Great Australian Ghost Stories

by Richard Davis

  The young man woke his sleeping companion and told her what he had seen. She tried to convince him he had been dreaming and went back to sleep, but he sat up watching the door until dawn came and the sun dispelled his fear. As soon as the girl woke up the young couple made ready to leave, but just as they emerged from the hut they heard the sound of approaching horses. They hurried back into the hut and watched as a gang of prospectors travelling down from the goldfields came riding up. They were a tough and rowdy lot and one of them fired off a shot to see if the sound raised anyone in the town. When no one appeared they laughed and dismounted outside the little hotel. The young couple watched as the men went inside and tore the place apart in the hope of finding some forgotten grog, then settled themselves down on the verandah of the hotel to rest. They remained there most of the day, smoking, swapping yarns, cussing, swearing and sleeping. Finally, in the late afternoon, they remounted and rode away, oblivious to the two pairs of eyes that had been watching them, nervously, all day.

  It was then too late for the young couple to leave on foot so they decided, reluctantly, to spend another night in the hut. For several hours all was quiet then, at around midnight, the oriental spectre appeared again in the doorway, bathed in a bright, golden light. Both the lovers were awake and they clung to each other in terror as the figure loomed over them. Both could see its sunken face and hollowed eye sockets and the dry skin stretched over its cheekbones. Dangling from its otherwise shaven head was one long pigtail that glistened in the moonlight like a fat black snake. A high-collared jacket in blue (secured with wooden buttons) and baggy trousers hung from its body as if there was barely enough inside to fill them. Spindly ankles were encased in white stockings and feet in blue slippers; bony wrists extended from the jacket sleeves and attached to them were spider-like hands with long curved nails the colour of ivory. As on the previous night the spectre’s eyes shone with a strange yellow light — like the glow of sunlight through a piece of amber, the young man later described it. No pupils were visible and no eyelids descended to break the unrelenting stare that was focused on the terrified lovers.

  The ghost began to beckon again, more earnestly this time, and seemed intent on making the couple follow it. Trembling from head to toe and clasping each other’s hands the boy and girl obeyed, following the glowing figure down the street to the cemetery. The ghost kept looking over its shoulder to make sure the couple was there; its glistening pigtail swaying back and forth with each twist of its head. Its gait was unsteady and stumbling and although its feet seemed to be touching the ground they raised no dust and left no imprints.

  When it reached the joss house the ghost entered and beckoned to the couple to follow. The bright light that emanated from the figure lit up the interior of the little building and the smell of incense was now so strong it filled the couple’s nostrils. The ghost moved about as if searching for something, then stopped beside the overturned urn. As its reluctant companions watched, the ghost rose slowly off the ground, its rising causing a breeze which stirred the dry leaves on the floor and set the scraps of paper on the ceiling fluttering. The figure came to rest over the urn, hovering about a metre off the ground. It turned its gaze back onto the young couple and as they watched its scowl dissolved away and was replaced by an expression of deep sorrow — ‘like the thing had suddenly remembered some terrible injustice’ the girl later described the change.

  The glow faded from the ghost’s eyes and its whole figure drooped, looking no longer threatening but shrunken, helpless and pathetic. The girl felt the ghost’s pain and instinctively reached a hand out towards it, offering human comfort, but the ghost drew back. For a moment it seemed inclined to linger but then with one final sorrowing glance at the couple it disappeared, suddenly and completely, just as it had the night before, plunging the little joss house back into total darkness.

  The stunned young couple came to their senses and ran as fast as they could back to the relative safety of the hut, jamming the broken door across the entrance. They sat huddled together for the rest of the night, trying to comfort each other with hugs and hollow words and waiting to flee at first light.

  The sun again dispelled the young man’s fears and he persuaded the girl to go with him to take one last look at the joss house before they departed. His curiosity had been roused and he wanted to look more closely at the urn. When they reached the joss house everything was just as it had been the day before — the dust and leaves undisturbed, the incense smell once more very faint, the scraps of paper hanging limply in the morning heat and the urn lying exactly where the young man had kicked it over.

  The young man picked up the urn and read aloud the inscription engraved on its base in Chinese characters: ‘Within this humble vessel lie the ashes of a Son of the Celestial Kingdom, Fen Cheng Loo’. Instinctively both boy and girl knew they were now numbered among the late Mr Fen’s acquaintances.

  ‘Please put it down and come away,’ the girl begged her companion, but the boy was annoyed with Mr Fen’s ghost for showing him up as a coward in front of his sweetheart, so he removed the stopper and upended the urn. Instantly his hand was covered in fine white ash. The wind caught some of it and blew it in his face. Horrified, he dropped the urn, which hit the hard ground with a loud crash and shattered. Both boy and girl gasped and stared in amazement. The urn had had a false bottom and among the shards of pottery a fortune in gold sovereigns and small gold nuggets lay shining in the sunlight.

  17.

  Australia’s Most Famous Haunted House

  They say that shadows of deceased ghosts

  Do haunt the houses and the graves about,

  Of such whose life’s lamp went untimely out,

  Delighting still in their forsaken hosts.

  Joshua Sylvester (English poet, 1563–1618)

  What was it that made a woman faint with terror, a fearless youth run screaming across windswept paddocks on a bleak winter night, a child hysterical with fear, two people fall down with fright and an office bearer of the National Trust of Australia unwilling to discuss her experience of ‘unspeakable horrors’? Was it one of the ghostly figures, or the bloodstained floorboards that no amount of scrubbing would clean, or the invisible, icy hands that gripped the throats of unsuspecting victims who ventured into the building known as Australia Most Haunted House?

  Bungaribee was a stately homestead on a small rise overlooking the Great Western Highway at Eastern Creek, about forty kilometres west of Sydney. It was a graceful, white, two-storey building surrounded by wide, flagstoned verandahs. An elegant, cedar-panelled circular drawing room surmounted by a squat tower overlooked sweeping lawns. Wisteria and oleander bloomed in the gardens and tall pine trees cast cool shade. Bungaribee had been the hub of local society in its heyday and the echoes of music and laughter, the rustle of crinolines and the flash of scarlet uniforms lingered in its quiet recesses and gilt mirrors — and yet all was not what it seemed. There was an all-pervading sense of sadness about the house that seemed to come from the bricks and mortar, as though the building itself was grieving for past sorrows, and a sinister feeling that caught innocent visitors unawares and sent shivers down their spines.

  Bungaribee was built by Major John Campbell, who arrived in Sydney in 1821 with his wife Annabella and their thirteen children. Campbell acquired a number of small properties in the Eastern Creek area and consolidated them into one large estate. For so numerous a family Campbell also needed a large house. The site he chose was significant in local Aboriginal lore; some claimed it was sacred land and should not be profaned by the construction of a white man’s humpy. It had also been the site of a great battle between warring tribes. The Aborigines called it Bun-garri-bee, meaning burial place of a great chief, and that was the name Campbell adopted for his estate.

  An unusually large convict workforce was assigned to Major Campbell and construction began on the house in 1824, using bricks baked on the property. A story that the bricks were imported as ship’s ballas
t from England and hauled in handcarts drawn by pairs of female convicts all the way from Circular Quay was invented; however, there was more than usual unrest among the convicts at Bungaribee. On at least two occasions they broke out and escaped en masse to the bush. A number died during the construction of the house and at least one was murdered.

  Campbell borrowed heavily to build his house and stock his estate and was under constant pressure from his creditors. He sought aid from the Reverend Samuel Marsden, who declined to make him a gift of newly imported merino sheep, and from John Macarthur (a distant relative), who reluctantly advanced him 800 pounds as a mortgage against the property. As the house was nearing completion in 1826, Annabella Campbell became ill and died. The last section of the house, the round drawing room and tower, were begun the following year, but brought Campbell little joy. He scratched his leg, the wound turned septic, and less than a year after the death of his wife, Major Campbell was laid to rest beside her in St John’s churchyard, Parramatta.

  Bungaribee was put up for auction and bought by Thomas Icely, who began what became the long tradition of using the property as a horse stud. Some of the most successful racehorses of the period came from Icely’s stables, but within two years he had departed and a new owner, the prosperous Sydney butcher Charles Smith was in residence. Smith was followed in quick succession by four more owners, including the ill-fated speculator Benjamin Boyd — the seventh owner in less than twenty years.

  Why, you might ask, did such an attractive, well-situated and commodious property change hands so often? True, there were droughts, floods and financial crises to plague owners but there was also an ever-growing catalogue of personal tragedies surrounding the house that brought them anguish and sorrow. After the deaths of the convicts then the Campbells, the house’s next victim was an army officer who, legend has it, lost a duel then shot himself in one of the small rooms in the round tower. When found, his body lay in an enormous pool of blood. In 1837 Charles Smith’s brother Benjamin (a strong and healthy man) dropped dead near the gates of Bungaribee and then the body of one Major Frederick Hovenden was discovered in the grounds. Hovenden had apparently been fleeing his creditors and sought refuge at Bungaribee. Beside his body lay his cap and scratched on it were the words died of hunger.

  From the 1860s onwards the house entered a period of stability — at least as far as occupancy was concerned — but if the Cleve family, the Bouldens and the Waters remained longer than their predecessors they did so at a great price. Strange events were beginning to happen, centred on the circular drawing room and its tower. There were three small rooms in the tower, reached by a circular staircase. In the room where the officer had shot himself the massive bloodstain reappeared on the floor. Time and again reluctant housemaids were sent to the room with bucket and brush to clean the floor but the stain simply reappeared the next day. Strange sounds, scratching, scraping and muffled screams could be heard in the tower along with the sound of clanking chains at night.

  One family left their seventeen-year-old son in charge of the house while they went on a short trip. The lad was sturdy and game and decided to spend his first night alone in the house in one of the tower rooms. Around midnight he awoke in panic. Powerful, cold, clammy hands were clasped around his neck, squeezing the breath from his body. The young man could see nothing but fought his invisible assailant desperately. Eventually he broke free, ran down the stairs and out of the house, screaming in terror. He did not stop running until he reached the centre of a large open paddock, where he was found the next morning by farm workers, cramped and shivering.

  Some years later a boy of five was put to bed in one of the tower rooms. In the middle of the night his parents were woken by terrible screaming. When they rushed to their son they found the little boy crouched on his pillow, hysterical with fear. His eyes were glassy and he stared into an apparently empty corner. ‘Don’t let him touch me!’ the child screamed. ‘Don’t let him come near me!’

  Two women had similar experiences. One was grasped on the arm by cold, invisible fingers as she climbed the stairs and the other felt frigid, clutching hands at her throat. The second collapsed and was found wrapped in a tablecloth, gibbering insensibly. Did the murderous spirit hands belong to the officer who suicided in the tower, or to one of the other unfortunates who died at Bungaribee? At least two possible culprits were seen — in ghostly form.

  Early last century a young woman and her male companion attended one of the many fashionable balls held at Bungaribee. The circular drawing room was used for dancing and refreshments served in the next room. The young couple were the last to leave the drawing room when supper was announced. As they moved towards the door the young woman drew her companion’s attention to a strange woman dressed in white, who was peering in through the French windows. The woman seemed to be crying; alternately rubbing her eyes and clawing at the glass with splayed fingers as if trying to gain entry to the room. The couple reacted as anyone would and moved towards the door, assuming the woman was in trouble, but then stopped in their tracks when they realised that they could see the verandah posts through the figure. The young woman screamed and her companion shouted for help, but by the time the other guests returned to the tower room the woman in white had vanished.

  In 1957 a letter appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald from a Mr Sydney McKeon, who wrote:

  Some fifty years ago I was employed by Robert Boulden who leased Bungaribee House and lands. The family had previously resided at Bungaribee but had moved away because of ghostly manifestations in the house. Mrs Boulden (a strict Christian) told me that night after night the family had seen an old man — or so he appeared to be by his bent body — in convict garb and wearing leg-irons slowly ascending the stairs to the tower room, where he would vanish. Again, when members of the family were returning home late at night, this same old lag would be sitting upon one of the gateposts. The horses would refuse to go through the gateway and the family had to drive to another entrance. On other occasions, on arriving home late, the family saw the tower rooms, which were unoccupied, illuminated by a strange glow.

  When interviewed by a journalist at about the same time, Annie Forsyth Wyatt, Vice President of the National Trust of Australia, who lived near Bungaribee, admitted that she had seen the bloodstains in the tower and other ‘unspeakable things’ that she could not bring herself to recount.

  Other visitors to the house were less reluctant to share their experiences. While wandering the grounds one hot summer night, a male guest from New Zealand claimed to have witnessed a ghostly re-enactment of the murder of the convict. ‘I heard a scuffling sound and angry grunts coming from behind a large clump of pampas grass and thinking it was a person or an animal in distress I hurried over,’ he recalled. ‘To my amazement I found two men there: one lying on the ground, the other with his knee on the prone man’s chest. The second man held a brick in his hand and as I watched he struck the other man’s forehead with the brick. I shouted “Stop!” but neither figure seemed to hear me. The murderer raised the brick to strike again, so I reached out to grab his hand, but at the moment my hand should have come into contact with his, the whole ghastly spectacle simply vanished. I lost my balance at that point and fell to the ground, landing where the figures had been just a moment before. Dirt-covered and deeply shocked I returned to the house and told my host what I had seen. I tried to describe every detail, but felt at the time there was something I had forgotten. Weeks later and hundreds of miles away I remembered. Both men had been wearing heavy iron fetters and chains on their ankles.’

  Another visitor to the house told of her terrifying encounter with the white lady on the verandah outside the tower room. ‘It was late afternoon,’ she said. ‘I was sitting on the verandah reading when all of a sudden a cold wind swept over me. I shivered, and thinking it was just the evening coming on, decided to go indoors. As I rose from my chair my book slid off my lap and fell onto the flagstones. I stooped down to pick it up and while I wa
s bent over a pair of feet in white satin slippers suddenly appeared beside the book and just inches from my hand. I got such a surprise I fell back onto the chair and when I looked up there was a tall, slender woman dressed all in white standing over me. She had a pleading expression on her face and I could see tears rolling down her cheeks. I remember holding the book out in front of me like a shield and mumbling “What do you want?” but no sound came from the figure. Instinctively I knew she was not real — not a living person — and my fears were confirmed when her features started to melt like wax. Although the air was still, her white gown billowed out towards me and I shrank back, then she slowly faded away … and I started breathing again.’

  Stories like these about Bungaribee were numerous and when the building began to deteriorate with age and neglect its derelict appearance added to its reputation. Around 1910 the land was subdivided and sold off as small farms. In 1926 a Mr Charles Hopkins bought the house and spent a great deal of money restoring it. Among the unexpected finds during the restoration was what looked like a tomb covered by a large slab of stone in the garden, but even offers of extra pay could not induce Hopkins’s workmen to open it. For a short period the house enjoyed a revival, but when Hopkins departed it was left unoccupied. The roof leaked, the windows and doors swung open in the wind. Rats, snakes and pigeons took up residence in its mouldering rooms. The garden became overgrown and the graceful, sweeping carriageway disappeared under a sea of weeds. By the early 1950s the once elegant house was in complete ruin. Thieves had removed anything of value and vandals had smashed the rest. Most of the roof was gone, leaving the shell of the building wide open to the elements.