The dark Secrets of Widow's Peak farm-An Australian Ghost Story

But Sparks and Randall both knew fine rightly that Cooke was one of these cats who don’t give a fiddler’s fuck for anyone else but himself. Randall told Sparks about this place one day over a beer. He told him that a conifer forest that was planted in the mid-1860s surrounds the farm, giving the place that isolated and secured spot and the best thing was, noone lived on the farm since the `50s. Sparks looked over at Randall and nodded at him.

"You did well, Randall. Were you brought up around here?"

Randall took a cigarette from a newly opened packet and lit it. "About forty or more miles from here. Don’t worry, we left when I was 12 so a lot of people wouldn’t really remember me that well. And our old house, as far as I know, was burnt down about ten years ago," he smiled at me.

"Still we don’t want no stranger stumbling upon us."

Randall laughed. "Sparky, you’re paranoid. Noone comes this way anymore."

Cooke looked at him. "Why’s that?"

Randall shrugged. "Dunno. They just don’t."

Sparks found two bottles of whiskey that he stole from the bottle shop and stored at the bottom of the bag. He uncapped one of the bottles, took a long sip and passed the bottle to Cooke, who held it up in a toast.

"To Randall and his magic farmhouse." He took a sip and passed it to Randall. He took it and held it in a toast-fashion.

"To me and my magic farmhouse," and took a long sip before passing the bottle back to Sparks. He placed it on the top of the table and looked down at the money.

"Let’s get down to business."

That night the heavens opened. Sparks laid watching the rain running down the pane like a waterfall. He couldn’t sleep because of both Randall and Cooke who’re both making such a racket with farting and snoring. Sparks decided to get up and go outside for a smoke. Outside the wind was howling, biting deep into his jacket, rain trying to get at him as he stood against the wall, smoking away, deep in thought. For some reason he felt bad about Cooke killing those two guards. If we get caught, if that is, I know we’ll draw a hefty gaol sentence.

He was in the process of tossing the finished butt into the rain when a young woman appeared, standing in the storm, looking at him with dark, bottomless eyes. She was dressed in a black dress, the `50s fashion, her raven hair plastered across her forehead, reminding Sparks of Wednesday Addams from the Addams Family. He felt disturbed by her aura.

"Um, can I help you?" She continued to stare at him, her eyes were filled with repugnant. "You lost? Funny time to be out walking, y’know."

She scrutinised him as if he was a new species of some sort then she turned her back on him, disappearing into the darkness. He stood there on the veranda, shock still, shivering, not from the cold but from fear. He made his way back into the homestead and wrapped himself up in the blanket, waiting for the first ray of sunlight.

The morning sunlight, gray and cold, creep into the sleeping homestead.

Somewhere outside a magpie sang its’ throaty morning song, joined in by other magpies while somewhere else a Kookaburra laughed. Sparks crawled out from beneath the blanket and rubbed his sleepy eyes. Randall was stirring while Cooke still snored.

"What’s the time, Randall?"

Randall looked at his watch. "Just after six. How long are we planning to stay here?"

"Good question.