The Bunyip
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-Transcript-
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Can you hear it?
Its heavy breath rumbles underneath the whistling wind, singing alongside the banshee a foreboding song of its stalking presence. It culls me to drag down into the blackest pits of its murky domain. Alas, I fear I am not long for this world, for in my folly I sealed this bitter fate. Kind neighborly concerns and aboriginal warnings against settling near the billabong went unheeded. I now see it was not spiteful touristic derision, but admonition, and the stubbornness of this damnable pride will be my ultimate undoing.
Mad I am not, for dear God man; can’t you hear it? There, there! The rustle in the bush. Its meticulous furtiveness a malicious monition. I too was skeptic until my eyes caught sight of the ghastly eldritch creature. Damn you, I speak the truth! The event seers my mind every waking moment! Nary a fortnight ago, at a quarter past the devil’s hour, I stumbled outside to relieve myself. While it is true slumber weighed upon my mind, the night was vivid, bathed in the luminescent white light of a waning moon. It was then, as I turned to return to my welcoming cot, I glimpsed it submerged in the shallow. I would’ve borne it no mind if not for those coruscating black eyes gleaning fiery intent. Words cannot describe more, for its shape shifted in the twilight, and the human mind rejected its unearthly physique as desperate a plea to retain sanity. Moments later it dived beneath the duckweed, disappearing into the muddy quagmire.
Since that night, I have become its prey.
What do you mean you don’t believe? Do you take my consternation as the ramblings of a cretin? Fine, if my eyes are not evidence enough, what do you call that? Yes, that on the table is the purse of my lovely Judith! She was set to arrive days ago, there lay the correspondence talking of our arrangements. Yet she hasn’t shown, and my heart breaks to think I found that purse in the woods, packed with her things and soiled red with her blood!
Curse the events which brought me here! Curse these four walls built on blood, sweat, and toil! Curse the stagnation of this wretched swampy air, this country’s arid sun bearing down upon my brow, and this secluded location sought after my reclusive predisposition. Doom knocks and I curse its name as my final reprieve.
I do not wish to die, but deaths’ inevitability is all but certain. For its rancid ichor paints trailing circles around my home and pools at my doorstep, evincing its ever-impending presence. I dare not leave, even for food, in the fear of walking into its jaws. I dare not close my eyes, even for sleep, in the fear of waking in its bowels. Emaciated and tired, I diligently sit guard, rifle at hand and back against the wall. But I dare say, I refuse to die cowering in the corner.
So, whomever reads this letter.
Look not for my body and settle not on these hostile grounds.
For this swamp belongs to the bunyip.
