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, passing through when the river’s up.”
“I’d love a story,” I said, smiling back. “It’ll help pass the time.”
The firelight brushed his face, though the shadows seemed to slip strangely across it, like smoke drifting through. Yet he carried the air of an old bushman—easygoing, with that familiar she’ll be rightcomfort only country folk seem to have.
“They say Old Bill lived here once,” he began. “Storm came through, much like tonight. River rose quick. Bill went door to door, helped everyone to higher ground. Saved a lot of lives that night. But he came back for his dog, Gazzer. A large white Maremma. The river took ’em both. Found Bill downstream days later. Never found Gazzer. Those Maremma are pretty elusive.”
The fire snapped. Outside, the rain roared louder, the floodwaters licking at the porch.
“They say Gazzer still visits,” he went on, eyes glinting oddly. “On nights like this. Keeps lonely travelers safe.”
The storm growled, rain hammering the shack. I realized then that while the fire had dried me, the old man’s clothes still dripped steadily, as though he’d just stepped out of the river.
“The water’s climbing,” he said, glancing toward the porch. “Best stay warm here by the fire. You’ll be safe.”
He turned, and there in the doorway stood a great white Maremma, coat glowing softly against the storm-dark night. Its eyes lingered on me, steady and calm.
“Come on, Gazzer,” the man said gently. “Others will need us tonight. Hooroo!”
The two stepped out into the flood, and in the blink of an eye, were gone.
I sat by the fire, the warmth steady against the storm, a strange peace filling me. The flood might rage, but I wasn’t afraid anymore.
And so, if you’re ever caught by a swollen river in a storm, and you glimpse a man in an Akubra with a white Maremma by his side—don’t be afraid. Give them a wave.
Because Old Bill and Gazzer may have just saved your life.
//————- The END ——————//
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