by Morgana Best
“He had a slight accent, English perhaps. Tall, dark, and handsome, the usual cliché. He looked like Captain Jack.”
I was getting a little concerned at yet another Torchwood connection. “You mean Captain Jack Harkness from Torchwood?”
Melissa snorted rudely. “No, Captain Jack Sparrow, of course. Well, Johnny Depp, that is. Not as friendly looking though, and a lot more bulked up.”
My blood ran cold. Douglas. A member of the Black Lodge, a man who had not prevented a nasty, old woman from arranging my murder. Surely Douglas wouldn’t be in Australia, seeking me out. It made no sense. And if, on the other hand, the mysterious man was a member of Jamie’s organization, he would not be likely to contact me at my work. They had my home address, for goodness sake.
“Anyway, in some good news,” Melissa continued, “Skinny is sending me to a little town called Hillgrove this weekend, to write up a big feature on ghosts. The magazine’s paying for me to stay in a motel overnight.”
I knew Hillgrove, a tiny town just north of Armidale, where I had gone to university. “Hillgrove doesn’t have any motels, Melissa. There should be a lot of ghosts there though, as there were several massacres there, back in the day.”
Melissa groaned. “The motel’s in the city of Armidale, silly. It’s only a fifty minute or so drive away from Hillgrove. Anyway, come with me.”
I bit my lip. “I don’t know, Melissa.”
“Look, it’s free accommodation, and I don’t want to go alone. Anyway, it’s not as if I’ve ever asked you to do any favors for me.”
“Oh no? How about the time you made me drive to Perth with you to steal your ex’s dog? It took five days to drive there, and five days to drive back, and the very minute we got back, you found out that your ex was so distraught that we had to drive the dog straight back to him.”
Melissa shrugged. “She was my dog, too.”
“Yes, but that horrible favor I did for you back then lasted about three weeks.”
Melissa laughed. “You have a point, but please come, Misty, please, please.”
Chapter 2
And that is how I found myself driving to the little town of Hillgrove with Melissa the following weekend. We were in Melissa’s car, a large Lexus, because I doubted that mine would have made the distance. It needed new tires, plus the mechanic had told me to sell it as it the repairs would cost more than the car was worth.
“I need botox.”
“What?” I said. We had just left Armidale and were driving out to Hillgrove along a road thickly flanked by old eucalyptus trees. Melissa’s botox statement had come out of the blue. “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just spilled some of the coffee on my jeans.” We had been to the Armidale McDonald’s on our way. Hillgrove didn’t have a McDonald’s. It didn’t even have a single store, no 7-Eleven, no gas station (we call them petrol stations in Australia), no café. “Anyway, Melissa, you don’t need botox. Why would you think you’d need botox?”
Melissa sighed. “Well, the other day, Skinny asked me if I’d been crying, and I said no, and she said she thought I’d been crying because of all the lines around my eyes.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Oh Melissa, you know she always says things like that. You can’t take her seriously. If anything, she’s just jealous because you have such good skin. You don’t have any lines around your eyes.”
Melissa peered in the rear vision mirror, and the car swerved erratically. “I do have lines on my forehead. Can you please do me a favor? Google ‘botox clinics’ on your iPhone.”
I waved the phone at her. “Out of range.”
I felt more and more uneasy as we approached Hillgrove. I’d been there with friends when I was a student, but back then I hadn’t inherited the Keeper’s ability to see or sense ghosts.
I was looking out for the turn-off when we came to a sign that said, ‘Bakers Creek Falls (Old Hillgrove Road)’. “Don’t turn here, Melissa, but…,” and then I gasped as Melissa turned hard off the road. “No, I said, Don’t turn here, Melissa.”
Melissa swung the car back hard onto the main road. Her driving left a lot to be desired. I spilled the last of my coffee down my jeans, and almost missed the actual Hillgrove turn-off, because I was so busy wiping my jeans with tissues. “Here it is, Melissa.” I pointed to the sign that said, ‘Hillgrove, 5’.
“Are you sure this time?”
“Yes, and look, there’s a sign to the Hillgrove Museum.” I pointed to a large sign that said, ‘Visit the fascinating Hillgrove Museum’.
Melissa swung the car to the right and drove down the middle of the road. It was a narrow, unmarked road, and I was worried that we’d meet a car coming the other way.
“Melissa, we’re in luck. If that sign is right, the museum’s open this afternoon. I’m going to ask them about the massacres.”
Melissa swerved to miss an oncoming car. “What reason are you going to give them?”
When I’d sufficiently recovered from the fright of seeing a car heading straight for us, I said, “Reason? What do you mean? Do I need to give them a reason for asking?”
“Well, massacres, hardly a subject for casual conversation, is it? And don’t say you’re a journalist. They might clam up.”
We were driving up a slight hill, approaching the town itself, and I said to myself, We’re not wanted here. Something doesn’t want new people coming to the area. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe, as if there were a heavy weight pressing down on me. Melissa knew nothing about the Society or of course about me being the Keeper, so I kept my thoughts to myself.
Just then, there was large thump under the car, as if we’d driven over a sizable branch.
Melissa 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.” Melissa 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’.
Melissa 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 says gold and antimony.”
“What is antimony?”
I shrugged. “No idea. I think it might be used in plastic production or something.”
Melissa 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 Melissa pulled the car over every few yards so she could take photos of the green signs for her magazine article. “Gee, this town would have 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,” Melissa 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. Wow, it even had a cordial factory and a school of the arts. They had electricity here back in 1895.”
Melissa drove down
a dirt road. “That’s pretty impressive. Look, here’s the museum, but I don’t think it’s open.” Melissa 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.” Melissa sounded less than enthusiastic. “This place is giving me the creeps. Lucky it’s broad daylight.”
Melissa 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, and it was creeping me out big time. The museum had previously been a school, and it seemed to me that several of the inhabitants had returned. I wanted to beat a hasty retreat, but Melissa was fascinated by the photos and stories of early families.
I finally managed to drag her out. I was having trouble breathing again, and I felt as if a wall was pushing against me.
We drove out of town and past a cemetery sign. I pointed and yelled, “Melissa, turn here!”
Melissa 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.
“Melissa, can you see the entrance? All I can see is an old fence in both directions.”
“Down there, I think.” Melissa 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.
Melissa 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 that 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 some 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 realized I must have been walking on unmarked graves at times, but could do nothing but apologize aloud.
Melissa and I were soon on our way back toward Armidale. I had walked out of the cemetery backwards and then insisted that Melissa make three turns in the car after leaving the cemetery. She complained at length but did as I asked. Melissa 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.
The dirt road to Bakers Creek Falls had washed away in parts and Melissa 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?” Melissa’s tone reflected her disbelief.
“Massacreists, for one.”
“Gee, Misty, 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?” Melissa asked.
“Yes, that would be great, thanks.”
Melissa 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.”
Melissa 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 were poking out above ground level and crisscrossing 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 which 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 a major understatement. The huge slabs of granite were as magnificent as they were terrifying. It was one dramatic, giant, sheer drop which continued for miles, 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 realized that Melissa, 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, Melissa 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 the edge of the cliff. “Oh no, I’m afraid of heights. Can we go?”
Just then a man popped out of the bushes, and we both screamed. The man looked amused. “So sorry to scare you. I’m a local photographer, Ethan Williams.”
We introduced ourselves and 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?” Melissa 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 drove away. We were walking back to the car when another car drove in. A man got out and walked over to us before we reached Melissa’s car. “Hello, ladies. A lovely day for sightseeing, isn’t it?”
We agreed and went to move on, but he spoke again. “I’m Gerald Wayfield, a local historian. If you have any questions, I’d be glad to answer them.”
Melissa and I looked at each other and smiled.
“I do have some questions, if you wouldn’t mind,” Melissa said.
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,” Melissa 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, there were individuals who went over the cliffs, and also mining accidents. There were a lot 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 Melissa 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?”
“Horrors and Haunts.”
I groaned inwardly when Melissa 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, and at least he was not a ghost.
“Thanks,” Melissa said. “I’ll definitely take you up on that. You don’t mind if ask you some questions?”
“Not at all. It would be my pleasure.” With that, he tipped his wide brimmed hat and returned to his car.