"The Last Beer":
I pulled my dusty old truck into Larrimah one afternoon, figuring it was just another speck on the map where I could grab a bite and stretch my legs. The place sat off the main highway, a cluster of rundown buildings baking under the sun, with maybe a dozen folks calling it home. I had been road-tripping across Australia for weeks, chasing odd jobs, and something about the quiet here drew me in. Little did I know, that stop would drag me into a nightmare I still wake up sweating from.
The first person I met was Paddy, a grizzled old man in his seventies with a thick Irish accent and a grin that showed too many missing teeth. He was sitting outside the Pink Panther Hotel, nursing a beer with his little red kelpie dog, Kellie, at his feet. She wagged her tail lazily as I approached, and Paddy waved me over like we were old mates.
"Come have a drink, mate," he called out. "Name's Paddy Moriarty. What brings a stranger like you to this hole?"
I told him my name was Jack, and I was just passing through. We got to chatting quick. He spun yarns about his days as a rodeo rider and how he ended up in Larrimah back in 2008, retiring from the rough life. The town was tiny—eleven people total, he said—with a pub, a tea house, a mechanic shop, and not much else. No police for hundreds of kilometers, no cell signal half the time. It felt cut off from the world, like the outback had swallowed it whole.
As the hours ticked by, Paddy introduced me to a few locals. There was Richard, the barman, a burly guy with a mustache who poured our drinks without much talk. He seemed friendly enough, but his eyes darted around like he was always watching for trouble. "Watch yourself around here," Richard muttered when Paddy stepped away to feed Kellie. "Folks hold grudges longer than the dry season."
I laughed it off, but then Paddy came back and started griping about his neighbors. "That Fran Hodgetts across the way," he said, pointing to the Devonshire Tea House, a shabby spot selling pies to the occasional tourist. "She and I been at war for years. All over who gets to sell the bloody meat pies. Can you believe it? She's got her gardener, Owen, that big ex-boxer lug, doing her dirty work."
Paddy leaned in closer, his voice dropping low. "Last week, Owen yelled at me over the fence. 'Get rid of that dog, or I'll get rid of it for you!' he shouted. I told him straight, 'You touch Kellie, and I'll kneecap you myself.' Man's got a temper like a crocodile."
I glanced over at the tea house. Fran, an older woman in her eighties with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense walk, was sweeping the porch. She caught me looking and stared back hard, like she was sizing me up. Owen was out back, hacking at weeds with a machete, his muscles bulging under his shirt. The way he swung that blade made my skin prickle.
That evening, as the light faded, Paddy invited me to stay the night. "No motels for miles," he said. "Crash at my place. Got a spare cot." His house was a simple shack down the road, about 300 meters from the pub, cluttered with old rodeo trophies and empty beer cans. Kellie curled up by the door, watching us.
We shared a supper of tinned beans and bread. Paddy kept talking about the feuds. "Fran once accused me of stealing her customers. I flung a dead kangaroo through her window as a joke—scared her half to death. Now she hates my guts. And those mechanics, Karen and Mark Rayner, they're no better. Always whispering, pointing fingers."
I asked if it ever got dangerous. Paddy chuckled, but his eyes weren't smiling. "Mate, in a place like this, everyone's got secrets. No one to call for help. You hear a noise at night, could be anything—or anyone."
Later, after Paddy turned in, I stepped outside for some air. The town was dead quiet, just the hum of insects and the distant rumble of a truck on the highway. I walked toward the tea house, curious. Through a window, I saw Fran and Owen arguing in low voices. "Something's got to give," Fran hissed. "That man's pushing too far."
Owen grunted. "I told you, I'll handle it. Just say the word."
I backed away fast, not wanting to be seen. Back at Paddy's, I lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. Every creak of the shack made me jump. What kind of place was this, where neighbors threatened each other over pies and dogs?
The next morning, Paddy was up early, frying eggs. "Sleep alright?" he asked.
"Yeah," I lied. "But those stories you told—sound rough."
He shrugged. "That's Larrimah. Stick around, you'll see."
We headed back to the pub for breakfast. Richard was there, chatting with Karen and Mark. Karen, a tough-looking woman with grease-stained hands, eyed me suspiciously. "New face, eh? Don't get too comfy. People come and go funny here."
Mark nodded. "Like that time with the tourist who vanished—wait, never mind."
Paddy shot them a glare. "Shut your trap, Mark. Jack's alright."
The tension hung thick. As the day wore on, I fixed my truck at the mechanic shop, but Karen kept glancing at Paddy's house. "Heard him and Owen going at it again last night," she whispered to me. "Owen said, 'I'll killerate the lot of you.' Swear I heard it."
I didn't know what to make of it. By afternoon, Paddy and I were back at the pub, having a few beers. He seemed on edge, petting Kellie more than usual. "If anything happens to me, mate," he said suddenly, "watch that lot across the way."
"What do you mean?" I pressed.
"Just... watch 'em." He wouldn't say more.
As evening came, Paddy decided to head home. "Join me for supper later?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. He hopped on his quad bike with Kellie in the basket and rode off down the dirt track.
I stayed at the pub a bit longer, talking to Richard. "Paddy's a good bloke," Richard said. "But he's made enemies. Fran offered money to get rid of him once—or so the rumor goes."
"Money?" I echoed.
Richard nodded. "Hundred grand for a hit. She denies it, of course."
I felt uneasy. An hour passed, then two. Paddy didn't come back for another drink like he usually did. I walked to his house. The quad bike was parked outside, but the door was ajar. Inside, the microwave was beeping—supper half-made, chicken pie cooling on the counter. His hat and glasses sat on the table. The TV flickered with static. Kellie was nowhere.
"Paddy?" I called. No answer.
I stepped out, shouting his name. Nothing. The neighbors' lights were on, but no one came out. I knocked on Fran's door. She opened it a crack. "What do you want?"
"Have you seen Paddy? He's not home."
She smirked. "Probably passed out somewhere. Mind your business."
Owen loomed behind her. "Yeah, stranger. Go back to the pub."
I tried the Rayners next. Karen answered. "Paddy missing? Huh. Maybe his dog finally bit him." Mark laughed in the background.
Richard at the pub just shrugged. "He'll turn up."
But he didn't. That night, I searched the scrub around his house with a flashlight. The outback stretched endless, full of hidden gullies and thick brush. I found nothing—no footprints, no signs of struggle. It was like the earth had opened up and taken him.
The next day, police from far away arrived, but with so few people, everyone pointed fingers. Fran said Paddy was a drunk who wandered off. Owen claimed he heard nothing. Karen whispered about seeing a shadow near Paddy's place. Richard mentioned the old feuds heating up.
Searches went on for days—drones, dogs, volunteers combing the bush. They found zilch. No body, no dog, no clues. The inquest later ruled it homicide, likely from the neighbors' hatred, but no one got charged. Evidence was too thin.
I left Larrimah soon after, but the fear stuck. What if one of them did it? Buried him in the vast nothingness, where no one would find him? Or worse, what if it was a group thing, the whole town covering up? Every time I drive remote roads now, I wonder about places like that—forgotten spots where people vanish, and the ones left behind smile a little too wide.
"Murder Mountain":
I packed my old truck with everything I owned and drove up the coast from San Diego, chasing stories about quick cash in the northern woods. Friends back home talked about Humboldt County like it was some kind of paradise for folks tired of city rules—endless green fields, free living, and pay that could set you up for years. I figured why not. Bills were piling up, and I wanted a change. When I got to Alderpoint, it wasn't what I expected. The roads turned to dirt tracks winding through thick forests, and the houses were scattered like forgotten toys—old trailers, makeshift cabins pieced together from scrap wood and tarps. No street lights, no stores nearby. People here lived off generators and rainwater, growing their own food when they weren't tending the plants that brought in the real money.
My first day, I pulled into a gravel lot near a cluster of buildings that passed for the town center. A guy named Tom, tall with a beard down to his chest, leaned against a fence smoking a cigarette. He eyed my truck before waving me over.
"You looking for work?" he asked, his voice low like he didn't want anyone else hearing.
"Yeah," I said. "Heard there's trimming jobs around."
He nodded slowly. "Plenty of that. But keep your head down. Folks here value privacy. Follow me."
We drove deeper into the hills, the trees closing in until the sky was just slivers above. The farm was a collection of greenhouses hidden under camouflage netting, with a main cabin and a few smaller shacks for the workers. Tom introduced me to the boss, a quiet man named Ray who barely looked up from his ledger.
"Start tomorrow," Ray said. "Pay's at the end of the week. No questions, no wandering off."
That night, I settled into one of the shacks with a couple other guys. One was Eddie, a skinny kid from Oregon with wild eyes, and the other was Garrett, who said he came from down south like me. Garrett was easy to talk to, always smiling, talking about building a house on some land he owned in Mexico.
"This place is wild," Garrett told me as we sat around a fire pit, passing a joint. The flames flickered on his face. "Money's good, but you gotta watch out. Heard stories about people vanishing up here."
Eddie laughed, but it sounded forced. "Yeah, like that guy last season. Showed up, worked a month, then poof. Boss said he left for home, but his truck's still rusting out back."
I shifted on the log, the darkness beyond the fire feeling thicker. "What do you mean, vanishing?"
Garrett leaned in. "They call this Murder Mountain for a reason. Fights over crops, bad deals. Cops don't come around much. Too far out, and half the time, they don't care anyway."
Ray walked by then, his boots crunching on the gravel. "Lights out soon," he grunted. "Work starts early."
The next few weeks blurred together. We'd trim buds from dawn till dusk, hands sticky with resin, the air thick with that sweet, earthy smell. The community felt tight-knit at first—neighbors from other farms would stop by, trading supplies or stories. But little things started nagging at me. Tools went missing from the shed. I'd hear footsteps outside my shack at night, but when I looked, nothing. Once, I found a boot print in the mud near my door, too big to be anyone's I knew.
One afternoon, Garrett pulled me aside while we worked in the greenhouse. Sweat dripped down his face as he clipped leaves.
"Hey, man," he whispered. "Something's off with Ray. I overheard him on the phone last night, arguing about money owed. Sounded heated."
"What do you mean?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
"He said, 'If he pushes, we'll handle it like before.' Then he mentioned a name—Scott. Said Scott's farm is cutting into our sales."
I glanced at the door. "You think it's serious?"
Garrett shrugged. "Just be careful. I'm close to cashing out and heading south. You should too."
That evening, Eddie didn't show for dinner. We ate beans and rice around the table, Ray at the head like always.
"Where's Eddie?" I asked.
Ray chewed slowly. "Left. Said he had family stuff."
Garrett and I exchanged looks. Eddie's stuff was still in the shack.
Later, in the dark, Garrett knocked on my door. "Come outside," he said quietly.
We walked to the edge of the property, where the forest started. The trees rustled softly, but no wind blew.
"Look," Garrett said, pointing to the ground. There was a patch of dirt disturbed, like something heavy had been dragged. "Found this earlier. And Eddie's wallet was in the trash bin."
My mouth went dry. "We need to tell someone."
"Who? Cops? They won't come. And Ray... I don't trust him."
We agreed to keep quiet, watch our backs. But sleep didn't come easy after that. I'd lie awake, listening to every creak, every distant snap in the woods.
A few days passed. Tension built like a storm. Ray started assigning us separate tasks—me in the fields, Garrett in the storage shed. One morning, Garrett didn't show for breakfast.
"Where's Garrett?" I asked Ray, trying to sound casual.
"Out running an errand," Ray replied, not meeting my eyes. "Back later."
But later came, and no Garrett. I searched the shack—his bag was gone, but his favorite hat hung on the hook. Something twisted inside me.
That night, I couldn't stay still. I slipped out, flashlight in hand, heading toward the trail Garrett mentioned once, leading to Scott's farm. The path was narrow, roots snagging my feet. Branches scraped my arms. Then I heard voices ahead—low, angry.
I killed the light, crouched behind a tree. Two figures stood in a clearing: Ray and another man, shorter, with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Scott, maybe.
"It's done," Ray said. "Buried him shallow, like you said."
The other man grunted. "Good. He was asking too many questions. Owed me from last harvest anyway."
My breath caught. I backed away slowly, but a twig snapped under my boot.
"Who's there?" Ray called out.
I ran, heart slamming against my ribs. Branches whipped my face. Behind me, footsteps pounded. A shot echoed—bark exploded near my head.
I dove into thicker brush, rolling down a slope, scraping my knees on rocks. The footsteps faded, but I kept moving, crawling until I hit a stream. I followed it downhill, water soaking my shoes, until I reached a road hours later.
Hitchhiked to the nearest town, called the cops from a payphone. Told them everything—about Eddie, Garrett, the voices. They took notes, said they'd look into it. But days turned to weeks, and nothing. I heard rumors later: locals in Alderpoint formed a group, confronted Scott themselves. Forced him to confess, even shot him to make him talk. Found a body in the woods—Garrett's, they said. But no arrests. Cops called it vigilante mess, evidence tainted.
I left Humboldt after that, back to the city. But the fear lingers. Those woods hide more than plants. People go in, chasing dreams, and some never come out. The community protects its own, but if you cross the wrong line, you're gone. Forgotten.
"The Ant Hill":
I decided to leave my old life behind when I met Roch at a meeting in Quebec. He spoke about living free, away from the city's noise and rules. His words pulled me in, promising a simple community where we could grow our own food and support each other. I was twenty-five, tired of my job and lonely nights, so I followed him and a few others into the woods. We drove for hours until the roads turned to dirt paths, and then we walked, carrying our bags through thick trees. That first camp felt like an adventure, with tents and a fire pit, but soon it became our prison.
Roch called us the Ant Hill Kids because he said we worked hard like ants for a greater purpose. He built himself up as our leader, Moise, the one who heard God's voice. At first, it was just nine of us—me, Roch, his wife Gisele, and a few others like Jacques and Francine. We cleared land in the Gaspé Peninsula, far from any town, no electricity, no phones. We fetched water from a stream and cooked over open flames. Roch assigned tasks: the women baked bread to sell in distant villages, the men chopped wood. He kept the money, saying it was for the group.
Conversations started normal. "Pass the flour, sister," Gisele would say as we kneaded dough. But Roch watched us closely. One day, Jacques whispered to me about missing his family. Roch overheard and called a meeting that night. "Jacques has doubt in his heart," Roch announced, his voice low and steady. He made Jacques stand in the center while we sat in a circle. "Confess your sins," Roch ordered. Jacques stammered, "I just wonder about my parents." Roch grabbed a belt from his waist and struck Jacques across the back. The crack echoed through the trees. "Doubt invites evil," Roch said. Jacques cried out, but Roch hit him again and again until blood showed through his shirt. We sat there, heads down, afraid to move.
After that, punishments grew worse. Roch said we needed purification for the end times. He predicted the world would end in February 1979, so we worked harder, building cabins from logs we cut ourselves. When the date passed and nothing happened, Roch explained, "God's calendar differs from man's." No one questioned him aloud. I started noticing how he favored the women, taking us to his cabin one by one. "You are chosen," he told me the first time, his hands rough as he pulled me close. I felt trapped, but leaving meant facing the wild alone, with no map or help.
More people joined, swelling our numbers to over a dozen, including children born in the camp. Roch fathered most of them. Daily life turned into a routine of fear. We woke at dawn to his calls, ate thin porridge, then labored until dark. If sales were low, he'd gather us and pick someone to blame. Once, Francine dropped a loaf during baking. Roch made her strip her clothes off in front of everyone. "Feel the shame of failure," he said. He handed pliers to Gisele and ordered her to pull out Francine's hairs, one by one, from her arms and legs. Francine screamed, but Gisele did it, tears in her eyes. "Stop, please," Francine begged. Roch laughed. "Pain cleanses the soul." That night, I lay awake in my bunk, hearing her sobs from across the room.
The isolation made everything darker. We moved deeper into the woods, to a spot near Burnt River in Ontario, after authorities asked questions about the children. No roads led there; we hiked in with supplies on our backs. The cabins were crude, with dirt floors and no windows, just slits for light. Roch forbade contact with outsiders. "The world poisons us," he preached. Conversations turned to whispers. "Do what he says," Jacques told me once, his back still scarred. But Jacques changed after that, becoming one of Roch's enforcers, watching us for signs of disloyalty.
The real terror began with the "treatments." Roch claimed he could heal us. Solange Boilard, one of the newer women, complained of stomach pain after a hard day. Roch laid her on a wooden table in the main cabin, the rest of us forced to watch. "I will remove the evil," he said. He punched her belly hard, making her gasp. Then he took a knife, sharp from skinning animals, and cut into her skin. Blood poured out. Solange writhed, crying, "No, Moise, it hurts!" He ignored her, reaching inside with his bare hands, pulling at her insides. "Hold her still," he barked at Jacques, who pinned her arms. Roch tore out a piece of her intestine, blood soaking the table. "Now, stitch it," he told Gabrielle Lavallée, handing her a needle and thread. Gabrielle's hands shook as she tried, but Solange went pale and stopped moving. The next day, Roch said he could bring her back. He sawed open her head with a rusty blade, claiming to fix her brain. We buried her body in a shallow grave behind the cabins, the dirt clumping with her blood. No one spoke of it, but I saw the fear in everyone's eyes.
Punishments escalated. Roch made a man named Guy Veer prove his faith by letting Roch stab him in the hand with a fork. Guy screamed, but Roch twisted it deeper. "Feel God's test," Roch said. Another time, he forced a woman to sit on a hot stove, her skin blistering as she begged for mercy. Children suffered too—Roch held one boy over the fire by his feet until the child promised obedience. "Cry louder," Roch taunted. The boy's mother watched, helpless, whispering, "Please, Moise, he's just a child."
Gabrielle endured the most. She was loyal at first, but when she questioned Roch, he turned on her. He pulled out her teeth with pliers, one by one, blood dripping from her mouth. "Smile for me," he said after the eighth. Later, he smashed her ribs with a board, then cut off part of her breast with scissors. "You belong to me," he growled as she bled. The final horror came when he pinned her hand to the table and chopped off her arm with a meat cleaver. Gabrielle passed out from the pain, but he bandaged it roughly and made her work the next day.
I planned my escape in secret. During a supply run, I hid extra food in my bag. One night, while Roch slept, I slipped out, running through the dark woods, branches scraping my skin. I heard voices calling my name—Jacques and others searching—but I kept going, feet aching, until I reached a road at dawn. A truck driver picked me up, and I told him everything. Police raided the camp soon after, arresting Roch in 1989. They found Solange's grave and heard stories from the others. Gabrielle had escaped too, her arm gone, but alive. Roch went to prison for murder, and the community fell apart.
Even now, years later, I check locks on my doors, wondering if echoes of that life follow me. The woods hold secrets, and Roch's voice still whispers in my dreams.