Memories of Kilmarnock Station

I can’t hold them back any longer. I just can’t. The pond is frozen over and I can feel the chill of their presence advancing. God help us.

“Hey Emmy, come look at this!” Brenda called from the kitchen.

“Hang on, I’ve got my hands full and this box is almost unpacked, where are we putting the towels?”

“In the cupboard just outside the bedroom.”

Emily pushed hair back from her sweaty forehead and joined Brenda in the kitchen, “We’re getting’ air con; it’s hot enough already, I ain’t looking forward to Summer. Anyway, whatcha found Bee?”

“Have a shifty at this. I found it in the top cupboard when I was putting the glasses up.”

The diary was old, the copperplate handwriting faded to grey and the leather covers curling at the corners. Brenda flipped to the first opening, inside the front cover was neatly printed: Campbell Whitestyle, Kilmarnock Station, 1908.

“Over a hundred years old… I’m not going to go through it with my hands all grubby. We’ll have a look at it tonight.”

Neither woman felt like cooking after a long day unpacking, so Emily drove the half hour into town for pizza. Brenda pulled a beer from the fridge and sat at the verandah table with the diary while she waited. Cicadas and frogs trilled in the cool of the evening from the muddy pond at the bottom of the paddock, and the mournful call of a bush curlew drifted in. Brenda leaned over the diary.

We have cleared the lower paddock. There were many stumps needing almost a day to dig out; some trees we felled have girth almost equal to my height. I put the largest at almost six feet across.

There was a strange occurrence when we dropped the stringy bark by the pond. Several magpies swooped and attacked us vigorously, and we heard one of the wild warrigals howling. When the tree fell there was a hiss like a kettle on the boil and a cloud of mist rose up all in one place, then blew across and covered Kemp, swallowed him completely. We all thought it wondrous funny, but Kemp was right distempered.

A curlew called again and Brenda started slightly at the wail. Looking out into the dim evening she thought she could make out a paler patch of darkness, down by the little dam. A sudden, cool breeze made her shiver. She retreated to the kitchen and busied herself searching for plates in the last two ‘kitchen’ boxes, and pulled down beer glasses. Pizza without beer would just be wrong.

The crunch of tyres on gravel announced Emmy’s return. Brenda took a torch out to greet her. As she approached the car, for just an instant, she thought she saw a hint of movement in the shadows, but was distracted when Emily opened the car door.

“Mmm, woman of my dreams,” said Brenda, as Emily handed her a steaming pizza box.

Brenda slept poorly that night; she kept waking thinking someone had spoken, or whispered, on the very edge of hearing. The waning moon made a late appearance and bathed the bedroom in soft silver, and Brenda lay awake, listening to the calls of the night and Emily’s heavy breathing. Right on dawn she heard the mournful cry of the curlew again; but now it was answered, not by another curlew, but by the high, drawn-out howl of a dingo.

They finished unpacking the main boxes that day, filling the kitchen cupboards and their wardrobe and draws. All that remained were the odd, esoteric boxes that contained those items that always seemed so essential when one was well settled and had space, but had no defined or allocated position or purpose, and hence often remained boxed up indefinitely.

“Why don’t you read some of the diary to me?” asked Emily. She was busy pulling together a meal and the kitchen was only big enough for one. Brenda opened the diary to the next page:

Kemp has sickened these last few days. He was driving cattle into the New Yards when he came down with an ache in his head and body. He says he can’t barely see. We got Aaron from the next station check him over, he reckons there’s nowt wrong with him. Aaron checked his eyes and said they’re moving like they see alright. I know what he means, Kemp says he can’t see, but his eyes track my finger fine, and his pupils respond.

“He just starts talking about cattle now, how they’re breeding well…” Brenda scanned and turned the page, then another, then;

“Bloody hell. Have a listen to this.”

I can’t believe it. Kemp was dead, I’d swear it. We had him laid in the parlour for two days and not a breath or move from him. Then all around the house last night, just after midnight, there was a great howling of warrigals, must of been a dozen at least. When I got up to fetch the shotgun I saw Kemp standing in the hall. In the moonlight he looked all silver, like he was covered in metal, even his eyes looked silver. I swear on the name of Our Lord, he hissed and walked outside.

I couldn’t follow him. The very devil was there I’m sure, and I dared not venture outside.

“Jesus, Bee. Is that for real? I know medicine wasn’t as advanced, but mistaking a bloke for being dead…”

“Yeah. Bit creepy eh?” She flipped ahead several pages;

It’s been three weeks since Kemp rose. Last night I saw him again, walking around the pond like a white shadow and the pond was rimed with ice again this morning.

The warrigals are becoming more bold. They prowl outside the house every night and raise such a howl. Jenny left yesterday, she said she couldn’t take it any longer and took young Wylie with her. I don’t blame her, I fear the Devil has come to Kilmarnock Station.

I think she left just in time. An unseasonal winter storm blew in from the East this morning and the rain hammered down until mid-day. The creek will be up and the New Bridge will be under water.

“Go to the last few pages. I want to know why they left in the end.”

Brenda flicked through until she found the last three pages of writing; some of it was scrawled and unreadable and blotted, as though written by a shaky hand.

Kemp has taken Dwayne now too. That makes four of them altogether, and I am the only man left in the household. Kerry is no coward, she hoists a rifle well –

The writing wavered into illegibility, it picked up down the page.

- and Joe says when he ran to the bridge it was still submerged. For all that he is only eight he’s proved a fine and brave lad to make the run. I pray he grows to manhood, but in my heart I know it to be vain. I have only a dozen shells left, Kerry is sore wounded, and Breanna and Eilish are poorly trained in weapons.

She turned to the last opening of the book. Most of it was scrawled and wavering so badly she could make out just a few lines.

Already, I feel the cold of their coming, though evening’s barely fallen. The pond has frozen over completely, and has been for many…

…and the warrigals howl and howl and howl. It seems they will feast…

I must stop them again tonight, perhaps the creek will fall before nightfall tomorrow and we may escape.

… still above the bridge. There is no way out. I have no weapons left but my faith and those arms fashioned from farm implements.

A distant howl rolled across them. It was followed by a second, much closer dingo howl, then a third that seemed almost at their kitchen window. Brenda startled up, “Bloody hell, how close is that?”

“I’m… I’m not sure,” Emily giggled nervously, “it sounded right outside.”

“Where’s the torch?”

“Umm. I put it next to the bed, in case the lights wouldn’t work last night.”

Brenda returned with it and strode to the door.

“Bee, wait! Don’t open the door. Please? Just look out the window.”

They peered through the kitchen window while Brenda raked torchlight across the yard. There was a glimpse of movement near the car and she trained the light onto it. For an instant they saw a canine shape sniffing the ground, it looked up, straight at them, then darted away. Brenda swept the torch back and forth, searching for the dingo, but found nothing. Then Emily gasped, “Bee, look. Out there, right down the slope. You see it?”

In the darkness, beyond the range of the torch, they could just discern some pale shapes, visible more from their movement than from any clear detail.

“I think I see two or three,” said Emily.

“Or… four?”

A dingo wailed nearby, answered by another on the other side of the house.

“Right. We’re out of here. Emmy, chuck a few things in a bag. We can come back tomorrow for any other essentials.”

“What, now? I’m not going out to the car with dingoes prowling around.”

“All right. Let’s get our stuff sorted, we’ll leave first thing for Mum’s place. We’ll get removalists for the rest.”

They had two full suitcases packed and Emily was working on a third when they heard the East wind rise. And with it came the smell of rain. Scattered spots splattered against the panes and pattered on the roof; great heavy drops that predicted a deluge.

“We’re going now!” said Brenda forcefully, “if that storm hits and the creek rises, we’re stuck here.”

Emily’s eyes widened and she jammed the last bag shut. They hauled the heavy bags to the door. Brenda darted into the kitchen and returned holding the largest kitchen knife. Emily pulled the car keys from her pocket and hit the remote unlock on the car, then picked up the two largest bags. With the knife in one hand, torch in the other, and a bag slung on one shoulder, Brenda clumsily opened the door and flung it wide.

She scanned the torch left and right. Every tree and shrub threatened them with hidden dangers. Even the car seemed menacing, a hiding place for any number of monsters. Eventually Emily whispered, “Should we go?”

A flash of lightning lanced down behind the house and almost instantly thunder cracked and rolled. The women started, then bolted just as huge drops of rain started coursing down. Shadows jumped and twisted in the torchlight as they ran towards the car, the short distance seeming to stretch out. They heard a howl that sounded on top of them. Another blast of lightning speared down, and they glimpsed a pack of dingoes, arrayed just past the car.

“Keep running!” bellowed Brenda. She reached the car two steps ahead of Emily who had dropped her bags. They bundled into the car and slammed the doors shut. Emily clicked the remote and locked the doors. Sobbing, she thrust the keys to Brenda, who quickly started and turned the car down the drive. She clipped a tree on the way and sprayed gravel as she raced for the bridge.

The sound of the car dwindled and faded to nothing. A dingo sauntered across the clearing and up onto the verandah. It was followed by two more that sniffed curiously at the bags and around the door. All three settled comfortably and lay looking out at the storm while the pack dispersed. The boards creaked under a heavy footfall as a large, brawny man stepped onto the verandah. He was silver from head to toe. He eased into one of the outdoor seats and reached down to scratch a dingo on the head, looked out at the tracks left by the fleeing car, and laughed a low, wicked, and self-satisfied chuckle.