The Crowlands

by T M Creedy

  ‘It’s freezing in here.’ I shiver and wrap my arms across middle. The only light comes from two small frosted windows, rectangular in shape and too high to touch. The tiles look original, in black and white diagonals, and people pay a fortune now to recreate this kind of Victoriana in their modern homes. The last room is a kind of walk-in storeroom, with wooden slats running around three of the walls. It must have been used as a linen store; I’d imagine having so many beds up here made for a hell of a lot of washing.

  We walk back up the length of the corridor, Drew checking each of the window frames for signs of rot, and the ceilings for water damage. I follow behind, snapping some photos on my phone, wanting to capture the strange atmosphere of this top floor. Funnily, this is the one place in the house where I don’t feel like I’m being watched all the time. It feels like this floor was deserted many, many years ago. We make sure we leave all the doors open, it feels respectful somehow, like we are acknowledging the hard and lonely life the children who lived here must have suffered. I take one last photo of the long hallway, from the top of the stairs, before Drew smooths the plastic sheet back into place, patting the tape down and sealing off the floor again. Bonnie is waiting patiently outside the front door for Drew, and yips with pleasure at seeing us again.

  ‘Thanks, Drew, for coming up there with me. I’m not sure I’d have been brave enough on my own.’

  He looks embarrassed but tips his hand to the brim of his hat.

  ‘Yeah, no worries.’

  ‘I’m thinking about doing some baking. I’ll make you something, to say thank you. What’s your favourite kind of cake?’ I ask.

  ‘Er. Well, I dunno. Not had cake for a long time. Mum used to do us kids a chocolate cake when it was one of our birthdays.’

  ‘Chocolate cake it is!’ It’s one of the easiest cakes to make, so I should be able to make a fairly decent attempt at one. ‘I’ll do one tomorrow. Will you be around?’

  ‘Should be. But if not, I’ll be at my caravan. Yeah, that’ll be beaut.’ He smiles fully and my stomach flips. He really is quite good-looking.

  ‘Great! I’ll bring it over then.’

  He whistles for Bonnie and they both disappear down the track towards the road. I sit a while with the history book again but I can’t settle now, and I start to flick through the photos I took upstairs on my phone. I’ve caught the feel of the place well, I think. Each of the rooms seem to sigh with heartbreak and melancholia, the bathroom looking especially cold and unwelcoming. The final picture I took, looking back down the corridor from the top of the stairs is the last one I come to and I drop my phone in fright, staring in disbelief at the image on the screen.

  In the doorway of the very end room on the right, the one with the cupboard, a little boy is looking back at us.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I wish I had thought to get Drew’s number. My breath is coming in short painful gasps and my heart is pounding in my chest. I bring Sara’s laptop outside, and hunt through the box my new phone came in, looking for the USB connector. I need to see that photo on a bigger screen. When I’ve managed to download all the photos I took today I scroll through them one by one, looking for any kind of explanation for that childlike image in the doorway. The first ones show the bedrooms in good light, and there is nothing out of the ordinary, apart from a picture of the inside of the cupboard itself. The shelves are still there, neatly stacked against each other, but there is definitely an anomaly in the floorboards. One sticks up about half an inch higher than the others, something neither of us noticed when we were in the room. I look through all the slides, putting off the last one until I’ve been through the rest of them with a critical eye. The last photo loads and there he is. He’s small, and stands half in, half out of the room, peeking around the door frame at us as if he’s afraid to be seen. There is not much colour in the photo, the light from the window behind him leeches out the details but I can see he has a pudding basin haircut and is dressed in baggy clothing like pyjamas. He’s not smiling, in fact he looks absolutely miserable, but it’s his eyes which stand out the most, and it’s his eyes which make me freeze with fear.

  They are completely white.

  I never used to believe it when people said they were so scared their hair stood up on end, but that’s what happens to me now. My scalp prickles with cold and the fine hairs on my arms stand up stiff, making my skin pucker. A bolt of ice runs down my spine and there’s someone behind me – I’m sure of it! I can feel their stare boring into me and I know, I just know, if I turned around and looked behind me now I would see what I do not want to see. I hear a soft thud and a rustle and I let out a tiny whimper of fear. Whatever it is it’s coming closer. Taking a deep breath, I summon up the courage to look in the direction of the noises.

  ‘Mew.’

  The breath I’m holding bursts out of me in relief. It’s only Bendi, jumped up on the kitchen island and sitting on a stack of old papers.

  ‘Bendi, my friend. You scared the shit out of me.’ I pick him up, giving him a quick kiss on the top of his head and he wraps around me, happy to be cuddled. Bali’s slight ginger form is on the other side of the cat flap and I can see her peeking in at us but she doesn’t make any move to come inside. I don’t know what to do about the photo. Have I really caught proof of the afterlife and why does it have to be in MY house? I really need to speak to Drew but it’s getting dark already and I don’t want to be walking about by myself, trying to find his caravan in the twilight. I can’t bear the thought of being here alone tonight, I need people and laughter and lights. Flashing lights. I think of the pub with its rows of slot machines and I know this is where I’m heading. It’s Friday night after all, the place is bound to be lively. I can take the ute now that I feel assured I can drive it OK, driving at night can’t be too difficult – it’s not as if there’s much other traffic on these country roads. It’s only six o’clock so I put food out for the cats and change into a pair of jeans and a nice-ish top I found in Sara’s pile of clothes; I have no idea what people here wear for a night out but I can’t imagine they dress up too much. My stomach is still churning so I’ll grab something to eat later in town, and I take a thick pile of notes from my Australian stash, now hidden underneath the bottom drawer of my bedside cabinet.

  Finding the lights on the ute takes me a good ten minutes, as I turn levers and push buttons but I eventually figure it out and swing the truck out onto the road heading for Ararat. The illuminated dials on the dashboard tell me I’ve got less than quarter of a tank of fuel left, so I’ll have to find a garage, and fill up. Shit, I have no idea what type of fuel this tank takes – Mac didn’t tell me. I can only hope someone at the garage will know. I think I remember seeing the familiar green BP logo quite close to the Coles supermarket so I turn off before I reach the main street. The orange streetlights casting their glow over the roads makes everything look different so I miss the turning the first time. I find the garage with its bright, welcoming lights and pull up at a fuel pump. I didn’t even think to check which side of the ute the fuel tank is on and I feel very stupid when a weasel-faced man comes out of the garage office and tells me to turn the ute around, as I’m facing the wrong way apparently. I can see him taking in the way I’m perched on the old cushion, my legs only just reaching the pedals and I feel humiliated.

  ‘This the MacLean’s ute?’ God, why does everyone talk with that horrible nasally accent? He takes the nozzle for the diesel pump and starts filling the tank before I can even ask.

  ‘Yes. I’m staying there for a while. Mac said I could use it whenever I want.’ I say defensively.

  ‘You that Pommy chick what’s living up there?’ I don’t know what a Pommy is but it doesn’t sound complimentary, and anyway, it’s none of his business who I am or where I live so I don’t answer, I just wait until the fuel pump finishes emptying itself into the ute’s tank with a click.

  ‘Do I pay inside?’ My British accent is clipped with annoyance and I swear I hear
him mutter ‘Snotty bitch’ under his breath and he fiddles with the fuel cap. Slamming the driver’s door of the ute hard I walk past him without a glance and into the office, which doubles as a shop selling papers, snacks and driving accessories. The boy on the counter is young and fresh-faced, with a slight Indian accent but he is the first person I’ve met in this town who is openly friendly and doesn’t ask me personal questions. Paying for the diesel in cash in hundred dollar notes makes his eyes open wide with curiosity but he either knows when to keep quiet, or he sees the hostile challenge in my face and thinks better of remarking on my payment method. The weaselly man is leaning against my ute when I come out, his arms resting on the top of the cab casually, his denim-clad groin thrust in my direction. And, is that……. a mullet hairstyle?

  ‘So, what are you doing with yourself while you’re here?’ He hoicks way back in his throat and spits a great glob of phlegm onto the concrete, smirking at the disgust on my face.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I go to open the door of the ute. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘Hey! I asked you a question.’ It doesn’t come out sounding like ‘ask’ – it sounds more like axe, ‘I axed you a question’.

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t know you and I don’t want to get into a conversation with you.’ I am fed up with the rude and arrogant people in this town. Drew is the only person I’ve met who seems genuinely kind and friendly, apart from Mac and Margie themselves. The weasel moves quickly enough when I start the engine, gunning it a little bit aggressively.

  ‘Was just tryin’ to be nice, ya stuck up cunt.’ Oh, he is a real charmer. I flick him the finger as I drive away, hoping this is not the only garage in town. The parking bays outside the pub are mostly full and I have to take one further down the street than I wanted to. I’m not sure how safe it is here for a female walking alone but there are several fish’n’chip places open along the way, and Chinese takeaways, so I guess I’m safe enough while these businesses stay open.

  I can hear the pub way before I get there. Loud, country music, shouting and laughter and now and then the smash of a breaking glass. I almost expect one of those Wild West moments when I pull open the heavy wooden doors and walk in – thinking the noise will stop to a sudden hush as everybody swings around to stare at the stranger in town – but no one pays me the slightest bit of attention as I fight my way through throngs of beefy men and brittle looking blondes, gathered around the tables in screeching, bellowing groups. At the bar I’m squashed in between an obese woman in a grubby, pink velour tracksuit and a skinny, dark-skinned morose looking man, who at least has the manners to budge up a little so I can order a drink.

  ‘Coke, please!’ I yell, over the whine and crash of the band playing in the corner. I didn’t expect it to be so loud in here. I thought it would be like the pubs back homes with quiet conversation and polite half-pints of Guinness. The big woman next to me takes a step backwards, directly onto my foot and I can’t help but yelp and nudge her with my arm, trying to push the weight off my poor toes. She turns and glares at me, her red face greasy with sweat and her straggly greying hair hanging limply around her ears.

  ‘The FUCK you doing?’ She roars, giving me a huge shove and sending me flying backwards into the skinny man. He catches me quite deftly, somehow also managing to rescue the glass of Coke in my hand and stopping it from toppling onto the floor.

  ‘You stood on her foot, Belle.’ He speaks quietly but with such authority she backs down immediately.

  ‘Ah, shouldn’t have had her stupid foot in my way then, should ya?’ She spits this into my face, as if daring me to fight back, but the quiet man stands up tall and leans over me to speak directly into her ear.

  ‘Leave her alone, Belle. You’re the one at fault here. Now, say sorry and play nice.’

  Fat woman mutters something which might or might not be ‘sorry’ and plods off in the direction of the slot machines. Great! If she’s in there I won’t be able to drop my guard, fearing her meaty fist in my eye.

  ‘You OK?’ The man looks me, holding my gaze and I’m struck by how warm and compassionate his eyes are.

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. A squashed foot but nothing life-threatening.’ Actually my foot is agony; I’m sure something’s broken. ‘Thank you. For catching me. And getting rid of her. I doubt she would have listened to me if I had tried to reason with her.’ He grins.

  ‘Belle wouldn’t know reason if it jumped up and bit her on her not-so-small arse! She’s usually too drunk to do anything but pick fights.’ He holds out a hand for me to shake. ‘G’day. I’m Pindari. I’m what passes for the police force in this shithole.’

  ‘Police? You don’t look like a policeman. Where’s your navy suit and funny helmet?’ I’m joking with him of course, but then I notice he is wearing a light blue shirt, and a peaked cap lies on the bar next to him. He goes along with the joke though.

  ‘Must have left them at home. You’re the English girl staying up at the MacLean’s.’ He states this as a fact, not a question.

  ‘News gets around fast in this place. It seems everybody knows who I am. Why is everyone so nosy?’ He laughs at this, and indicates he wants another drink from the barman.

  ‘Not much happens around here, you’re a bit of a novelty. Don’t worry, it’ll wear off soon and it’ll be like you’re one of us.’

  ‘Yeah, not so sure about that. Some of the people I’ve met so far….’ I let the sentence hang but he picks up on my reticence.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been getting a hard time already.’

  ‘Not a hard time, as such. I think it’s just I’m finding people so different from where I come from. No one there even speaks to you let alone ask you for every detail about your life, like they do here. The MacLeans are lovely though, and the stockman up at the farm has been a great help.’

  Pindari looks surprised at this.

  ‘That’s something. Wouldn’t have thought he was one for being helpful. He tends to keep to himself, bit of a loner.’

  ‘Well, he probably feels sorry for me. And it’s nice, to have someone else up there apart from the cats and the bloody crows.’

  ‘How are you getting on up there?’ He asks, his voice loaded with meaning.

  ‘What? With the ghosts you mean?’ I am nonchalant. He gives me a long, level look.

  ‘So, you’ve seen them then?’

  ‘Sort of. Seen one anyway, well, he turned up in a photo. And loads of weird things have been happening. Hence, me being here in this pub making friends with the charming locals.’ I am nothing if not sardonic. ‘I’m too afraid to be there on my own in the dark.’

  ‘Not surprised.’ He doesn’t sound the least bit sceptical. ‘There’s been loads of local legends about that house as far back as I can remember. My Great-Aunty used to work up there, back when it was a convalescence home, and she’s got some stories about that house that’ll give you the heebies. She’s in her nineties now, but still going strong. If you want to ask her about the place she’d love to meet you.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind. Good to know it’s not just me losing my mind and imagining things.’ I debate whether to show him the photo of the ghost boy on my phone, but then his name is called from across the room where there is a fight breaking out by the pool tables, and he downs his beer and picks up his cap, the policeman on duty once again. I carry my drink to the room with the slot machines, watching nervously for a glimpse of pink velour, but Belle is fully focused on one of the jackpot machines in a far corner, and doesn’t notice me creeping in. I choose a game I recognise and slide twenty dollars into the slot. That familiar feeling of calmness comes over me, it’s a bit like relaxing into a warm bath, and I lose myself in the world of Jack and his beanstalk, walking wilds and free spins.

  In a matter of minutes, I have lost over a hundred dollars but I don’t care – I’m having fun and there’s plenty more cash where that came from.

  ‘G’day!’ A man’s voice distracts me and I turn my head to see a l
arge, florid man standing at my elbow. ‘New in town, ain’tcha?’

  He’s holding the largest glass of beer I’ve ever seen, and he’s eyeing me with drunken interest. ‘I’m Donny, pleased ta meetcha’ He holds out one huge paw for me to shake.

  ‘Sara.’ I say, wishing he would go away. He’s standing there staring at me with a ridiculous grin on his face, like he’s expecting me to swoon or fall at his feet. Ten years ago he would have been quite good-looking, in fact, he was probably the local high school hunk in his time, but time, and alcohol, have not been kind and now he’s just a paunchy, balding has-been who looks middle-aged when he’s probably only in his late twenties. He looks like he’s most at home on a tractor, or the rugby field, and I wonder if this is the famous Donny that the rude wedge-haired girl at the bank was gossiping about.

  ‘Don’t say much, do ya?’ I roll my eyes.

  ‘Look. I’m just trying to have a quiet night to myself. Play some games, have a soft drink. I’m not interested in having a conversation with you, OK?’ Instantly his face changes and contorts into astounded disbelief, with a hint of meanness.

  ‘Jeez, I was only trying to be friendly!’ He raises his voice and looks around for an audience, hands out wide in supplication. ‘No need to snap me bloody head off! What’s your problem?’ He looks for approval from the other people in the pokies room, and when he sees he has their attention he carries on. ‘Saw ya talking to that cop out there. He your boyfriend? Like them black do ya?’

  Oh my God, I’ve had enough of this.

  ‘What I do and who I do it with is none of your fucking business. My problem is you. You’re annoying me. I never asked for you to come over and start talking to me, did I? You just assumed, wrongly I might add, that I was desperate enough to need your company! Well, I don’t. There’s a name for people like you where I come from.’ I pause for full effect. ‘Full of himself dickhead loser!’

  His beer-soaked brain takes a while to comprehend the insult, but when the penny finally drops he snarls at me.