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It was the perfect job for someone in my position, and more appealing than the alternative. In truth, working on the chalet between the seasons would be somewhat akin to being in the hole. Nowhere is a person more themselves than when they’re alone. Folk in the villages and towns throughout this sun-blasted colony disguise themselves in an attempt to fit in, trying to keep up appearances, until one day they forget who they really are. Then they carry on, maintaining their airs, with their very identity consigned to oblivion.
“Look after her, and I’ll be back to re-open for winter,” said the owner, holding out the heavy iron keys.
“Will do. I’m looking forward to spending some time in the country.” And facing my demons.
“I must say, we wouldn’t usually hire a young man from town such as yourself, but your letter of recommendation made a strong case.”
I nodded, taking the proffered keys. My father must be as keen for me to redeem myself and prove myself a man as I.
“You’re a brave lad, going up by yourself,” the owner continued. “I love the Old Dame, but I’ve spent more than a few sleepless nights there.”
“I’ll be right,” I said, full of confidence. If your disguise is a weasel, your real self must be a monster. No wonder you couldn’t hack it.
“Righto, then.”
The Charabanc only carried folk up the mountain when the chalet was open, so I rode up the winding dusty track on Dodger, my father’s favourite horse. “You take good care of ol’ Dodge and he’ll take care of you,” he’d said on our departure. “That horse has more sense than most folk.” I’d bit my tongue, stopping myself from enquiring whether he had any horses that could hold a paintbrush. Now, with my shirt sticking to my sweaty back, I wondered if my father would be missing me or the horse more.
The last town was now far behind, and I marvelled at the beauty of the high country. As we gained altitude, wildflowers and wattle gave way to eucalypts, and the air was sweet, full of life. Wallabies pricked their ears as we approached, then scampered off between the trees. Flocks of colourful parrots chirped in delight, dancing between the branches. If anywhere in this sun-blasted continent could be called paradise, this was it. Grinning at the irony of being punished by a stint in such natural splendour, I renewed my vow to keep my end of the bargain.
The winding track provided majestic views of the valley. Through the trees, small plumes of smoke rose from the villages far below, and I wondered at the luck of those who were no doubt searching for gold. The rush was over, and nowadays all the mining was done by wealthy companies and desperate fools. With a smile, I climbed back on my weary horse, leaving the thoughts and failures of the miners far below.
***
Saddle-sore and weary, we arrived at the chalet, its pale-yellow weatherboards a welcome sight. After stabling Dodger, I strode up the granite steps, unlocked the wooden doors, and entered. She was marvellous; large sitting rooms, ample fireplaces, even a billiards room, but the Old Dame of the Mountain would keep me busy, sure enough. A lick of paint needed here, a dripping tap to fix there, and she’d be right as rain come winter. The perfect way to prove myself a man, to redeem myself for the damage done.
After finding the kitchen and heating a can of beans—not having the energy to prepare anything grander—I ate my fill, enjoying the simple meal amidst the natural beauty of the mountain and the splendour of the chalet. Reflecting upon how coming here to repair this glorious building was my punishment, I reminded myself to make sure I thanked my father for making this possible. Of course, it wasn’t completely selfless on his behalf—his reputation would be tarnished if word got out about my misdeeds—but his intervention was very much appreciated.
With a candle lighting my way, I ascended the staircase to the second floor. There was a chill in the air, a draft coming through a window. My boots echoed down the dark and empty hallway as I entered room after room, searching for the source of the draft. Reaching the last room and finding the window closed, I turned around and walked back. The only room I hadn’t checked was at the other end of the hall, at the top of the stairway.
The flame flickered with every step I took as I approached the final room, and the scent of eucalyptus—faint on the cool breeze—reached me. As I pushed open the door the flame went out, and I found myself in sudden darkness. Holding my breath, hearing nothing but the beat of my heart, I entered the room. My eyes adjusted to the dark and found the curtain concealing the open window. Trying to ignore the sensation of being watched, I crossed the room and slid the window shut with a satisfying thunk. I turned and left the dark room, and only exhaled after closing the door behind me.
In the hallway I re-lit the candle, the pinprick of light and heat warming my heart. I shook my head at my foolishness, there was no way I could have been watched as the curtain was closed. Selecting a room halfway down the hall, I pushed open the door and entered a room, bed already made up and a window looking out into the dark. Too tired to get undressed, I lay down and closed my eyes, taking comfort in the fact that I was truly alone. I blew out the candle and lay back on the bed, ready for sleep to come. This will be the making of me.
***
Laughter from the kookaburras woke me, and I smiled. After trotting downstairs in the dawn of a new day, I had my first proper look around the Old Dame. She was splendid, of course. From the magnificent ballroom to the dining room with its vaulted ceiling, there were oak panels, lavish furniture, and windows through which the most pristine views resided. The morning light also revealed things that needed work I’d missed the previous night; some cracked panelling, a spot of water damage, peeling paint. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed with enough gumption and know-how. After breakfast and seeing to Dodger, I got started.
The sun beat down relentlessly as I sanded back the façade, sweat dripping from my brow. Niggling doubts crept in as my muscles cramped and ached. I may have been naïve about how hard this was going to be, yet was not about to renege on my promise; not about to let myself down, nor my father. Gritting my teeth, I stuck at the task.
When the screech of cockatoos filled the evening air, my blistered hands loosened their grip on the sanding block. This is what it means to be a man, keeping your promises, paying for your mistakes. I boiled some tea and ate dinner while watching the sun set. My hands and muscles ached, but I was content with having done a hard day’s work.
Exhausted, I clambered into bed, ready for the dark to take me. I had barely closed my eyes when the heavens split with a monstrous cry, jolting me awake. An inhuman scream filled the air, followed by a growl as deep as the mountain’s bones. What the devil is out there? Hands trembling, heart racing, I looked out the window. Pale moonlight fell on the majestic gorge, and a horrific cry echoed through the night; an ancient forbidding, a warning. Another sound reached me, the snorting and stamping of my terrified steed. Dodger! I had to help.
Torn between prayer and horror, wanting to save Dodger yet petrified, I knelt by the window, transfixed with fear. Coward. Pathetic. I took a steadying breath and tore myself from the aperture. Grabbing my knife from its sheath, I left the room and crept down the hall to the stairs. A thump came from the ceiling right above me. It’s inside! A deep growl shook the chalet’s foundations and my bowels turned to ice. If that thing was already inside, nothing was going to stop me from getting out.
I lurched down the stairway, holding my breath, unable to make out the steps in the darkness. If I allowed myself to breathe, I would scream, my voice and soul joining the cacophony of terror. Steeling my resolve, I made my way through the lobby and stepped outside.
Alone and exposed in the moonlight, my skin crawled under the gaze of unknowable numbers of evil beady eyes. The distressed whinny of Dodger reached me above the demonic symphony. I had to go to him. Heart racing, I scarpered between trees, through rose bushes, knowing without any shred of doubt I was being pursued. I ran like a fiend to escape the demons pursuing me, and burst through the stable doors.
The horse was as scared as I; eyes wide, nostrils flared, kicking up a storm. Holding out my hand, I approached, hoping to calm the beast. “Easy, Dodger. Easy now.” My voice came out as a creak, betraying my fear. Dodger twisted right and left, retreating to the rear of the stall. As I stepped closer, a thump thump came from the roof of the stable. Dodger whinnied in fright, spun and kicked the door of the stall clean off. A plank of wood struck me, knocking me against a sturdy beam. As I collapsed, Dodger bolted past, his hoofsteps sure as he launched into the night.
I prayed for the darkness to take me before the demons. I had yet to atone for my sins.
***
Melodic birdcalls roused me to a world of pain and confusion. With a wince, I touched my aching skull, and the scent of hay and manure brought back the horrors of the previous night. My hands scrabbled in the dirt for my knife and then I paused, gathering my wits. The songs of the lyrebirds and currawongs told me the danger had passed, that Dodger and I were safe. Dodger! I turned to the stall, hoping the brave steed had returned. It was vacant, and my heart sank. Another victim of your cowardice.
With a heavy heart, I returned to the chalet and broke my fast, sharing my toast with the boldest of the birds. This is no place for the weak.
The torn-up earth and flattened saplings left in Dodger’s wake were easy enough to find. Hoping he’d managed to reach safety or shelter from the terrors of the night, I followed his trail. My eyes were focused on his tracks, but when the earth turned to granite, I knew where his mad dash had taken him. I stepped forward, raised my head, and opened my eyes. Clear blue sky above, green trees far, far below. Blinking against the wind, I turned from the gorge and wiped away useless tears.
Anger filled me as I returned to the Old Dame. I stamped up the stairs, searched through each room for any trace of the monsters from last night. I found nothing. Stepping into a bathroom, I got undressed and turned on the faucet. A groan from the pipes before a stream of icy water burst forth. With the pure mountain water, I cleaned the filth from my body, scoured my soul, and prepared my muscles and mind for the job at hand.
Refreshed and revitalised, I cracked open a paint tin and got to work.
***
The hours went by and soon a layer of fresh new paint covered the Old Dame’s facade. Stepping back, I forced myself to smile. This is work to take pride in. Turning from the chalet, I looked to the red-tinged sky. A chill filled the air. Night would come soon, and this time I would be ready.
After a simple dinner, I went from room to room, closing each window tight and securing every door. Exhausted as I was, with my body and soul craving naught but rest, sleep still evaded me. A dripping tap echoed through the silence. A task for the morrow. Then a tapping—gentle at first—on a window. Just the wind. I closed my eyes. In my self-imposed darkness, I could see only the helpless maid as I held her down, could hear only her anguish. Pressing my hands to my ears, I tried to block out the sound, and it worked. Until a demonic wail cleaved the silence.
I shut my eyes tight, my heart hammering in my chest. A mournful cry from the horrid gorge scaled the granite cliffs, crept through the ghostly gums, slunk up the stairs, wormed through the floorboards and up the bedpost. Icy tendrils of mist wrapped around my arms, slid between my fingers and slipped into my ears, carrying the repulsive sound. Louder and louder grew the cry, penetrating deeper and deeper inside me, as if it were searching for the very core of my being. Fighting the horrid voice, I pulled my hands from my ears and jumped out of bed.
Banshee screams filled the air as I opened the door and stepped into the hall. Gripping my knife, I ran for the stairs, my only thought to escape the wretched building.
A thump came from the door at the end of the hall, stopping me in my tracks. Another blow threatened to burst the door off its hinges. I did not want to know what was on the other side.
Vaulting over the railing, I landed on the lower flight of the stairs, tripped and fell forward into the lobby. As I lay in a crumpled heap, the door upstairs burst open. Move. Ignoring the pain shooting through my body, I staggered to my feet. I took one step forward, then another. A blood-curdling cry filled the lobby and I was hurled back to the floor by some invisible force. Heart hammering, the taste of blood on my tongue, I braced myself to get up and run.
Before I could move, something cold wrapped around my leg. I tried to pull free, but couldn’t budge. Weak. My leg burned with ice where the thing touched me, and the cold hand slid up further, up to my knee. Knife in hand, I twisted around, ready to sever the tentacle of ice and free my numb leg. But there was nothing. It must be under your clothes. With my hands shaking, frantic, I cut through the waistband of my pyjamas and forced the blade down the leg, cutting open the soft fabric. All I could see were the gashes I’d cut in my calf. As I stared at the blood in horror, the invisible tendril slid up further, up and around my thigh, up to my saddle-sore skin. No no!
I tried to grab the invisible tentacle of ice, tried to pull it away, but it was as nebulous as a memory of violence and hate. The icy coil pushed inside me, and I cried out, unable to fight back. My nails dug into the floorboards as I tried to pull myself away, tried to escape, but a weight forced me down, held me in place as my anguish filled the room. As the invisible tendril squirmed and wormed deeper inside, tears streamed down my face and a guttural cry burst from my agonised soul.
The icy fingers inside me reached up through my guts to my heart, pierced into my core, wriggled deeper and deeper to the innermost heart of my being. My mind exploded in white hot agony. I no longer feared death, for I was already in hell.
***
The demons did not kill me, as that would have been a mercy. I awoke in a pool of blood in the lobby and pulled myself to my feet. Using a plank of wood for support, I staggered to the bath and drank my fill from the faucet as the water washed away most of the blood and filth.
With needle and thread, I stitched the deep gashes in my leg, then dashed alcohol over the wounds. The fire, wretched fire, brought the night before into barbaric clarity. I had to leave. This is no place for the weak. If redemption were ever possible for my sins, it was foolish to think I could earn it through some self-serving display.
Carrying what few miserable items I could, I locked the doors of the Old Dame behind me, leaving the blood to soak into the floor. A job for the next caretaker.
The trees erupted in a cacophony of mocking laughter. Even the kookaburras knew, as I knew, that to the marrow of my bones I was naught but cowardice hiding behind violence. I stopped in my tracks. If I was lucky enough to make it down the mountain, I’d never live down the shame of my failure. Returning without Father’s favourite horse would be hard enough. Yet I could not endure another night of torment and horror. Would it be better to never go home?
I followed Dodger’s path to the edge of the cliff, but was unable to look down, unwilling to see his wrecked body far below. All my learnings—all that could be taught by Englishmen—meant nothing under this unforgiving sun. The only thing I know for sure is the darkness in one’s heart is no match for that hidden in the granite gorge, the cold heart of the mountain forged from stone and fire.
About the Author:
Austin P. Sheehan is a writer of speculative fiction, and lives on Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung country with his wife and their greyhounds.
Austin’s debut novella ‘Submerged City’ was published by Deadset Press in 2019, and he has also had short stories published in Planet Scumm magazine, and in anthologies by Black Hare Press, Deadset Press, Scout Media, Fantasia Divinity, Blood Song Books and Zombie Pirate Publishing.
Find him on twitter @AustinPSheehan, go to www.austinpsheehan.com.
Australia’s second oldest capital city must surely be the home to more than a few ghosts.
