The Gulp: Five Tales of Horror

The Band Plays On

Blind Eye Moon were playing and Patrick had no idea if they were any good. The Monkton Tavern was packed for the Friday night gig, and so many locals had said to check them out it seemed like a necessary part of the trip. Backpacking was all about immersion in the local culture, after all. In Thailand they’d gone trekking into the jungles of the north and visited the Karen hill people. In Malaysia they’d developed a taste for hawker street food. In Darwin they’d been mesmerised by the vast splendour of Kakadu and were keen to learn about the local folks who showed them around there. It was all so far removed from Dublin. Leaving for a one-year trip around the world had been the best decision of his twenty-four-year life. Ciara had needed to cajole and badger him about it for months, sure. He was a creature of habit and took some convincing, but she had been right. He’d told her so and would tell her again. That they travelled so well together was also good evidence a life together would be long and fruitful. But he needed to wait until they got home to Ireland to put that to her. A proposal on the trip would fundamentally change the nature of what they were doing.

Torsten and Simone came back from the bar, carrying beers. The brother and sister had turned out to be excellent travelling companions, the four of them sharing the costs and the driving of a small camper van. It was a little cramped inside, but not too bad. To take a break from the confines they planned to book into a motel for a couple of nights in Monkton. Warm showers, comfortable beds, and other home comforts every few days made the whole thing more bearable. They were backpacking, but not slumming it.

Having driven from Darwin, down through Alice Springs to Adelaide and then along the coast to Melbourne on their own, Patrick and Ciara had welcomed the team up with the German siblings, for financial reasons if nothing else. Two weeks road tripping along the coast from Melbourne to Sydney together was proving to be good fun.

“Took so long to get drinks!” Torsten said, sitting down and sliding a beer across. “They’re four or five deep at the bar.”

“Lucky we got a table,” Patrick said.

Ciara returned from the bathroom, took her seat. The four of them raised their glasses and clinked them together.

“I talked to a girl in the bathroom who said Blind Eye Moon are the best band in the world,” Ciara said with a laugh.

“So good we’ve never heard of them before,” Patrick said.

“Maybe big only in Australia?” Simone asked. Her accent was strong, her English not as good as Torsten, who spoke almost fluently.

“Maybe,” Ciara said. “But we’ve been here two months already and never heard of them before. We’ve been catching as many local acts as possible. Honestly, I think they’re something of a local phenomenon with a bit of a cult following. Lots of folks here seem really into them. You see all the t-shirts?”

Patrick nodded, gestured with his glass. “Yeah, look at this place. It’s big enough, and heaving, but there can only be, what? Five hundred people, tops? If they were as big as all that, they wouldn’t still be playing pub gigs in small towns, would they?”

The Monkton Tavern was a long building with a high A-frame roof and slate floor. Patrick had begun to recognise a few features of Australian architecture and knew this was a little different to anything he’d seen before. It was old, built down near Monkton harbour, in the oldest part of the town, so it had to be colonial. Regardless, it was a good space with a long bar and a raised stage at the far end with an impressive looking PA stack and light array. For a small town, it seemed the Monkton Tavern was a hub for entertainment. They’d got there early, hence the luck with a table, and were already a few beers deep. The booze buzz was settling in, the crowds were reminding him of Dublin’s busier nightspots, and Patrick thought they were in for a good night. At least, they would be if the band were half as good as their numerous groupies seemed to think they were.

“Yo, Monkton!”

The crowd roared and surged forward, the space around the tables opening as people thickened towards the stage. Patrick hopped up, stood on his chair for a better look.

“Stage is still dark,” he said.

The instruments were in place, two dull red spotlights reflecting weakly off the polished wood of the guitars and drum kit.

The crowd began to chant. “Blind Eye Moon! Blind Eye Moon!”

“Heeeey, Monkton.” The man’s voice was cajoling now, full of humour.

“No support band?” Patrick asked, looking down. His friends smiled and shrugged.

The chant grew louder. This band had really ardent fans, Patrick thought. The red spots winked out, plunging the stage into total darkness. The crowd began cheering and baying, feet stamped in a one-two, one-two-three rhythm. People began clapping the same rhythm. Voices rose with it. “Blind Eye! Blind Eye Moon! Blind Eye! Blind Eye Moon!”

A massive distorted guitar chord slammed out through the PA and the crowd exploded. Patrick winced against the combined volume as the stage burst into view from the multicoloured array in the ceiling. Three men stood across the front of the stage, each with a guitar, the one on the left the bass player. All three wore black clothes, black sleeveless t-shirts, their arms a mass of colourful tattoos. Their faces were pale with heavily kohled eyes, long hair, two black, the one in the centre blond. Behind them a woman stood behind her drum kit, also in black, also heavily kohled around her eyes. Her lips were painted blood red and her hair was long and straight as vibrantly scarlet as her lipstick. The guitar chord rang on, then the woman raised her sticks, struck them together one-two-three-four, then attacked her skins. The guitars all kicked in together, tight as hell, and the roaring of the crowd was lost in a powerful, thundering riff, galloping along with double kick drums underneath like a machine gun.

“Holy shit!” Patrick said to himself, dropping back into his seat, nodding his head along with the music. “This is instantly brilliant!”

The riff pounded on for a minute or more, then the blond guy in the centre started to sing over his rhythm guitar. His voice was powerful, reminded Patrick of Layne Staley in tone, but with more gusto. The woman at the drums provided backing vocals, their style something like a super-thrashy Led Zeppelin. Big riffs, complex bass runs, relentless drums. The lead guitarist frequently broke into solos that were intricate but never too long. After the first couple of tracks the band showed some diversity of talent by dropping to a low, slow ballad about the difficulty of love in the modern world. Then the pace increased again.

During a lull between tracks, Ciara said, “I think the locals are right. Blind Eye Moon might be one of the best bands in the world!”

“Are there any out of towners in tonight?” the lead singer called out.

The crowd booed and hissed, and the singer laughed. Ciara stood up, and Patrick grabbed her forearm. “Don’t, love! Let’s just enjoy the band.”

Ciara smiled down at him, began to sit, then the singer said, “I see you up the back there, with the brown hair and red t-shirt! Where are you from?”

“Ireland!” Ciara called out. She pointed to the siblings. “And Germany.”

“I can’t hear you, what was that?”

Voices rang through the crowd, people passing the message on.

“Ireland and Germany?” the singer said. “Wow, that’s a long way from Monkton! Get down here, this next song is for you.”

The crowd parted, most people smiling, warm gestures to come on, get forward. Patrick shook his head, embarrassed to look in any eyes, but he enjoyed how excited Ciara was as she bounced up and trotted away.

“Coming?” he asked Torsten and Simone.

“Sure, let’s go.”

They made their way towards the stage, the crowd patting them on the back and shoulders, laughing and coaxing them along. Right at the front, among a group of sweating, grinning superfans, the lead singer put his guitar around behind his back and crouched to be at eye level with them.

“What are your names, mates?” He held the mic out to Ciara. Patrick noticed his fingernails were painted blood red. In fact, all the band had blood red nails. And the deep black makeup around their eyes wasn’t just smudged kohl, but jet black with dozens of thin filaments, like capillaries, spreading out around the orbit of the eye and over the cheekbone. They had to be wearing contacts too, because their irises were all a deep crimson. The overall effect was quite stunning.

“Ciara, Patrick, Torsten and Simone,” Ciara said. “We’re from Dublin, they’re from Frankfurt.”

“And don’t you both make lovely couples!”

“We’re a couple. They’re brother and sister.”

The crowd laughed and jeered, and the singer grinned. “Sorry, I shouldn’t make assumptions. Well, I’m glad you’re here tonight. I’m Edgar, on bass is Howard, on lead guitar is Clarke, and our lady of the skins is Shirley.” The crowd whooped and cheered again. Edgar stood up, swung his guitar around to the front. “It’s good to meet you, Ciara and friends. Enjoying the show so far?”

“Are you kidding?” Ciara said with a laugh. “You guys fucking rock!”

Edgar grinned again. He was handsome, beguiling. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, we fucking do.” He clipped the mic back into its stand. “And this one’s for you. It’s called Far From Home.”

Clarke began a lead guitar melody, haunting in a minor key. The hairs along Patrick’s forearms bristled. Shirley tapped a single beat on the closed hi-hat, the effect with the guitar hypnotic. It reminded Patrick of early Metallica, like the opening to a track from Master of Puppets. Edgar picked a counter melody, the whole tune rising, swelling. Howard began soft bass runs.

The crowd swayed like ocean seaweed, forcing Patrick and his friends to move with them. The music filled the venue, and Patrick’s mind. They were so tight, so technically perfect, yet emotionally charged. The melody ground its way deep under his skin. Then Edgar hit a power chord that thumped into Patrick’s chest, made his heart race. Then another, as the melody and the ticking of the hi-hat continued. When Edgar hit the third power chord, Shirley matched her hi-hat with a bass drum, doubled like a heartbeat.

Then Edgar leaned into the mic and roared, “When you’re far from hoooooome!” and sound exploded like a supernova. The drums were furious, the bass raced, the guitars ground a sonic attack, the best riff Patrick could ever remember hearing. The rest of the words, the song, the rest of the gig, was lost in a maelstrom of powerful music and physical exertion. The four of them stayed at the front, immersed in the crowd, dancing, leaping, sweat-soaked and euphoric.

This is the best gig I have ever been to in my life, Patrick thought to himself as he danced.

And all too soon, it was over. Edgar had announced it was their last song, but Patrick didn’t want to believe it. When they finished, thanked the crowd, entreated them to come back again next time, Patrick was devastated. Loss clawed a hole in his chest.

The crowd thinned, but the four of them stayed up near the stage. The house lights went half up and the spell was broken. They were in a pub in a country town, somewhere on the south coast of New South Wales, miles from anywhere.

Edgar grinned at them as he put his guitar into a case, handed it to a roadie. “You have fun?”

Patrick could only nod, but Ciara couldn’t stop talking. She told them how much she loved the music, their energy, the lyrics were just so true, such universal truths.

“I love your accent,” Edgar said, head tilted to one side. “Hey, you want to come back to the Manor?”

“What’s the Manor?” Patrick asked.

“It’s our place. We have a little party there after gigs. In The Gulp.”

“In the what?”

“The Gulp.”

Patrick grinned, shrugged.

Edgar laughed. “I forgot, you’re not from around here. Next town up the coast, it’s called Gulpepper. But everyone calls it The Gulp. We live there.”

Patrick checked his watch. “It’s nearly midnight. Probably a little late–”

“Pat, are you mad?” Ciara said. “What, you have to get up early? Let’s go and party!”

“We’ve all been drinking. Who can drive?”

“You can drive,” Edgar said. “You want to know how many cops there are around here at this time?” He held up his thumb and forefinger to make a zero, and grinned.

“Is it far?”

“It’s about a thirty-minute drive. Everywhere is far around here, but thirty minutes is nothing by our reckoning.”

Ciara punched his arm. “Let’s go, Pat!”

Patrick looked at Torsten and Simone and they both nodded, smiling. It did sound kinda fun, and there wasn’t much more of a local cultural experience than a house party. He noticed the rest of the band chatting to a few of the other fans, people nodding, bumping fists, heading off.

“There’ll be a bunch of people there,” Edgar said. “But we don’t invite everybody. Our van is parked in the alley outside. Why don’t you go and get your car, then pull up behind us. You can follow us back.”

“We’ll know which is your van?”

Edgar laughed. “It’s the only one with Blind Eye Moon painted on the sides.”

Twenty minutes later they followed a large black van out of Monkton. It had a beautifully air-brushed band logo of a red eye superimposed over a full moon on the side, set against stormy clouds in a night sky. They took the main road to the north, but instead of joining the main freeway, signposted to Enden and other places, including Sydney a ridiculous number of kilometres further on, Edgar pointed the van down a narrow turnoff from a roundabout that looked like it wouldn’t go anywhere much at all. The sign only had two names on it: Gulpepper and Enden.

A little buzzed from the beers, a lot buzzed from the gig, Patrick drove with a grin on his face. He felt like a naughty kid, staying out late, sticking it to the man, hanging with a real life rock’n’roll band. It was mystifying that Blind Eye Moon played such parochial venues.

The small road led past an industrial area on the edge of Monkton, large metal sheds and cement loading bays, then became a straight line, one lane each way through thick vegetation that came right up to the road on either side. Sometimes the tops of the trees met above the bitumen.

“This is old forest,” Torsten said from behind. He and Simone sat at the campervan’s small table in the back, while Patrick drove, Ciara beside him in the passenger seat.

Patrick glanced into the rear view mirror, saw Torsten looking out the side window, nose pressed to the glass. “Old?”

“Yeah, I’ve studied a bit.”

“He’s a tree nerd,” Simone said with a laugh.

“Hey, I like nature. Australia has what they call old growth forest, but not much left. Mostly in Tasmania, I think? Not sure. Anyway, this region is supposed to be dry sclerophyll forest, but here it looks way older than most of the coast around.”

“Dry what now?” Ciara asked.

“Sclerophyll. Wait a minute, I can’t remember the details.”

Patrick glanced up again, saw Torsten tapping at his phone. “Here it is. Dry sclerophyll forests are characterised by their scenic landscapes and diverse flora and represent south-east Australia’s last remaining areas of wilderness. Typically eucalypts, wattles and banksias… associated with low soil fertility… blah blah blah. Low fertility also makes soils undesirable for agriculture and native vegetation has, therefore, remained relatively intact.” He looked out of the window again and shook his head. “But this seems much older than dry sclerophyll should look.” He scrolled his phone again and read aloud. “Plants grow slowly in nutrient-deficient conditions and some species have developed symbiotic relationships with nutrient-fixing bacteria and fungi to enhance nutrient availability.”

“Booooring!” Simone said.

“Bushfires play a vital role in regeneration of dry sclerophyll forests. Many species are able to resprout from buds protected beneath soils or within the trunk or branches. Other species have seeds that are protected by a hard seed-coat or woody fruit, which are stimulated to open or germinate by fire.” Torsten stopped, eyes scanning. “Let me just look… oh.”

“What is it?” Ciara asked.

Torsten looked up with a shrug and a smile. “No more signal, must be a dead spot for reception.”

“Thanks fuck for this, yes?” Simone said.

“So whatever,” Patrick said, laughing along. “It’s old and weird looking. We don’t need Google to know that. Look how dense it is! And this place, Gulpepper, must be miles from anywhere. How much further, you think?”

“Everyone calls it The Gulp, remember?” Ciara said.

“Yeah. Sounds delightful.”

After twenty minutes along the straight road through strangely old and thick bush, Edgar indicated and they turned right onto Gulpepper Road. Another ten minutes and they started to see farms and other properties, then came over a hill to a large roundabout and a decent sized town spread out before them.

“Jaysus, I didn’t expect that,” Patrick said.

“There’s a harbour and everything,” Ciara pointed, then the view was lost as they descended the other side of the hill.

“The sign said ‘Gulpepper, population 8,000’,” Torsten said. “That’s not a tiny hamlet.”

“Did you saw the bit underneath?” Simone asked. “Someone writed it on.”

“What bit?”

“It said ‘But the dead outnumber the living’.”

Patrick laughed. “Well, isn’t that cheery.”

They drove on, past a large Woolworths supermarket on the left, lit up white and green, and then Edgar indicated again and turned right up a steep hill. They followed, engine whining. Houses lined either side, some clearly older, with more modern buildings in between. Patrick imagined the place when it was first settled and everyone had plenty of space, until they began selling the land, subdividing as the town grew. They reached the top of the large hill, the town spread out below them, then went around a tight S-bend and along further. More houses, these a little more spaced out, and then a huge building on a corner block.

The block was thick with old trees, huge with high, wavy buttress roots, and well-established garden beds of shrubs and flowers. A stone wall stood all around it, and in the middle a large two-storey stone block house. Big bay windows, verandas with curlicued metal fencing all around both floors, a steep tiled roof with intricate chimney stacks. Behind the house, on the far side of the big garden, was nothing but bush. The road turned left and went back down the other side of the hill. More houses lined that street. Edgar drove his black van into the driveway of the big house. A stone sign carved with the words “The Manor” marked the entrance to the driveway.

“Far out,” Patrick said. “He wasn’t joking.”

The driveway curved around behind the house, several other cars already there. Some were empty, others had people inside, waiting. Edgar drove the van past them all and into a large three car garage, the door on the left open to receive him. Patrick parked up behind the other cars. When the band emerged, people poured out of their vehicles and crowded around.

“Time to party!” Edgar said, and everyone cheered.

There were ten or twelve others, all chatting with the comfort of familiarity. Patrick and his friends loitered back a little and let everyone else enter first. The band still wore their black clothes and makeup as they led the group into a huge sitting room with a massive bay window. All manner of couches and armchairs were dotted around, a few low tables, a giant television in one corner. Paintings hung on the walls, mostly portraits but a few landscapes, all quite old-looking. An ostentatious chandelier hung glittering from the twenty-foot-high ceiling, and Edgar flicked a switch to turn it on, then used a dimmer switch to set the brightness low. Shirley went to a computer on a desk in the corner and started some music, old school Pantera, Patrick realised. There had to be speakers all around the large room, as “Mouth For War” seemed to blare from every side, every corner.

People sat themselves around, flopping comfortably into chairs and couches, chatting and laughing. Patrick and his friends stood slightly awkwardly just inside the door.

Edgar appeared beside them, swept his long, blond hair back behind his ears with a grin. “Welcome to the Manor! Make yourselves at home.”

“Maybe we could pop into town or something?” Patrick said. “Get a case of beers or…”

Edgar laughed. “There’s nothing open in The Gulp after nine o’clock. But don’t worry, we have plenty of grog.” He pointed to a corner where a large fridge was plugged in and beside it a dresser covered with a forest of spirit bottles. “Me cassa, you cassa, mates!”

“Thanks!”

“This house is amazing,” Ciara said.

“Isn’t it? Built in 1862. Home of Governor Charles Gulpepper, the colonial arsehole who decided to make this little bit of paradise his own. He established a colony here and this was one of the first permanent buildings to go up. Oyster farming mostly, at first. Then other fishing too and the town grew, but it was all a big mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“Yeah, place is cursed as fuck.”

“This house, you mean?” Patrick asked.

“Nah, The Gulp. Whole fucking town.”

Ciara laughed nervously. “Really?”

“Yep. Place is fucked.” Edgar grinned, led them over to the drinks. He opened the fridge and handed around stubbies of Little Creatures pale ale. “Good Aussie brewery, this one. Cheers!” He clinked bottle necks with each of them.

“Why stick around if the place is bad?” Patrick asked. “You guys are a successful band, I’d expect you to live in Sydney or Melbourne or something. Or even another country!”

Edgar shook his head. “Nah, this place is fucked, but it’s home. Been here ages.”

“You don’t look over thirty! Were you born here?”

“Don’t let looks deceive you, we’ve been around a while longer than that.”

Patrick opened his mouth to ask more, but Edgar slapped his shoulder and turned away, effusively greeting another small group sitting nearby. He fell in amongst them, talking and laughing.

“There?” Simone said, pointing.

A collection of three sofas in one corner was mostly empty, except for two young women and the drummer, Shirley. The four of them wandered over.

“Can we join you?” Ciara asked.

“Of course,” Shirley said. She was strikingly beautiful, Patrick thought. Her hair was so thick and straight and red it looked like crimson silk.

The other two women stood up and one said, “We’re going for another drink.” They smiled at Patrick and his friends and strolled off.

“Amazing gig,” Torsten said, sitting down. The others followed suit.

Shirley raised a glass with a generous measure of something like bourbon in it. “Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it.”

She still had her contacts in, Patrick noticed, her irises a deep red-brown. But the dark makeup around her eyes seemed to have faded a little, the branches of capillary-like lines not so evident. Rubbed off a bit, maybe. But it wasn’t smudged.

“We’re infamous around here for always being in character,” Shirley said, as if reading his mind.

He realised he’d been staring. “Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re either ‘that cool band’ or, especially among the older folks, ‘those fucking weirdos’.”

“I think you appear cool,” Simone said.

Shirley laughed. “Thanks. I like the way you put that.”

Simone blushed slightly.

Patrick was mesmerised by Shirley’s languid grace. Her hair gleamed in the low light. She was not only a beautiful woman, but powerfully confident. That came, he supposed, with being hugely successful and popular. The three men in the band were equally good-looking and relaxed in their skins. “I don’t mean this as an insult,” he said, “but we’ve never heard of Blind Eye Moon before. I know we’re from far away, but you guys are amazing, it’s incredible we don’t know you.”

Shirley smiled, shrugged. “We’re big on the local circuit, we tour Australia every year. But we’ve never really felt the need to go overseas. None of us are great with air travel. And we’re more about the live moment than the studio album, you know?”

“You must have a Soundcloud or something though?” Ciara said.

“Nope. We don’t like that stuff. Just old-fashioned CDs. We’re not about the commercial side of music. We play gigs, sell CDs, merch, make enough money and that’s it. We’re about experience, not riches.”

“Well, good for you,” Torsten said. “That’s real integrity.”

“Just a shame for all the people elsewhere in the world who’ll never hear your music,” Patrick said.

“They’ll have to come to us.”

Ciara gestured around herself. “You’re obviously doing well for yourselves, living in a place like this. You own it together?”

Shirley looked around the large room, blood red fingernails tapping against the cut glass of her tumbler. “It’s a fine place, hey? But nah, we don’t own it. Bram owns it. He lets us live here.”

“Bram?” Ciara asked.

“Edgar’s… father, I guess? It’s complicated, you know how family can be.”

There was a moment of silence, then Shirley said, “Edgar tell you about the house?”

“1862?” Patrick said, trying to remember. “Governor Charles Gulpepper.”

Shirley nodded. “He tell you what happened to Gulpepper?”

“No.”

“Went mad. Had a wife.” Shirley pointed to one of the portraits. The woman depicted was beautiful, and young, with long straight brown hair. She had incredibly sad eyes, Patrick thought, despite the gentle smile she wore. Next to that was another painting, the same woman with a man in a suit, looking grave. Gulpepper himself, Patrick presumed. Another painting showed Gulpepper with a tall, thin, white-haired man. “Gulpepper married her in Sydney and brought her down here,” Shirley went on. “She gave birth to four children in six years while the town grew. There’s a museum in town, talks all about the early history of The Gulp. You should take a look. Anyway, he killed them all.”

“What?” Simone’s word was more a gasp.

“I told you, he went mad. One night, people saw him on the cliff top, where the lighthouse is now? The lighthouse wasn’t finished at the time, only half-built. Anyway, a few people saw the Governor standing on the cliff edge, arms raised like he was addressing some gathered crowd, but only the ocean was there. Then he stretched up and leaped, dived right off the cliff. The people ran to see, and his body was washing back and forth against the rocks, broken and bleeding. They weren’t able to retrieve him from there, and by the time they’d rowed a boat around the point, the body was nowhere to be found. So the story goes.

“Anyway, they sent a couple of people up here, to tell his wife. They found four long wooden stakes standing up in the garden, out there by the front of the house. On each stake, one of his children had been impaled, skewered from arse to mouth like little human kebabs. All of them between three and nine years old.”

“Fucking hell,” Patrick said. Ciara was silent and pale beside him. Torsten and Simone sat tight-lipped, both leaning forward in fascination.

“His wife was inside. She was naked. Laid out on the floor like a star, like when you make a sand angel on the beach, yeah? Except her arms and legs and her head were all chopped from her body and separated by a few feet. Sorta spread out.”

“That’s horrible,” Ciara said.

“That’s The Gulp,” Shirley said.

“Why did he do it?” Patrick asked.

Shirley shrugged. “No one knows. He went mad. Why does anyone do the mad shit they do? Especially here. Kept talking about dreams, people said, but no one really understood it.”

“I’d have trouble living in this place knowing that history,” Torsten said.

Shirley pointed to a spot in the middle of the large room. There were no seats there, just a big rug. “Right there is where they found her. If you move the rug you can still see the blood.”

“After more than a hundred and fifty years?” Ciara said, aghast. “Surely not.”

“Soaked into the wood and never came out. Sanded, stained, varnished, the blood always comes through. Have a look if you want.”

“I don’t want!” Ciara said. “Why hasn’t anyone just torn up the floorboards and replaced them?”

Shirley grinned. “Apparently they have. Three times. The blood always comes back. I need another drink.” She stood and walked over to the large dresser with the bottles without another word or a backward glance.

“Fucking hell,” Patrick said. “Think that’s true?”

“I think maybe some is true and a lot is embellished,” Torsten said.

“Embellished?” Simone asked. They spoke a moment in German, then Simone nodded. “Yes, agree. They have a…” She looked at Torsten again. “Das Ansehen.”

“Yes, a reputation,” Torsten said. “A brand to maintain, yes? They’re even still in makeup.”

“Musicians,” Ciara said. “Like all creatives, they’re a bit weird.”

“Shots!”

The room cheered as Edgar turned from the dresser with a large silver tray. It was covered in shot glasses, each filled with a pale green liquid. He moved around the room and each person took a glass, then held it, waiting. He got to Patrick and friends and they followed suit.

“Absinthe?” Patrick asked.

Edgar grinned. “Sort of. It’s a Blind Eye Moon special. We call it Blind Eye Moonshine.”

He put the tray down and took a glass of his own, then turned to the room. “To the mind! To the power of the intellect! To imagination!”

“To imagination!” everyone shouted back.

Patrick looked at his friends. “To imagination!”

They smiled and slammed their shots, along with everyone else. The Blind Eye Moonshine was sweet and tart at the same time, and hellaciously strong. It burned on the way down and then seemed to instantly heat Patrick from the inside out like a supernova in his gut.

“Holy shit!” Ciara said, looking at her empty glass.

Torsten blew air out and Simone said, “Phew!”

“That was quite something,” Patrick muttered. His vision swam a little.

“You like it?” Edgar asked. “This is the only place in the world you can get it.”

Patrick’s lips felt numb, his tongue swollen. “It’s quite something,” he said again, lost for any other words.

Edgar leaned over behind where Shirley had been sitting and came up with an acoustic guitar. He sat on the arm of the sofa, put the guitar on his knee, and began to play. He picked out a haunting melody that immediately insinuated its way into Patrick’s blood. Then he began chords and started to sing in a strange language. It was similar to Gaelic, which Patrick spoke, but not quite the same. He listened hard, almost understood phrases, then they slipped away again.

A clean, lilting melody came over the top and Patrick saw Clarke had found a guitar too, playing along in harmony. Shirley came and stood behind a nearby armchair, using her palms to play a soft beat against its leather back. Howard, short of a bass guitar presumably, picked up the tray of shots and went around the room again. Everyone held their glasses up and Edgar paused briefly and said, “To imagination!” then continued his song.

“To imagination,” the others in the room said and downed their shots once more.

The heat grew in Patrick, spreading through his body like ink dripped in water. He decided maybe he wouldn’t have any more if he was offered, it seemed like more than simple alcohol, however strong. He liked it a lot, and that’s what gave him pause. He liked it too much.

The night grew late, the band playing quiet and powerful acoustic songs. Howard even came up with an acoustic bass and played a hypnotic solo that seemed to stretch sound like rubber.

Despite his earlier decision, Patrick had a third shot of Blind Eye Moonshine and time stretched then as well. He and his friends talked with other partygoers, they talked with the band between songs, they drank more still, but bourbon now, and Bundaberg rum. The strange green liqueur wasn’t offered again, for which Patrick was vaguely thankful, though he missed it too.

He found himself staring out the front bay window of the large room, across a well-manicured lawn and old, established shrubs. The view dropped away after the garden and he realised he saw a faint pale smudge in the distance and a soft horizon. He was looking at the ocean, far away over the roofs of the Gulp, and dawn had begun to lighten the sky.

The room had fallen to silence and Patrick tore his gaze away from the view to see why. As he did so, Edgar began to sing. That same strange almost-Gaelic language as the first song, but no guitar now, no accompaniment. Just Edgar’s voice, pure and soft, as pitch-perfect with the lilting melody as it had been belting out heavy metal anthems. This melody had something of the lullaby about it. As that thought occurred to Patrick, his eyelids became heavy. He managed to think, He’s putting me to sleep, and a swift, icy rill of panic went through him, then his eyes closed and darkness swept in like the tide.

Patrick dreamed.

The house was dark and still, a cold breeze rippled his hair. Ice rimed every surface, glittering softly in moonlight that leaked through the windows. He took a step forward and something sucked at his shoe. He looked down. He stood in a massive pool of blood, almost black in the darkness. He tried to call out Ciara’s name, but his voice was a whistling wheeze. His throat tightened. His heart began to race, breath short and shallow. He ran to the front window, wet footprints in his wake, and looked out. The moon hung full and heavy over the ocean far away. Then clouds rolled in, roiling dark black and purple. Lightning forked and the surface of the ocean heaved as rain fell. Then the sky split, deep red like a wound, and creatures fell from the clouds. All manner of shapes, long and gangly, short and squat, limbs writhing as they tumbled to the waves. Only tiny silhouettes in the distance, he had no idea what they were, people or something different. A sound forced the hairs on his neck to stand up, a howl, but not animal. Not exactly. Like a person trying to howl like a wolf.

Pounding feet on floorboards, rushing up behind him. He spun around, but no one was there. He tried to call Ciara’s name again, but only croaked a cloud of condensed breath. A shadow passed the door, out in the hallway, a tall, sinewy figure loping by.

He ran to the door, looked out. No one there. More ice over everything in the hallway, the side tables, portraits, coat rack. A frozen draught came in through the open front door. He went to it, looked out over the opulent entrance, stone steps leading down to the gravel driveway. The dark roiling clouds churned above, a wind blew, cold and carrying the salt scent of the ocean, and something less pleasant. Something rotten.

A long, bony hand with blood red fingernails came down on his shoulder. He cried out, though it was barely a sound, as the hand turned him. The arm was as long and thin as the fingers, attached to a hunched body over seven feet tall, skeletal, with fish-belly pale skin. Except around the eyes, where the flesh was blackened, cobwebs of black veins spreading out over the cheekbones, up over the forehead. The eyes were glowing deep, dark red. The other hand rose in front of his face, the overlong fingers weaving hypnotising patterns in the air. Those deep red eyes stared hard into his as the creature leaned forward, face to face. Its breath was a marine stench.

He sensed it drawing something from him, sucking something out, some essence. Something important. Whatever it was taking, he needed it, couldn’t spare it. He tried to scream no, but his breath was a whisper. His legs numb, face slack, darkness lay gently over him.

Patrick awoke with a pounding in his head and a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage. He groaned and rolled over, and fell off the couch onto the rug with a thump. He grunted and turned into a sitting position.

“Yeah, it’s a bit like that.”

He looked up to see Ciara smiling at him from an armchair, where she sat curled up, knees to her chest, eyes narrow. “You too?”

She grimaced. “Haven’t had a headache like this in a while.”

“We haven’t drunk like that in a while.”

“Truth.”

Patrick looked around the room, saw most of the previous night’s revellers were gone, but four or five remained. Torsten and Simone were spooned on a couch perpendicular to the one he’d just fallen from, both still sleeping. “We all just passed out last night?” he asked.

“Guess so. I don’t remember.”

“Can I smell bacon?”

Ciara nodded, then winced. “Coffee too.”

“Gods be praised.”

“Careful who you pray to in this town, hey.”

They turned to see Howard, the bass player, carrying a tray piled with bread rolls and that enticing smell of bacon. He leaned down and let them take one each.

“Get these into ya,” Howard said. His voice was gravelly, but kind. “They’ll cure what ails ya.”

“Coffee,” Shirley said, putting a large metal jug on the same dresser as the booze that had caused all their problems.

Well, maybe not all of it, Patrick reflected. The green moonshine Edgar had shared around was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t seen where that came from.

The bacon roll was amazing, greasy and salty enough to start counteracting his hangover. As he chewed, he went and fetched himself and Ciara a coffee. Torsten and Simone had woken when he came back, so he turned right around and got them one each too.

When he came back, Howard offered him another bacon roll. “Plenty to go around.”

Shirley put some music on, but turned down low. Patrick recognised it but couldn’t place it. Nineties grunge of some kind. The few remaining revellers drifted off over the next half hour or so, thanking the band for the hospitality. The last one to leave spoke quietly to Edgar for a moment and kept glancing back at Patrick as he did so. Edgar squeezed the guy’s shoulder, said something with a reassuring face. The guy nodded and left and Edgar came to sit next to Patrick. The rest of the band joined them, all eight sat in a loose circle on two couches and three armchairs.

“Had enough to eat?” Edgar asked.

They nodded, smiled.

“You’re very kind,” Patrick said. “It’s good of you to do this, something for your real fans after a gig, yeah?”

Edgar smiled. “Something like that. Some of these people have followed us for a while.”

Patrick realised all four band members still had the dark makeup, the crimson contacts. It hadn’t registered at first, and that surprised him. He nodded at Edgar’s face. “You’re really committed to your bit, huh?”

“It’s just who we are, man.”

“Must be tiring. Don’t you feel like some days you just can’t be bothered?”

“How do you know we don’t?”

Patrick nodded. “I guess you keep it up while people are around or when you go out, but that’s all?”

“Maybe.”

“I feel strange,” Simone said quietly.

They all turned to look at her. Torsten said something in German and the two had a quiet conversation for a moment.

“Everything okay?” Patrick asked.

“Probably the drink, that’s all,” Torsten said.

Edgar laughed, but good-naturedly. “Our moonshine can have a lasting effect, especially if you’re not used to it.”

“What is that stuff exactly?”

“Exactly, Patrick? I can’t tell you. Secrets! It’s just a homebrew spirit, that’s all.”

“If I’m honest, I feel a little weird too,” Ciara said. “I’m wiped out.”

“Everyone drank a lot,” Clarke said. “And we were up all night. It’s barely noon now. You don’t have to be anywhere, do you?”

Ciara shook her head. “We were going to stay in Monkton last night and tonight. Find a motel bed instead of cramped together in the campervan. Then head on towards Sydney.”

“Ended up cramped on couches and armchairs instead,” Torsten said with a rueful laugh.

“Well, you’re here now,” Edgar said. “You want to stay with us tonight as well? We’ve plenty of rooms, you can have a proper bed tonight, showers, all that stuff. Better than a Monkton fucking motel, that’s for sure. Have a look around The Gulp today. There’s really nowhere else like it.”

“Thankfully,” Shirley said quietly.

The other band members chuckled softly.

Edgar stood up. “You want to? Come on, I’ll show you your rooms. All your stuff is in your camper outside, right?”

They looked at each other and Ciara and Torsten nodded. Simone looked uncertain, but she also looked a little more sick and pale.

“Sure, why not,” Patrick said.

Edgar gave them rooms side by side. There was even a door inside, joining the two. Each room had a large bed of dark wood, a small sink in the corner, a set of drawers and a dressing table. They were like nicely appointed rooms in an old-fashioned hotel. Across the hall was a huge bathroom with a shower cubicle and a claw-foot bath, which was theirs alone to use. The band apparently had other rooms and bathrooms, at the opposite end of the sprawling upper storey.

“People usually crash on the couches like last night,” Edgar said. “But we often have people stay for a while, so we keep the guest rooms nice. Pretty good, eh? Anyway, we have to practice, so make yourselves at home. Head off into town whenever you like, and if you’re back by about seven you can eat with us. Howard is whipping up one of his famous curries tonight. You’ll like it, I promise.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and strolled away.

“Great local hospitality,” Torsten said. “This is the beauty of travelling with no agenda. Cool things happen.”

“Shall we take a look around The Gulp?” Patrick said.

Simone groaned. “Shower and change first.” She went through the adjoining door to the room she was sharing with her brother. Edgar had offered them each a room, but Simone had said she wanted to stay with Torsten.

“See you downstairs in half an hour?” Torsten said.

“Perfect.” Patrick fancied a shower and change himself.

They walked down the hill and came to the main street leading into town, turned right towards the harbour. A park with a decent sized playground on one side, shops and a few cafes on the other. They found the museum, an old sandstone building, but it was closed up, with no opening hours displayed anywhere. A tattered poster had been pinned to the door, faded with time and rain. It asked, Have you seen Daniel? and featured a grainy photo of a lank-haired youth.

On the far side of the park, a road led back up to the north side of town, more houses of varying age spreading out. Then a path ran around the harbour. The water glittered in a large half circle and on the far side was the harbour proper, with breakwater walls and a variety of boats moored up. Most were fishing boats, but a few leisure vessels bobbed among them. On the far side of the harbour was a row of buildings that ended with a large fish and chip shop.

“Back here for lunch?” Ciara said.

They walked out along the headland beyond the harbour, all the way to the lighthouse that marked the end point. It was tall, stark white against the sky. Patrick imagined it half-built, Governor Gulpepper standing on the cliff edge with his arms raised. He vaguely remembered blood red clouds and things falling but had no idea why that image was in his mind. A cold wind blew across and he shivered.

“I can’t get used to it being winter in the middle of the year,” Patrick said. “Nearly July and it’s cold.”

“Hardly cold compared to our winters,” Torsten said.

“Well, no, but you know what I mean. I’m glad I have a sweater on.”

“I like it,” Simone said. “Clear and sun but not hot. Remember you the last trip?” she asked Torsten.

He laughed. “Yeah, that was hot! We came to Australia once before, and we started in Darwin, but it was January. So hot and humid, it was awful.”

“There’s a beach down there,” Ciara said, pointing over the south side of the head.

They walked down that way, taking their time to enjoy the views, and found the beach was quite small, but it had a nice aspect and was low between the head and the next rise of land, so it was sheltered. Behind the gravelly black sand was another park, another set of bright plastic play equipment. Four people sat at one of the picnic tables, the only others there. They were a strange bunch, Patrick thought. A young woman, a middle aged woman and man, and an elderly man. Maybe a family group? But they didn’t look alike other than they were all incredibly pale. They just sat there, staring at nothing, not talking. They gave Patrick the creeps.

A noticeboard stood at the corner of the park, weathered wood with scratched Perspex in front. It had a variety of community notices, flyers for yoga classes, local produce, Man And A Van For Hire. But one entire side was dedicated to posters about missing people. The Have you seen Daniel? poster was there again, along with about a dozen others. Mostly young people, but not all, with bold headings like MISSING and HELP US FIND STACEY. Ciara stood staring at them and Patrick looked over her shoulder. He opened his mouth to say something, but Torsten interrupted his thoughts.

“It’s volcanic.”

Patrick turned. “What is?”

“The sand. Well, the whole area, I suppose. Lots of white sand beaches and wide-open bays along the coast of Australia, but this rough black stuff has to be volcanic.”

“Danke, nerd,” Simone said.

“Let’s go back for lunch,” Ciara said. “I’m getting hungry again.”

“Two bacon rolls weren’t enough?” Patrick asked.

“I only had one!”

They went back to the fish and chip shop and stared at the menu board. Eventually they picked a combination of blue grenadier, chips, a seafood basket and four cans of soda. The woman behind the counter seemed entirely uninterested as she took the order, almost as though she were annoyed they were there at all. Patrick took out his credit card and she said, “Cash only,” in a tired, put-upon voice.

“In this day and age?”

She pointed to a small A4 sheet of paper with CASH ONLY typed on it that had been taped to the bottom of the menu. “It’s right there.”

Patrick turned to the others. “We have any cash?”

Between them they came up with enough for about half the order and adjusted it accordingly.

“You must lose a lot of business this way,” Patrick said as he paid.

The woman ignored him, put the cash in the till, and turned away to start preparing the food.

“Jesus, between the rudeness and the cash only thing, I’m amazed this place is still in business.”

“Maybe it’s a front for organised crime,” Torsten said with a grin.

“Let’s draw some cash out on the way back,” Ciara said. “In case other places are like this.”

There were tables and chairs out the front that overlooked the water, the harbour to their left, open ocean to the right. After about ten minutes, Patrick went back inside to check on the order and there were several wrapped parcels on the counter.

“Is that ours?” he asked.

The woman looked around theatrically. “You see anyone else here?”

“Were you going to call us or just leave it there to go cold?”

The woman rolled her eyes and went back into the kitchen area behind the counter. She scowled at him through the long hatch until he turned away.

He gathered up the food and, unable to help himself, turned back. “You’re fucking rude, you know that? Maybe you’d be better suited to a different job.”

The woman stared at him, face blank, until he shook his head and took the food back outside.

For all the terrible service, the meal wasn’t too bad, but far from the best they’d had. Regardless, the extra grease seemed to chase away the last of the previous night’s over-indulgence. Even Simone looked more or less back to normal as they walked back around the town, idly browsing shops.

Patrick chose not to say anything, he didn’t want to seem judgemental, but there were a number of odd-looking people in The Gulp. One fellow he saw walking a dog had no nose, which he found strangely disturbing. Maybe cancer had eaten it off? Others seemed overly pale, or strangely long of limb. Still others, the majority he supposed, were entirely normal-looking folks. But there was an edge of oddness to the town he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was simply isolation.

As he stood outside a bookshop while his friends browsed the shelves, he looked out towards the north. The houses climbed the hill, lots of them in undulating geological waves, leading up to thick bush in the distance. The cliff of the northernmost head was just visible, crowded with vegetation right up to the edge. Given what they’d driven through, he assumed the south side of town was largely the same. A weird little pocket of civilisation in what Torsten had called unusually old forest. He was fascinated by the place but would be happy to drive on the next day.

It was a little after five and beginning to get dark as they trudged up the steep hill on the western edge of town, back to The Manor. The band were there, all in their makeup like before. Patrick was getting used to it but thought their commitment to it was a little bit try-hard. He’d like to see them without it, see the real people beneath the façade. He mentioned as much to Torsten as they sat with a beer in the large lounge room, night darkening the windows.

“Maybe it’s like Batman,” Torsten said.

“What?”

“Is Bruce Wayne the real person, and Batman his alter ego. Or is Batman real and Bruce Wayne the fake mask he wears?”

“Well, it’s obviously…” Patrick didn’t finish as the thought took root in his mind. “Actually, now you mention it.” He laughed.

“You see. So maybe the band is real, yes?”

Edgar stuck his head in the door. “Grub up!”

They followed him to the back of the house into a big kitchen. It had a massive iron range cooker, copper pots and pans hanging from a cradle over a wide marble work surface. At the far end was an old oak table, scored and stained, but solid as the day it was made. Which must have been a long time ago, Patrick thought. It easily seated twelve given the dozen chairs around it, so the eight of them had plenty of room.

Howard put plates down and then a metal pot of steaming rice. They served themselves as Howard went back to the stove, then came back with two more oversized saucepans, one in each hand. Patrick marvelled at the man’s grip strength, carrying them easily. He put them on the table and pointed.

“That one is chicken masala. That one is beef vindaloo. I hope you like it spicy.”

“How spicy?” Ciara asked with a wince.

“You’re not into hot food?” Howard said. “Hmm. Better stick to the chicken then.”

The food was incredible. The vindaloo blisteringly hot, but so full of flavour, the masala smooth and creamy. They all had second helpings, Patrick and his friends repeatedly telling Howard how good it all was. He smiled and nodded but said nothing. Once they were full, they retired back to the lounge room. Shirley put a DVD into the player under the huge TV and John Carpenter’s The Thing, started up.

“Oh, this is one of the best horror films ever made!” Torsten said happily.

“Oh no. Not for me,” Simone said.

“You don’t like horror films?” Shirley asked.

“Not really. But is okay, I am tired. I go to bed. Maybe read. I don’t want more…” She glanced at Torsten. “Der Albtraum.”

He nodded. “Nightmares. We both had bad dreams last night.”

“Nightmares, yes. Thank you for lovely dinner.” Simone smiled and left the room, headed upstairs.

“I had terrible dreams last night too,” Patrick said. “I’d forgotten, but she just reminded me.”

“Did you dream of the fall?” Edgar asked.

“The fall?”

“When the creatures fell to the sea, off what’s now Carlton Beach.”

“How do you know that?”

Edgar laughed. “Everyone who sleeps in The Gulp dreams of the fall.”

Patrick looked at Torsten, then Ciara. They both nodded, eyes concerned.

“How can we have all dreamed the same thing?” Patrick asked.

“Just one of the many strange things about this cursed town, my friend.” Edgar turned back to the movie, slumping down in the couch. The other band members all kept their eyes on the screen.

Patrick wondered about the other part of his dream, that was only flitting around his mind in disconnected gossamer images. Something tall and thin. Some sensation of loss. He wanted to ask Torsten and Ciara about that but couldn’t find the words.

He watched the film, uncomfortable. And he had even more reason to look forward to the morning and their onward journey.

Halfway through the movie, Edgar got up and offered drinks. Patrick had a bourbon, but decided it would only be the one. He didn’t want to feel again what he’d felt that morning. Ciara and Torsten both accepted a second round a little later as MacReady dipped red hot wire in a petri dish on screen. Ciara threw Patrick a surprised look when he declined, but she said nothing.

When the film ended, Edgar said, “Shots!”

“Oh, not again,” Torsten said.

Edgar went to the drinks dresser anyway and turned back with several shot glasses of the pale green Blind Eye Moonshine. He walked over, offered them around.

“I don’t think so,” Torsten said.

“Come on, man! Just one. Especially if you’re leaving tomorrow. You can’t get this anywhere else in the world.”

Torsten laughed and took a glass. “Just one!”

“Same for me,” Ciara said, taking one.

Edgar turned to Patrick, but he shook his head.

“You sure?” Edgar asked.

“Yeah, really. Thanks though.”

“Okay, it’s your loss.”

The band took one each and Edgar said, “Imagination!”

They all downed the shots. The band made no reaction at all, but Torsten and Ciara both shuddered and grimaced.

“It’s so weird,” Ciara said. “The sensation is kinda horrible, but it’s also delicious.” She drew in a long breath. “And there’s that lovely spread of warmth. Really, what is this stuff.”

Edgar smiled, and shook his head. “Another?”

“No, thanks,” Patrick said. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

Ciara shook his hand off her forearm. “It’s barely after ten o’clock.”

“You know, I will have another,” Torsten said.

“Me too!” Ciara said, casting a defiant glance at Patrick.

“Shirley, you want to get the drinks?” Edgar said. “I feel like playing a song.”

Several guitars were on their stands along one wall behind a sofa and Edgar picked one up. Patrick had a sudden and urgent desire to not hear the man sing. He didn’t want to hear that strange not-quite-Gaelic language again. His gut shivered with a kind of trepidation.

“You sure you won’t come to bed?” he asked Ciara. He tried to put a little intent into his voice, tried to make something tempting of his expression like he wanted to spend some private time with his girlfriend. But his discomfort must have simply made him look weird.

Ciara frowned, then laughed, a little embarrassed. “You can crash if you like. Are you feeling okay?”

“A little off if I’m honest. Will you come with me?”

She tipped her head to one side. “You really want me to? I’d like to stay and hear Edgar play.” Her eyes seemed more challenging than sympathetic.

Patrick chewed his lower lip, uncertain. Should he insist on her coming? Would she, even if he did? And why was he so uncomfortable?

“You go,” Ciara said. “I promise I’ll follow you up soon, okay? I’m tired too. Maybe half an hour, I’ll join you.”

Patrick nodded. He could hardly insist she come now when she’d made such a seemingly reasonable offer. “Okay.”

Edgar grinned and perched on the arm of a couch, put the guitar on his knee. Patrick almost ran up the stairs, so desperate was he not to hear the man’s song.

He waited half an hour, and Ciara didn’t come. He thought about going back down, checking on her. But he’d looked like such a fool if he pulled a stunt like that. They were leaving the next day, he decided to focus on that. He got ready for bed, brushed his teeth, took a leak, then padded back across the hall to his room.

He’d been in bed only a few minutes, still no sign of Ciara, when he heard a sound. He froze, listened hard. Something was moving above the ceiling. He remembered the high, A-frame roof of The Manor, imagined there must be quite an attic up there.

The sound stopped for a moment, then resumed. Something moving, something quite large. Then definite footsteps. Was a person up there? One of the band?

He heard Simone’s voice from next door. Something in German, and he caught Torsten’s name. He smiled. If Torsten was heading to bed, surely Ciara would be up any moment. He turned his ear back to the ceiling, wondering at the possibility of a person there, but was distracted again by another voice from the room next door.

“Not Torsten. It’s Clarke.”

Patrick sat up in bed, alarmed, then hurried to the adjoining door and put his ear to it. Clarke was so quiet and unassuming compared to the others in the band.

“Clarke? What you want?”

“Torsten is enjoying a drink and a song downstairs. You want some company?”

“Clarke. I don’t know.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me. You like what you see, huh?”

Patrick frowned. If he was honest, Clarke was probably the best looking of the guys. They were all lean, that hard-body rock star aesthetic. The three of them all had long hair, Edgar blond and the other two black, whether natural or dyed he couldn’t tell. But Clarke’s hair was thick and shining, his jaw square, strong cheekbones. And he had that quiet, brooding thing going on.

“I’ve got a little drink for us,” Clarke said. His voice had moved into the room now, Patrick imagined him at the foot of Simone’s bed.

“What is it? Not the moonshine?”

Clarke laughed. “Of course the Blind Eye Moonshine. Come on, just a sip.”

“I don’t know.”

Patrick fought an urge to swing the door wide, confront Clarke, tell the bastard to leave Simone alone. That would be the worst white knighting. She was a grown-up, she didn’t need saving. Not yet anyway. If she tried to send Clarke away and he refused, then Patrick would get involved.

Simone’s bed creaked. “Clarke, I don’t know.”

“How about I try to convince you?”

“Oh? How?”

“Here, take this. Have a drink. Just a sip. That’s the way. Now lie back and spread these lovely long legs.”

Simone gasped.

“Good?” Clarke asked, a little muffled.

“Oh… OH!”

Patrick shook his head and moved away from the door. It was all their business now. And if Clarke was so certain Torsten wouldn’t disturb them, perhaps it was a safe bet that Ciara would stay for more drinks too. He felt at a loss, stranded on his own in a crowded house.

The noises from the next room became more urgent, more excited. Patrick got back into bed and pressed the pillow over his head. Eventually, despite all his discomforts, he fell asleep. And dreamed.

He stood on a beach surrounded by thick, verdant bush. Strangely ancient vegetation, thick trees with even thicker undergrowth. He couldn’t imagine being able to fight his way through it, but where was the town? A stench of rot filled his nose, made his bile rise. He looked down to see the gravelly black sand was slick with even blacker, oily slime. Rain fell, cold and stinging against his face, stuck his hair flat to his head. The wind was cold and heavy, pendulous clouds, arcing with streaks of purple lightning, filled the lowering sky. He almost felt as though he would be able to reach up and touch them. Gaping red wounds opened in the clouds and things fell, far out near the horizon. Things that writhed and flapped and flexed as they tumbled down. Then nearer, close enough to see some details, though most was lost to silhouette through the haze of rain and darkness. Was it night or a stormy day? Some creatures had seemingly too many limbs, certainly more than four. Some had appendages that whipped like tentacles in the wind of their falling. They hit the turbulent waves and sank away.

He sensed eyes on him and turned. A tall, thin, pale figure stood just past the tree line, watching him. Its long arms hung at its sides, blood red nails pointing at the slime. Ribs and hips jutted from that too pale skeletal frame, red eyes in their black nests of cobwebbed veins never left his, never blinked. Another joined it. Then a third. Then a fourth, though this one was a little different, slightly altered in shape. Three male and a female he realised, his thoughts almost too slippery to lock down. Something roamed back and forth just behind the four, in the shadows of the trees. Something like them but taller, more bent and crooked. They raised their long-fingered hands, the four, and beckoned to him. He shivered, knowing that to go to them meant certain doom, but compelled to do just that. He tried to cry out a denial, but only managed a broken croak. He turned to run, slipping and sliding on the rotten ichor that covered the beach, washing up with the churning waves. Out there, the creatures continued to fall from rents in the heavy, lightning-struck clouds.

He ran anyway, falling, hands slapping into the ooze that stank like rotten flesh. He staggered up, ran again, fell again. Over and over he climbed to his feet, ran, and fell, but he refused to look back towards the trees, refused to even acknowledge their presence, beckoning him. Over and over again he ran and fell until, exhausted, sobbing, he lay in the fetid slime and didn’t try to rise again.

Patrick woke as the grey light of dawn smudged the windows where he’d neglected to draw the curtains. He felt more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed, his dreams fresh and frightening in his memory, but tattering and fluttering away even as he tried to hold onto them.

He sat up, bereft. Ciara lay next to him, calm and relaxed in her sleep. In the low light, she seemed thinner, her cheeks hollowed by shadows. But he smiled, glad to see her there. She’d come to bed eventually, and today they could leave.

He didn’t want to wake her even an hour later as the sun streamed in through the window. Another bright, clear, blue day, but cold outside, dew glittering on the grass below. Patrick trudged downstairs, found Howard and Edgar talking quietly in the kitchen as they worked on breakfast. A huge pan of scrambled eggs sat on the stove. If nothing else, the band were feeding them well.

“Mornin’, champ,” Edgar said. “Sleep well?”

“Not really, no.”

“That’s a shame. After your early night and everything.”

“I seem to have bad dreams here.”

Howard laughed. “Everyone has bad dreams here.”

Patrick frowned. They were still in makeup. Could he fool himself any longer? It clearly wasn’t makeup. But what the hell did that mean. The two stared at him with their dark, crimson eyes. Their red nails glittered. Patrick’s dreams skittered around the edges of his mind, details smudging even as he tried to hold onto them.

“You can go whenever you want,” Howard said.

“What?”

“The Gulp has a habit of swallowing people,” Edgar said. “But sometimes it spits one out.”

“What?” Patrick said again.

“Mornin’ all youse cunts.”

They turned to see Clarke stroll in, grinning.

“Seen a ghost, Patrick?” he asked.

Patrick ran a hand through his hair, trying to get a grip on the morning’s proceedings. Leave, that’s all there was to it. They were leaving today. Concentrate on that.

Shirley came in, went to the counter. “Morning, fuckers. I’ll get the toast on. Get your friends up, Pat, or the eggs will be cold.”

“Fuck.” At a loss, he did as he was told. He knocked on the Germans’ door first, and Torsten grunted a query. “Breakfast is ready.”

“Okay, be right there.”

He went into his own room, sat on the edge of the bed. Ciara turned over and smiled up at him. “Morning.” She looked pale, and he thought she really had lost weight. Her cheeks were hollow, not just shadowed.

“You okay?”

“Sure. Just really tired, is all.”

“Sleep well?”

She grimaced. “Ugh. Nightmares, I tell you. These tall creatures with black and red eyes, chasing me.”

A shiver passed through Patrick. “They catch you?”

“Every time! And they kinda suck something out of me, like they’re draining me, then I wake up. Then it starts over again.”

Patrick shook his head. “Fuck this place. We’re leaving today, heading on towards Sydney, yeah?”

“Sure, if you want.”

“I do want.”

“Okay. You all right?”

She looked suddenly scared. Was she taking his lead? If he seemed scared, did she take that seriously? Perhaps, and if so, that was okay with him. “Yeah, I’m all right. I just want to get on, that’s all.”

They sat around the big kitchen table and tucked into the eggs. For a couple of minutes it was a companionable silence, then Edgar said, “So what’s the plan for today?”

“Heading off,” Patrick said quickly. “On up the coast towards Sydney.”

“You don’t fancy staying a bit longer? You’re welcome, you know.”

“Thanks, but I think–”

“I want to stay,” Simone said. She glanced at Clarke and gave him a sly smile. He winked at her.

Ciara looked from Simone to Clarke and back again. “Oh! That’s where you went last night?”

Clarke shrugged, grinned at his breakfast.

“We need to get on,” Patrick said.

“Stick around for the week,” Edgar said. “We’re playing in Enden on Friday, you could head off from there.”

“It’s only Monday,” Patrick said, and hated the edge of panic in his voice.

“Farmer’s Markets today,” Shirley said. “This afternoon. You should check them out, down at Carlton Beach.”

“Oh, hey, get me some bugs!” Howard said. “I’ll make a special dinner.”

“Fucking bugs?” Patrick said.

Howard laughed. “You heard of Moreton Bay Bugs? No? Sometimes they’re called slipper lobsters or flathead lobsters. Anyway, they’re a kinda of lobster, obviously. There’s a variety you can only get right here, around this part of the coast. Go north of Enden or south of Monkton and you don’t get them any more. A few of the local fisherman always have them for sale at the markets. Get a bunch and I’ll make this amazing chili pasta dish with them for dinner.”

“Sounds amazing,” Ciara said.

“It’s to die for,” Edgar said with a grin. He looked at Patrick as he said it.

“Okay,” Torsten said. “Let’s stick around a bit longer, yeah?”

“Sure,” Ciara said.

“I want to,” Simone said, and shifted her chair nearer to Clarke’s. He leaned over and kissed her. The other band members laughed.

Edgar still held Patrick’s gaze.

Patrick tore his eyes away. “I thought we agreed to leave today.”

“Does it matter?” Torsten said. “We have no real agenda.” He rubbed under his eyes and Patrick thought the German looked a little pale and drawn too. All three of his friends did.

“I want to hear the band play again,” Ciara said. “You really don’t mind us staying here the week?” She looked at Patrick. “It’s free accommodation too!” She quickly turned back to Edgar. “We’ll buy some food and booze, of course! We don’t expect you to keep us.”

Edgar shrugged. “I already told ya, me cassa, you cassa.”

“Tell you what,” Patrick said. “We’ll stay if you four wash off your makeup!”

Edgar laughed, the other three grinned.

“Patrick, don’t be rude!” Ciara said. She looked at him with a shocked expression.

“How is that rude?”

“Excuse him,” Ciara said to the band.

“Don’t excuse me!” Patrick looked around the group and they all looked back, every one of them with some kind of surprise or pity in their eyes. How was he the odd one out here? “You won’t take it off? Or you can’t?”

“Patrick!”

Edgar raised his palms. “We are who we are, mate.”

“And who are you, exactly?”

“You want to change us?” Shirley asked. “We would never ask you to change.”

“Patrick, please,” Ciara said. “What’s got into you?”

“Nothing! I’m not the one under their fucking spell.”

“Chill out, yeah?” Ciara said, laying a hand on Patrick’s forearm. “It’s cool here, is it not? Hanging out with a rock band, immersing ourselves in local culture.”

“I’m not really a fan of this culture, Ciara.”

She smiled, shook her head. “Chill out. It’ll be a nice week, then we can get a room in Enden, watch the gig, crash there, and hit the road again on Saturday. No real plans, remember? Let the trip take us where it will, isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, but–”

“But nothing. We made new friends, we’re seeing new things. It’s just a week, we have months more ahead of us.”

Patrick ground his teeth, looked around the group. They band smiled, patient and relaxed. Edgar seemed a little more smug than the others. Torsten and Simone wouldn’t meet his eye. He turned back to Ciara, but her eyes had hardened a little, daring him to challenge her further. He knew the look.

“Fuck it, I need some fresh air.”

Outside was still winter cool, but the sun warm as he walked across the grass. Patrick felt untethered, lost.

The Gulp has a habit of swallowing people. But sometimes it spits one out.

Patrick took a ragged breath, glancing back at the house. As he started to turn away, movement caught his eye. Something up above. He turned back and saw a window high on the house he hadn’t noticed before. Above the second storey, in the apex under a heavy chimney, a round window with a wooden cross in it making four even quarters of glass. An attic window. Someone looked out of it. Patrick frowned. It was an old man, pale, with long white hair. A moment of recognition tickled Patrick’s mind, but slipped away. He’d heard those footsteps the night before… The man snapped his head around and pinned Patrick with his gaze. Patrick gasped and took an involuntary step backwards, tripping on the edge of a flowerbed. He staggered but managed to regain his balance. When he looked back up, the round attic window was empty.

The Farmer’s Markets transformed the park behind Carlton Beach into bustling activity. Dozens of stalls under Easy-Up canopies were selling pretty much everything imaginable. Fruits and vegetables of every kind, nuts, herbs, mushrooms. Some of the mushrooms on sale looked decidedly weird to Patrick, but he chose not to mention it. There were arts and crafts too. Beeswax candles, watercolours, wooden carvings, leather belts.

“Here’s a seafood stand,” Ciara said, dragging on his hand.

Patrick was still smarting from the earlier shutdown of his concerns, but he tried to play along for now. If nothing else, he needed Ciara to trust him, not start hating him.

They went over, Torsten and Simone with them. The seller had several polystyrene boxes filled with ice, various fish and shellfish laid out on top.

“You have any bugs?” Ciara asked.

The man behind the table was short and squat, with a wide face and eyes too far apart. Looks like a bug himself, Patrick thought uncharitably.

But the man smiled warmly. “Gulpepper Bugs, eh? Keen to try the local cuisine? I can tell from your accent you’re not from around here.”

“We’re told they’re really good.”

“They are, but you have to know how to prepare them safely.”

“Safely?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah, they have a poisonous bit, like some crabs do. You know what to do with them?”

“A friend is doing the cooking,” Ciara said. “A local.”

“Ah, you’ll be right then. How many?”

“Eight, I guess?”

“All right.” The man stepped back and slid a large plastic tub out from under his table. It sloshed with water and he popped the lid off. Dozens of large shellfish, like wide, flat, shortened lobsters hunched and jetted over each other inside.

“Oh, they’re alive?” Ciara said.

The man looked up. “Yeah. You gotta cook ’em fresh. I’ll box ’em for ya, though, make it easy to carry.”

“Can you keep eight aside for us, so we can pick them up later when we’re ready to go back?”

“Sure, if you pay me now.”

“How much?”

The fisherman eyed Ciara for a moment, then smiled. “Let’s say ten bucks each, as you’re new to this.”

“Eighty bucks,” Patrick said. “We’re on a budget.” Ten bucks each for something like lobster actually seemed pretty reasonable, but he didn’t like the idea of eating anything so specifically local to this weird place.

“You’d pay three times that for lobster tails at the supermarket,” Ciara said. “Besides, we’re saving a lot staying with the band and they’ve been giving us loads of food and booze. This is a steal!”

Patrick kept his mouth closed, teeth clenched, as Ciara counted out the eighty dollars. She was right, after all, they’d had a free ride so far. Torsten handed her forty and she smiled at him, slipped some of her money away again.

“We’ll be back in an hour or so, okay?”

“Whenever you like before six.”

It was only a little after four by the time they headed back up the Manor, taking turns to carry the polystyrene box with the shellfish scratching and scuttling around inside. Howard was overjoyed to receive it.

“You remembered!”

“Of course,” Ciara said.

“You beauty! We’ll eat well tonight!” He took the box into the kitchen.

Simone went off with Clarke, holding hands as they went upstairs. Torsten slumped onto a couch next to Edgar and Shirley, where they were watching a movie, drinking beers. He took a bottle from the fridge, held it up asking Patrick if he’d join them.

Patrick shook his head. “Might have a nap.”

He went upstairs, with no intention of sleeping. The stairway gave out onto a wide landing and immediately to the left were four doors. The two rooms they occupied, the bathroom they were using, and one other. He opened that one and saw another guest room, made up like theirs had been. The other way from the top of the stairs led down a long hallway with three doors on either side and one more at the far end. Among those would be the rooms the band members used. He glanced back down the stairs, saw no one, and ventured along.

The first doors on either side were locked. The next two were both bathrooms. The next two were locked. Maybe the band kept their rooms locked, but he wondered why. Perhaps because they had house guests so often?

The door at the end drew his eye. He opened it, surprised as he had expected that to be locked as well. A narrow staircase went up along the wall, into darkness.

Heart hammering, Patrick climbed the steep wooden stairs. They creaked softly, made him wince. When he neared the top, he looked cautiously into the attic space. It was huge, running the entire length of the massive house, with a high, vaulted ceiling under dark A-frame rafters. The floor was solid, polished floorboards. Candles burned here and there, bookcases lined the walls, jammed with hundreds, maybe thousands of books. Light leaked in at the far end from the round window he’d seen from outside. In one far corner was a curtained off area, but he caught a glimpse of a ceramic sink through a gap in the curtains. In the other far corner was a huge, mahogany four poster bed. It had a heavy, deep red velvet canopy, with side curtains all tied back to the posts. Someone lay in the bed.

As Patrick noticed them, the person moved, began to sit up. Cadaverously thin, moon pale, with long, white hair. Patrick ducked back out of sight and froze, heart hammering.

“Edgar, lad?” The voice was wheezing and thin but echoed with lost strength. Something about it chilled Patrick to his bones.

There was shuffling and soft grunts of effort as the old man moved.

“Someone else, eh? Have I got a visitor? Or did I dream it? Hard to tell these days…”

Patrick gritted his teeth in panic, looked down the steep staircase to the rectangle of inviting light below. He didn’t dare move, give himself away. He looked up again, into the gloom of the attic. Another grunt and the definite sound of a footstep. The old man groaned softly, then made the universal noise of someone stretching, though it was a dusty, weak sound.

“Let’s have a look at you!” The old white head surged into view right above him and Patrick yelped in surprise. How had he covered that distance so fast? Without thinking, Patrick half ran, half fell down the thin wooden stairs, clattering as he went, and stumbled out onto the landing. He slammed the door behind him, shutting out a peal of harsh laughter that was anything but frail.

Swallowing hard against powerful adrenaline, he went directly to his room and closed the door.

The meal Howard made was indeed amazing. Even Patrick had to admit it. The bugs had been cleaned, the tender tail meat cooked up into a spicy tomato sauce and served over linguini. Howard had even baked fresh bread and then toasted it with generous slatherings of garlic butter.

“You lucky to have Howard as chef,” Simone said to the others.

“You do all the cooking?” Torsten asked him.

Howard nodded. “Usually. I enjoy it, it’s like a hobby. These fools have a go sometimes when I can’t be bothered.”

“The famous Edgar spag bol!” Shirley said with a laugh.

“Hey, fuck yas!” Edgar said. He turned to Patrick and his friends. “I’ll make my spag bol tomorrow night, see what you think.”

“Ah, what have I done?” Shirley said, slapping the back of her hand to her forehead.

Three bottles of crisp white wine were on the table and Clarke kept everyone’s glass full. Patrick took full advantage, shaken by recent events, thinking maybe a few wines would help. There was no way he would be drinking the Blind Eye Moonshine again though.

The wine did indeed relax him, especially his tongue. After they sat back, sated, and Howard had collected up the plates, Patrick said, “So who’s the old guy in the attic?”

Ciara, Simone and Torsten flashed confused glances his way. Howard, Clarke and Shirley seemed to still, attentive.

Edgar remained relaxed, smiling. “You met Bram?”

Patrick hadn’t expected such a casual response. “Well, not met him exactly.”

“You just had a quick spy on the old fella, is that it?”

“I was exploring the house, is all.”

Edgar nodded. “That right? He’s my… father, I suppose. I told you the house was his.”

“I didn’t know he was in the attic!”

“He lives up there, rarely goes out. He’s very old.”

The other band members snickered.

Patrick had a sudden pulse of realisation. The moment of recognition from the garden earlier, confirmed with his close encounter upstairs. He’d been too shocked to make the connection before, but the old man in the attic, Bram, and the white-haired man in the portrait with Governor Gulpepper… He shook his head. Surely not. Not that old. But they were the same person, he was sure.

“Wait,” Ciara said. “There’s an old man in the attic?”

Edgar laughed. “Don’t sound so shocked. He’s got an entire apartment up there. It’s not like we keep him in a fucking box or something.”

“Your father?” Simone asked.

Edgar paused a moment. “Sort of. The man who made me, shall we say.” He smiled at his band mates. “I guess he’s responsible for all of us in a way.”

“We look after him,” Shirley said. “And he lets us have the house.”

“It works for everyone,” Clarke said.

“Sounds like a good arrangement,” Ciara said. “But we’ve made a lot of noise here and there. We should be more mindful.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Howard said. “The attic is a long way from downstairs. It’s a big house. He doesn’t care anyway.”

Patrick was disarmed. He’d thought to drop a bomb with his revelation but had barely made a ripple. He jumped at a sudden rapping at the front door.

Edgar hopped up. “Company!”

“Expecting guests?” Torsten asked.

“Yeah, few mates coming over. Bit of a party!”

“On a Monday?” Patrick asked and immediately felt stupid.

Everyone laughed, throwing him pitying looks.

“It’s always the weekend in rock’n’roll land!” Edgar said, and went to answer the door.

Patrick shook his head, frowning at the laughter of the band and his friends alike. His stomach churned, like the strange bugs he’d eaten had reanimated and were squirming around inside him.

The others all left the kitchen and headed towards the large living room as voices swelled. Several people must have arrived at once. Only Patrick and Ciara remained sitting at the table.

“What’s up with you?” she asked.

He stared, lips pressed together. “You really can’t see it?”

“See what?”

“This!” He gestured vaguely around himself. “All this. It’s fucked up. It’s wrong.”

“Patrick, you’re the one being weird. Like going to bed early, on your own. You used to love a party, I’d have to drag you home.”

“These people are messed up, Ciara. They’re not good for you.”

She frowned, shook her head. It was almost like she pitied him.

“Have you seen yourself?” he asked. “You’re so thin, so pale. All three of you are. You all look bad. Unhealthy. They’re doing it to you. The band.”

“Are you jealous, Pat?”

“What? No! I’m fucking scared, Ciara. This is not right!”

“Youse coming or what?”

They turned to see Edgar hanging off the kitchen doorframe, grinning.

“Yes, coming,” Ciara said, standing.

Edgar held Patrick’s eye for a moment, then winked, slow and condescending. He turned and left, Ciara close behind. She didn’t look back. Patrick sat alone at the table, feeling hollow inside.

The sounds of partying grew as he sat there, seriously considering slipping away. If it wasn’t for Ciara, if it was just Torsten and Simone, he would get in the campervan right now and drive away. The urge to do just that was strong. But he couldn’t abandon Ciara. He loved her. He wanted to marry her. Somehow, he needed to convince her to see what he saw.

The noise of the party increased. Eventually, Patrick got up and walked around the big house to the front room. He looked in and saw more than twenty people sitting and standing around. The booze was in full flow, people laughed, the music pounded out. “Jesus Saves” he realised, from Slayer’s “Reign In Blood” album. Seminal bloody classic.

Simone sat on Clarke’s lap, their faces close together. Ciara was standing with a group of three strangers, all laughing at something one of them had said. She held a frosty beer bottle. Edgar caught Patrick’s eye and smiled. He gestured, crooking one index finger to invite Patrick in. Patrick scowled, shook his head.

“Let’s start early tonight!” Edgar said loudly. “Shots!”

A cheer went up and the lead singer went over to the drinks cabinet. He glanced back, flicked another wink at Patrick. Patrick wanted to beat the fucker within an inch of his life. He wanted to pound on those weirdly blackened eyes, that he was convinced now weren’t makeup. Why couldn’t the others see it? And he could beat Edgar too, he’d easily smash the skinny musician to a pulp. But it wasn’t just the one man. Patrick couldn’t fight everyone. He turned and trudged upstairs to hide out in his room again. He planned to stay awake until Ciara came up, whenever that might be, and convince her to leave with him.

Despite his determination, sometime after midnight, the muffled thumps and laughter of the party still in full swing below, he fell asleep.

He stood on that slick, blackened beach and stared out over a turgid sea. Something huge and bright and red boomed in the sky and thick clouds blossomed down, arcing with purple lightning. The creatures began to fall. He turned a circle, saw the beach was entirely surrounded by thick bush. Another sudden split in the sky, out there over the land, bright red like an explosion, and another rain of creatures. Some looked dead already, falling limp and unmoving. Others writhed, some vigorously, some weakly. Surely the fall would kill them? The ones over the ocean might survive if they didn’t drown, but these, slamming down into the bush from thousands of feet up, would be smashed to pulp. He squinted into the sudden and drenching icy rain, tried to see what they were, but even in the stark flashes of lightning, they were featureless. Twisted bodies, often too many limbs, tumbling and turning.

He heard scraping sounds behind and spun around, saw those horrible flat, wide lobsters crawling from the surf onto the slimed black sand. Only these were huge, the size of small cars, and their bodies swarmed with hundreds of the small ones, skittering all over their hard carapaces. Babies, he thought. We ate their babies.

He turned again, nervous of the tall, pale creatures wanting him, but they were nowhere to be seen. Some dream fugue part of his mind suggested they wouldn’t come, not yet. Because they weren’t asleep yet, they still partied downstairs. But they would come, soon enough. He wanted to run away and started along the beach, looking for a way out. But the bush was thick and unbroken. He reached one end of the beach and the rocks were rough and climbable, but only to a certain point before they became treacherous and led only to another small cove, this one all rock, the ocean crashing against the stone. He stood on a jutting point and bellowed his rage.

No one heard.

In the early hours of Tuesday morning, dawn smudging the sky outside, he was woken by movement. Ciara crawled into bed beside him.

“We need to talk,” he said. “Please.”

“Later, Pat.” Her voice was thick with sleep and booze. She stank of alcohol. And something he couldn’t place in his half-awake state.

“Please,” he said. “Ciara, it’s too important.”

She turned onto her side, but reached one hand back, patted his chest. “Okay, but in the morning. I’m so tired.”

He sat up, stared at her as her breathing sank instantly into the long, deep cadence of sleep. Maybe he should pick her up while she was passed out, carry her to the campervan and just drive away. Leave everything behind and get out while he still could.

His heart raced at the thought, it was so simple and so perfect.

Soft voices came from the hallway outside. Patrick hopped up, went to the door and opened it a crack to peer out. The four band members came through the door at the far end of the hall. The one that led to the attic where the old man lived. The four of them looked fresh, invigorated even. Did they draw power from the old man somehow? The man who made me, shall we say, Edgar had said.

“Let’s feed,” Edgar said quietly. “See you all in the morning.”

Shirley laughed. “Sweet dreams, my brothers.”

They each slipped into their own rooms using keys from their pockets. At the last moment, Edgar paused and turned to stare right at Patrick. Patrick gasped, jumped, but Edgar only smiled. He winked again, slowly, then went into his room.

“That’s it,” Patrick said, closing his door. “That’s fucking it!”

He dressed and looked at their few belongings. They were backpacking, so travelling light. Mostly clothes and toiletries. He could easily just leave all that behind. He put his phone and wallet into a bumbag he always wore when they travelled across borders. His passport and other important documents were in there. If they lost everything else, this small and ridiculous bag on a belt was all he really needed. Ciara had one too. He searched her side of the bed.

As he looked for her stuff, she moaned and rolled over. Her back arched gently off the mattress and her lips fluttered, almost as though she dreamed of being kissed. Her breath stuttered softly out. Her cheeks seemed to tighten against her skull.

“Fuck it!” Patrick muttered.

Let’s feed…

He found Ciara’s small leather bumbag half under the bed and quickly checked it. Passport, wallet, phone. All the essentials. He strapped that to himself too, his in front, hers behind. Then he turned to the bed, carefully moved back the covers. She wore only an oversized t-shirt and shorts, but that would have to do. He couldn’t hope to dress her.

He slipped his arms underneath and lifted her off the bed, then remembered the closed bedroom door.

“Fuck it!”

He put her down, hurried over and opened the door. Then he remembered the front door downstairs. And the door to the campervan. It had a sliding side door, he could put her in that way, but how would he carry her and open it up. And what about the keys.

A slight sob escaped him. “Think, Patrick!” he told himself. He checked the bumbag and the keys were there. But should he open up all the doors first and then grab Ciara and run?

“What are you doing?”

He gasped, turned back to the bed. Ciara stared at him, frowning. Her eyes were dark as night even though dawn was slowly brightening the room. He was so tired, so confused.

“Ciara, I want to go. I want to go right now.”

She furrowed her brow, like she was seeing him for the first time. “Patrick?”

“I’m serious, Ciara. Please. I can’t explain, and I’m sure you’ll understand more once we get some distance between us and this place. I want to go. We have to go.”

“Patrick, I’m tired. Too tired.”

“Ciara!”

“But okay. Just not right now. It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s dawn.”

“You know what I mean. And what about Torsten and Simone?”

“I… I don’t know.”

She patted the bed beside herself. “Rest, yeah? For now. In the morning, the four of us, we’ll talk about it.”

“I just want to go!”

“All right. But in the morning. We’ll tell Torsten and Simone.”

“If they won’t come, we leave anyway, yeah? Ciara? Please?”

She gave him a crooked half-smile, but her eyes were sad. “Okay, Pat. Okay.”

He drew in a ragged breath and came back to the bed. As Ciara lay down again, he unclipped the two bumbags and tucked both safely just under his side of the bed. He didn’t think he’d sleep any more, but he was so very tired. He drifted in and out of fitful, restless dozing.

The winter sun was bright through the room when he woke. He jerked up, turned to see Ciara, but her side of the bed was empty. Looking at his watch, it was past noon. How had he slept so long? He got up, headed for the door, then paused. He fetched the two bumbags, put them both on as he had the night before, then zipped up his baggy black hoodie. It covered both well enough.

Downstairs a few stragglers from the previous night’s party loitered around on the couches and armchairs. No sign of the band or his friends. He went back upstairs and checked the siblings’ room, but it was empty, the bed neatly made. Or not even slept in.

Back downstairs he searched the kitchen and other parts of the house. Nothing. Back in the lounge room he approached the nearest reveller, a small blonde woman with goth makeup wearing a tight, short-skirted dress and Doc Martens.

“Have you seen my friends?”

“I dunno. Who are your friends?”

“What about Edgar? The rest of the band.”

“They went out. With that German pair and the hot Irish chick.”

“Went out where?”

“I don’t fucken know, mate. I’m not a cop.”

“What?”

The woman hauled herself up out of the chair and staggered off towards the front door. She let herself out. Patrick turned back to the others in the room and they were all getting up, some casting suspicious glances his way.

“Do any of you know where the band went?” Patrick asked. “Or my friends? Ciara, Torsten and Simone?”

“What are you, their fucken dad?” one tall, long-haired young dude asked. He laughed and left the house.

The others followed and in moments Patrick stood alone in the lounge room, surrounded by the litter of the night before. Bottles and glasses, ashtrays with spliff butts, someone’s shoes. Who had left without their shoes?

Patrick turned a slow circle. Alone in the house. His gaze drifted upwards. Well, not entirely alone…

The man who made me, shall we say.

Patrick began to tremble as thoughts that had been orbiting his mind at a distance began to coalesce. He remembered one of his favourite films, The Lost Boys. Grandpa, right at the end, casually taking a drink from the refrigerator. One thing about living in Santa Carla I never could stomach: all the damn vampires.

Blind Eye Moon weren’t vampires, not exactly, but they were something similar, weren’t they? A week ago, Patrick would have scoffed at the idea, but the things he’d seen the last few days, the realisations he’d made. And they protected that old man upstairs.

The man who made me, shall we say.

Patrick could end all this, if that old man did hold the key to the power the band wielded. Ciara had said she’d talk in the morning with Torsten and Simone and they would leave. So where was she? She’d gone out with the band instead. Didn’t even wake him to invite him along. She’d said they would talk. She didn’t mean it, or didn’t remember. Either way, Edgar and his friends had a hold over her.

Patrick realised he was already heading towards the stairs. He stopped and went to the kitchen instead. He took the biggest carving knife from the wooden block by the stove and returned to the stairs, went up and headed along the hallway. His hand shook as it fell on the door handle but he clenched his teeth and pushed on. It was insane, but he had made a decision. Everything about this was insane. Even the fact that a band as good as Blind Eye Moon would play shitbox gigs like Monkton. From the moment they had struck those first chords, they had been putting spells on Patrick and his friends. But he saw through them. And he had a way out.

He mounted the narrow staircase leading up to the attic, breathing hard through his nose. Though his hands shook, his grip on the knife was unbreakable. The attic was lit from the large window at the end, the old man a collection of sticks under the covers of his bed. Bram, Patrick remembered. Edgar had called him Bram. Patrick braced himself, crept forward. He didn’t know what kind of strength to expect, but thought if he moved fast enough, it wouldn’t be an issue.

He was halfway across the large space when the old man stirred, turned to sit up. “Edgar? That you, boy?”

Bram was skeletally thin, long white hair in greasy tails around his skull-like head. His eyes were dark pools, those same black filament capillaries lost in the wrinkles of his cadaver-pale skin. His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils clouded over, but red like the band. In his shock before, Patrick hadn’t taken much in, beyond that flash of recognition. Now he saw it was indeed the man from the portrait, but so much older. He’d seemed elderly in the painting, now he was ancient.

Bram squinted as the covers fell from his bony shoulders. He wore stripy pyjamas. As Patrick got within a few metres, Bram said, “You again?”

The old man’s eyes widened and he hissed, opening his mouth wide to reveal half a dozen blackened teeth in red and bleeding gums. He lifted clawed hands up like he was about to cast a spell even as he surged from the bed with unnatural speed and agility. Patrick felt a harsh dragging on his chest. He remembered the dream when the creature had seemed to draw something out of him. He imagined the band drawing from his friends like that every night.

Let’s feed.

His breath left him and his vision blurred at the edges, like he was about to pass out. Bram continued to hiss, striding towards him, eyes flickering with red light like a fire burned in them.

Patrick hauled the knife up and it thunked into the old man’s toast rack chest as the distance between them closed. Bram coughed and wailed a high, thin sound. The sensation of drag eased so suddenly that Patrick nearly fell. He drove forward, pushed the old man back onto the bed. He pulled the knife out and slammed it down again. And again. Something warm spattered his face and the bed clothes blossomed with red stains. Bram’s pyjama top was soaked, the blood dark crimson, and he collapsed back.

The thin, keening wail faded and the old man lay still, head tipped back, red eyes staring sightlessly at the headboard. His mouth remained open in a silent scream.

Patrick staggered back, leaving the knife sticking up from Bram’s chest. He looked at his hands, saw them soaked in blood. “I did it!” he laughed, a thrill rushing through him. “I fucking did it!”

He staggered through the curtain into the old man’s bathroom and turned the taps on, washed his hands in the sink. A small mirror hung from the sloping roof above and he saw a scarlet spray of freckles across his face, even over his lips. He gagged and washed his face, again and again. Eventually he felt clean and thought for a moment he might vomit but swallowed it down.

Had Edgar and his friends just crumbled to dust out there in The Gulp, wherever they’d gone? Or had they lost their powers and aged in an instant. Were they older than they looked or not? Edgar had said something about them being around a long time. Patrick grinned. What did it matter? He had destroyed the man who made them. He needed to find his friends. They’d listen now, and they could leave.

He went back into his room thinking about how much other stuff he could take and decided to let his friends decide. They could pack if they wanted, or simply go. He had the most important stuff for himself and Ciara.

He went downstairs, headed for the kitchen and fixed himself a feed. An hour later he began to wonder if he should go out and look for Ciara, but The Gulp was a fairly big town. He could easily miss her. She would have to come back to the Manor at some point. If Edgar and the others had come to some horrible grief when old Bram had died, perhaps Ciara, Torsten and Simone had run into problems. If only their damn phones worked in this gods forsaken corner of Australia. Then again, Ciara’s phone was in the bag at his waist.

What if he was too late? What if Edgar had taken his friends somewhere and done away with them?

The days were short and it began to get dark a little after five. Patrick was beside himself with nerves, alone in the big house for hours, mind churning with possibilities. Just before six he heard voices outside. He jumped up and ran into the hall as the front door opened. The first person he saw was Edgar, looking hale and hearty. Behind him were his bandmates, and Ciara, and Torsten and Simone. His girlfriend and the Germans all looked thinner and paler than ever. He was reminded of his uncle, who had died from cancer in his fifties. The poor bastard had looked like Ciara looked now only days before his death. Patrick suddenly wished he still had the knife.

“We have to leave, right now!” he said.

Ciara frowned at him, again with the pitying look. Edgar half-smiled. “What have you done, Patrick?”

Patrick stood trembling as the group came into the hallway and Howard closed the front door.

“Where have you all been?” Patrick managed at last.

“Just into town, showing these guys around,” Shirley said.

“We saw the museum,” Ciara said. “Patrick, what is wrong with you?”

Edgar began to chuckle, shaking his head. He turned slightly, looked up the stairs, then back at Patrick. “You fucken killed him?”

Shirley, Howard and Clarke all seemed to still a moment, eyes turning up, then they looked back at Patrick too, all smiling. They were all healthy, all completely unbothered.

“Killed?” Ciara said, looking from Patrick to Edgar and back again. “Killed who?”

“You killed Bram?” Edgar said with a laugh. “Wow, fuck me dead, you mad bastard!”

“Fuck you!” Patrick shouted. “Ciara, we have to go!”

“The fuck is wrong with you, dude?” Edgar said, still laughing. “You murdered an old man!”

Patrick shook his head, felt tears sting his eyes.

“He was so old,” Shirley said. “Too old to even feed any more. Couldn’t hold himself together in the dreams, but he was happy up there.”

“He liked his books,” Clarke said. “You fucking dickhead. What did you think that would achieve?”

“Patrick, did you really?” Ciara asked. Her face showed her dismay, despite her obvious weakness.

How was Patrick the bad guy in all this? He didn’t understand. What should he do? “Ciara, please, leave with me now! Torsten, Simone, you too, yeah?”

“Your friends are feeding us well, every night,” Edgar said. “There’s a bit left in them still. A few more nightmares.”

“You see!” Patrick said, triumph in his tone. But Ciara didn’t react, like she hadn’t even heard what Edgar had said.

“Hey, we can finally convert the attic in to a practice space,” Howard said. “No more rehearsals in the cold garage.”

Edgar laughed. “Good point.”

Patrick snapped. He ran over, grabbed Ciara’s arm and tried to drag her back to the front door. He had the bumbags, all they needed.

She cried out, managed to shake him off, though she staggered with the effort. “Get off me, Pat! What is wrong with you?”

“Ciara, please, I love you. It’s not safe here!”

She shook her head, those pitying eyes again. “You’re so weak. Why did you have to be weak about this?”

“What?”

“What they give us, Patrick. You could have it too.”

He was incredulous. “They’re not giving you anything. They’re taking everything from you. Didn’t you hear him? There’s a bit left in them still, he just said. A few more nightmares. They’re going to kill you soon.”

“Oh, Pat. I really wish you’d been stronger about this.” She stepped back from him, reached out and Howard took her hand. “I’m staying. For the same reason as Simone.”

“What?” He felt numb, and stupid, saying the same word over and over.

“I’m fucking Howard, Patrick. He’s good! You go to bed early like a child every night and Howard is still here. And Torsten is with Shirley. It’s worked out really well. For us anyway. We’re staying, Pat.”

“Ciara!” His stomach roared, bile rose in his throat. “I want to marry you! I was going to ask you, after… When we got back home.”

She laughed and leaned into Howard. “It’s too late, Pat.”

“Too late for them,” Edgar said. “But remember what I told you? Sometimes The Gulp spits one out, mate.”

“You’re going to die!” Patrick shouted, staring hard at Ciara, trying to make her understand. “And you two are as well!” he said to Torsten and Simone. “Any day now, you’ll be dead and these fucking freaks, these monsters, they’ll probably bring other people home from their next gig. Fuck them and feed on them too.”

Edgar grinned, nodded enthusiastically. Ciara, Torsten and Simone seemed oblivious, just stared blankly back at him like he was speaking a language they couldn’t understand.

Patrick choked back a sob. He took off Ciara’s bag and threw it at her, and then he ran. He pushed out the front door, scrabbling in the bag still at his waist as he went for the campervan keys. He climbed in and it started on the first try. The tyres skidded on the gravel, then he was driving hard down the hill, away from the Manor. He turned left, past the bright white and green Woolworths supermarket, and onto the dark and straight Gulpepper Road.

What the hell would he tell people? That he and Ciara had a fight? They broke up? He last saw her in Monkton with their German friends after a gig? He knew damn well there was no point in trying to tell anything like the truth. No point in trying to send authorities into Gulpepper.

His vision blurred with tears as he drove. He reached the T-junction and turned right towards Enden. He sobbed, gripped the wheel hard, and didn’t dare look in the mirror again, planning to drive all night.