I'm not too sure where to begin so I guess the start would be better.
The story takes place about four years ago when I was in my early thirties. I'm a professional photographer and this story takes place in the Western Plains of NSW.
I was with another friend as I always work with someone else. To cut a long story short we found an old ghost town with buildings like a pub with no beer (I was disappointed in that), old houses that housed nothing but snakes, spiders and god knows what else, and a cemetery with headstones dating to 1890. Neil, my mate, and I decided to camp the night here so we spent a few hours taking photos of the old houses and the headstones then we made ourselves comfortable in the local hotel.
I had my swag in a room that had a skeleton bed frame and an old wardrobe, warped I should add. After tucker we had a yarn, a smoke and decided to head to bed for we had an early start the next morning. As we started to our rooms, Neil suddenly stopped. "Hear that?" He asked in a whisper.
"Hear what?" I answered, wondering why I was whispering for.
So I did.
First I heard nothing then I thought I heard chanting. Like a group of people chanting followed by clapping of sticks and a strange droning sound. It went on all night then it finished with sounds of gunfire and screaming. Neil and I ran out into the darkness with our torches but we were alone in that town. We looked everywhere but there was no sign of any other humans. All night we kept hearing sticks clapping and that droning then the screaming and gunfire.
As soon as day came, we were gone in our car. No looking behind us.
We found a town and after a few beers we told our experience to the local barman. He looked at us and shook his head.
"yeah, mate, you just heard the massacre."
"Yeah, mate, a group of Abos were slaughtered there back in 1920 something by the local white settlers and since then the ghosts return. Fair dinkum, mate, you're not the only ones who heard that. I've heard it myself...wanna another beer?"