Written by Rory Murphy
Content warning: Death, ritualistic murder, depiction of a dead child (all the good things)
Between the mangroves and muddy water of the Boondall Wetlands, the townhouse squatted in the earth. Its white exterior walls and enormous windows were smeared with mud, with the first storey buried in the stuff. Only the second storey was above ground; a small balcony on the front of the house peeked over the dirt.
‘So, whatcha reckon happened, ey?’
Constable Shaun Angus appeared beside Sergeant Frank Fergusson.
‘I don’t know, mate. This one’s a first for me.’ Fergusson had only been working for Queensland Police for a couple weeks since he moved up from Sydney, yet he was already dealing with some of Brisbane’s oddities.
Angus scoffed. ‘Yeah, not for me. We’ve had houses stolen by floodwaters drift their way out to here a couple times before.’
‘Shouldn’t it have a concrete foundation though? It is a townhouse.’ Fergusson gave the second floor another onceover. ‘How’d it even float to begin with?’
‘Yeah, well, the floods were pretty strong this year. That is why we’re checkin’ it out, you know.’
Fergusson rolled his eyes and moved on from the remark. ‘How are plans looking to enter the place?’
‘Should nearly be done.’ Angus paused to listen to his radio. ‘We’ve also got a couple guys goin’ up and down the Brissie and Pine Rivers to see if they can find where it came from.’
As Angus finished speaking, another officer—Simmons, maybe—came up to them.
‘Sergeant Fergusson, you’re all clear to enter the home. Constable Angus has been cleared to accompany you.’ Simmons—Fergusson had been correct—pointed over to the house, where two other officers were standing on the balcony. ‘You’ll enter the house through the veranda door there. Once inside, you’re looking for anything to identify who owns the house or where it’s come from.’
The officers strode past the barricades of the road checkpoint towards the house. He didn’t need the public trying to access a potentially unstable building, nor did he need the media turning up and making a bigger deal out of this than necessary.
Once the officers reached the house, they jumped the balcony railing and landed on the tiled floor. Fergusson saw that the veranda’s sliding door was open. The two officers had been successful then. Before Fergusson and Angus stepped inside, Simmons gave them one final briefing.
‘Look for anything to identify the homeowners. And only radio in if absolutely necessary. Hopefully we can sort this out quickly and quietly. Good luck.’
Fergusson nodded and moved inside.
Stepping on the carpet, the two officers found themselves in the master bedroom, judging by the double bed and the large chest of drawers against the opposite wall. Either side of the bed were two matching nightstands. The bedroom door was shut.
‘Check the drawers.’
Angus nodded and moved towards the chest, while Fergusson moved to the closest nightstand. It was slick to the touch, damp with moisture from sitting in floodwater and the moist wetland air. Fergusson opened the first drawer and found nothing of note; the second and third drawers yielded the same.
‘Nothin’ but clothes in here, Sarge. Seems to be for a man and a woman.’
Fergusson nodded. ‘Check the other nightstand.’
Fergusson approached the bedroom door while Angus checked the rest of the bedroom. Opening it, the Sergeant found himself staring down a hallway with glass panels connected by a metal railing on the right looking over the first floor. It was so dark that, even with the torch, Fergusson couldn’t see anything beyond a few metres, as if the blackness were swallowing his light.
‘Oi Sarge, I’ve got somethi—what the fuck?’
Fergusson spun back around to see Angus examining a small, glossy, yellow card.
‘It’s a driver’s license. For Ella McCallister.’
‘Should I know who that is?’
Angus let out a gasp. ‘Really? You’re serious?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Come on. She’s the “Witch of Ashgrove”. Murdered her own husband and son years ago. The trial lasted ages coz they never found the poor kid’s body.’ Angus chuckled. ‘It was gonna be a whole televised court thing, but that didn’t happen after she strapped bricks to herself and jumped into the Brissie. That got the media to blast it all ‘cross the country.’
Fergusson looked back at the open door. ‘I don’t watch the news, mate.’ He gave the bedroom a final once-over. ‘So, what, is this her house then?’
‘Nah. They knocked it down when the court case finished. Didn’t want people livin’ where murders happened.’
‘How’d the license get here then?’
‘Dunno.’ Angus placed the license into an evidence bag. ‘It’s certainly an odd one.’
Fergusson sighed. ‘Come on then. Let’s get a move on.’
The two officers stepped into the hallway. The floor seemed to be lino, but slick mud was smeared everywhere, making walking somewhat challenging. Angus was trying to shine his light over the railing, but, like Fergusson, wasn’t having any luck.
When they came to another door, Angus entered first, Fergusson close behind him.
‘Why’s she called the “Witch of Ashgrove”?’
Angus looked back at him. ‘What?’
‘Why’s Ella McCallister called the “Witch of Ashgrove”?’
‘Oh, that whole thing. That’s the media’s doin’.’ Angus moved back into the hallway, finding nothing in the room besides mud and wet carpet. ‘Officers received an anonymous tip about murders goin’ down in an Ashgrove household. When they turned up to the place, they found Ella on the floor of her living room, naked and covered in mud. In the middle of the room, she had her husband’s body on pentagram drawn with his own blood. She was supposedly chantin’ some gibberish and tryin’ to call “demons” to her. Something about usin’ the souls of loved ones to bargain for power I think.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah. Gruesome stuff.’ Angus kept walking down the hallway, scanning the floor ahead with his torch. ‘Anyway, ‘course the media got wind of this, and started runnin’ with the story of a crazed cultist practicin’ right here in Brisbane, namin’ her the “Witch of Ashgrove”. The name stuck.’
‘Sounds like the media.’
The officers reached the end of the hallway, and found themselves looking down a flight of stairs. To their left was another closed door, and to their right was another, smaller hallway leading to several more doors. Fergusson opened the door on the left to check it out when Angus called him over.
‘Sarge… Fuck. You need to get in ‘ere, now.’
Fergusson moved as fast as he could manage on the muddy floor, and found Angus down the right hallway standing in a child’s bedroom.
‘This… this is Will McCallister’s room.’
‘What, Ella’s kid?’
‘Yeah.’ Angus took a deep breath. ‘I saw the photos the guys took back when the case was happenin’. This is it. This is Will’s room. No doubt ‘bout it.’
Fergusson looked at the carpet. ‘Is that blood stain also in the photos?’
‘…yeah.’
The room was small, with blue walls, a carpeted floor, and glowing stars stuck to the ceiling. Soaked into that carpet was a large puddle of blood, easily a metre across, so dark a crimson it was practically black. Pushed against the back wall was a red racing-car bed, and opposite the bed was a set of shelves displaying an assortment of children’s toys. Several bloody toys sat on the stain. Both Fergusson and Angus put on face masks to avoid contamination.
‘You said they never found the kid?’
‘Yep. This,’ Angus pointed his torch at the stain, ‘is all they’ve ever found of Will McCallister.’
Fergusson looked at the puddle. It was huge, easily enough to have been all the blood of an entire person. If it were the kid’s…
Then Fergusson noticed a small red mark on the carpet near the door, and shone his torch at it. It was another puddle of blood soaked into the carpet, only smaller. Then Fergusson shone the torch out the bedroom door, and noticed another small bloody mark in the mud near the stairs.
Fergusson pointed to the blood trail. ‘You remember the officers talking about any smaller puddles or marks like that back in the day?’
Angus shook his head. ‘I don’t… I don’t think so. We gonna check it out?’
Fergusson nodded. The officers approached the staircase and moved down it gingerly. Each step was slick with mud, making traversal difficult. Mixed into the sludge every few steps, however, was a new bloody puddle or mark. They got larger as the stairs went down, with more round shapes connecting together until the red marks looked like… footprints.
At the bottom of the stairs, the trail kept going towards the back of the house. But, when Fergusson moved to follow it, Angus grabbed him by the arm.
‘Oi Sarge,’ Angus said, worry creeping across his face. ‘If this is the McCallister house, we have to check the living room.’
‘Why’s that?’
Angus gulped. ‘That’s where the ritual site was.’
Fergusson nodded and walked towards the front of the house, Angus following. Mud was everywhere, smeared along the floor, up the walls, even on the ceiling. What struck Fergusson, though, was the stink. It had smelled bad on the second floor, sure, but down here, with mud and grime absolutely everywhere, the stench was overpowering. Fergusson had smelled decomposing bodies in his time, yet, somehow, this smell was worse.
Slowly, Fergusson’s light caught the front door, and to its left was a room still shrouded in shadow. As the officers approached, Fergusson caught a strange smell in the air. It was herbal, and incredibly pungent, like… incense. Then the officers turned to look into the dark room, and Angus shrieked.
‘Oh fuck.’
On the floor of the living room, among the mud and filth, was a large, crudely-drawn pentagram. It was drawn with the same crimson-black blood, and at each point of the star was a candle, their wicks somehow smoking. In the centre of the pentagram was a photograph stained with blood. Fergusson picked it up and saw that it was a family photo depicting Ella McCallister and her husband smiling, holding up Will on their shoulders. Will’s face was marked with a bloody fingerprint.
‘Fuck. Fuck. The house can’t be here. We knocked it down. How’s it fuckin’ here?’
Fergusson turned to look at Angus. ‘Get a grip, mate. We’ve got a job to do. Radio back to tell them we’ve confirmed the homeowners’ identities.’
‘It can’t be back. It can’t. It fuckin’ can’t.’
‘Angus! Stop rambling and do your goddamn job.’
Angus took a few deep breaths, calming himself down enough to work the radio, as Fergusson placed the blood photo into an evidence bag. They waited to hear back from Simmons, but all they received was static.
‘It didn’t go through. Fuck. We’re trapped. This house is a trap.’
Fergusson stood up and walked over to Angus. ‘Come on, mate. We’re nearly done here. We just need to check the back of the house, then we’ll leave.’
Angus nodded, swallowed hard, then turned to follow Fergusson, who was moving towards the back of the house, following the footprints.
The blood trail led the officers to a kitchen and dining space, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a wall of dirt. The mud covering the floor was thicker too, coming up to Fergusson’s ankles. Despite that, the crimson marks were still visible, and once the officers entered the kitchen, more blood appeared. It was all over the cupboards and countertops, and when Angus pointed his torch onto the fridge, both officers saw that it was practically drenched in blood, with a small red handprint on the doorhandle.
‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fu—’
‘Be quiet, will you? Keep your torch on the fridge.’
Fergusson put on a fresh pair of gloves, and, under Angus’s shaky light, approached the fridge and opened it.
Blood poured from the fridge, cascading out into the home and washing the mud from the floor. It splashed up Fergusson’s legs and torso, ruining his uniform. He turned to see Angus yelp and leap backwards as the blood washed over his boots. How was there this much blood? It was more than Fergusson had ever seen in his life. Then he turned back to look inside the fridge.
Drained of blood, the fridge was empty, except for the curled-up body of Will McCallister.
A furious feminine scream rang through the house, getting louder and louder until it was deafening. Fergusson clamped his hands over his ears to block the noise. Then the whole building shuddered, and both officers looked up to see that the windows, separating them from the earth outside, were shattering. Hairline cracks ran up and down the panes of glass, the mud forcing its way through the gaps. Then the whole house shuddered again. Fergusson could feel the ground shift beneath his feet.
‘Fuck! We’ve gotta go!’
Fergusson ran towards the staircase, taking Will’s body with him. Angus was close behind him. As they moved, they heard the glass finally break, and heard the frightening sound of tonnes of stinking mud flooding the kitchen.
The officers raced up the stairs, the mud moving swiftly behind them. It swallowed the kitchen, and began lapping at the stairs. Fergusson kept going, reaching the top of the stairs and sprinting down the hallway.
‘Fergus! It’s right on ma fucking heels!’
Fergusson made it to the bedroom, and leapt through the smashed door onto the small balcony. He vaulted the railing, jumped onto the road, and spun around to check for Angus. He was right behind Fergusson, reaching through the door, about to escape. Then the mud caught up to Angus, surging around his legs, climbing up to snatch him around the waist, and pulling him back inside the house.
Angus didn’t even have a chance to call out before the mud coursed down his throat. His eyes went wide, and he let out a strangled cry, trying desperately to breathe in those last painful seconds before the mud drowned him.
The ground beneath Fergusson shuddered again, and the officer watched the house tip backwards and slide into the dirt. It disappeared into the Nudgee swamp, muddy water swiftly filling the hole the house had left. Nothing remained; the only indication that the house had ever sat among the mangroves were the broken trees and damaged roots.
Fergusson dropped to his knees there on the road, careful to not let Will fall. The officer sat there for a while, listening to the sounds of the wetlands. None of the other officers approached Fergusson to ask what had happened. In fact, the other officers were completely silent. And when Fergusson swung his head to check for Simmons and the others, he found the road stark empty. There weren’t any police cars, or checkpoints, or any sign that police had even ventured out here.
Fergusson sat alone on that road in the Boondall wetlands, clutching the dead kid’s body with all his might. It’d been such a long time since an officer had died on his watch. God rest Angus’ soul.
Author Bio:
Hi,
I’m Rory, a third-year Creative Writing student here at QUT, and part of ScratchThat’s Editorial Board this semester. I mostly write horror, focusing on the gothic and the cosmic, but I’ve recently become interested in the uncanniness of urban horror. My goal when I write is to get under your skin, make you squirm, and leave you questioning what the hell it was you just read. In a good way, of course.
I also work at the Queensland Writers Centre, where I beta-read and facilitate workshops.