Dan pushed open the door to the Tucabia hotel, a weathered pub that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since God knows when. Inside, the air smelled of fried chips and stale beer, strong enough to hold back the outside tang of river mud. A scent known all too well in these parts of the Clarence Valley. The sticky floorboards gripped his boots as he walked alongside his dingo companion.
Dan, a well over six feet tall, stocky man, in a flannelette shirt beneath a drizabone coat, leaned against the bar. Stevo, lean and ginger, leapt onto the bar stool beside him and tapped on the chipped vinyl with his paws.
Several locals, mostly old fella’s in blue singlets, stopped mid-sip and eyed the pair with suspicion.
“Mate!” Barked the bartender, wiping a glass with an old rag. “No dogs in here!”
Dan didn’t look up from the bar as he studied the menu before him. “Stevo ain’t no dog, Mate.” He said, his voice rough.
Stevo tilted his head and gave a gentle huff as if he was emphasising what Dan had just said. The locals laughed, one muttering “Bloody Tourists” into his beer. The bartender was unimpressed, but he didn’t push it. “What’ll it be?” He asked.
“Whatever’s on tap,” said Dan. “And a bowl of chips for Stevo.”
The bartender took Dan’s cash and yelled out. “Bowl of chips, thanks, Barb!”
“Righto!” A voice echoed from the kitchen.
“So what brings you to Tucabia?” Asked the Bartender. “Ain’t exactly a tourist hotspot.”
Dan took a sip of his cold beer and sighed with disappointment. It tasted like piss. He could only imagine what the chips might be like.
He’d been on the road for the last few days, chasing down a lead from a newspaper clipping he had found in Grafton’s historical society. The Clarence River Gazette, August 1850, spoke of a ‘Monstrous Beast’ in Blackwater bend, a billabong off the Coldstream River, a stone’s throw from Tucabia. A bloke named Henry spotted it: Head like a hound, glowing eyes… lurking in the water.
Dan had heard enough whispers in other dying towns to know these old stories often had something to them.
“Heard about your missing calf problem out at Blackwater Bend,” said Dan, setting down his glass.
The pub fell silent, save for a few squeaks from shifting chairs. “You’re not one of those Bunyip believers, are you, Mate?” Scoffed an old bloke from the corner.
“All myths have an element of truth, Mate,” said Dan, smirking faintly, and scratching Stevo behind the ears. “Ain’t that right, Stevo?”
“I’ll save you the trouble,” replied the old bloke. “It’s nothing but a croc, I guarantee it.”
“And you’re okay with cattle going missing as long as it can be explained to your satisfaction?” Dan asked, spinning around on his stool to meet the gaze of the old man.
“I suppose not,” he replied, returning to his beer.
“I plan on taking a closer look at that Billabong tomorrow,” said Dan.
“You’re not talking about Mick’s place, are you?” Asked a woman, placing down a warm bowl of sad-looking chips in front of Dan. Stevo huffed and looked up at the woman. Confused, she slid the bowl over in front of Stevo and watched his eyebrows rise. It smelled like piss, and she knew it.
“That’s right,” Dan replied. “Someone’s got to solve the problems no one takes seriously.”
“Be careful, love,” said the woman. “Mick ain’t too friendly with outsiders.”
“Appreciate the heads up,” said Dan, finishing his beer. Stevo slid the bowl of cold chips back across the counter with his paw. “Chips no good, Stevo?” Dan asked. He shook his head and gave a gentle winge. “Come on then,” Dan said, dropping a few coins in the tip jar. “We’ve got work to do.”
Stevo hopped down from the stool, tail flicking and followed Dan to the exit.
“Cheers, Mate,” said the Bartender. “Don’t get yourself killed out there.”
Dan adjusted his Acubra hat and turned with a smile. “Never do, Mate. Never do.”
The night was alive with the chatter of cicadas and the distant roar of the Coldstream River. As the residents of Tucabia, one by one, headed into the safety of their homes, somewhere out there, amongst the reeds of Blackwater Bend, something was waiting.
The sunlight pierced the morning fog over Tucabia, casting shadows along the rough dirt road that led to Mick Kelly’s farm. The Merlot Red Land Cruiser crunched over loose gravel as it pulled up outside an old house, its weatherboards sagging under years of neglect. Stevo sat upright in the passenger seat, ears pricked, eyes scanning the property for trouble.
“Smell trouble, Stevo?” Dan asked, his index finger tapping on the steering wheel. It was a nervous twitch he picked up after a run-in with Yowie. Ever since then, he’d been careful not to rush into any situations.
Stevo raised his paw and placed it on Dan’s finger. He raised his brow as if to say, ‘Don’t freak out on me, now.’
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Stevo,” said Dan, opening his door.
A thick cloud rumbled overhead, threatening rain. Dan adjusted his Drizabone coat and stepped through the unkempt grass towards the house. “Alright, Stevo,” he said. “Let’s see just how unfriendly this Mick fella is.”
Stevo followed behind, his eyes scanning, his nose sniffing.
The farmhouse was dead. Grass crept up the tyres of a rusting ute, a screen door flapped loose, and the bins by the house were overflowing.
Dan stepped up to the door, his knuckles ready to knock. Stevo huffed, his eyes looking up at a ratty-looking bell hanging from the roof. Stevo liked bells. Anytime he saw one, he’d all but demand it be rung.
Dan chuckled. “As you wish.” He pulled the string, and the bell rang dull, disappointing the dingo. “Mick?!” Called Dan. “You home, Mate?”
Silence, save for the faint drip from a leaky gutter, and the cackle of a nearby flock of Kookaburras, no doubt laughing at the poor excuse for a bell.
Stevo sniffed the doorstep and growled. He nudged the door, and it popped open, revealing a darkened loungeroom and, beyond it, an open plan kitchen. Unwashed plates cluttered a table, and a half-eaten pie swarmed with flies.
Dan’s index finger tapped on his pocket. Something was off. “Fetch the gear, Stevo,” said Dan. Stevo sat in place, unmoved. Dan sighed. “Fetch the gear, Stevo…please.”
Dan searched a few rooms to no avail; Mick wasn’t home.
Stevo returned, carrying a rifle in his jaws and a satchel dragging behind. “Thanks, Mate,” said Dan, taking them and placing them over his shoulder. “Now, think you can find old mate?”
Stevo nodded and stuck his nose to the floor. Within seconds, he darted to the back door.
A trail of mud led outside, through the paddock and beyond.
Dan followed Stevo through the field of tussock grass toward a line of paperbarks and reeds. Stevo increased his pace as he cut through a patch of trampled grass and into the soft mist of Blackwater Bend.
The murky surface of the billabong came into view, still but for a ripple. Stevo froze, his ears dropping as he stared at the water’s edge. There, scattered in the mud, was Mick Kelly. Well, part of Mick Kelly. His shirt was shredded, and his torso a ruin of jagged gashes. Nothing below his left arm was a few feet away, and everything below the waist was missing entirely. His eyes stared skyward with terror, and his one remaining arm clutched a broken fence post, his hand splintered as he tried to fight back.
“Bloody hell, Stevo,” said Dan, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t wish this sorta death on anyone.”
Dan noted the wounds and recalled the folks in the pub from last night. They reckoned a croc, but he knew if they saw old Mick like this, they’d have other thoughts.
He pulled a Polaroid from his satchel and snapped a shot of Mick’s corpse and the reeds beyond, the flash cutting through the fog. The camera whirred and spat out a blurry image. He shook it violently and examined it briefly before tucking it into his pocket.
Dan growled as he turned his gaze to the bank of the billabong. There, in the mud, were tracks; Large webbed footprints with bloodied claw marks that gouged deep. They led from Mick’s body into the reeds, disappearing beneath the water where the faintest shimmer glinted.
Dan raised his rifle, scanning the water and beyond, watching for movement. “I know you’re out there!” He said, his voice steady despite his twitching finger. “And I know what you are!”
Stevo growled, baring his teeth, ready for the hunt. He and Dan knew Blackwater Bend was no ordinary billabong, and the beast lurking in its waters was like nothing they had hunted before.
