Unheimlich (The Ghost Train) by Helen Britton

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Helen Britton

Unheimlich: The Ghost Train
When I was growing up in Australia there was the yearly Show. In fact there still is. Everyone comes to town to show their best animal, their best vegetable and the best thing they can bake, pickle, or preserve. There are show bags to be had, wonders to be seen; shearing, wood chopping, dogs with wild hairdos. A fabulous spectacle connecting the country to the city.
Then there is Side Show alley. Fun rides, shooting parlours, mangy, bad tempered ponies that children can ride at their own risk. It's a seedy scene, with rumours of sex and violence, of transient livelihoods; jailbirds and petty criminals, the underbelly. Nestled in amongst all this are The Ghost Trains.
As a small child, in a state of fear and excitement, I would avert my eyes when walking past a Ghost Train. A glimpse was enough. I was also of the firm belief that the disused railway sheds on the other side of the swamp where I grew up were haunted and that even touching the walls of these buildings with a piece of wood would lead to certain death. The fear was genuine, but so was the fascination. Carefully kept trinkets from that distant past have become symbols of a primal contradiction. The allure of the unknown and ultimately unknowable.