Danger Down Under - A Tale of Ghosts, Marsupials, and Misguided Romance

“Do you hear that?” Diane whispered.

“ What?” was my sleepy reply.

“That!”

Now wide awake, I did hear that…a thumping and shuffling sound and I suddenly remembered the day, where I was, and how we’d arrived at this moment

Diane and I were on week two of a month-long Australia vacation and we were currently driving around the island state of Tasmania. We were staying at the Seaview Lodge Host Farm and had stopped by earlier in the day to check in and drop off our stuff.

You Can Check In Anytime You Like

The lodge was located two miles up a dirt road, and boasted ‘the best views and lively local hosts.’ The road wound through a leafy green forest, climbed back and forth up a hill until the trees opened, and there stood the Seaview Lodge. It was a sprawling, asymmetrical building with sections jutting here and there, and looked deserted.

As we pulled up, a guy, who I assumed was one of the lively local hosts, stepped out of the lodge and came over and introduced himself as Vince, along with a cheery, “G’day, how you going?” After explaining we wanted a room, he said, “Go in and take any room you like,” Then he paused and added, “You’ll be the only guests for the evening.”

The lodge contained at least a dozen rooms, each with half a dozen bunk beds. There were two kitchens, four bathrooms, and a huge living room with a mishmash of furniture and windows that looked out towards the bay. We picked a room, tossed our stuff on the bed, and took off for our day’s adventure to visit the Port Arthur penal colony.

Send Your Troubles Far Away

In the early 1800s, Britain had come upon the brilliant idea of exporting criminals to Australia, the dungeon down under as it were. Port Arthur was where they sent the worst of the worst offenders. It was down under the dungeon down under. As if being on an island 100 miles from the mainland wasn’t enough, it was at the end of the Tasman peninsula surrounded by shark-infested waters.

The prison was now a popular tourist attraction and while strolling about it seemed more Downton Abbey than prison. We discovered they held Ghost Tours and signed up for the evening’s adventure. It happened to be Valentine's Day and we wanted to make it memorable, so what says romance like being scared out of your wits with the one you love?

It Seemed Like A Good Idea

The tour started just after sunset. We met up with our tour guide, Macca, who was dressed in a full-length, dark brown overcoat and slouch hat, giving off an eerie Victorian vibe. There were about 20 of us and we were given lanterns to light the way, but they just illuminated a small circle around your feet and threw out shimmering, sinister shadows. I started to wonder if we might have misjudged the romantic part in all of this.

The first stop on the tour was the Parsonage where the Reverend George Eastman lived with his wife and 10 children. He fell ill and died in the upstairs bedroom. Strange lights are often seen in that room and footsteps can be heard hurrying up and down the stairs at night, and children's faces were seen looking out of the windows.

We all crowded inside and shuffled around waiting for George or his kids to make an appearance but let’s face it, ghosts don’t tend to show up on cue and not for a group of 20 people. They prefer small numbers to haunt and to pick you off one by one.

Shhhhhhhhh…

Next stop, up a steep hill to the Separate Prison. In its time, Port Arthur was once thought to be a model of progressive, prison reformation. They had finally figured out that traditional punishment, like flogging, didn’t seem to reform the prisoners. It either hardened them or killed them. But, in a quiet, ordered atmosphere a man could contemplate his sin and change his life. Of course, this was the 1840’s so quiet contemplation was achieved through complete sensory deprivation.

The Parsonage seemed like a spooky old house, but the separate prison had a creepy, sinister feel. It was cold and dark and the stone walls sucked the light out of our lanterns as soon as we stepped inside.

Macca explained, “The prisoners were kept in solitary confinement in thick-walled cells for 23 hours a day. The guards wore felt slippers and used sign language so there would be absolutely no sound. For the one hour out of their cell, they could not speak and wore hoods to maintain total isolation.”

We went inside the cell of one William Carter, who had hung himself with a leather strap rather than endure the place. I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and despair seeping from the walls and I wondered if William had ever found peace.

Not surprisingly, many of the prisoners ended up going mad and while this was an unintended outcome, they did conveniently build the asylum right next door.

The Forgotten

We followed Macca outside and as we strolled past the asylum, he pointed out a small island just visible in the bay. “This is the island of the dead,” he whispered. There are over 1500 bodies buried in unmarked graves. It’s said these lost souls can never rest because they were buried without a name and they often rise from their graves at night, searching for someone who will recognize them.”

It was easy to imagine that the mist on the water was an army of 1500 souls on a neverending search. Imagined or not, my goosebumps and chills were real.

At the end of the tour, we received a certificate that we did ‘with bravery and courage’ complete the Port Arthur haunted historic ghost tour. Proof of our bravery in hand, we started the 20-minute drive back to the Seaview Host Farm Lodge.

The Long and Winding Road

As we turned onto the gravel road we had to slow down to navigate the twisty turns. The trees now formed a dark tunnel and we noticed small flashes of light on each side of us. As we moved forward we realized the flashes were our headlights reflected from the eyes of creatures in the bush along the road.

We came around a corner and there in the middle of the road was a small, black, furry creature busily making a meal of another small creature. Its reflected eyes glowed out of the darkness and its face was bright red from, I assume, blood from whatever dinner it was eating.

“What is that!” Diane shouted.

“It’s a Tasmanian Devil,'' I yelled, my heart suddenly racing, palms going sweaty and slippery on the steering wheel. We moved closer and closer and it kept eating and eating. Not until we were almost on top of it did it grudgingly slink off into the bush. We carried on up the hill, through a gauntlet of flashing eyes, until we arrived at the top.

Things That Go Bump In The Night

The lodge was deserted and we spoke in hushed tones as if we didn’t want to disturb the other guests. As Vince had pointed out though, we were the only guests. We settled in and drifted off to sleep when suddenly Diane woke me up with her “Did you hear that?” question. I went from slumber to scared in a split second. Like those dreams where you feel like you’re falling and then you wake up with a racing heart, only this wasn’t a dream to wake up from, rather it seemed a nightmare I’d awoken to.

Thumping, groaning, scratching and almost human crying sounds filled the lodge. “Do you think we were followed back from Port Arthur by William or George or some creepy kids?” Diane asked, half joking, half serious.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe we should hold up our certificates as a protective shield.”

On The Hunt

We got out of bed, grabbed our flashlights, and crept out of our room and down the hallway. It occurred to me that almost every teenage slasher movie took place at some abandoned camp or farm or hotel and we were staying at a combo of the three which seemed a bad omen.’

Suddenly, the noises stopped, so we stopped. The noises started up again and so did we. We continued with our nocturnal auditory game of red light/green light and ended up back in our room still mystified as to the source or location of the sounds.

Rather than go another lap, we opted to crawl into bed, flashlights firmly in hand and a chair against the door so we’d be alerted if anyone tried to come into the room. Of course, if it was a hitchhiking ghost from prison it could just float through the door but it made us feel a bit better.

More noises, more tossing and turning, and at some point, we must have fallen asleep because we woke to gray light coming in through the window.

Marsupial Mayhem…Maybe

“We’re alive! Let’s get the hell out of here.” I said, nudging Diane awake.

We loaded our backpacks and headed out into the foggy, damp morning. Our lively, local host Vince strolled past and said, rather nonchalantly, “Oh, by the way, I hope you weren’t disturbed by our resident wombat, I forgot to mention that to you yesterday.” He said it casually but with a gleam in his eyes.

“Wombat?” I asked

“Yea, it lives under the lodge and can sometimes be a bit noisy at night,'' he chuckled.

Diane and I looked at each other. “Uh, no, slept great, thanks, just getting an early start, off to Hobart.”

I don’t know why I didn’t want to admit to “being disturbed.” maybe I just didn’t want to give Vince the satisfaction of having scared the hell out of us with that omitted bit of information.

Or Perhaps Not

As we drove away, I glanced back at Vince, waving and smiling. Then I glanced at the lodge, and I swear I saw a blurry silhouette in the big picture window. Was it William searching for peace? Or one of the 1500 souls from the island of the dead? Or an overactive imagination fueled by a lack of sleep and frayed nerves. I’ll never know for certain but I couldn't help thinking.

Wombat my ass.

Regina Stoops is an award winning storyteller, comedian, writer, producer, MS Warrior, and Autism Mom living with her wife and three kids in the San Francisco Bay Area.
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