Twelve Tales of Terror

By Jim Hermel

In his early schooldays, Jim was fascinated with stories of the supernatural and paranormal, spending hours in libraries reading the stories of horror written by many famous authors of that genre. When television came to Adelaide, he became an avid viewer of early television horror shows.

In later life, as a travelling musician, Jim spent hours driving to gigs, often more than 1,000 kilometres apart.

The journeys took Jim through the desolate Australian outback, small country towns and into the capital cities of Australia, giving him plenty of locations, inspiration and time to create the characters and storylines for these twelve stories of the mysterious and the macabre.

The unique Australian countryside, townships and cities provide a fascinating backdrop for the characters within these chapters to suddenly get catapulted from a normal, everyday world into the world of the supernatural.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Apr 22, 2018

Jim Hermel

James Hermel was born in Adelaide, South Australia. As a long time musician, James has written many historical and promotional articles for music magazines under his musical title ‘Jim Hermel’, but his fascination of fictional writing has led to his first book of personally published work, Twelve Tales of Terror.

Book preview

James Hermel was born in Adelaide, South Australia. As a long time musician, James has written many historical and promotional articles for music magazines under his musical title ‘Jim Hermel’, but his fascination with fiction writing has led to his first book of published work, Twelve Tales of Terror.

Dedication

To my wife, Virginia, my mother, Dawn, my late father, Jack, and all my family. Thank you for your belief and support.

Jim Hermel

Twelve Tales of Terror

Copyright © Jim Hermel (2018)

The right of Jim Hermel to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788233095 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781788233101 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgements

Front Cover Design: Ben Hermel

James Hermel Photo: Virginia Hermel

List of Contents

1.

The Ant People of the Nullarbor 11

The Ghost of the Ghan 48

The Club 61

The Man in the Lift 74

The Man at the Window 92

The Book 105

The Man Who Cannot Die 115

The Hunchback of the Centre 139

The Ghosts of Port Arthur 161

The Legend of the Faceless Man 180

The Lost Expedition 194

The Story of Jane Carson 216

The Ant People of the Nullarbor

Ah, they were right! The little shanty was nestled in amongst the tall gums; so small and insignificant was the little dwelling that, without explicit directions, one could search almost endlessly in vain. As I walked towards it, I wondered what I would find. Had I wasted my time coming out to this remote and desolate corner of the Flinders Ranges? Would I be rewarded for my patience and effort? Was I just on a fool’s errand? The outlook was far from encouraging. This was maybe my last chance, wild goose chase or not, I had to take it. As a down-on-my-luck, young, aspiring writer, I had decided to take a trip to the Flinders Ranges in the hope of finding inspiration to write an article or story on the mighty South Australian range. Maybe about the Adnamanthana Aboriginal people who’ve lived in the Ranges almost since the world began, or maybe some interesting history on the early white settlement of the area. I’d heard of a couple of gruesome murders that happened here many years ago, were they worth pursuing? Maybe a story on the famous fossils of the Flinders Ranges, maybe something, maybe anything! Anyway, so far, no good! Disheartened and disillusioned, I drifted into the front bar of the Hawker Hotel to have a quiet drink, and contemplate my next move. I began to have a drink, and think, should I just give up now, and head back to Adelaide, or should I stay just a couple more days in the hope of stumbling onto something worth writing about? Then I heard a few men laughing and joking, and frequently referring to someone they called the ‘Mad Professor’. Being a little curious, to say the least, I ventured forth to engage the locals in conversation; maybe this was the story I’d been looking for. I stepped up to a tall, suntanned fellow who was doing most of the talking and laughing. It was he who seemed to know most about this so-called ‘Mad Professor’.

Excuse me, I said, but I couldn’t help overhearing you talking, you have aroused my curiosity to such a degree that I must ask you more about this Mad Professor. Who is he?

The Mad Professor, well, ’e’s the Mad Professor…, that’s the only name I know ’im by, mate, was his answer. ’E’s been up there for years, I check on him every couple of months if I’m in the area, like, just drop in to see if ’e’s OK, never ever did get to know ’is real name. But ’e’s bonkers, mate, not all there. ’E’s always got some story to tell… ’E told me that he got lost in a cave one time, years ago, somewhere out on the Nullarbor, and ’e was lucky to be found alive. ’E claimed some little people had been tryin’ to catch ’im and eat ’im when ’e was in the cave. I think the crazy ol’ coot was crackers even before ’e went into the cave, laughed the man, and if he wasn’t bonkers when he went in, he sure was bonkers when ’e came out! he laughed. The man had a big black beard, and rather long hair. His face was weather beaten, but honest, and I asked him where I could find the ‘Mad Professor’.

Not a real long way from here, he said. Go about 20 km north towards Parachilna, you’ll see a big white gum tree by the side of an old dirt track, it’s on your right. Travel along the track for five kilometres, the track comes to a dead end at the bottom of a big hill, yer have ter get out yer car and walk about a kilometre. Just follow the path, mate, it leads right up to his hut. ’E’ll enjoy a visit, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy hearing a couple of ’is tall stories! Well, I had found it alright, and as I walked towards it I asked myself some very serious questions. Was this a wild goose chase? Had the fellows back at the Hawker pub really been serious about a ‘Mad Professor’, or was I just the victim of a local practical joke? I cautiously approached the small wooden hut. It was old, and dilapidated, but very clean. It was obvious from the ‘lived in’ appearance that it was occupied. By whom, or what, I did not know. I swallowed, plucked up what courage I could muster, and reached out to knock on the old wooden door. No! No! No! a high pitched voice, raised in a restrained cry, called out. All you have to do is call out, none of this bang! Bang! Bang! on the door! I turned around and was greeted by a man with a somewhat unique appearance to say the least. He was tall, but stooped, and his shabby clothes hung loosely from his thin frame. He had a large bespectacled nose, and there was a crack across one of the lenses of his bifocals. He was old. His face was wizened and wrinkled, and surrounded by long white hair, beard, and moustache. You’ll frighten my friends, his high-pitched voice cried out again. I saw who he meant when he said ‘friends’. On his shoulder was a white cockatoo, and in his arms he held a small grey possum. Behind him were kangaroos, wallabies, and emus. There must have been a dozen all-told. And in the trees were perched dozens of white cockatoos, and grey and pink galahs, watching. Every now and again one would screech out just to let the Professor know that they were there. Yes, they’re my friends, he said as he noticed my puzzled look. They’re the best friends one could ask for. They don’t talk about you behind your back, they don’t poke fun at you, they never let you down, and they don’t answer you back, they’re all my best friends.

My name’s Jim Cooper, I said, extending my hand.

And I’m Professor Collins, he replied. He seemed quite alright, a bit eccentric, yes, but otherwise he seemed as normal as anybody. What brings you all the way out here? Lost your way, perhaps?

No, I replied, I came here to see you. I was not sure how to tackle him on the subject of his experiences in cave exploring, but I figured I had nothing to lose, so I took a chance and came straight out with my side of the story, how I wanted to write an article on the Flinders Ranges, and how I’d heard the locals talking in the Hawker Hotel, etc., etc., and I had decided to write an article on the professor himself. When I finished my explanation, he looked at me. Seconds passed as he evaluated me, and my explanation for wanting to find him. You seem honest enough, do you give me your word that you’re not having me on, trying to get a laugh to take back to town? he asked, a quizzical look on his face. When I gave him my assurance he accepted it, and invited me into the hut. I was very surprised when I entered. The hut was obviously well lived in, but quite neat and clean. Extremely cluttered up with nick-nacks, odd carvings, crude tools, etc., but never-the-less kept quite tidy and in good condition. The professor relaxed in an old chair fashioned out of limbs of a gum tree. Well, you ask about my cave exploration experiences. I never told anyone for years, I wanted to just forget it, but, in conversation, I told one or two of the locals, and I reckon they think I made it all up, but it’s true, you know. It doesn’t matter, now, if anyone hears about it, I won’t be around much longer for it to worry me. Well, the professor began to talk, and I shall endeavour to tell it exactly as it was told to me, and let you draw your own conclusion, as I drew mine. And now to the story, exactly as the professor told it to me.

It was back in 1947. I was twenty three years old at the time, and the expedition I was with had been exploring caves on the Nullarbor Plain for about three months. I suppose you know that the Nullarbor Plain is honey-combed with limestone caves and sinkholes. Koonalda Cave is a famous cave on the Nullarbor, and there’s evidence of human habitation there from over 30,000 years ago. And there’s Cocklebiddy Cave, one of the longest cave systems in the world. Well, there are literally thousands of caves, and cave systems, right along that two thousand kilometre stretch of desolate, desert land, and stretching way inland, too, I mean, just thousands and thousands of them. The expedition consisted of six men altogether, including me. The leader was Professor John Gross, headstrong, arrogant, and foolhardy as I realise now, but, at the time I gave him my utmost co-operation and respect. I saw him as the fearless leader, able to make decisions and stick by them, but, in hindsight, he was nothing but a glory-hunter who ended up sending several good men to their deaths. The other four members of the group were ‘Gabby’ Jones, the oldest member, in his late fifties, McLeod, a dour Scotsman, I guess in his mid-forties, Bill Radford, and Watson, they were both around their late thirties, I guess. The others in the party were all far more experienced in cave exploration than I, and that’s why they were reluctant at times to follow our leader. I thought them cowards at times, but they were right, and sensible, it was I who was wrong. We had discovered a big cave, the biggest yet, and it was the wish of most men in the party to fix its position, return to civilisation, and organise an expedition to explore it at a later date. Leave it perhaps six months, maybe even a year, but get fully equipped, and come back all fresh and enthusiastic. I mean, as I said, we’d been out cave exploring for close on three months, quite exhausted at this stage, and we really just wanted to get home. I came out here to explore caves and bring back useful information, was the forceful reply from Gross. We’ve been tracking around for three months and haven’t discovered enough scientific information to cover a postage stamp. We’ve got our reputations to think of, and besides, if we give up now we may never be given another grant to continue, we may never get the chance to mount another expedition. On that statement Gross was right. We couldn’t expect another chance if we had nothing to report to the government authorities in Adelaide. I, like a fool, was with Gross all the way, but the others took a bit of convincing. ‘Gabby’ Jones, as I said, the oldest in the expedition, had had enough. I felt sorry for the old fellow at the time, although I also remember thinking that he was a weakness in the group, and should never have been allowed to come in the first place. He was, I recall, an expert in geology, and he taught me many things about rocks, rock formation, and especially the limestone and rock formation found beneath the Nullarbor. I don’t care much at all for your suggestion for us to back out now, Jones, Gross shouted at him, and the others of the group who had shown reluctance to continue. I’m the leader, I’ve been given total authority over this expedition, and I, and we, I might add, have an obligation to fulfil. We’re going down into this cave. We may come to a dead end, and if so, we’ll head home then, but, on the other hand, this may be the cave we’ve been looking for, the one that makes all our searching for the past three months worthwhile. He told us his plans. The rest of the men begrudgingly resigned themselves to the fact that they had to explore the cave, and that’s where the real story begins. At dawn on the following day, we prepared for the descent. A bright, orange sun was just above the horizon, it was a beautiful scene, a typical Australian outback morning. I had a feeling that it would be many days before I would see the sun again, and I took a long look around at the golden earth, and the red, yellow, and brown plains of the Nullarbor. We descended into the small opening. The dank dampness closed in around us. The still silence, broken only by the tinkling and splashing of drops of water falling from stalactites, seemed foreboding, as if warning us, intruders who dared to break the peace and stillness, which for centuries upon centuries had reigned supreme in this timeless world. The entrance to the cave was a small passage-way which took us almost four hours to clamber through. It was very narrow in sections and took quite a bit of negotiating. The men kept silent, except for occasional grumbles. I, on the other hand, was quite excited, and I was enjoying every step of the twisting, turning descent. Gabby stopped every half hour or so to take samples of rock, although I strongly suspected that he was only using that as an excuse to rest. At long last, the narrow passage levelled out, and then opened up into an enormous cavern. It was like a fairyland, with giant white pillars of stalactites joining up with their stalagmite partners directly below them. Other huge stalactites hung from the cave roof, and thick stalagmites rose from the floor. Eerie echoes of splashing water droplets filled the cave. We rested near a large pool of crystal clear water where we took our meal. After an hour we continued on, the reflection of our torches brightly illuminating the cave creating almost daylight conditions as the light was reflected from the silvery surfaces of the cave. We walked through passages, labyrinths, under sparkling arches in wondrous awe, again gradually descending into the depths of the earth. McLeod would occasionally strike the passage wall with a machete and marked our way as we went. It seemed terrible that these beautiful structures and passages, so expertly sculptured by nature over many millions of years, should carry the scar of Man, but we knew that had we not marked our way clearly, then we could very well wander aimlessly through the passages of the cave for the rest of our lives searching for a way out. Time seemed to belong to another world. After we’d travelled about three kilometres we heard a distant roaring sound above the tinkling splashes of water droplets. We began to follow a passage towards the sound, and as we got closer we realised that it was the roar of rushing water. In your wildest dreams you could never imagine the beautiful sight which greeted us. A huge silver waterfall cascaded down from great rocks piled 20 metres high, and fell into a large crystal clear pool, probably ten metres wide and about thirty metres long. From there it overflowed, forming a fast flowing river. We camped there for eight hours, eating, sleeping, and preparing ourselves for the continuation of the exploration of this vast cave system. We, of course, kept all lighting to a minimum to preserve batteries, candles, torches, and we’d brought some wood in to make small fires for heating our cans of food. We were lucky in the fact that the glistening surfaces of the cave helped reflect and spread any artificial light we made. And it was very eerie looking around the cave in the wan light, but even more eerie when we doused our candles, and put the fire out. As you would realise, it was black, like, so dark, you couldn’t see a thing at all. We soon lost all semblance of day or night, just using our watches to know what the right time was. It was a truly strange sensation, like, not being in a real place, like, not really even existing… Well, after Gross woke the camp, we set off to explore the river, and see how far we could follow it. Naturally the only food, fuel, lighting, and all that, was what we could carry in rucksacks, which also carried a couple of blankets, but very limited gear, so we really only expected to be in the cave, oh, maybe five days, six at the most, I mean, in a cave there’s no fuel for fires, no wild animals for food, so the most we could travel was three days into the cave, and then three days out. Anyway, we followed the river for about three hours, and then it narrowed to about two metres wide, and began to flow really fast the narrower it got. We ventured on until, after some time, the roof of the cave got lower and lower, and it got to where it was only two metres high. We groped our way along a narrow passage beside the now raging torrent. Finally, we came to a dead end. The raging river flowed into a hole in the wall at the end of the cave. We stopped and stared. We’d struggled to come all this way, and were now stopped dead in our tracks. We stared at the river, the white rushing waters flowing with a roar into the wall of the cave, not really knowing what to do next. Disappointment; it was a huge anti-climax. I mean, we had eventually all grown excited by this cave, after all, we were cave explorers, all of us were there because of our love of spelunking, and the other men in the party had now well and truly gotten over their earlier reluctance to continue. This amazing cave, and the anticipation of discovering something truly remarkable, soon had us back to enjoying our task and relishing the continuation of the exploration. Bill Radford, in particular, was now most enthusiastic about exploring the cave, and shouted above the roaring waters that he had come this far, and he was not going to turn back now. He volunteered to be first through the hole. The roof of the hole where the river flowed was about a metre above the river, and we guessed the river was about a metre and a half deep. By shining a torch into the hole we could see that it was actually a long passage, very narrow… but from what we saw, we could negotiate it, and see where it led. At least, we would go as far as we could. The water was raging into the tunnel, and one thing we knew, if we went into the tunnel, we could never fight our way out against the raging torrent. We had to secure a rope that we could use to pull ourselves back along, and get back to our part of the cave when the time came to return. I mean, it was possible, of course, that there may have been an opening to the surface on the other side of the tunnel, but that