When I was a young kid, I used to visit my grandparent’s house pretty often. My grandpa had hundreds of stories about his time in the coal mines and the beautiful Australian outback that surrounded it. Almost like every time I visited, I got to hear a new story, it became a sort of tradition. But one story, one story I will never forget this story, it gives me chills every time I think about it.
For a bit of context, when my grandfather worked in the mines, he would occasionally leave the mine with fellow miners, they would go to a small town bar that just sat off the main highway. This town was primarily inhabited by Aboriginal people; he grew close to some of the men in the town, and some he even got jobs for them in this particular mine. He was well-liked and trusted by the locals, which allowed him access to stories and legends that many outsiders never heard.
One night, as the group sat around a campfire outside the bar, the conversation turned to the Bunyip. It was a creature deeply ingrained in Aboriginal mythology, a fearsome being said to lurk in swamps, billabongs, creeks, riverbeds, and waterholes across Australia. My grandpa listened intently as the men shared tales of encounters and warnings about venturing too close to the creature’s domain.
Despite the warnings, my grandfather’s curiosity was piqued. He asked the men to share more about their encounters with the Bunyip. One of the older men, named Jirra, spoke up. He recounted a story from his youth when he and his friends had ventured into a remote part of the outback, near a particularly murky billabong he described the entity as large black but pale, human-like but in a more primal form, like a dog, the sight was almost unimaginable and once you see it, you never want to talk about it ever again as the thought, makes you cringe with fear and hurt.
As Jirra narrated the story, the atmosphere around the campfire seemed to change. The crackling of the fire sounded eerie, and the shadows danced with a sinister edge. My grandfather felt a shiver run down his spine as Jirra described the bone-chilling howl of the Bunyip echoing through the night, sending chills through their very souls.
But it was what Jirra revealed next that truly chilled my grandfather to the core. He spoke of a warning passed down through generations, a cryptic message etched in the ancient stories of his people. The Bunyip, Jirra said, was not merely a creature of flesh and blood but a manifestation of the land itself, a guardian of the natural world.
As the night wore on, my grandfather couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled over him. The stories of the Bunyip lingered in his mind long after he returned to the safety of his own bed.
It was a few weeks later when my grandfather found himself alone in the outback, far from the safety of civilization. He had ventured out on a trek with accompanied by Jirra, seeking to explore the rugged beauty of the Australian wilderness. As he made his way through the dense bushland, they couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
The air grew thick with a sense of hate, and the sounds of the bush seemed to take on a sinister tone. My grandfather’s heart pounded in his chest as he realized he had strayed dangerously close to a murky, stagnant billabong. And then, he heard it.
A low, guttural growl echoed through the stillness of the night, sending shivers down my grandfather’s spine. He froze in terror, unable to move as the sound grew closer and closer. And then, emerging from the darkness, he saw it.
The Bunyip, a monstrous creature unlike anything he had ever seen, lurched toward him with a menacing gait. Its eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, and its twisted form seemed to blend seamlessly with the shadows of the night. My grandfather knew then that he was face to face with a creature of God, a guardian of the outback whose fury knew no bounds.
In that moment of terror, my grandfather’s mind raced with the stories he had heard, the warnings of the Aboriginal elders ringing in his ears. He knew that to survive, he would have to rely on his wits and instincts, for the Bunyip was a force to be reckoned with.
For hours, my grandfather ran through the darkness, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion. And then, just when he thought he could run no longer, he saw it— civilisation.
With renewed determination, my grandfather pushed himself onward, his feet pounding against the hard-packed earth as he raced toward the safety of the distant lights. And then, finally, he burst through the treeline, stumbling into the welcoming glow of a small outback town.
As he collapsed onto the dusty ground, gasping for breath, my grandfather knew that he had narrowly escaped the clutches of the Bunyip. But as he looked back into the darkness of the bushland, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had come face to face with something truly ancient and otherworldly, a creature whose legend would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Only then did he realise that Jirra was nowhere to be found, upon asking other locals he was shocked to find out that he had never existed, Jirra was a manifestation of the bunyip louring my grandfather to his close demise.