Haunted by the Flood: The Legend of Old Bill and Gazzer
The storm rolled across the outback like a beast loosed from its chains. Rain hammered the red earth until it bled mud, the swollen river cutting me off from the road ahead. Soaked through, I stumbled on an abandoned shack. Its roof sagged, timbers groaning, but it was shelter. Inside, I lit a fire in the old hearth, the flames crackling to life and wrapping me in welcome heat. I found a battered chair and sank into it, glad to be out of the storm’s fury. That’s when I noticed him. A figure lingered by the door, just beyond the fire’s glow—an older man, grey beard under an Akubra, oilskin horseman’s trench coat dripping wet, jeans tucked into bloodstone boots. “That’s a fine fire you’ve started,” he said, voice calm and steady. Thinking him another traveler caught by the storm, I gestured to the empty chair. “Pull up a seat. Would be nice to have company on a night like this.” He smiled faintly. “Especially nights like these. They say this place is haunted. Always gave me the shivers, ...
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