riser for the season but calm down, girls, it’s more scared of you than you are of it. Just keep your eyes open. This is their home, not yours,’ said Mr North.
They split into two groups before continuing on: Miss Ellis took the smaller, faster group ahead, and Mr North and Jack would hang back with the slower group. The Fab Four stayed with the slower group.
An hour down the path Jasmine’s pack was digging into her shoulders, sweat making her back prickly. Pollen burned her nose; her feet were hot and aching. She didn’t complain: she was very aware of how close Jack was walking behind her. She didn’t want him to think she couldn’t do it.
She glanced back at him. He was watching her closely. ‘Are you okay? Pack isn’t too heavy?’
‘No.’ She faced the front again. He was still worried about her.
<
br /> She felt guilty.
The bush was less dense in this area at the cloud base: an open forest of alpine cider gum and snow peppermint, the smell Christmas-like. A few metres off the path was the cliff edge, with a very long drop. A constant breeze rolled up over it.
A thump off in the trees made her flinch, and she saw the back of a large Forester kangaroo bounding away. She tried to disguise her flinch as a cough. Why was she so unsettled?
At a chirping call she glanced up and saw a dusky woodswallow, perched on the edge of a branch up ahead, out near the cliff edge, returned from the mainland for the spring.
It was weird. They usually flew away at the approach of humans. But this one watched her, and so she watched it back. Her breath grew heavier until it was the only sound in her ears. The pine smell was thick in her lungs, it was choking her . . .
‘Jasmine!’ yelled Jack, grabbing her pack and pulling her backwards. ‘What are you doing?’
She shook her head, dizzy. The woodswallow was gone, and she realised she was several paces off the track. ‘What . . .?’
‘Didn’t you hear me calling? You’re about to go off the cliff!’
Her friends had gathered behind, along with some other curious girls, while the rest took the opportunity to walk ahead.
Jasmine felt uneasy. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, pulling away from Jack.
‘Calm down, Mr Michaels,’ said Madison wryly.
‘I reckon she’s just hungry,’ said Georgia, concerned behind her glasses, pushing a muesli bar into Jasmine’s hand.
‘You really didn’t hear us, Jaz?’ said Cierra quietly.
‘Everything alright back there?’ called Mr North from up ahead.
‘Yeah, Northo, we’re good,’ said Jasmine. She began walking and the others followed behind, Jack muttering under his breath.