Killer creatures down un.., p.1
Killer Creatures Down Under, page 1
IFWG Australia
Dark Phases Titles
Peripheral Visions (Robert Hood, 2015)
The Grief Hole (Kaaron Warren, 2016)
Cthulhu Deep Down Under Vol 1 (2017)
Cthulhu Deep Down Under Vol 2 (2018)
Cthulhu: Land of the Long White Cloud (2018)
The Crying Forest (Venero Armano, 2020)
Cthulhu Deep Down Under Vol 3 (2021)
Spawn: Weird Horror Tales About Pregnancy,
Birth And Babies (2021)
Caped Fear: Superhuman Horror Stories (2022)
Killer Creatures Down Under: Horror Stories
With Bite (2023)
Killer Creatures Down Under
Horror Stories With bite
Edited by
Deborah Sheldon
A Dark Phases Title
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places, events or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the authors and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the publisher.
Killer Creatures Down Under: Horror Stories With Bite
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1-922856-25-8
Anthology Copyright ©2023 IFWG Publishing Australia
V1.0
All stories are original to this anthology except for the following (first publishing instance): “Milk and Honey” by Jason Fischer, in Ecopunk!: Speculative Tales of Radical Futures (Ticonderoga Publications, 2017); “Species Endangered” by Deborah Sheldon, in Perfect Little Stitches and Other Stories (IFWG Publishing Australia, 2017).
This ebook may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
IFWG Publishing International
Gold Coast
www.ifwgpublishing.com
For Allen and Harry
Introduction
I’m an Australian, born and bred, and I’m scared of animals.
Mostly wild animals, but domesticated types make me uncomfortable too. I was a toddler when I realised that cats were terrifying. Nothing has changed some fifty years later. Please don’t put me in a room with your beloved moggy unless you want me to break into a cold sweat. Every cat I’ve encountered has wanted nothing more than to sit on my lap, even when other people in the room are making kissy-kissy noises and holding out their arms.
Cats gravitate towards me because animals know if you’re scared.
When I was a teenager, I went horse riding with a company that apparently catered for the nervous beginner. While the rest of the group plodded along the nature trail on their placid, cow-like steeds, my horse got more jittery and excited in direct proportion to my rising anxiety. That damned beast kept trying to bolt. When it finally diverted from the trail to plunge headlong into a creek, the instructor repeatedly yelled at me, “Don’t let him roll you!”, which was unhelpful considering I had no idea what to do except scream. (The horse didn’t roll—entirely the horse’s decision—and this first ride also happened to be my last.)
But it wasn’t until my early thirties, when our son was born, that I understood the full extent of my aversion to animals. On weekends, amongst other excursions, hubby and I would occasionally take our son to wildlife sanctuaries and reserves. These universally beautiful places, set in bushland, allow most of the animals to roam freely.
“Where are the fences?” I remember saying to my husband, as a small mob of kangaroos and wallabies began lolloping towards us.
Our son (who’s now a twenty-two-year-old man) sat in his stroller, happily transfixed by the sight and laughing joyfully, while I had visions of us getting disembowelled by slashing claws.
“It’s okay,” hubby said, “the ’roos are used to people.”
And he was right, of course. Other tourists were handfeeding the marsupials with no sign of carnage. Hubby poured into our palms some of the kibble he’d bought from the ticket booth, and the animals pressed around us. I crouched beside our son’s stroller, bracing myself to defend in case of attack. How silly! Our son had a wonderful experience. Meanwhile, I can still remember that first time a wallaby gripped my wrist to eat the kibble from my hand. Its paws were so hot, claws as smooth as polished jade, blunt teeth chafing harmlessly against my palm. I can remember the snort of its moist breath, and the thrumming of my heart as I tried not to panic.
Once I realised that I was unnerved by animals in general, I went to great lengths to avoid passing on my phobia to our son. That meant going to lots of sanctuaries and nature reserves. Feeding lots of wallabies. Patting lots of creatures like snakes and Tasmanian devils as they were held by keepers for limited “meet-and-greet” sessions. Exposure therapy didn’t help me. At least our son—like his father—is not perturbed by animals.
However, I’m not averse to all animals. When I was young, I had a much-loved dog, but he was family and different from other dogs, which I assumed wanted nothing more than to bite off my face. Little furry animals have always appealed; put me in a petting zoo and I’ll happily play with rabbits and baby goats. I was never afraid of my in-laws’s chickens when they had a coop in their back yard. In fact, I love all sorts of birds, especially parrots. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Of all the animal phobias, ornithophobia is common. (Our son has a friend who is not only scared of birds, but their feathers too—tough luck, I guess, that his father owns a cockatiel. Exposure therapy hasn’t helped him, either.)
A flock of crimson rosellas daily eats blossoms in a tree out front of our house, and I like to watch them squabble, fossick and hang upside down. As I’m typing this, our six-year-old budgerigar, Zeus, is playing with his toys and chatting. He’s happy to climb over me, and I’m happy to let him. He often sits on my finger while I kiss his beak.
But if he were bigger…?
Magpies are big birds. We’ve had a family of magpies living on our property for some quarter-century. Generation after generation, these birds have followed my husband as he’s mown the grass, and gathered at his feet whenever he’s dug through garden beds so they can snaffle up earthworms. This year, a particular magpie likes to perch on the wheelbarrow just to watch and ponder the mysteries of hubby’s yard work. I know these magpies are friendly.
And yet… And yet…
Whenever I go to the letterbox, our magpies watch. Will they swoop and peck? Magpies tend to do that in nesting season. My superstitious precaution is to say, while pointing towards the letterbox, “Just checking the mail,” as if I’m asking permission, as if the birds would understand.
Have I ever been swooped and pecked by a magpie? No.
Does my fear respond to rational thinking? Also, no.
Many people would understand my fear. Australia is known as the land where everything wants to kill you. That’s actually a well-deserved reputation. Some of the deadliest animals in the world are native to Australia. For instance, we’ve got more venomous creatures than any other country, and eighty percent of the deadliest snakes are found here. However, it’s also true that human deaths from animal attacks are relatively rare. Most Australians won’t encounter any of these animals in their lifetimes.
Ah, whatever. People like me are scared anyway. Fear of animals is inbuilt into the human psyche. Without that fear, curiosity would have got the better of us, and we would have long ago expired as a species, right?
Right?
Animals are the perfect subject matter for a horror anthology because they have traits that we find inherently frightening. Wild creatures can be unpredictable, dangerous, and even downright repulsive to look at, let alone touch.
My idea for this anthology grew from my short story, “Species Endangered”, which I’ve included here as a reprint. The story was first published in my multi-award-nominated and award-winning collection, Perfect Little Stitches and Other Stories (IFWG Publishing Australia, 2017). “Species Endangered’ was well-received, and selected by Ellen Datlow for her honourable mentions list for best horror of the year. It also featured a real life Australian animal.
Since the publication of “Species Endangered”, I’ve wanted to curate an anthology of horror tales about Australian critters of all persuasions. So, in 2021, I pitched the idea for Killer Creatures Down Under: Horror Stories with Bite to Gerry Huntman, managing director of IFWG Publishing Australia. The contract was quickly signed.
In April 2022, we put out an open call for submissions from Australian authors. (This is the first IFWG anthology that doesn’t include work from commissioned authors.) The animals could be of any type—mammals, reptiles, amphibians, birds, invertebrates, fish, arthropods—as long as they were real creatures that are native to Australia. I put no restriction on subgenre. Over the three-month submission window, I received a wealth of stories. I’ve selected the ones that gripped me, unsettled me: stories that interpreted the theme in captivating, unexpected or shocking ways.
You’re about to read an eclectic mix of disturbing tales that run the gamut from action to phantasmagorical to historical to futuristic to supernatural to psychological and more. My hope is that this anthology is the literary equivalent
And if, like me, you’re scared of animals, please don’t read this anthology at bedtime.
Deborah Sheldon
Melbourne, 2022
Corvus
Keith Williams
The ending of life comes to us in myriad forms. Any choice regarding time or method is rarely ours to make.
It is early morning. I sit at the kitchen table, a glass of Scotch in my hand and a loaded shotgun in my lap. Extra cartridges are lined up on the table like soldiers on parade. I am waiting. Death is coming. How did I come to this moment?
This is what transpired.
Growing up on a farm, one develops an affinity for most animals, but there are always exceptions. Foxes, rabbits, wild dogs, feral cats are genuine pests. For my father, mother and subsequently me, it was one specific pest that became much more than just that.
I remember Dad going out to tend the cattle each morning, always with a weapon strapped to the back of the quad bike. It had started out with the shotgun until the neighbours, although distant, apparently complained about the noise. He then downsized to the .22, but after one of his stray shots hit one of our prime beef steers, Mum would only let him go out with the slug gun, much to his chagrin and disgust. “May as well spit at them,” he muttered that first time, but had reluctantly conceded to her wishes.
I still recall sitting on the back porch eating toast or cereal, watching Dad on the distant fenceline and hearing the pop, pop, of the slug gun as Dad fired into the small copse of trees. I asked Mum why he did that every day and what he was shooting at and why our cattle seemed to avoid that side of the paddock. She just shook her head and told me to never mind, I didn’t need to know. Whatever it was, it was never mentioned in front of me, but I recall many heated yet whispered conversations behind closed doors. Growing up was mystery enough, but something much stranger was festering within my family.
Dad would always return from the morning chores in time to see me off to school, but even then, I could see his smile for me was somewhat forced. One day, when Dad came back from the morning run, I was waiting on the porch as usual, but this day I was steeling myself to address the family mystery. I watched as he climbed off the quad bike and glanced with disdain at the slug gun on the pack rack. He arranged his features into a semblance of a smile and climbed the steps. He was kicking off his boots when I summoned my courage and flat out asked him why he shot at the trees every day. He stared hard at me for what seemed an eternity, then closed his eyes for a moment as if deciding whether to travel down this road. He sighed, seemingly in resignation that this time had come.
He blinked, looked at me again. “Crows.”
I frowned, knowing he was going to try and leave it at that. I pushed my luck. I felt I was old enough to know more. “Actually, they’re ravens down here,” I said, and his brow furrowed in anger. He did not like being contradicted. “And why shoot at them?”
Dad gritted his teeth. “Because they kill our young calves, that’s why! They attack and mutilate our steers, that’s why!” He made to move past me into the house.
“But ravens are just carrion eaters, Dad. They only eat dead things.”
He turned on me and grabbed me by the arms, his big calloused hands shaking me hard, his watery blue eyes burrowing into mine. “You don’t know anything, boy. Not a goddamn thing!”
He let go of me and stomped into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him. I stared after him, open-mouthed and near to tears. My father had never yelled at me in such a way before. I had not only seen terrible anger in his expression, but deep-rooted fear. He was terrified of the birds and hated them in equal measure. I never brought up the subject again—until the day he never came home from his morning chores.
I had long since ceased my daily vigil on the porch, not wanting to spark his anger again, but could still hear the slug gun popping as he peppered the trees. Usually when the shooting stopped, we would hear the quad bike returning from the paddock as he dutifully came to see me off to school. Not this day. My mother was at the sink staring out the window, breathing hard and squeezing a dishcloth in her fists. I was a teenager by then and said I’d go check. I remember the tears in her eyes and fear on her face as I pulled on my boots and hustled out the door. Her reaction confused and frightened me. She seemed resigned to some fate I could not foresee.
I could see the quad bike down by the east fence, as usual, near the small grove of trees that bordered the paddock. I could not see my father. All our cattle had gathered by the west fence, seemingly as far away as they could get from the scene. I jumped into the farm ute and drove hard, not knowing what to expect but now dreading the worst. As I drew closer to the bike I could see a figure on the ground, motionless. The slug gun lay on the ground nearby. I skidded to a stop, piled out of the cab and ran to the prone body. It was Dad, of course. He was lying on his back, arms askew, face turned to a sky he could no longer perceive.
I moaned in horror at what was left of his features. His eyes were now nothing more than dark, bloodied holes, his ears mutilated, cheeks pocked with deep wounds like craters, lips ragged and bloody. I noticed his hands were torn, with some fingers missing altogether. In his gaping mouth were shattered teeth. Most of his tongue had been torn out.
I gasped for air, tears spilling from my eyes. The world had seemed to stop turning. My father dead? It made no sense. As I fell to my knees beside his lifeless body, I heard it. That unmistakable, deep-throated cry from high in the trees—Ah-Ah-Ahaaah—the last drawn-out note sounding like a cry of satisfaction. I swear I heard mocking laughter in that call. I picked up the slug gun. It had a thirty-pellet magazine which Dad fastidiously refilled every night. Rage and grief consumed me as I emptied what was left into the trees, firing blindly. I then threw the gun into the ute, covered Dad with a tarp and drove back to the house.
Therein began my own hatred and subsequent fear of the raven.
What followed was a cursory investigation and an autopsy. Official ruling? Heart attack and post-mortem predation by unknown animals. “Unknown” my arse. I watched the neighbours at the funeral. They knew. So did my mother, obviously. The secret they kept had exploded in our faces. I was an angry teen who had just lost his father and wanted an uncaring world to acknowledge that fact, but I was not stupid. Guilt and shame hung in the air like a pall.
I snarled at the neighbours as they filed away after the service, “You stopped him using the shotgun.” They reeled back, eyes downcast, heads shaking, and hurried on. I could see the horror writ large on their faces. My mother pulled me aside. I turned on her. “You stopped him from using the .22 because a steer got a scratch.” I pointed at the casket in the unfilled grave. “Remember what he looked like when the ravens had finished with him. I’ll never forget.”
I staggered away, grief and anger consuming me, and stood by another grave watching as everybody left. My breathing was ragged, a scream locked in my throat. If I let it out, I knew I would never stop. My heart felt like a brick in my chest. My mother waited by the car for me. I loved her. I hated her. I saw her pain.
As I tried to quell my anger, possibly directed at the wrong people, I felt eyes upon me. An eerie prickling at the back of my neck. My thighs and buttocks clenched as if I was standing on a high ledge with no support around me and only the inevitable plunge to my death awaiting. Vertigo had me swaying. I gripped the nearby gravestone as I turned and gazed into the Catholic section of the cemetery where huge Gothic monuments marked the interment of mostly unremarkable people. There, atop a stone angel, perched a large ebony bird, head cocked, eye staring at me malevolently.
I knew it was the one.
I cannot explain that knowledge, I just knew. I took several steps toward it, wanting nothing more than to choke the life out of the vile creature that had tormented and killed my father. The bird spread its obsidian wings and flapped lazily away, like black oil flowing into the sky. Its laconic cry, reverberating through the cemetery, mocked me yet again… Ah-Ah-Ahaaah.
