by T M Creedy
‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come up here on your own.’ Ghost Margie says. ‘Rotten floorboards……unsafe….’ It’s enough to make me turn tail and run back down the stairs, feeling relief where the old lino tiles become new carpet and I’m back in the safety of the finished part of the house. If there’s a window open, it’ll have to wait until daylight so I can see where I’m going.
I check all the doors and windows two more times before I am satisfied I am safely locked in for the night. Bendi is happily ensconced on my bed but of Bali, the other cat, there is still no sign. I shouldn’t be worried – it’s a nice evening, and there are plenty of sheds and outbuildings for her to find a cosy bed for the night, but I don’t know if this is normal for her, or if it’s because I’m here. Switching off the lights downstairs the dark expanse of the living room stretches out to meet the night outside the windows, but there is one shaft of light which pierces the inky blackness. I’ve missed a light somewhere, over in the direction of the kitchen. I walk the length of the lounge thinking it’s maybe the pantry light, or I haven’t closed the fridge door properly, but the light is coming from the laundry room, through the gap in the door where I wedged it open while I was doing the washing today. In the broad daylight. Why is the light on? I wouldn’t have needed to turn the lights on when I was in there before. Although the room is gloomy there was plenty of natural light and I could see perfectly well. That room is so strange – the door jams for no apparent reason, the ute keys turned up on the shelf in there and now, mysteriously, the light has switched itself on. Summoning up my last bit of courage I stride to the partly open door and feel around the wall for the light switch, not willing to venture into the room itself. My fingers brush the plastic surface and I click the light off, withdrawing my hand quickly as the child in me is convinced that something, something evil and long dead, is waiting to grab my hand from the other side of the door. Kicking the laundry basket from where it props the door open I pull the door shut firmly. If it sticks again I’ll ask Drew to look at it but for now I just want to keep that room, and the wrongness of it, securely locked away.
I’m glad to get to the sanctuary of my bedroom and Bendi’s calming companionship. There is a small television mounted on the wall opposite the bed and I’m grateful for the noise and distraction, watching an old episode of Friends I know almost word for word. Between the canned laughter and Bendi’s loud purring I can’t hear anything outside the room which might have my imagination working overtime and my heart racing, and I relax enough to sink down into welcome sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
I’m having the most horrible dream. I’m here in my bed at Crowlands House but I’m pinned down and can’t move, and the heavy layer of blankets feels wrong. Where’s my duvet? Cool hands are tucking a sheet around me tightly, too tightly and a low voice tells me not to worry, everything’s going to be alright. But I can’t move my arms, they are strapped down hard and I’m panicking. I’m trying to scream but all that comes out of my mouth is a strangled croak. I can open my eyes but the rest of my body won’t move. There is a lady dressed in white beside me and she is the one who is tucking in the bedclothes, moving my body into position with strong, practised movements. A nurse? I’m getting the feeling she’s a nurse but the white clothing she wears looks more like a nun’s habit, her white headdress is veiled and she has big, puffy sleeves and an apron covering her dress. She looks at me and smiles.
‘Now then, what’s all this fuss? Just a sharp prick and it will all be over.’ She lays a hand on my hair. ‘Sssshhhh, don’t cry now. Sssshhhhhh.’ She has a metal syringe in her hand and she moves to jab the huge needle into my arm. I try and scream again, try to move away but I can’t and I feel, actually feel, the point of the needle entering the flesh at the top of my arm. ‘There now, all done.’ She murmurs soothingly. My arm has gone numb and it feels like ice is spreading through my veins. I have no idea what she’s just injected me with but I did not consent to this, I want to scream at her, I did not consent! The nurse turns away from me and it’s then I see the back of her head. The veil is splattered with black gore and hangs in tatters to her shoulders. Instead of hair and solid bone there’s just a dark, gaping hole framed with ripped, ragged edges of skin. Half of her skull is completely missing.
Thrashing about wildly I sit up, gasping for breath and grasping for the familiar feel of the duvet which feels light and right on my skin, in contrast to the heavy blankets and rough sheets that held me down a minute ago. Heart pounding, I can feel the sweat dripping off my face and I shakily reach out to turn on the bedside lamp. The clock beside it reads 3.11. With the bedroom now awash with creamy light I feel instantly better. The television, the modern fittings, my backpack, it’s all there, all present and correct, everything as it should be. Except Bendi. He’s no longer on my bed and I can’t blame him. I was probably thrashing about madly, trapped in my nightmare. A low growl comes from the corner by the door and I see Bendi crouched low under the spindly wooden chair. His ears are flat to his head and his eyes are wide; huge saucers of fear. He growls again and hisses at me, his body rigid and the fur on his spine sticking straight up. He’s terrified. I try calling to him but he slinks further back into his hiding place as if trying to become part of the chair itself, hissing and growling at me all the while. Flinging the twisted covers aside I pad to the door and open it slightly and he’s out from underneath the chair like a rocket, darting down the hallway and down the stairs like he has all the demons of hell on his heels. I really must have scared him when I was dreaming and I’m glad there’s no one else here who might have heard me shout out. Getting back into the bed again and pulling the duvet up to my head I’m exhausted and the pain in the top of my arm is still there. The pain in my arm from the injection is still there. Hastily I whip the covers aside and inspect the skin, expecting to see a raised weal or puncture wound where the needle went in. I can’t see anything in this weak light but my arm definitely feels bruised, like someone’s punched me hard, and I rub the muscle gently. It must be a psychosomatic aftereffect from the dream. It was very realistic after all. I remember every detail of the lady’s clothing, the way she smiled at me, the glint of the metal on the syringe and the hole in the back of her head. A chill runs up my spine and I bundle back down into the warmth of my bed. It was a nightmare, that’s all. I’ve had them before and I’ll no doubt have them again but there’s nothing to be afraid of in the waking world. I must have seen something on the television tonight which put me in mind of gruesome dead nurses from times long past. I never realised before how much I relied on the reassurance of being surrounded by other people, even if they were strangers, and my ears strain for the soothing rush of traffic or the consoling cry of a bird but there is nothing. Just the weight of silence.
Scritch. Scratch. Thump.
No. I’m not playing the game tonight. I’m too tired.
Scritch. Scratch. Thump.
The open window upstairs, the scratching of tiny claws in the walls, it all serves to remind me I have to go up to the second floor in the morning and find out what’s making that noise but at the moment the sound is cheering; I’m not alone – I have the mice or rats or possums to keep me company.
Scritch. Scratch. Thump.
I turn over and ignore the noises, feeling comforted enough to drift back off to sleep.
Scritch. Scratch. THUMP.
The banging gets louder but I’m almost under and don’t have the energy to even thump on the walls in response.
Scritch. Scratch. THUMP THUMP!
Oh come on! Pack it in. I’m trying to sleep.
Scritch. Scratch. THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP!
The noise is so insistent that it drags me back to the surface and I huff loudly. OK, OK, just one game. Making a fist I knock on my wall three times, sleepily listening out for the response.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Calmer now, as if whatever’s making the noises is happy I’m paying attention.
�
�OK that’s enough now.’ I call out into the darkness, feeling slightly silly and sheepish at talking to unseen rodents ‘I’ve got to get some sleep.’
In my last waking moments, I hear one last soft thump, and then nothing.
The next morning dawns clear and bright, with the promise of another day of uninterrupted sunshine. My eyes feel heavy and my brain fogged from the restless night but I’m keen to get up and get going. Today I intend to drive all the way into Ararat and explore. The thought of shops and people and traffic is exciting. After only half a day of isolation I’m already craving human interaction and I can’t wait to have a proper look around a real Australian supermarket, not to mention do all the things I have on my ‘To Do’ list. I shower quickly and run downstairs to feed the cats. They are both sitting, waiting, on the verandah and I’m pleased to see Bali doesn’t run off when I open one of the doors but instead greets me with a hopeful chirrup. I’m not even going to bother with breakfast for myself, thinking of a cheerful café with proper coffee and maybe a muffin or a cake, but the cats both tuck into their bowls of chunky meat with relish. Bendi shows no signs of his fright during the night and even allows me to give him a friendly scratch under his chin. Grabbing my list and the keys, which thankfully are still on a side table where I left them yesterday, I lock up the house and walk across the dewy lawn to the ute.
The roads are empty once again and I’m enjoying the drive, now that I know I can, and it’s not until I’m a few miles out of Ararat itself that I start to see other cars on the roads. With the help of Google maps, I navigate the small township, finding the main street with ease and parking in one of the diagonal bays, which has an old-fashioned coin operated parking meter in front of it. The overhanging shop fronts cover the wide pavement and make the street feel closed in, even though the street is so wide there is also room to park in the marked bays in the middle of the road. The square, blocky stores are run down with a tired air about them, and there are plenty of cheap cafes, takeaways and bargain shops, so it’s not too dissimilar to Peckham. I pass numerous charity shops, called opportunity shops here, with their tatty old window displays showcasing fashions years out of date. There are optometrists, and injury lawyers, furniture showrooms and chemists galore. I can’t see any recognisable fashion chains, just one old lady dress shop announcing ‘Summer Frocks for the Larger Lady’. It’s still quite early but there are a few people walking along the street and it’s not long before I find a branch of the Commonwealth Bank, squeezed between Norma’s Hair Salon and a faded pastel gift shop called ‘Something Beautiful’. Going in I find myself firmly in an eighties’ sensory overload, the dusty smell of paper mixing with the garish orange-stained pine which covers everything from the counters to the service desks to the diamond shaped planter in the middle of the floor, and the piped strains of John Farnham echo around the quiet space. A girl roughly my own age is on the customer services counter and she looks at me disinterestedly before saying ‘Help you?’ in a bored voice. I’m fascinated by her oddly wedge-shaped hairstyle as well as the huge hoop earrings which sway in time with the gum she chews methodically, like a cow.
‘Um. I was wondering about opening an account? I’m new here but I’ll be staying for about a year so is it possible for me open an account with this bank?’
‘Got any ID?’ She doesn’t stop chewing as she asks me this.
‘I’ve got my passport.’ I dig in my bag for the maroon cover.
‘Got anyfing else?’
‘Um, no. Just that. At the moment. I’ve only just got here.’ I say defensively.
‘Need two forms of photo ID and proof of address before I can do anyfing. If ya don’t have that there’s not much I can do.’ She shrugs dismissively and turns away from me before I have a chance to say another word, leaning over her colleague’s desk and exclaiming about the state of someone last night. ‘Did ya see Donny? Gee, he was wasted eh? Fuck knows why Cheryl goes with him, he was all over me last night, the bloody perv!’
Our conversation is clearly over and I wonder if everyone in this town is as rude as this girl. I could do with a coffee so at the next reasonable looking café I stop and seat myself at one of the round wrought iron tables in the sunshine. This time the waitress knows a little bit about customer service and takes my order pleasantly, returning with my coffee and a delicious looking lemon muffin in super-quick time. I take the opportunity to ask her a little bit about the town, and where to get some decent casual clothes from, but the best she can come up with is Coles, the big supermarket on the outskirts of town.
Both the drink and the muffin are delicious and, spirits restored, I continue my wanderings along Ararat’s main shopping centre. It’s weird, the main street is full of shops and businesses but wherever another street criss-crosses, there’s nothing down those side streets, the town just peters out into housing and the occasional park or sportsground. It doesn’t take me long to walk down both sides of the shopping area and there’s very little of interest here, but I do get my adaptor plug for the laptop from an electronics store and it costs me twenty dollars, which I figure out to be over ten quid. There’s another bank across the road from the rude woman’s branch and I have better service in there, but the same story – I can’t have a bank account without several forms of ID and proof of address. I could get around the proof of address thing, I just have to get something posted to me at Crowlands House but the only form of ID I have in Sara’s name is the passport, so it looks like I won’t be able to open an account anytime soon. Lucky I have plenty of cash reserves and the bank does do foreign exchange so I will be able to change my sterling for dollars at any time. I ask for directions to the library which turns out to be a large modern brick building, but is only open on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturday mornings. Glad to be in town on one of the few days it is open to the public I ask the librarian if I can join up, and he is happy for me to fill in the form for a library card. When I hand over the form and the five dollar joining fee he reads my address and looks sharply at me. I have simply put Crowlands House, Ararat, Victoria, not knowing if there are such things as house numbers or postcodes here.
‘You up at the MacLean place are ya?’ His voice is nasally and there is an underlying hint of scorn.
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m housesitting for Mac and Margie while they’re away.’ He looks at me with interest and I suddenly realise I’ve just told him I’m living by myself in an isolated farm house. ‘I mean, it’s not just me there. Drew’s around too, of course.’
‘Of course. And how do ya like living in a haunted house?’ He eyes me beadily with his dark, hooded eyes and I’m reminded of the crows in the gumtree. I do a kind of embarrassed snort laugh.
‘I don’t know anything about haunted. It seems like a perfectly normal house to me.’ If a perfectly normal house was three stories high, with a sealed off top floor, and strange noises in the night.
‘Don’t know how you can stand it meself.’ He goes on. ‘Wouldn’t catch me staying up there, that’s for sure.’
‘Well. I’ll remember that.’ I’m determined to remain pleasant, no matter how horrible the people are in this dingy little outback town. ‘Actually, I might do a bit of research on the house while I’m there. Do you have any books on its history? The beady man jumps up, pleased to show off his knowledge and finds a small, thin book in the library’s tiny reference section.
‘The last rector at the church was a great one for local history. That book covers most of the area but your house has its own dedicated chapter.’
Indeed, the books’ cheaply printed cover shows a black and white photo of Crowlands House, looking remarkably the same as it does now, even the gumtree looks the same height. I thank the repulsive little man and browse the compact shelves for a few light fiction novels to help me pass the time.
I have two hours on the parking meter, which is the maximum time allowed, and I’m surprised to see the time’s almost up. It takes me two minutes to walk back to the ute an
d I think I’m almost done in town, apart from a food shop. I didn’t realise it at the time but I parked in front of a big old pub, which is advertising pub meals, big screens and a poker competition. Glancing up and down the nearly deserted street, looking for anyone in a high-vis vest who could conceivably be a parking inspector, I take a closer look at the signs and blackboards dotted about the pubs grand entrance. TAB one sign says, whatever that is. Pokie Lounge, screams another in flashing neon. It’s high time I found out what pokies is, Mac mentioned it on the way to Crowlands from the train station and it’s been baffling me ever since. Opening the heavy doors, I walk into the pub, expecting a small dark, beer smelling cavern but surprisingly, the old fashioned façade of the building hides a bright and modern space behind it. High ceilings with skylight windows look down on a wide bar area, which looks like it’s been hewn from a single large tree trunk cut lengthways down the middle. The pub smells of new wood and hot pastry and to the left are two pool tables and a corner with the same TAB sign I saw outside. It turns out TAB is some kind of betting system, like a bookies, but without counters, staff or slot machines. There are a few people at the wooden tables in the main bar, despite the relatively early hour, and it looks like the pub lunches are popular with the locals. Walking the length of the tree-trunk bar I ask for a Coke from the young lad behind it, who is busy polishing glasses with a towel, and carry the ice cold glass with me as I explore the other side of the building, where there is a secluded dark room off to one side. Loud beeps and blips come from inside the space and the room is filled with the bright flashing lights of rows and rows of slot machines. This is what pokies are. Pokie machines, slot machines. I wander, transfixed at the sight of so many games, some with jackpots in the high thousands, and they all look so inviting, promising hours of fun. There are a handful of people playing at the machines and I stop for a minute to watch. The games are different to the ones on the bookies back home but I remember this kind of set-up from some of the high street casinos I used to belong to. I recognise some of the games from online casinos but this kind of in-your-face, in the moment, gambling is so much better. I itch to start feeding notes into as many machines as I can but I have to get back to the ute before I get a parking ticket. I know this is here now, and I can see myself spending many a happy evening – and day – in this small, cramped side room. And here I was thinking my gambling days were over.