The Chattering of the Dry Creek

The drive from Sydney had been a crawl through grey drizzle, and the warnings about black ice on the Bells Line of Road had turned our cheerful weekend trip into a tense, white-knuckle affair. My husband, Tom, and I were on our way to a christening in Oberon, but the weather had other plans, and by late afternoon the rain had turned to a freezing sleet that clung to the windscreen like a second skin. We saw the sign for the old village of Dry Creek, and the promise of a warm bed at the Bent Nail Inn seemed like a godsend. The inn was a sprawling, timber-framed building from the 1850s, when the region had been a bustling hub for copper mining. The verandah sagged slightly under the weight of its corrugated iron roof, and the windows glowed with a welcoming yellow light.

The landlord, a gaunt man named Mr. Thistle, showed us to our room, which faced a narrow, dried-up creek bed that ran alongside the property. The room smelled of mothballs and old dust, and the bed creaked ominously as we sat on it. That night, after a supper of stringy mutton and over-boiled potatoes, we retired early. The wind outside had picked up, rattling the loose panes and moaning through the chimney. I lay awake for a long time, listening to the house’s groans and the occasional scurrying in the walls. Just as I was drifting off, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold: a low, rhythmic chattering, like teeth clacking together. It seemed to come from the direction of the dry creek. I nudged Tom, but he was dead to the world. I told myself it was just the wind blowing through the reeds, and eventually, I slept.

The next morning, the sky was a pale, watery blue, and the frost had painted the world white. We were the only guests, and Mr. Thistle served us a breakfast of porridge and bitter tea. I asked him about the chattering noise, and his face, already drawn, seemed to pale further. ‘That’ll be the creek, ma’am,’ he said, not meeting my eyes. ‘It does that when the rain is coming.’ But the sky was clear, and I thought it a strange explanation. Tom, ever the skeptic, shrugged it off and suggested we continue our journey. As we packed the car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me from the inn’s upper windows. But when I looked, there was nothing but the shimmer of frost on the glass.

The road to Oberon was treacherous, with patches of black ice that glistened like oil. We took it slow, and by the time we reached the church, the ceremony was already underway. I still felt uneasy, and the image of that dry creek kept intruding on my thoughts. That night, back at the inn, the chattering returned. This time it was louder, more insistent. Tom heard it too. He sat up in bed, his face a mask of confusion. ‘Sounds like a troupe of frogs or something,’ he said, but his voice lacked conviction. The sound seemed to be coming from right outside our window, just beyond the thin curtains. I pulled them aside and saw nothing but the moonlit creek bed, the stones looking like bleached bones. The chattering stopped abruptly, as if it had been cut off, and the silence that followed was worse. We didn’t sleep much that night, and I was grateful when dawn finally broke.

Over breakfast, I noticed a strange painting in the dining room, a portrait of a stern-faced woman holding a baby. Mr. Thistle caught me staring and said, ‘That’s old Mrs. Hartley, from the copper mine days. They say she went mad after her child died of the fever, and she used to walk the creek at night, talking to no one. She’s been gone a hundred years, but the locals say her ghost still makes that chattering sound, like she’s grinding her teeth in anger.’ My skin prickled. The chattering wasn’t just noise; it was a voice, a curse, a lament. I didn’t want to stay another night, but the weather reports were ominous, with more black ice forecast, and we had no choice.

That night, the wind howled, and the rain came in sheets, but the chattering was different. It seemed to be inside the room, in the walls, under the floorboards. Tom and I lay rigid, holding each other, as the sound grew into a cacophony, a thousand mad mouths murmuring. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. A cold draft swept through the room, and I heard a whisper, clear as a bell in the silence: ‘Leave this place, or join me.’ I looked at Tom, and his face was ashen. He’d heard it too. We didn’t hesitate. We threw our clothes into the bags and fled to the car, the inn’s lights flickering behind us like a malevolent eye. The drive down the mountain in the rain and black ice was terrifying, but we made it to Oberon by morning, where the priest, a kind man with a gentle face, listened to our tale with pity. He told us that the Bent Nail Inn was notorious for its haunted creek, and that several people had gone missing there over the years. We never returned to that place, and we never spoke of it, but sometimes, in the dead of night, when the wind is just right, I still hear that chattering, and I remember the cold promise that was made to us in the dark.

Years later, I received a letter from Mr. Thistle, forwarded to our new address. It was terse, written in shaky handwriting. ‘The creek has risen,’ it said. ‘It took a man last week. He was chattering, too, when we found him. I think he saw her.’ I burned the letter and didn’t tell Tom. But in the quiet moments, I wonder if the woman in the portrait, old Mrs. Hartley, is still waiting by the dry creek, counting the teeth of those who ignored her warning. And I thank whatever luck brought us away from that place, before the water swallowed us whole.

Now, on clear nights, when the moon is full and the world is still, I go to the back garden and listen to the wind in the trees. I half expect to hear that chattering, soft at first, then growing louder, until it fills the sky. But the sound that comes is just the rustling of leaves, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Some long ago, we left a piece of ourselves in that dry creek, a seed of terror that might bloom in the dark. And I know, in my heart, that one day, the creek will call us back, and this time, we won’t have a choice to refuse.

I’ve never been back to the Blue Mountains, not for holidays, not for funerals. The name of the village sticks in my throat like a bone. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake up with the chattering in my ears, and I imagine the water trickling over stones, and the woman in the portrait, her jaws working, grinding, as she waits for the next traveler to pass by.

And I realize, with a cold sweat, that the Bent Nail Inn is not a place; it’s a memory, a ghost that haunts the edge of my mind. And the creek, dry as a bone, is still chattering, a language of the dead that we can never unhear.

So if you ever find yourself on Bells Line of Road, and the rain turns to ice, and you see a sign for Dry Creek, do yourself a favor, drive on. Let the black ice be your enemy, not the one that waits in that quiet valley. Because the chattering of the dry creek is a siren that lures, and the water always rises, and the teeth are always sharp.