Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction (14 page)

“Well,”
said I, drawing forth my watch, “it wants but a few minutes to midnight, and that’s the time, you know.”

The watchers looked nervously over their shoulders, but not the least sight or sound disturbed us, and the super continued, “I intend to face it—no matter in what aspect it comes.”

At this moment a tremendous commotion shook the tent and the wretched Mike rushed out from it with the wild cry of—

“Here he comes!”

The miserable man was bent nearly double, his hair was literally standing on end, his eyes darting from their sockets, and in blind terror, was rushing right into the fire.

The super was standing with his back towards the tent, and when that dreadful cry burst upon him he vacated his position with amazing celerity; clearing the fire, the billies, and the men lying beyond it with the agility of a kangaroo.

I started up just in time to save the guilty Mike from plunging headlong in the fire, but so great was his onset that I stumbled and fell with him, and as we fell I felt that convulsive twitching of his limbs, and heard that choking-rattle which always precedes dissolution, but even in that dread moment my eyes were riveted upon the tent; and so, indeed, were those of all the party, and thus we stood, sat, or kneeled—each in the attitude in which we had been surprised, without moving a muscle for the full space of a minute.

The super was the first to recover himself and move towards the tent. We all followed, but saw nothing. We looked around in every direction, but neither sight nor sound disturbed the deathlike stillness of the plains. The cattle were lying quiet upon their distant camp, everything around us was quiet—as quiet, indeed, as the man we had left by the fire.

We continued our vigil until daybreak, but nothing disturbed us.

The following day the remains of the self-confessed murderer were interred by the aide of his victim, and we drew up a rough statement of the affair—minus the few apparent supernatural surroundings—and forwarded it to the authorities.

But the Black Swamp is no longer haunted. The unquiet spirit is now at rest, and the overlanders hail the camp as the best on the southern cattle trail.

CHRONICLES OF EASYVILLE, by Patrick Shanahan

The Australian Journal
, 1 March 1875; 1 October 1875

Patrick Shanahan is known only for his “Chronicles of Easyville”, a series of short stories set in the fictional Victorian town of Easyville that were serialized in
The Australian Journal
in 1875.

Easyville! The beauteous, the romantic! So far away from the busy turmoil of the city, and yet not too far for the rusticated student who may desire to visit the Victorian metropolis occasionally. Who first planned thy limits? Who first arranged thee into streets and byways? Who first built for himself a habitation within thy limits, thou paragon of Victorian villages?

It is five o’clock p.m. The coach from Melbourne comes grinding over the flinty highway, laden with passengers and luggage. What a grand sight the antiquated mail coach is, thundering along the hard stony ways with its steaming horses, its dandy driver, its motley cargo of passengers. The clashing of iron-shod hoofs, and the loud rumbling of wheels!

But it has passed, and I turn me within the walls of my hotel, to hear the loud voices of drunken quarrymen, farmers, cattle-dealers, and such like, “blowing” in the best colonial style. I pick up a newspaper, ‘tis a bound copy of yesterday’s
Argus
. I have no taste for politics, little for news, and so disregard the “leading daily.” I perambulate my room, for I am a lodger of a week’s acquaintance with Easyville folks, and have retained a room solely for myself. I examine the chamber and the pictures which decorate the walls, and finally settle down on a sofa, to drown my
ennui
in sleep. But what is the packet which attracts my attention as I lie reclined, at the farthest end of my chamber. In a dark nook I first beheld it, a dried, crumpled fold of papers tied with stained and faded pink silk ribbon. What can it be? Probably some title deeds! lost by some former tenant of this chamber! Perhaps it might be a draft for £10,000 on some of the banks. I will see. I open it carefully—slowly—and what do I find?

A bundle of MSS. containing sketches of Easyville, written by some lounger for amusement, and entitled “Chronicles of Easyville,” by a visitor. The first paper which attracts my eye is this:

The Strange Unknown

What a charming little town is this Easyville! How compact; how nicely arranged into streets; and, above all, what an enlightened population it possesses. I have been “taking stock” of them as I stroll along Gossip-street, and I confess that I have seldom, if ever, met with a more intellectual lot of mortals. I watch them every day, as group after group passes beneath my window; and, sooth to say, they are a rare galaxy of “stars.” We have the bush politician, the bush lawyer, the bush doctor. We have poets (male and female) and artists ditto. We have musicians galore, and—well, I must not omit to say we have a few clergymen; but they are certainly in the minority, although Easyville possesses three churches and two schools.

There goes a local J.P., with his hat set jauntily on one side of his neatly-combed head. Behind him, puffing a cigarette, and walking as hurriedly as if the safety of the Easyville folks depended upon his speed, struts a coxcomb of the first water—a new arrival from the Victorian metropolis, and by all exterior appearances, an ass!

But I see today a new arrival at Easyville. I have been noticing him as I sat at breakfast this morning. He passed by my window twice or thrice, as if in meditation, and he seems to be a strange individual.

And I—pardon this fault—am a curious personage: I am on fire to know who this stranger is, albeit this curiosity of mine is a sin against courtesy. I must know him; he seems so totally unlike the common folks of Easyville. I put on my surcoat—for the day is cold and inclined to be rainy—and walk abroad. I seek out this “strange unknown”, and meet him at the Hotel Square.

Of course, the meeting is accidental. I bow. He returns the salute; and I stop to ask some questions relative to the place, being a stranger. He replies as best he can; and I am convinced that he is an extraordinary individual; and, after surveying him closely for ten minutes, I invite him to my lodgings. He acquiesces; and so, kind reader, we become acquainted.

Now, dear reader, I cannot introduce you to this individual, because I know not his name or nation. He wished to preserve an
incognito
, and the “strange unknown” is the only name he bestowed upon himself. To all appearances, he is a Frenchman—a fine handsome fellow, with dark hair and whiskers, and an eye of that deep penetrating sort that looks
through
its objects, and is never off its guard.

I will detail an account of our first acquaintanceship, as nearly as possible.

We had tea and demolished a bottle of port. My friend became a little more talkative, and told me his business at Easyville. He was a travelling artist, and painted well. Some of his pictures might have graced the walls of our colonial picture galleries, and have met with few equals from colonial artists. One especially—“The Love Test”—which he showed me, was really a masterpiece of colouring and expression. It represented a young Tyrolese and his maiden lover standing beside the mouth of the black ravine, overhung with trails of ivy and fern. The maiden stood, or rather clung, to her lover’s neck, imploring him to remain at home; for he was about to go abroad. He pointed to the bleak, cold ranges of his native country, as if asking, “What was to be done there to gain a decent living.” He was a fine, handsome youth, and from his belt hung a dagger, which his fair partner essayed with hand to grasp, in order to put herself to death rather than part with him, while with the other she clung to his neck. A glance sufficed to show what idea the picture meant to convey, and I confess I was charmed with it.

“You see, monsieur,” he said, addressing me, “that picture is expressive of a passion, which, though I painted the ideal on canvas, I never believed to exist in one-half of human nature.”

“You do not think, then,” I replied, “that there is such a thing as love capable of standing a test like that represented in your picture?”

“
Parblieu
! No monsieur, I
know
it.”

“You have had experience then?” I continued, hoping to draw him out further.

He shrugged and looked vacantly at the window for some time, but made no response.

“I have a reason for preserving an incognito,” he said, after a few moments silence; “but though brief our acquaintance, monsieur, I confess I like you better than any of your species that I have met with in my life.

“My species! What do you mean?”

“You are a man are you not?”

“I hope so. So are you, I presume?”

“
Pardieu!
No, I am a—”

“A what?” said I, in surprise.

“A demon!” he yelled, and in an instant he had gone.

“My God!” I exclaimed, after I recovered myself thoroughly. “The fellow is a lunatic; and yet I never saw aught so strange! This is a sort of madness not easily explained.”

I went to bed, and remained all night awake, thinking of this mysterious stranger. There was something unearthly about his looks, I thought, after one surveyed him closely.

Next morning I was strolling through Gossip-street square, and I met the Strange Unknown. He smiled and seemed as placid and cool as if we had parted in the most courteous manner on the previous night.

I confess that I did not half relish his acquaintance this time; but before I could offer an excuse for going, he took my arm and led me along the street, saying, “You see, monsieur, I am a strange character altogether.”

I confess that I thought him such.

“Well, monsieur, I wish to ask you one question. Will you be kind enough to reply and trust to my honour. I can hold your secrets (as you think they are) for I know them already if I choose to tell them to others. You love a young lady not twenty yards from here?” and he pointed with his forefinger to the house, where I confess dwelt the object of my love.

Thunderstruck at his supernatural knowledge, for so I deemed it, I replied that I did, and asked him how he learned it.

“You slept none last night, monsieur,” he continued, without replying to my query, “and tonight you will meet with a mishap.”

“You have a rival in that quarter, and your ‘lady love’ knows not that you love her, otherwise.…” Here he paused.

“Go on,” I exclaimed, breathless with agitation.

“You will learn the rest, monsieur, soon enough. I shall be with you when you expect me not. I trust you will be fortunate.
Bon jour
!” And he left me.

I went to my lodgings ruminating over my adventures with this strange individual. Who could he be? No doubt he
was
a human being. I never believed in the supernatural, but here my unbelief got a home-thrust. This man, whom I never saw ’til I arrived in Easyville, could tell me secrets of my past life, and point out the very girl whom I loved. I went to bed, and tossed to and fro in hope of sleep, but it fled my eyes. I rose up in desperation and dressed; I walked into the street. “Some fatal fascination is about the fellow,” thought I; “I will cut his acquaintance;” and such I intended to do. But imagine my horror at beholding the individual—the mysterious stranger of three days’ acquaintance, again. He came up to me as I strolled up and down the street. It was about midnight.

“Not in bed?” he exclaimed, with a sardonic smile on his thin lips.

“No,” I muttered. “I wish the devil had you, for I verily believe you are not human.”

But he only smiled—“You will see me again before you go to bed; good night,” and he vanished.

I stood confused for a few minutes. “He is some juggler,” I thought, and he intends to victimise me. I turned into my room, and arming myself with a pocket pistol, I sallied into the street again. This time I met him not. I walked on as far as the end of the township, and sat down to enjoy a smoke. Two men came hurriedly towards me as I lay, half-reclined on the grass. The stopped in front; they were both masked and carried bludgeons. I leapt up as they stopped before me.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Oh, ’tis you, is it?” said the two in a breath. “Let him have it, Jack!” said one, and they sprang at me, sticks in hand.

I leapt backwards, and fired straight in front of me; but I missed, and aiming at the nearest of the two with the butt-end of the pistol, I knocked him senseless. But scarcely had I done so when I received a blow on the skull from his comrade which stretched me, senseless and bleeding, on the ground.

* * * *

When I recovered I found myself where I lay, with my face and clothes covered with blood, my pockets rifled, and my watch gone. I essayed to rise, but being weak from the loss of blood, could scarcely do so, when a friendly hand helped me; and turning to see who it was, I beheld the mysterious stranger.

“I told you we would meet again before you went to bed. I hope you are not injured. I knew of this. I couldn’t prevent it, but came in time to give you assistance, monsieur,” said he.

“You knew of it—and why not let me know” I asked, turning fiercely on him. “You were aware that I was to be robbed, and maltreated, and—”

“I told you you would meet with a mishap tonight.”

“You
are
a demon,” I shrieked, “be gone!” And he left, smiling.

* * * *

Ten days later I was sitting in the parlour of my love’s mansion, chatting away and smiling at my happiness. It was the first time that I dared to speak of love to woman. But now I had already asked her hand, and she half-yielding, half refusing, deliberated. It was a dreadful moment for me. She turned her head away as if confused; her eye rested on some object, she quailed even as the bird beneath the fatal glance of the serpent. She uttered a low, agonising shriek, and fainted.

I left her to her friends to restore her, and, rushing to the door, sought for the object of her terror. But I met with none. Two hours later, I met the “strange unknown.” He smiled one of his demoniacal smiles, and told me of the occurrence just described. “I know it,” he muttered with a horrible grin; “but you will lose sight of me for a long time, monsieur—I leave you a
souvenir
. The picture which you fancied so much, the ‘Love Test,’ is yours. I left it at your lodgings,” and so saying, he departed.

* * * *

Three months later, and I was in Sydney. I was walking down Pitt-street. I had been to the theatre on the previous night, and, having indulged in ardent spirits, was rather unwell. I had left Victoria almost a month previous, and was seeking an engagement on the staff of a daily journal published in Sydney. My engagement with Miss C., at Easyville had been broken off; she had assented, after the occurrence previously mentioned; but for some trifling cause we became alienated, and I determined never to visit Victoria again. I had forgotten, or tried to forget, the “old affection” of past days, and was musing on my future prospects, when, turning the corner of the street, I came suddenly on the strange, mysterious individual whose acquaintance I first cultivated at Easyville. He was attired in the same fashion as usual. The same demoniacal smile was on his thin lip; the same inexplicable look of mysterious intelligence was in his dark brown eye.

“We meet again, monsieur,” he said, with an easy air; “I hope you are well. I expected to meet you here. Come and have a glass of wine.”

I followed him mechanically, as if some mysterious agency impelled me. We sat in a back parlour of the hotel, and sipped our sherry.

“I am going to the continent, monsieur,” he said, “and am glad I met you. You are likely to need me ere long, but I cannot be of any service to you
now
, seeing that your love has discarded you; nevertheless, this may be worth seeing, if only in remembrance of past affection.” And he showed me a
carte
portrait. I stared at him in astonishment. It was a well-executed portrait of Miss C., of Easyville; and, as I was aware that he was a total stranger to her, I marvelled how he became possessed of it.

“You wonder how I came to have it!” he said, with a grim smile, evidently knowing my thoughts. “I cannot tell you though,” he added; “but, if you will, I will show you the original; that is, if you allow me to do so,
here,
tonight.”

Overwhelmed at his suggestion, I agreed.

Night came, and I was sitting with legs towards the grate, reading a volume of Bulwer Lytton’s, when the strange unknown entered.

He had the same easy, nonchalant air about him, and carried a small parcel under his arm. He seated himself beside me, and after a few minutes’ hesitation, asked if I wished to see the original of the
carte
? Half incredulous of his power, I replied in the affirmative, resting assured that Miss C. was at Easyville.

After muttering something in a language unknown to me, and making three signs with his right hand, he said, “Behold her!”