in the early hours of the morning
and see if we could find a way in,
using only our wits and a pair
of sharp pliers I’d borrowed
from my housemate.Even having visited the building
during the day, I was overwhelmed
by just how eerie and menacing it
felt at 1am. The weeping willow on
the driveway, so beautiful in the
afternoon sun of the day before,
was terrifying in the cold light
of the moon. We headed around to
the side entrance, trying to stick
to the shadows. Possums parkoured
in the trees above us, and every
time a leaf rustled, my heart rate
increased by 10 beats per minute.As we approached the heavy
wooden door, I heard a woman’s
voice over the anxious heaving of
my friend’s breath. I froze on the
spot. My mind was perfectly divided
between the urge to run far, far
away, and the urge to follow the
noise to its source. Reasoning that
I’d already come this far, I crept
along the wall into the courtyard.
I tried to peer around the corner
unobtrusively. The fear was acute
and consuming. My hands tingled
numbly, announcing that this was
the time for fight or flight. Despite
the chill, I was bathed in so much
sweat that my feet slipped around
in my shoes.I counted to three and inched my
head forward to look into the
small grassy yard. I couldn’t see
a human shape, so I crept further
along the wall. As soon as I was
in the courtyard, I spotted the
source of the noise: a juvenile
magpie, warbling sadly, under
a thicket of weeds.As I turned on my phone flashlight,
the young bird cried out in fear.
My friend bent over and carefully
picked up the magpie. It was in
a bad state, too weak to resist. I
called the wildlife rescue number
and left a message, then we sat with
the bird until the rescue volunteer
arrived at six in the morning,
watching the rising sun transform
the willow from spectral horror
back to verdant beauty.By
Jo
Walker
If a misspent childhood watching
terrible schlocky horror flicks
taught me anything, it’s that the
world is full of misunderstood
monsters. Gore-splattered chainsaw
maniacs out for justice. Drain-
dwelling clowns desperate for a
bit of human contact (and maybe
a balloon or two). Man/fly hybrids
who just want to do good science.When I was 23, I became one of those
monsters. Shambling; incapable
of coherent speech; oozing rancid
waste products; fearful of human
touch. Because the creepiest thing
that’s ever happened to me was
becoming an adult with chickenpox.
Trust me, my friends – it’s a horror
show. You get sores everywhere.OPENING MONTAGE: I’m working
in a music store at the mall. I tell
my boss I’m feeling sick, but she
makes me work the end of my shift.
(And fires me when it becomes
clear I’m ill – yes, the real horror
here is the casual job economy!)
I realise my stomach is covered in
spots and drive myself to a medical
clinic, where a doctor confirms
the worst: I am toxic, and will
soon be covered in pus. Also, since
I’m an adult chickenpox-haver,
there’s a small chance of developing
brain damage from the raging
skin herpes that now inhabits my
body! Then, the itching begins.MOUNTING HORROR: I hurriedly
vacate my sharehouse. My mother,
who is living overseas, flies home
to care for me as I cannot be trusted
to take a shower without falling
on my head. We move into my old
childhood home. I am unemployed,
my mum has to bathe me, and
I have blisters inside my vagina.Actually, I have blisters everywhere.
My face, inside my nose, eyelids,
ears and mouth, all over my body;
on the top of my head and the solesBy
Eleanor
Robertson
For a year or so, I was completely
obsessed with abandoned buildings.
In retrospect, this was probably
a projection of my internal state
at the time – I was depressed and
rudderless, not quite sure what to
do with myself. My usual coping
mechanism for these feelings –
compulsive reading – had stopped
working. I bought piles of books
and read a few lines of each before
discarding them. The desired effect,
which was to occupy my mind so
fully that it had no room for misery,
did not materialise. I was suffering
from tinnitus of the soul.
I can’t remember how abandoned
buildings initially took their hold
over me, but I fell hard and fast.
I spent hours researching spooky
old hospitals, prisons and colonial
houses close to where I was living.
One in particular caught my eye.
It had been used as a children’s
mental hospital, a juvenile
detention facility, and a reform
school. It was a 15-minute walk
from my house. I don’t know what
I was hoping to find, but I had
to get in there.
Tragically, I’d missed the annual
open day by a week. I wasn’t the
only person keen to step inside and
have a rubberneck – I came across
several blog posts by urban history
nerds showing photos taken inside
at the previous year’s open day.
Under a carpet of fallen leaves,
the floors were tiled in a beautiful
pattern of blue and orange. This
seemed far too cheery considering
the thousands of ill, unloved and
delinquent children the place had
held over its hundred-year history.
Undeterred by common sense,
good taste or trespassing law,
I recruited a friend to help me enter
the building. Neither of us were
seasoned housebreakers, so our plan
was to skulk around the perimeter
writers’ piece