Chapter 1
Prologue
Thomas and Beth CoalBriar are dead. A long time friend and neighbour makes the gruesome discovery of what appears to be a murder/suicide.
A tall solitary figure disembarks from a soil-caked, air-conditioned Greyhound bus and stands facing north, glaring down an endless driveway of thick red dirt towards a homestead now wrought in mystery. The dust swirls around his feet, coating his shoes in a thick layer of rusty orange. The Australian sun beats down upon his head, relentless, unforgiving, and a river of sweat slicks his skin and runs down his back, soaking his shirt to a darker shade of blue.
Fifteen years have passed since he last set foot on family soil, yet it feels like only yesterday. His promise never to return is now just a distant dream. Mason is here to deal with the fallout and get the hell out of Dodge as fast as he can.
Making his way along the family’s private access road, the air hangs heavy and desolate. The property lies in ruin and decay. Weeds choke the paddocks, and it appears nobody has slashed the dry brown grass in years. He passes carcasses of sheep lying desecrated and alone. Dry, bleached bones mark their final resting place. Mason wonders what the hell has been going on here, and as he draws closer to the homestead he feels dread and despair licking at his soul.Mason is 35 years old and considered a catch by most of the female population. With jet black hair, piercing green eyes, and powerfully built at just over 6 feet tall, he is an imposing figure and one to be reckoned with. His hatred of the property and all the memories he would rather forget, have not dimmed since he left. Arriving in front of the house that was once his home, Mason feels anything but imposing or comfortable. His only welcome is the shade afforded him by the slowly sinking sun dipping behind the peak of the house roof, offering him some relief from the intensity of the afternoon heat.
He drops his worn, army green duffel bag to the ground, removes his wide-brimmed hat, now stained with sweat, and slowly sinks to the ground. Now that Mason is here, he isn’t ready to head inside, worried about what might greet him in the depths of the darkness and the stories the walls might want to tell. The uppermost hinge leaves the front screen door slightly ajar and lopsided. What lies behind that door scares the hell out of him. The past looms large within that house. The fights, the disappointments, the resentment and the never-ending pressures that finally took their toll and led to his leaving. Nor does he want to clean up the mess or enter their bedroom where their bodies had lain.Slowly, he stands and grabs his duffel from the dirt. Turning his back to the house, he makes his way over to what once were the shearing quarters.He isn’t going into the house today; he may just never go in there again.
Chapter One - First Discovery
The shearing sheds are situated a relatively short distance from the house. Erected over 60 years ago, they had not advanced very often while his grandparents worked the property. Once Mason’s father took over, the idea of upgrading the buildings was not worth mentioning lest you set off his temper. His father was proud of the originality and history of the sheds and found it difficult to move forward with the times. If Mason thinks the house looks neglected, then the shearing shed and quarters look almost derelict.
As Mason slowly makes his way closer, he feels goose pimples prick at his skin, and a feeling of wariness takes over. There is an unsettling presence about the buildings now, similar to what he experienced near the house. Once bustling with life, the sheds are the beating heart of the station. Sounds of sheep bleating, machinery whirring, men shouting to be heard. The smell of the oil that keeps the blades moving seamlessly to achieve the best cut possible.The scent of freshly shorn wool being collected and thrown onto the sorting tables that leaves a stickiness in the air and coats the men’s hands.
Amongst it all, is the vision of his father striding back and forth down the line of shearers. Bellowing instructions and kicking out at the departing sheep once they’d been relieved of their heavy coats. The sight of sheep bleeding because of rough hands working the shears would often set his father off on a tangent. There was always an urgency for the men to get through as many sheep as possible during daylight hours; otherwise, they would have to deal with the wrath of Thomas Coalbriar and the threat of termination. Considering that a majority of the workers lived right here on the station in this very building, losing their employment was not an option. This was their livelihood, to feed and care for their families back home.
Banishing these memories from his mind before they overwhelm him, Mason enters the sheds to be engulfed by the dimness before him. A smell so overpowering it has him recoiling from shock and the sudden need to vomit, has him leaving the building in haste. Mason leans over his knees in the long, dead grass, trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they belong. What the hell has been going on here? His father may have been a tyrant, but the station was his life, his prized inheritance that he had waited so long to claim. The legacy he wanted and expected Mason to preserve once he no longer could.. He would never leave the property in such a state. He had a reputation to uphold, though it was a controversial one. CoalBriar Station was one to be revered. Pride and stubbornness alone would have kept his father from allowing this to happen, whatever this was.
In his haste to leave the wool shed, Mason calls to mind dropping his duffel bag just inside the door and will need to retrieve it. Bracing himself for the noxious smell and tamping down the rising nausea at the thought, he enters the sheds. Holding his sleeve up to his nose and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the fading light, he takes in the surrounding decay. Further inside, he remains horrified and saddened to find more sheep carcasses in the shearing stalls; some still covered in maggots that are feeding ravenously on the remaining flesh. Moving closer, Mason discovers the sheep have been killed execution style. He cannot comprehend his father doing such a thing. Looking around, it seems so senseless, all of this carnage. What once would have been perfectly good fleece has remained on the floors and sorting tables. The clippers remain hanging just shy of the floor by their cords, now swaying slightly in the air that Mason disturbs as he tries to take in all that surrounds him.
Heading over to a wooden ladder that leads up into the shearers quarters, the sight that greets him is no less shocking than that of downstairs and brings even more questions as to what went on here. Clothes lay scattered everywhere, boots upturned, cots left still made, but the bedding thrown aside like the occupants left in haste. Photos of families left on small crates used as bedside tables, toiletries strewn throughout the small bathroom and towels left discarded and filthy upon the floor. These men are hard workers and rough around the edges, but they also respect his mother, who launders for them, feeds them extremely well and cleans the loft every week. Out of appreciation, the men usually keep their living quarters fairly tidy to make less work for Mason’s mum and to show their thanks. Mason thought he had come here to take care of official business now that he was the only remaining family member, but this is something else. This is something bigger than he can wrap his head around, and it irks him that he will need to stay and find out just what happened here at CoalBriar. From his parents’ deaths to the state of the station, he knows that no matter how much he hates this place and all the memories it holds, he can’t just turn his back and walk away. It would eat at him for the rest of his life if he did, and he would not give his father that satisfaction. He would not let the mystery unsolved tie him here, if not in body, then in years of puzzlement, endless questions and curiosity. No, he would need to know. He would need to know that when he walks away from this place of misery for the final time, nothing will ever draw him back. He would break the tether to this place once and for all.
Retracing his steps and grabbing up the duffle, Mason leaves the sheds and heads back towards the house. Taking a deep breath, he climbs the small flight of stairs up to the front porch, still determined to remain outside for now. He will sleep on the wooden bench seat that has seen better days and eat the small handful of snacks he threw in his duffel bag at the last minute before leaving home yesterday morning. He needs a plan; he needs to think where to go from here, where to start getting the answers he needs.Using the duffle for a pillow, Mason lies down carefully upon the bench, hearing it moan and creak, wondering if by morning it will have tipped him unceremoniously onto the porch floorboards. He uses his hat to cover his face and hopes that sleep will come quickly, as for now, sleep is the only way he has to escape this nightmare that was once his home.
