The talk in town painted it as a ghost story. Mick’s Roadhouse, once a beacon to truckers and travellers on the lonely road to Kimballa, was now the “Haunted Servo”, abandoned and derelict. The locals told me of mysterious lights and bloodcurdling screams that came from the roadhouse if they passed it at night. And none ever stopped there anymore.
‘What happened to Mick?’ I asked one.
‘Dunno. Him and his missus used to run the joint, but one day, they were just gone.’
Tall tales, maybe, but I needed content for my flagging channel, and this was the most promising lead I’d had in ages. When the sun set, I hit the road out of town.
All colour drained from the sky as the kilometres ticked over. High beams and double white lines stretched into the night, eventually leading to a sign that shone brightly in the distance.
MICK’S ROADHOUSE 1KM
PETROL, FOOD, TOILETS
Looming large on the edge of the sign was a caricature of what I guessed was Mick, sporting a handlebar moustache and giving travellers a huge thumbs up. A perfect invitation.
The roadhouse appeared like a silent ship in the night. No lights. No sound. Just the uncanny stillness of a place unused. Petrol prices, frozen in time, hung at the entry. Tall weeds sprang from jagged cracks in the concrete drive. Rust branched from bolts and rivets in the bowsers and roof supports. The door to the interior was chained and padlocked, but faded food advertising and 2-for-1 deals still clung to the windows.
I parked with my headlights illuminating the roadhouse, grabbed my camera and got out of the car. There was a rattle of loose metal somewhere out of sight, and all around, the air smelt of petrol. I wondered if the reservoirs weren’t empty.
As soon as I started to film, a loud, piercing howl cut through the stillness of the night. Goosebumps prickled down my arms, and the camera wavered. When the howl ceased, a light appeared before me. More than a light. A flame. Larger it grew, sprouting limbs and morphing into something approximating human shape. It reached a fiery arm towards me and emitted another powerful wail. I recoiled and backed into something solid.
It was a man. He held a fuel nozzle from one of the bowsers. In the glare from my car’s headlights, his face was only half-lit, but there was no mistaking that moustache.
‘Mick?’ I stammered,
He gave a thumbs up, pointed the nozzle at me, and sprayed. Petrol soaked my clothes. It stung my eyes and seared my nostrils. I tried to run, but slipped and fell in a growing puddle of fuel.
Through squinted eyes, I saw the fiery apparition above me, arms outstretched. I scrambled away in desperation, but Mick kicked me back down.
‘One to join you, sweetheart,’ he said.
Then, the fire was upon me. Its blazing arms embraced me. I screamed, but the sound was smothered in flames.