“They were never seen again,” drawled our loquacious guide, pulling up to the homestead of the abandoned cattle station. The hottest spot for paranormal activity in the southern hemisphere, so said the brochure.
“GONE fishing, GONE troppo, GONE to God. Take yer pick,” he continued. “Never seen again. The locals put it up. The sign. In memoriam, like.”
Twenty-five ghost hunting fanatics stagger from the steaming minibus, dodgy aircon still cranking, every one covered in red dust.
“Inside, cold beers and iced water. In yer go.”
The last to enter the house, I watched him drive away.