Australia Ghost Stories

Aussie Cop and the Aborigine Ghosts
A reddish haze had formed as the strong wind blew the sands off the dry barren earth from both sides of the road. I found myself speeding right through the reddish haze with my BMW K1100 police patrol bike. The tiny grains of sand bombarded my helmet visor with consistent sizzle, and occasionally, summer flies slapped my visor with a splat. In the wind, the sludge of the crushed flies slid off to the sides of my visor, forming networks of wrinkle-like trails. Soon, my visor had collected enough filth from the dust, flies, and oil from the exhaust of other cars that it became hard to see anything. So, I turned into a less traveled road as soon as I saw one and stopped at the side of it.

The quieter road was much cooler; there were plenty of shrubs and trees lining the sides of it. I took my helmet off and placed it on the BMW's tank. Then I removed my gloves and fanned my face with one. With the other hand, I removed my sunnies and slip them into my shirt pocket. I then reached for my water bottle, which was only slightly cooler than the surrounding midday air.

I imagined the bottle smoking with ice-cold vapour, and instead of plain boring water, it was beer. I gulped it down gratifyingly, and splashed some on my face and hair, as one would with cologne.

"Aaaah, how great it feels."

I picked the helmet up, held it in front of me, and reached for the chamois in the left side-box of the bike. As I wiped the gunk off, I began to realise how peaceful it was at that side road.

"Hmm, I should relax here a bit," I said to myself.

No sooner had I started enjoying the serenity than a faint sound of engine roaring caught my ears. I looked all around me but couldn't see anything, so I kept still and focused. The sound became more apparent; it was coming from the far end of the road ahead.

I slipped my cleaned helmet on and rode slowly ahead. The roaring sound became louder as the shrubs and trees that shrouded the sides of the road cleared behind me. Ahead, near a bend, was a raised earth platform—a potential construction site for a private housing estate. Although I couldn't see the source of the sound from the lower road level, a rising cloud of dust made obvious the sound came from the higher ground.

I stopped by the side of the road, removed my helmet, and placed it on the bike's seat. Then, I walked to the foot of slope, and struggled a climb up two meters. As my hands hooked the top edge of the slope, I pulled myself up just enough for a peek.

What I saw, boggled me—about thirty meters away, an old black 1953 Chevrolet was going around in circles.

"What's go'n on 'ere?" I muttered.

I tried to make out if the person driving was all right, but the sun's reflection on the Chevy's windows and the red cloud of dust all around it made it impossible. Nervous, but curious, I pulled myself over the slope and stood at the edge of the raised ground. I was now in full view.

He can see me now. He will surely stop and pay a cop some respect, I said in my head.

But the Chevy kept circling and plunging clouds of red dust in the air. I peered hard at it, but got no response.

The sight was one of madness yet intriguing. My mind began to wander involuntarily—maybe the driver had been shot dead and his foot remained pressed down on the accelerator pedal, or maybe some hoons were playing around with a stolen car, or maybe this, or maybe that. I forced myself to stop assuming and gather courage to investigate.

The sheer sight of the old Chevy, with its grille solemn and the unlit headlights staring coldly, drove shuddering chills up my spine. But I am a cop, and it was my duty to investigate, so I stood my ground and peered harder into the Chevy's windows. Occasionally, when the glass windows weren't reflecting the blue sky, I could manage a glimpse of two people with long hair sitting in the front seats.

Are they sheilas, I wondered.

Tapping on the side of my waist, I gained slight confidence knowing my revolver was with me. I then walked nervously towards the madly circling Chevy.

Only a mere twenty meters had I walked when the Chevy suddenly stopped. It faced me directly. Its headlights, though unlit, seemed to stare like eyes of a living creature. I froze, my heart pounded fiercely against my ribcage, and trails of sweat trickled down my face. The Chevy's cold stare seemed to mock me to approach, but I stood still. No matter how still I tried to be, I was still shaking.

Aw, why did ya 'ave to be so damn nosy, Terrence?

The last cloud of dust had drifted off to the right and was settling. I could see quite clearly the two people inside the car. They were not moving at all. I took a deep breath and mustered enough courage to yell.

“Step out of the car, please!”

The two heads remained still, not even a twitch. The moisture in my throat suddenly dried up and my fingers began to waver. In a sudden fit of fear, I felt rage.

“STEP OUT OF THE VEHICLE NOW!” I screamed out, but the open space swallowed my echoes.

The Chevy's two doors opened abruptly, and in accord. Instinctively, my right hand went to my holster and clutched the revolver's handle.

Then, as slow as snails, the two figures stepped out and stood behind the opened doors, facing me.

They were "no hopers." They were big, and dark, and tall too, really tall—almost seven feet tall.

A desperate breath escaped my mouth, but I put up an easy front; the last thing I wanted to show was a wussie cop wavering before them. I am not going to lie, I was scared. I didn't know what was going to happen next.

What if they dashed forward and attacked me? What should I do? Do I open fire? What do I write in my report—that I met two eerie black giants in a circling Chevy? It all sounded troppo.

As I stood there with fear amassing, the two burly aborigines just looked at me with absolute calm through their black sunnies. They looked like aliens if I may say so. Now, that made me even more nervous, so I gripped the revolver tighter short of drawing it.


They stepped aside of the Chevy in unison.


I yelled harshly, trying to hide the fear in my voice. But I was sure they could tell I was F—king trembling!

They walked, but they didn't put their hands up. And they didn't stop neither! They came towards me—closer and closer!

“STOP RIGHT THERE! PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” I screamed much louder.

Even though they didn't have any weapons, I was nervous. I became more nervous with every step they took towards me.

They still didn't stop. Instead, they drifted apart from each other and walked a circular path around me. I turned my head to the left and right. My right hand, wet in sweat, gripped the revolver tight and ready to draw.

I waited for a sudden move but there was none. They only gave me cold dead stares as they walked a safe distance from my sides. When we were all in line, they looked away and carried on walking behind me.

I thought if I didn't do something then, they would escape, so I turned around and fired in the air. They still didn't stop. I fired another shot in the air. That time they stopped, both in unison again, and turned their heads slowly to look at me.

My blood froze. My legs trembled. My body shook violently. My eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

What the hell am I looking at?


My knees buckled and hit the ground. My jaw dropped as I watched the two huge aborigine men walking farther and farther away until they reached the edge of the raised ground. Then, they calmly stepped off the edge.

Seeing them gone, I sighed in relief and turned to look at the Chevy. I choked, and felt a sharp chill surged up my spine all over again—the Chevy was gone!

My stomach churned, and I felt the acids rising up my gullet. I closed my eyes and thought of my wife and children, and of course, God.

I was praying for almost twenty minutes at the spot because I just couldn't stop trembling and my legs were too weak to stand.

I have not told anyone of this incident. I cannot afford to be called a troppo cop.

Traffic Cop , Australia


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