The Keeper of the Scrub

I first encountered the station at the edge of the Nullarbor, a rusted windmill and a house that had been bleached by fifty years of sun. The property, known locally as Murrawee, had belonged to the Callow family, and one of them, a pilot named Thomas, had become something of a folk hero after guiding a stranded party to safety during a bushfire back in the fifties. The station had been converted into a holiday rental, and I’d booked it for a week of solitude, hoping to finish a novel I’d been procrastinating on for years.

The house was a sprawling, single-story structure with wide verandas that creaked even in the still air. The rooms were furnished with the faded remnants of a life lived hard: a gramophone, a wall of books with spines cracked from the heat, and photographs of people I didn’t know but who seemed to watch me from their frames. The nights were absolute, the darkness so thick it felt like a physical presence. The nearest town was over a hundred kilometers away, and the only light came from the stars, which were shockingly bright, but also alien and cold.

I had a ritual: after dinner, I’d sit on the back veranda with a glass of wine, listening to the wind whistle through the scrub. But on the third night, I heard something else—a low, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat, coming from the direction of the old machinery shed. I assumed it was the wind playing tricks on loose iron, but the sound followed me as I walked the perimeter, always just out of sight, always at the edge of my flashlight’s beam. It wasn’t until I returned to my room and lay in bed that I realized the thumping was now coming from inside the house, from the wall beside my head.

I’m not a skeptic, but I’m not a believer either. I thought it might be pipes, or termites, or some animal trapped in the walls. I put my hand against the plaster and felt it vibrate, in time with the thump. The next morning, I searched the house for any sign of a cavity or an access point, but the walls were solid. I found a locked door that I hadn’t noticed before, tucked behind a bookshelf in the study. The key was on a ring in the kitchen drawer, labeled ‘Cellar.’

The cellar door was heavy, oak, and when I swung it open, a rush of cold, musty air hit me. The stairs descended into absolute blackness, and I had to use my phone’s flashlight to see. The cellar was vast, extending far beyond the footprint of the house, and was filled with old crates, machinery parts, and a well in the center, covered with a rotting wooden lid. As I approached, the thumping began again, now clearly coming from the well. I lifted the lid, expecting water, but instead I saw a dry hole descending into darkness. At the bottom, I could just make out a faint, pale shape, like a hand, waving slowly back and forth.

I should have run. Any rational person would have. But I felt a pull, a compulsion to get closer. I leaned over the edge, and the hand stopped. A voice rose up, thin and reedy, like a child’s, but with a hollow, echoing quality. ‘Help me up,’ it said. ‘I’ve been waiting so long.’

My mind screamed at me to back away, but my body wouldn’t obey. I found myself reaching out, and as my fingers brushed the air above the well, the darkness below shifted, and a face emerged from the gloom. It was a man’s face, withered and pale, his eyes white and blind. He smiled, and his teeth were black. ‘Thomas Callow,’ he said. ‘You’ve come to take my place.’

I stumbled back, finally breaking the spell. I raced up the stairs, slammed the cellar door, and locked it. The thumping, though, continued, growing louder, and I realized it was coming from inside the walls, and it was moving, following me as I retreated down the hallway. I packed my bags in a frenzy, but when I reached the front door, it wouldn’t open. The knob turned but the door was sealed, as if the house itself was holding me prisoner.

I turned to run to a window, but they were all dark, and the glass had become opaque, showing only my terrified reflection. The thumping was all around me now, a deafening rhythm that made my teeth ache. I found a candlestick holder, a heavy brass thing, and I swung it at a window. The glass shattered, and the night air rushed in, but the opening was too small to fit through. I stuck my head out, screaming for help, but there was no one for miles.

Desperate, I remembered the cellar. Maybe there was another way out, a tunnel, something. I grabbed a flashlight and hurried back to the cellar door. It was unlocked. The stairs led down to the same darkness, and the well was now glowing faintly, emitting a sickly green light. The voice spoke again, this time from right behind me. ‘I saved them,’ it said. ‘I gave them my place. Now you must give yours.’

I spun around, and there he stood, the man from the well, his form solid, his eyes still white. He reached out a hand, and his fingers were like icicles. I swung the flashlight, but it passed through him. He smiled again, and I felt his cold touch on my chest, a grip that squeezed my heart. The thumping reached a crescendo, and I blacked out.

I woke up in the hospital in Ceduna, with no memory of how I got there. The police told me I had been found wandering the highway, covered in red dust, raving about a well. They had searched the station, but found nothing unusual. I tried to tell them about the man, but they dismissed it as a hallucination brought on by heatstroke or the isolation.

But I know what I saw. And now, every night, I hear that thumping again, always at the same time, always from behind my bedroom wall. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see his face staring back at me, his white eyes reflecting my own terror. I’m writing this from a motel room, but I know it’s only a matter of time before I find myself back at Murrawee, because that man isn’t a ghost. He’s a keeper, and he’s marked me to take his place.