The Second Death
A Ghost Story
“But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers… and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.” Revelation 21:8
The Present
Will it ever go away? The clutch of my heart in my chest, the knot in my stomach, the sour taste at the back of my throat whenever I smell the scent of a rose or see a hulking man with corn-colored hair?
My name is Julia Osborn. I am sixty-seven years old. Here I sit again, alone with my memories in the middle of a busy shopping center. I used to come here many years ago with my daughter, Ruby.
Since my release though, everything has changed. It’s like a maze now; rows of shops stretching from north to south and east to west as far as the eye can see. The scuffed linoleum floor I remember is now a gleaming expanse of white marble and a glass-roofed atrium has replaced the fluorescent strip lights.
But the bookstore is still here and the children’s section looks the same. Ruby and I used to come here every Thursday after school. We’d pick a book together and I’d watch her read the first chapter, her blonde hair falling like a silk curtain across her cheek as she leaned over the page —
Wait a minute! Is that her? Has Ruby returned after all these years? This time I really think it’s my daughter… the way she holds her head, the slight skip in her walk… it’s her. I know it is.
“Ruby!” I wave my hand in the air.
But no.
It’s not Ruby. It’s just another little girl with long yellow hair.
So many times I’ve thought it’s my daughter. So many times I’ve leapt from my seat and called out her name. But I’ve been wrong every time and the girl’s mother always glares at me, clutches her child’s hand and steers her away from the crazy lady sitting on the bench.
It wasn’t Ruby this time.
But next time it might be.
That’s why I must stay here and keep watch.
But it also means I am forced to remember the memories playing over and over in my head like celluloid film reels on an everlasting loop.
Thirty Years Ago
It all began on the night of the worst storm in the history of New South Wales.
I bundled my five-year-old daughter Ruby into a car and escaped from Sydney, driving four hours towards the safety of my mother’s house in the small country town of Warra Wirrin.
Thunder cracked and jagged forks of lightning split the pitch-black sky. The lashing rain caused an almost continuous jet of water to flow over the car’s windscreen and I could barely see more than a few feet in front of me.
Unable to tear my eyes from the road, I ignored the rising needle of the speedometer until the Toyota lost traction on a bend in the road and shot towards the carriageway on the opposite side.
I braked. The car skidded. Wrestling with the steering wheel, I somehow managed to maneuver the car back to the right side of the road.
“Ruby?” I shot an anxious glance behind me. “Are you OK?” No answer from my sleeping daughter. “All is well my darling. We’re nearly there.”
I relaxed my grip on the wheel. My heart had stopped pounding but there remained an aching pain in the middle of my chest.
Twenty-four hours ago I was a married, suburban mother who worked part-time in a museum, cooked dinner for her husband, Ewan, and drove her child to school, music lessons and netball practice.
Now I was hurtling towards a tiny country town in south-western New South Wales in the middle of the night to stay with my mother, a woman I’d barely spoken to since I was seventeen years old.
How in God’s name had it come to this?
“Julia? Are you listening to me? When my only daughter — whom I haven’t seen for nearly twenty years — lands on my doorstep in the middle of the night, isn’t it fair to tell me why?”
I finished wiping a dinner plate and put it on the table behind me. I realized it must have been a shock for my mother, arriving the way I did and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d slammed the door in my face. But she hadn’t and I supposed I should be grateful.
“I’m sorry Mother… I can’t. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick,” I said, meeting my mother’s eyes for the first time that evening.
“But — “ my mother began.
“I left Ewan because he did something unforgivable. You’re going to have to accept that for now. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”
My mother sighed and pulled the plug from the sink. The water gurgled away, sounding unnaturally loud in the silence that followed. She wiped the kitchen bench in slow, careful circles.
Tears filled my eyes. I crumpled my dishtowel into a ball, threw it onto the kitchen table and escaped to take a bath. When the tub was full, I lowered myself into the hot water and closed my eyes, feeling the tension of the past few days seep from my body. I uncapped a bottle of shampoo and massaged it into my scalp. The bathroom door squeaked open.
Mummy, can you wash my hair too?
Of course darling Ruby. Why don’t you climb in with me?
Mummy? Why are you crying?
My hand reached out for Ruby’s. It’s alright, my darling. I’m crying because we’re safe now.
Footsteps sounded on the tiles. My mother’s hand caressed my shoulder. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling more warm tears trickle down my cheeks.
For the first time since I could remember, I longed to throw myself into my mother’s arms and tell her everything so she could make it all right.
But I couldn’t.
Because telling her would make it real and then things would be even worse than they already were.
It was my first excursion since I’d arrived in Warra Wirrin. Mother tried to discourage me. “Shouldn’t you wait until you’re feeling better?”
But I was sick of being cooped up inside all day, sleeping or sitting on the back porch and staring at the purple and brown hills on the horizon. I wanted to get out and do something.
The Toyota — still covered in mud, its left headlight smashed — sat parked in the driveway. It started easily and I headed north along Dingo Road. To my left lay the famous Warra Wirrin swamp, an eerie expanse of naked trees and spindly branches jutting from black water, the ripe smell of decay and damp saturating the air.
Beyond the swamp rose a small, steep hill covered with red box gums and coolibah trees. At the top loomed a large building built of red brick and sandstone: Highgate Prison Museum. I’d read about it in my mother’s guidebook.
I slowed the car to a crawl and peered from the window. It was late afternoon… would the museum still be open? I eased my foot off the brake, turned left at the dirt road and ascended the hill.
I nearly ran over the ancient, wizened Aboriginal man standing in the middle of the road. He was shouting something and waving his arms. I braked. He pressed his face against the glass. The man’s hair and beard were white, his nose broad and flat, leathery skin brown and wrinkled as a chestnut. He wore khaki pants and an old green sweater. “Where you think you’re goin’, lady?”
Was I trespassing on private property? I leaned towards the passenger window and pointed up the hill. “The prison,” I mouthed, wondering what he wanted.
The old man circled his finger in the air, indicating I should wind the window down. I opened the passenger window a crack. The old man shook his head, long white curls swinging from side to side. “Bad place. You look like nice lady. No go.”
“I don’t understand you,” I yelled through the window.
“No go,” he repeated. The man stared at me. His black eyes squinted then widened.
Why was he looking at me like that? My stomach tightened. “Is everything alright?” I asked.
The old man backed away from the car. I shrugged, hit the accelerator and continued. Behind me, the old Aboriginal man stood in the middle of the road, his hand still raised in the air.
Highgate Prison Museum resembled a medieval castle. The sun had disappeared and purple clouds the colour of bruises hung low over the turrets, casting shadows across the twin gargoyles standing sentry at each side of the massive, arched entrance. I’d read Highgate Prison was noted for its distinctive gothic architecture and red, honeycombed brickwork, but all I could see was a depressing, ugly building oozing misery, gloom and death. I read the plaque outside the door:
“Highgate Prison, built in 1864, was purposely built next to the swamp; home to at least four varieties of poisonous snake and dotted with quicksand and sinkholes thus making it impossible for prisoners to escape.”
I pushed open the door. An attractive, older woman with thick, grey hair hanging to her shoulders looked up from a desk. “May I help you?”
“Can I have a quick look around?”
The woman glanced at her wristwatch and smiled apologetically. “We’re closing soon.”
“I know. I promise I won’t be long. Please?”
The grey-haired woman sighed as she rummaged around on her desk. “Here’s a map of the prison so you don’t get lost.”
Beyond the foyer stretched a long passage barely illuminated by a row of weak yellow bulbs hanging from a mildewed ceiling. Prison cells lined each side of the corridor, some with the doors open revealing benches, tables and tin pails shrouded in shadows; the others locked as securely as Bluebeard’s chamber.
Despite the passage of time, the stench of fear and death still seeped from the walls and floors of Highgate Prison: a potpourri of rotting damp, rat droppings, old sweat, urine, semen and blood.
A metal staircase stood at the end of the passageway, the sign indicating it led to the Hanging Tower. I climbed the stairs. At the top was another plaque:
Highgate Prison was home to thirty-eight executions until the abolition of capital punishment in all states in Australia in 1984. The last man executed at Highgate Prison was Karlheinz Kramer in 1951.
A cold draught hissed in my ears. I pulled my scarf tight around my neck. How long had I been gone? I’d better get back in case the woman with the grey hair forgot about me. Back in the foyer, the woman was counting money. She looked up as I entered.
“Thank you for waiting,” I said. “I work — rather, I used to work at a museum in Sydney — so I was interested to see what you do here.”
The woman stared. “Are you passing through or are you staying in Warra Wirrin?”
“Staying — at least for a while. We’re staying with my mother.” I mentioned her name.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re Julia? I’ve heard so much about you. My name’s Lily — Lily Redgrave. I’m the manager here.” She hesitated. “Your mother told me about — ”
I thrust out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Lily. On the way here I met somebody… an old Aboriginal man. Do you know him?”
“That’s Gully. He lives in a shack on the other side of town. His tribe are the traditional owners of this land but he’s the only one still living in the area.”
“He tried to stop me from coming here. Why would he do that?”
Lily’s back stiffened. “Gully’s old, the last remaining member of his tribe. His tribe refused to camp anywhere near the Warra Wirrin swamp. They said it was a place of evil spirits and that building the prison here was a mistake. I imagine that’s what Gully was referring to. “
“How interesting — “ I stopped. Lily Redgrave was staring at me again. “Is something wrong?”
“If you’re staying for a while, can I offer you a job here at the museum? I’m always looking for guides.” Lily gave a rueful smile. “I’m chief-cook-and-bottle-washer at the moment. We have a caretaker but he just does odd jobs, and he’s no help as a guide. I can’t pay you very much, but it would really help me at the moment.”
I hesitated. My mother would surely disapprove.
“Yes. I think I’d like that.”
The lightning flashed, strobe-like, and rain pelted the ground. Even inside the former Prison Governor’s office I could hear the thunder as it rumbled and rolled through the darkening sky. Lily told me that Highgate Prison containedf lodestone. “Lodestone has magnetic properties and attracts lightning,” she’d explained, “It was used by sorcerers in the Middle Ages to attract magical energy for spells.”
I’d laughed. Another old wives’ tale I could use to entertain my tour groups.
The grandfather clock by the heavy oak door chimed six. The last group for the day had left over an hour ago but the radio warned that flash flooding had been reported in the Warra Wirrin creek area, so I decided to wait in the office before driving home.
I ran my hand over the smooth, mahogany wood of the massive desk with its green leather inlay. The Governor’s office was my favourite room in the museum, symbolising the grandeur of an era past, even if that era had been one of cruelty and ignorance concerning the treatment of prisoners.
No expense had been spared. The office floor was solid jarrah and covered with a Persian carpet, rumored to have been brought back by one of the Governors after a trip to Persia in the 1930s. Heavy velvet curtains framed the bay window and portraits of successive Highgate Prison Governors decorated the eastern wall, all of them gimlet-eyed with the thin, stern mouths of autocrats.
But one was different. Unlike his colleagues, this man’s lips bore the semblance of a smile. His eyes — dark, liquid and heavy-lidded — held a hint of sadness, as though they had seen too much and had given up hope. The tiny brass plaque at the base of the painting bore his name: OSWALD J. RATLIFFE, GOVERNOR of HIGHGATE PRISON — 1946–1952.
I stroked his face with gentle fingertips. I think I might have liked you, Ossie. Rest in Peace, wherever you are.
I glanced out of the window. The rain still pounded. Should I ring Mother and let her know? I lifted the telephone receiver. My mother sounded anxious when I told her I’d be late. “Don’t worry,” I said shortly. “Tell Ruby I’ll be home soon.” I clicked the receiver then leaned back into the Governor’s sumptuous leather chair and closed my eyes.
A loud clanging woke me.
How long had I been asleep? I stretched my stiff neck and yawned, catching a glimpse of the clock: six thirty-five. The rain had stopped but wind whistled through the gaps in the windows.
Clang!
I peered through the window. The wrought-iron gate in the prison’s outside wall swung open on a gust of wind, then slammed back against the railings.
Somebody must have forgotten to fasten the latch. I rose from the chair, picked up my bag and opened the door. Outside, the corridor was dark, but the unmistakable smell of roses wafted towards me… pungent… glorious …like strolling through a hothouse at a rose show.
Then the bell in the Hanging Tower began to peal. The death knell… used to announce a prisoner had been executed. The tolling — deep and resonant — reverberated throughout the prison.
My heart thudded against my chest. There’d been no executions in Highgate Prison since 1951. I was the only one here, so who could be ringing that bell?
A faint chuckle sounded, followed by the sound of clicking — like a light switch turning on and off.
Hairs rose on the back of my neck. I peered down the dark corridor.
Outside one of the cells, a single bulb flashed on and off. Somebody was still here! Had one of my tour group stayed behind? I marched towards the cell, determined to give the truant a piece of my mind. When I reached Cell Eighteen, the door was ajar.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” I asked in as firm a voice as I could manage.
Nobody answered. The flashing light bulb fizzed and went out. A cold breeze brushed my skin. I shivered.
The surrounding darkness suddenly felt alive — sinister, watchful, threatening — like a crouched animal ready to spring. My muscles tensed and my heart beat so fast I could barely breathe.
Julia! Stop being an idiot and get a grip! I sucked in a deep breath, raised my arm and pushed. The cell door opened with a squeal.
Empty.
I exhaled. Just my imagination playing tricks. I stepped inside the cell. It was even colder in here.
Then the cell door crashed shut behind me. I whirled around. There was no handle on the inside. What the hell was going on? The caretaker playing a joke on the new girl?
I banged on the door with my fists. “Ok, joke over. Can you let me out?”
No answer, but the chuckling resumed — low, throaty and sinister.
I thumped at the door again. “Let me out — right now!”
Then the observation flap slid open. I gasped as a pair of ice-blue eyes pierced the blackness. I blinked but when I opened my eyes, the penetrating gaze had disappeared. I must have imagined it.
Slow, thudding footsteps sounded outside the cell. Thank goodness somebody had arrived to rescue me. “I’m here — ” I began.
Wisps of smoke wafted under the cell door. Fire! I hammered on the door and screamed. Why didn’t the person outside unlock the door before I burned alive in the cell?
Then I stopped. It didn’t smell like smoke. More like… roses. Again. The same as I’d smelled before when I opened the Governor’s office door.
But, this time, the aroma was acrid and overpowering. It burned my throat and filled my lungs, drowning me in its cloying sweetness. I retched and coughed and pressed my face against the open peephole, desperate to inhale some fresh air.
“Help me! I can’t breathe!” I croaked.
Then, just as suddenly as it arrived, the syrupy odour vanished.
Was it safe to take a breath? I inhaled. My lungs stung. The searing cold was back but at least I could breathe again.
The cell door slammed open, throwing me backwards. Ferocious laughter thundered throughout the prison.
A pair of invisible hands thrust forward and clamped upon my shoulders, shaking me backwards and forwards so violently, I was afraid my neck would snap.
Then a final, brutal shove.
My head hit the back wall and everything went black.
“Julia… are you alright?”
The voice sounded like it was coming from far away.
A tentative hand touched my shoulder. I opened my eyes.
“Lily? What are you doing here?” I asked groggily. I touched the back of my head. It felt warm and sticky. I struggled to a sitting position. “What happened?”
Lily shook her head. “I don’t know. When I reached the creek road it was flooded so I came back to warn you. I heard you cry out then found you… like this. Can you remember anything?”
“The hanging tower bell…” I still felt disoriented. “It started ringing and — ” I stopped. How could I tell Lily about the darkness that came alive and locked me in a cell or about the invisible giant that had shaken me like a rag doll without sounding deranged? I shook my head. “I’m tired and sore. I’d better get home.”
Lily stared at me, her brow furrowed into a ‘V’. She helped me to my feet. “Julia,” she said, not letting go of my arm. “There’s something I didn’t tell you when I gave you the tour guide’s job.”
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. “What?”
“The guide you replaced left a few weeks ago following an excursion from the local high school,” Lily began in a halting voice. “One of the students left the group and hid in Cell Eighteen to frighten his classmates. Only, the group had to leave in a hurry and the guide forgot to count the students. We found him a couple of hours later, curled into a ball on the floor and babbling hysterically. He said the door had locked behind him and he couldn’t get out. He claimed he saw the face of a prisoner through the bars in the door.”
My breath caught in my throat. “What happened to him?”
“His mother collected him and scolded him for reading too many Stephen King novels.” Lily smiled briefly then her face turned serious. “The thing is… Cell Eighteen once housed Highgate Prison’s most notorious prisoner, the last man executed in New South Wales. His name was Karlheinz Kramer.”
I remembered the plaque in the Hanging Tower. “Go on.”
“Kramer was executed for the murder of three young women. He tortured them in the disused solitary confinement cells beneath Highgate Prison. Soon after Kramer’s execution, the prisoners claimed they saw his ghost walking the corridors at night. Some even heard the observation door in their cells slide open and swore they saw his eyes through the bars — Julia… are you sure you’ve told me everything that happened here tonight?”
“I’m sure,” I lied.
I wouldn’t tell Lily, I decided. She might want me to resign and I couldn’t lose this job. It got me out of my mother’s house. It was also the only thing keeping me sane right now. I gathered my coat and bag. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really must get home.”
Lily didn’t stop me. Her eyes flitted about as though looking for something.
“Lily? Are you looking for your roses? Did you forget to take them home earlier?”
“What?” Lily’s voice was sharp.
“I was getting high on their perfume earlier this evening, it was so strong. Are they from your garden?”
Lily’s voice was a strangled whisper. “There used to be a rose garden here at Highgate Prison…. it was Karlheinz Kramer’s pride and joy. He used to pick the flowers, then he scattered rose petals over the girls’ bodies after he killed them.”
END OF PART ONE
Part Two coming soon…
