The Last Laugh of the Red Gum

The ranch sprawled across the sun-scorched plains of South Australia, a place where the horizon shimmered and the only sound was the relentless drone of cicadas. It was late November, and the heat had settled over the land like a thick woolen blanket. My brother, Pete, and I had driven from Perth to help our aunt, Margaret, prepare for the funeral of her husband, our Uncle Frank. He had died of a sudden heart attack while working on the property, leaving behind Margaret and their two young daughters, Lily and June.

We arrived at the homestead just as the sun was beginning to dip below the red dirt horizon. Margaret met us on the porch, her eyes hollow and red-rimmed. She hugged us tightly, her voice cracking as she whispered, ‘He’s gone. He’s really gone.’ The girls clung to our legs, their faces pale and confused. That night, we sat in the dimly lit kitchen, the air thick with the scent of grief and dust. Pete and I shared stories of Uncle Frank’s antics, his infectious laughter, and his love for practical jokes. Margaret managed a weak smile, recalling how Frank had once replaced her shampoo with mayonnaise.

Two days later, we began the grim task of sorting through Uncle Frank’s belongings. His study was a testament to his life, cluttered with old photographs, tattered books, and his beloved collection of carved wooden birds. As I dusted a shelf, I noticed a peculiar item tucked behind a stack of ledgers: a small, intricately carved red gum bowie knife, its handle worn smooth. I picked it up, feeling an odd chill despite the warmth. Pete, ever the curious one, took it from me, turning it over in his hands. ‘Look at this,’ he said, pointing to an inscription etched into the blade: ‘For the one who finishes it.’ We were puzzled, but Margaret, overhearing, paled. She took the knife gently, her hands trembling. ‘It was Frank’s great-uncle’s,’ she said. ‘He was a gold prospector in the 1800s. He made this knife, and he always said it would be his legacy. He never had children, so he passed it down. Frank always kept it close.’

That evening, after the girls were asleep, we gathered in the living room, the knife resting on the coffee table. Margaret told us the story of his great-uncle, Arthur, a stubborn man who had died in the bush, his body found with the knife clutched in his hand, a cryptic smile on his face. He had been obsessed with finding a legendary gold mine, and he swore the knife was a map to it, its carvings revealing a path. We dismissed it as folklore, but as the clock struck midnight, a strange wind rattled the windows, whistling through the gaps in the frame. It sounded uncannily like laughter—low, guttural, and distinctly male.

Pete, ever the skeptic, chuckled nervously. ‘Must be the old gum tree outside,’ he said. ‘You know how it moans in the wind.’ But we all fell silent, the sound persisting, almost as if it was mocking us. I looked at the knife, and for a moment, I swore I saw the carvings shift, forming the shape of a hand pointing toward the back door. I blinked, and it was still. We laughed it off, blaming exhaustion and grief, but none of us slept well that night.

The next morning, I woke to find Pete missing. His bed was empty, the sheets tangled. I searched the house, calling his name, but there was no answer. Margaret and the girls were in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, but they too hadn’t seen him. A chill ran down my spine as I remembered the events of the previous night. I rushed to the back porch and saw the red gum tree, its massive branches gnarled and twisted. At its base, half-buried in the dirt, was the knife, its blade gleaming in the morning sun. Pete stood a few feet away, staring at the tree, his face ashen. He told me he had a dream, a vivid dream where Uncle Frank led him to the tree, laughing, and pointed to the ground. ‘He wanted me to find it,’ Pete said, his voice hollow.

We tried to dismiss it as coincidence, but over the next week, strange things began to happen. The girls, Lily and June, complained of hearing whispers in their room, voices that mimicked their father’s, telling them to ‘come see.’ One night, I found them huddled together under the covers, crying, saying they saw a shape standing at the foot of their bed, wearing Uncle Frank’s old work boots. Margaret grew increasingly agitated, insisting she saw Frank’s reflection in the hall mirror, but when she turned, there was no one. The laughter we had heard that first night returned, louder now, echoing through the house at all hours, sometimes accompanied by footsteps on the creaking floorboards above.

Desperate, we decided to contact a local historian, a wizened old man named Bert, who had lived in the area all his life. He examined the knife, his eyes widening. ‘This is Arthur’s knife,’ he said. ‘He was known around these parts as ‘Old Gums’ because he was always harping on about a tree with a hidden mark. He believed that the tree he planted his tent under was the same one his great-grandfather had buried treasure beneath, and the knife was the key. But he died without ever finding it. Some say his spirit still roams the bush, seeking his treasure. And if you disturb his rest, he’ll torment you until you find it.’ Bert handed the knife back to me, his hand trembling. ‘I’d leave it be, if I were you. Bury it deep, and pray he lets you go.’

But it was too late. That night, as the wind howled and the moon hung low, I was woken by a faint tapping at my window. I drew back the curtain and saw a figure standing in the yard, bathed in the pale light. It was Uncle Frank, his face pale, his eyes black, but wearing that same mischievous grin he always had when about to play a prank. He motioned for me to come outside, pointing to the red gum tree. I felt a pull, an irresistible urge to obey. I slipped out of bed, the cold air biting my skin, and walked barefoot across the grass. Pete followed, his eyes glazed, and so did Margaret and the girls, all of us silent, moving as one.

We reached the tree, and the figure of Uncle Frank dissolved into the bark, leaving a faint outline glowing like embers. In that moment, I saw carvings I had never noticed before, lines that formed an arrow pointing downward. Pete began to dig frantically with his bare hands, and soon struck something hard. He unearthed a rusted metal box, and as he lifted the lid, a musty smell of earth and aged paper wafted out. Inside lay a tattered map, yellowed with time, with a single red circle marked in the middle of a dense forest. And beneath the map, a photograph of a young man with Uncle Frank’s eyes, labeled ‘Legacy fulfilled.’

As we stared, a cold gust of wind swept through, and the laughter came again, but this time it was soft, almost kind. The figure of Uncle Frank reappeared, smiling, and gave a thumbs up before fading into the night. The knife, still lying on the ground, began to crack and crumble, turning to dust. We stood there, shivering, clutching the map, uncertain of what had just happened. The next morning, we drove into town and gave the map to Bert, who authenticated it as a genuine gold claim from the 1800s. We never went back to the ranch. We sold it and moved away.

But sometimes, on quiet nights, I still hear that muffled laughter in the wind. It no longer frightens me. It’s a reminder that death doesn’t erase love, and that even in the darkest moments, a simple prank can bring back the warmth of a smile. The last laugh, it seems, was his after all—and I like to think he’s finally at peace, holding that knife, ready to play one more game.