It is prior to the Great War, Moora, Western Australia, 6510.
Sweat, heat, fire, muscle, and iron are the staple of every blacksmiths shed, shop, and forge the world over. One of Moora’s own stands on the eastern side of the northern end Lenane St. It is a family affair, a couple of brothers now running it; of the two, one has recently been offended by a local identity. He is less than happy.
Dust, flies and heat cake her. Confusion in its infancy races toward breath stopping maturity in seconds. Realisation at the direness of her predicament, and her naivety that placed her here, the fact that he lured her here, is worth less than the dust on her dark bare feet.
Raped, beaten, eventually murdered; she is approximately 13 years old. A recently erected Church stands within earshot and not more than 250 yards east north east of her; one day a school will rise from the dust to its west, directly across the road from it.
Guilt riddled, remorse filled, fearing judgement of the law and the reciprocity of family, Mr. Schlachten, the blacksmith, admits the crime to his brother. His brother storms off in a rage. Returning a short time later the still raging brother finds him, Mr. Schlachten, dangling by the neck at the end of a rope. A result of his own hand. Coincidentally, locals nicknamed Lenane St. ‘Slaughter Road’ soon after.
Time moves, years pass, and the blacksmith is a thing of memory. The forge removed, the ground levelled, and houses replace its sheds and yards. A house is built over the blacksmiths’ locations, and ages so quickly, so badly, that it replaced by another not many years later. The same occurs with the new house, which eventually falls in on itself, and yet another house is built. It is here that we reach a place in time roughly a decade ago, on Lenane St. In accordance with the passage of time, and the short memory of people, that the name ‘Slaughter Road’ is all but forgotten.
Over the years since the removal of the smith’s shop, those that dwelt in those houses on the site of the murder and suicide, all experienced odd and uncomfortable sensations during their time of habitations’ there. Reports of a ghost like apparition are regularly reported, yet the apparition itself is not firm enough in outline to make out the identity of it. Yet, it is guessed that it is the spectral image of the missing dead wee lass “come a visitin'”. Places of cold occurred in different parts of the house; utensils and appliances were moved around of their own accord, and lights turned on or off by unseen hands; the immortal remains of the murdered girl are regularly to blame. Worse, the behaviour of the occupants would change for no apparent reason, and the changes were always for the worst. Sadly, the behavioural changes have been the norm as far back as living memory is able to tell. Over the last decade, as an example, a mother’s child fell from grace, slipping into a lifestyle of drugs and crime. Doctors are seen, judges fronted, yet nothing works in settling the teen. Eventually, all avenues exhausted, it is the house and the negative energy within that falls under the eye of scrutiny. At her wit’s end, the mother makes a phone call, a person of religious persuasion is brought in and the house examined. Resultant, various religious acts, rights and blessings are enacted. Yet, regardless of his ministrations, the house and its inhabitants actions remain unchanged. In a final fit of despair, the mother sells the house and moves on. Again, the house is bought by an unwitting character, new tenants are installed, and the cycle repeats again, and again, and again. Violence, drugs, crime………….poverty.
Tragically the body of the girl has never been found, she whose ghost is oft seen, down on Slaughter Road.
I published this one here about eighteen months ago.
Of the many tales and yarns I have been told of late, there are a couple, incredibly grizzly incidentally, that have stood out among the rest. These specific tales stand on their own as they recount incidents, not the unusual activity of an inexplicable nature. So, the recounting of events with a historic background to the area, in this case Moora, I have to be somewhat tactful in my retelling as there maybe family member’s in the area that quite possibly not only recollect it, but may have made it a family secret or tragic mystery. Adding to that, as I received this as an oral history which may have blurred in the passing of years, decades, and in this case, millennia, the story has quite possibly changed in the details. Keeping that in mind, I will not divulge the names of those associated to the gruesome affair; the locality of the crime and ensuing issues remains approximately accurate. Please keep in mind, that this is a story I have been told, not an event that I have researched. Gossip of the day dictated that the reason no one found her was as a result of the blacksmith throwing her into the forge, and then pumping the bellows for a good while, incinerating all remains of her. What a bastard of a man to have done all of those things.
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