The activity of camping fits in with my personality in much the same way a fish fits into a power socket. The result is that these expeditions with my father have been few but significant in my memory as most traumatising events are. Yet to say outright that I especially hated these overnight trips would be to forfeit any interesting memories that I possess. My age and the events that led up to our trip escape my memory, possibly rendered irrelevant by my subconscious to make way for the incidents that followed.

In my first adventure in a completely ignorant state, I was looking forward to camping out somewhere far away from the other members of my species. The bare brown farmlands and the dry yellowed grasses of Boonah were not providing me with adequate mental or visual stimulation. So I sat in the car, a blank expression of my face as I concentrated all my energies into thinking instead about the items at home I had forgotten. The burning mid-afternoon sun distorted my view as we turned a corner on the shimmering tar just a few minutes before we would have entered the town. A somewhat more disturbing ground greeted us. Bare, bleached trees protruded from the white, crystalline ground like claws of the enraged Titans calling out for help in an environment of unnerving indifference. This landscape has a genuine effect on me and for a fleeting moment I envisaged a body, baked under the heat of the sun in this skeletal landscape whilst scavenging birds circled overhead. Oh joyous beginnings.

The landscape that had confronted me so abruptly left just as quickly. Rolling hills of vibrant green were a refreshing change. There was one discrepancy however. A house, standing completely alone, seemed to have borrowed the desolate feeling of the dead trees from which it had been made. A decaying garden littered with discarded worn-out furniture and broken timber surrounded the house, as though the inhabitants wanted to create a barrier to the outside world. Silently thanking these people for their unhealthy aversion to other citizens, I proceeded to focus my thoughts on wanting to pass quickly as possible so it took a moment to register my father’s words; ‘This is the spot!”

At this stage I feel it is important to note that at the time I did appreciate my father’s kindness in taking me on this outing, but my opinions and thoughts on the matter have long since been somewhat ‘set in stone’. Let us continue.

After the uneventful construction of our Spartan tarpaulin dwelling which was unsettlingly close to the disturbing house, it was time to eat. We had both agreed upon this subject, but my walk towards the bag containing our food was halted by yet another simply bewildering statement. “Oh no, not our food. We’re going to visit the couple up in that house.” If I could have fallen over I would have, but I have heard it said that fear paralyses. How can I justify my immediate dislike of anything related to this house? I can only say that I was a child with an overly active imagination. Creaking floorboards overhead, sinister laughter, all thoughts involuntarily borrowed from second-rate horror films were released from my uneasy mind. Uncharacteristically loyal however, I ventured forward.

It was obvious that this was once a magnificent house. However, years of neglect and disuse had peeled paint from the walls, worn away elegant carvings and cast a dark cloud on this homestead. Although it was now a shadow of its former superficial glory, the soon to be revealed stories of both curious and morbid nature emanated from the deep abyss that was inside. The door opened, they had been awaiting our arrival.

Fred and Heather Phillips are beings permanently etched into the history of this house, like a chapter being written into an ancient decaying book. Fred, his mouth a victim to the more primitive forms of dentistry, his face kind and his hairless scalp as shiny as his single tooth. Heather, with her twelve ‘children’ that turned out to be of the feline species, was as hospitable as she was humbly insane. Inside their home it smelled of time. That is as much a description as I can give, because the air was filled with some four dimensional blanket of the 1900’s. I was told soon after this visit that this was owing to the fact that Heather and Fred used only the kitchen, one bathroom and one of the eight bedrooms. Every single other door was locked, sealed away not only by a key but by the superstition that harrowed the old couple. The air of an age gone by leaked out through the cracks under these locked doors and the minute holes in the walls.

We entered their kitchen, ate their food, I answered their questions politely, found out they were the daughter and son-in-law of the man who employed my great grandfather, spilt my drink and proceeded to wash my hands in yellowed, mosquito-infested water from the tap. This was all fine and I thought that this will be as normal as it gets and I accepted that. Yet the whole time little visual images of what would be behind those doors in such a dark and mysterious house plagued my mind. They were a virus, uncontrollable and multiplying until I was consumed by them. Ghosts, monsters, villains, just the simple childish thoughts that cause no harm. At no time however, did I think of murder.

One hundred and ten years ago a family not unlike my own lived there. They were wealthy for their time and well respected. Apparently though, not by all. Their son, a few years older than I am at present, was found dead in his bed with a single cut to his throat. Was his bed ever removed? Was his bedroom locked and sealed, still waiting to this day for someone to open it and like Pandora’s Box release the evils within? The house contains not only this secret but another that is far closer to my family. It seems as though in 1915 my great grandfather was slowly driven insane whilst living with his family in this house. An embarrassment to his name, his family kept him hidden away within a single room until one day his pleas for peace came to a halt. His death was self-inflicted. Two of eight rooms have witnessed the evidence of human mortality. What else will time reveal?

Heather and Fred Phillips thanked us for our company and I took the time to wave goodbye in between my frantic attempts to clean my hands of the insect-ridden filth. Night was falling and the details of what happened next assume quite a stereotypical form, involving the toasting of marshmallows and looking up at the stars around our hand crafted fire. We slept, improved the lives of many a mosquito, woke, packed up and left. It was our car that my father conveyed the perturbing details of the history of the house. It was also in the car, a few moments after that, that I conveyed my immense distaste for his timing and politely told him that if I were ever to return, one more room of that old house would bear witness to death.