Imagine one day you wake up and suddenly people from your town start going missing one by one without any explanation. You find out that this is because of a monstrous kangaroo that has made it its task to destroy every living thing that comes along its way. Doesn’t matter if it’s men, women, or children. Once you face that creature it’s over for you. That monster will crush you, rip your body parts off, and impale you. Doesn’t sound too nice, does it? However, this is the reality for the small town of Morgan Creek in the Outback of Australia in Alan Baxter’s horror novel “The Roo”. The story was inspired by a news article about an Australian town being terrorized by a kangaroo attacking people and eating gardens which made its rounds on Twitter. Baxter saw the article and decided to just run with it. At first glance, “The Roo” seems to be just about killing, blood, and guts, but trust me, it’s not. This unserious text actually has a lot of seriousness hidden behind its violent plot. But more on that in a bit… first I would like to focus on how Baxter portrayed violence in “The Roo” before analyzing how the novel can be seen from an academic point of view.

Forms of Violence in “The Roo”

The truth is: I am not the biggest fan of horror novels and the sight of blood makes me go dizzy, so I was a bit scared of how I would react to “The Roo”.  However, the fact that the novel was very fast-paced and just outright bloody made my reading experience actually quite entertaining and funny. For the most part of the novel, violence is mainly portrayed by the roo brutally killing every living thing that comes its way. In his article “Violent Vibes”, Lucas Mattila defines the “over-the-top representations of violence” as one of the main characteristics of the slasher-horror narrative (65). Moreover, the misogynistic inclinations that can also be found in slasher-horror narratives appear at the end of the novel in the form of domestic abuse which is portrayed through the situation of Pauline. She wants her abusive husband Bill dead and therefore summons this monstrous roo. In the end, she sacrifices herself to stop the bloodbath by ordering Sheila to shoot her dead. Lucas Mattila sees this form of violence as “slow violence [which] enters the picture when it becomes apparent that domestic abuse frequently includes a multigenerational chain of abusers and victims that stretches back and is also expected to continue” (72).

What I found interesting to see was that for the most part, I was actually desensitized to the roo killing people. As it became a constant repetition, I was prepared for what was about to come next. However, I did not expect Pauline’s death and the reason behind the whole bloodbath at all, so I felt genuinely sorry for her. I think that to feel for the deaths of the characters, you must have an emotional connection to them, and for me, that was only the case with Pauline and maybe Scott and his daughter.

Seriousness in unserious texts

Because of the constant brutal killing, one might think that the only purpose of “The Roo” is to entertain and that it does not provide us with any profound meaning. However, every “unserious” text has the power to be discussed in an analytical and critical manner. I would now like to focus more in-depth on the topic of domestic abuse and toxic masculinity which plays a big role in the novel. Baxter put domestic abuse in contrast to the absurd killings of the roo, thus emphasizing domestic abuse and also calling out for action. Alan Baxter states in the afterword that “domestic violence is a massive problem everywhere in the world and especially in Australia. The links between domestic violence, particularly violence against women, and greater acts of domestic terrorism are well-established. DV and male suicide are particularly prevalent in country areas in Australia. Men, we need to be better. We need to feel our emotions, learn how to cry, how to ask for help, and how to look out for each other. We need to bring our sons up better than we are”. Considering this quote by Baxter, I really liked how he created strong female characters that turned out to be the ones solving this mystery (when most of the men are shown to be very misogynistic throughout the novel). While the men of the town try to fight the roo with violence, the women team up and search for the people they haven’t heard of for a while. This is how they find Pauline and with her also the source for all the violent killings. It is also Pauline, a woman, who is strong and brave enough to end this nightmare.

Conclusion

Surprisingly, “The Roo” was extremely entertaining to read despite the fact that it was quite hard to keep track of all the characters mentioned. I also loved that there was an actual answer to all my questions at the end (unlike with “Picnic at Hanging Rock” by Joan Lindsay). However, what really sets this novel apart from other horror novels, and is therefore a must-read, are the several strong messages hidden within its plot. 

Surprisingly, “The Roo” was extremely entertaining to read despite the fact that it was quite hard to keep track of all the characters mentioned. I also loved that there was an actual answer to all my questions at the end (unlike with “Picnic at Hanging Rock” by Joan Lindsay). However, what really sets this novel apart from other horror novels, and is therefore a must-read, are the several strong messages hidden within its plot. 

For my blogpost I would like to introduce the novel Soon by Lois Murphy and would make a recommendation for you to read it. 

The novel deals with an abandoned city in the Australian outback, only a few people remained living there and the official road sign into town has been removed – but why is that? 

The fictitious city of Nebulah is hunted, hunted at night. But also, during the day, something feels off, even the birds have left town. Murphy creates an amazing atmosphere where we as readers can really feel the silence and the uneasy atmosphere that surrounds the city. She plays with the theme of the uncanny when on winter solstice a mystique mist arrives to town. This mist makes your darkest dreams and fears come true. Sometimes it even portrays pictures and makes people reappear that you are familiar with. The only escape is your home, a closed off space with doors and windows shut, curtains drawn and the tv on maximum volume to make the awful sounds of the outside disappear. 

The mist only appears at night, so “if you are out at night, you are already dead” (Murphy). During the day the last three residents try to carry on with their everyday lives. The ex-policeman Pete and his dog, Milli and Li try to stick together and remain living in the only place that they have ever called home. 

The story of Nebulah and its residents is not only scary and horrific, but also sad and very personal since the readers get to know every character and experience their lives. Each of the character has a personal story and a reason to stay in Nebulah – explaining why they cannot leave this horrific place. It’s a story of failed dreams and goals but also of friendship and a chosen family. 

Does the story sound familiar to you? Well Murphy said in an interview a huge inspiration was the story of The Mist by Stephen King. But she also mentioned that the story of Nebulah is based on a real-life town she came across during her travels. A similar fate reached the city of Wittenoom in Australia. Wittenoom is also almost completely abandoned by its former residents. Wittenoom was Australia’s only supplier of blue asbestos, but due to growing health concerns from asbestos mining in the area, the site was shut down and people began to move away. Now the area around Wittenoom is declared the largest contaminated site of Australia. However, until 2021 two people remained living in Wittenoom….

If reading the novel this story of Wittenoom reminds you of the story of Nebulah, well, don’t be surprised. Even so, Wittenoom was not hunted by a horrific mist but by poisonous asbestos. I recommend you to read Soon and dive into the story of Nebulah. Some parts of the story are written with such suspense you imagine living there yourself and running for your life, running to close the door behind you when the sun leaves the sky…

“Waltzing Matilda” is an Australian Icon. Many Australians carry it in their hearts as an unofficial national anthem. The text to the tune was written in 1895 by Australian Banjo Paterson and has struck a chord with people down under ever since.

The story goes as follows: a jolly swagman (wandering worker) is camping at a billabong (small body of water) when he spots a jumbuck (sheep) coming to drink. Delighted, the swagman catches and stows it away. However, he is interrupted when a squatter (landowner) and three troopers (policemen) come riding to arrest him for stealing the sheep. The swagman refuses to be arrested and promptly jumps into the billabong to drown himself.

Its broadly anti-authoritarian attitude and free-spirited message helped to immortalize ‘the jolly swagman’ in the nation’s canon and the song’s story has been a source for Australian identity for generations. I highly recommend giving it a listen if you haven’t already!

Now, to address the obvious. Paterson’s “Waltzing Matilda” is not really a piece of Horror literature. In fact, it’s not very scary at all (or is it?). One way or the other, listening to it will likely neither strike fear into your heart or send shivers down your spine. But still, there is something eerie about this tune. The text reminds us in the last stanza that the swagman’s “ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong”. This nod to the trope of haunting ghosts points us in a more harrowing direction than the many cheery iterations of the folk anthem would let on. When recontextualized as a ghost story, “Waltzing Matilda” sheds light on the creepiness of the jolly swagman’s story.

There are a handful of horror elements woven into the plot and style of the swagman’s tale. The repeated phrase “you’ll come a Waltzing Matilda with me” wraps up each stanza, evolving throughout the song to refer from the sheep that is about to be killed to the swagman himself. Observing this motif changing in context from a somewhat empty expression to a cynical comment to an animal about to be slaughtered to a violent threat by an unyielding land owner can be read as both uncanny and unsettling.

The setting of the Australian bush is also significant. The archetype of the swagman exists only in the context of a vast and unconquered environment. The swagman travels by foot because he must and camps where he pleases because he can. The squatter exists as a counterpart to the swagman, hogging land he has no right to claim, and reacting to intruders that only take what they need with uncalled-for chicanery. Thus, the landowner, in coordination with the police, violates a central tenet of the Australian national image and transgresses on the autonomy of the folk-hero, the jolly swagman.

The lack of hesitation and matter-of-factness with which the swagman decides to drown himself is perhaps the most clear horror element and is especially unsettling by subverting expectations. The message here is clear: death is better than arbitrary abuses of power.

Again, “Waltzing Matilda” is not horror literature on its face. Accordingly, the horror elements outlined above become most apparent if you are actively looking for them. However, presenting the song in an appropriate context can exacerbate and truly bring to light its creepy inner-life. This potential did not go unnoticed to writers, giving us horror-twists on the classic story such as in the 2017 movie The Marshes where the a ‘jolly swagman’ character becomes a nightmare incarnate for city-dwelling researchers venture into remote nature to conduct research.

One could also argue that the infamous “The Band Played Waltzing Matilda” by Eric Bogle borrows from the discussed unsettling elements to create its eerie atmosphere to underline the searing anti-war message. Here, “Waltzing Matilda” accompanies the soldiers killed and mutilated in the battle of Gallipoli as creepily subversive background music.

Exploring “Waltzing Matilda’s” hidden horrors is a very worthwhile task, and I invite anyone to try to tease out some hidden meanings by holding a horror lens to your favourite non-horror texts.     

Short Film vs. Feature-length Film

by Eva Musat & Julia Riffel

The 2013 Australian short film Cargo, written and directed by Yolanda Ramke and Ben Howling is about a father who must save his young daughter from zombies by trying to escape and find a safe haven from the virus that has swept Australia. The short film was later adapted in 2017, made into a feature-length film by its creators, and categorized as an Australian post-apocalyptic horror drama.

Even though the feature film is based on the original screenplay of the short film, the two films differ considerably from each other.

Firstly, it is important to note that the feature-length movie graciously honored its predecessor by not changing the Australian setting. Instead, it only amplified the beautiful scenery from the short film, showing a visually stunning outback. This heightens the feeling of isolation throughout the father’s journey and demonstrates to the audience the harsh circumstances he must deal with in his struggle to survive.

The main difference between the two media pieces is the way the respective formats work. In the short film, we don’t get any background information and are directly thrown right into the action. Only gradually we are shown the situation and introduced to the characters. We have the basics of the idea: some kind of virus that turns the people into a kind of zombie and a father trying to find a safe space for him and his baby – all without speaking. This is a particularly interesting aspect of the short film since it manages to keep its viewers entertained with no dialogue throughout the duration of the movie. The viewer focuses on what is shown on the screen – the visuals. In a typical movie, this would mean carefully planned shots, changes in lighting, and overall powerful cinematography to make up for the lack of verbal content. However, Ramke and Howling use the camera to focus only on the plot, there are no unnecessary landscape shots or subplots, making it a highly efficient storytelling method.

In the full-length version, we see a little more of what’s going on. We get an additional 20 to 30 minutes of exposition that leads us up to the point where the original short film starts. We also have more developed relationships within the family as the mother is still alive at the beginning of the movie. This makes the movie far more tragic than the short film version, as we see how they turn into zombies and how Andy, the father, has to overcome his selfish feelings. There is also a sense of urgency that is not present in the short film. After being bitten, you have around 48 hours until you turn- there are even first aid kits for this! But the movie version is also far more gruesome as it shows the turning (not recommended for people with a weak stomach). Andy’s journey through the feature-length film is extended by various subplots and even more painful traveling while trying to come up with the best plan to save his daughter, all of which the director accompanied with wide-range landscape shots. Because of all this new and extensive information, the viewer is fully immersed in the experience of the story and by the end of the movie, one or two may even shed a few tears.

Overall the two movies are quite different in the way they work and the lasting impression they leave behind. The short film is more effective in its storytelling yet it lacks the emotional part that the feature-length film creates. The 2017 version manages to make a lasting impression of the painful experience Andy has to go through by focusing on his journey and different aspects of it.

Over the course of this semester, we have talked about a lot of Australian media, be they novels, short stories or short movies. Since the semester is ending, I find it only fitting to go out with a bang and talk about the iconic Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay, rightfully considered by many to be one of the best in Australian literature. I agree wholeheartedly and would even go as far as to say that, though my overall knowledge is still limited, Picnic at Hanging Rock is an essential for the Australian Gothic. Why? Good question! Let me invite you to learn more about it, don’t worry, there are no spoilers.

But first, here is some basic information:

The movie I am basing this post on, was directed by Peter Weir and came out in 1975, but is actually based on the Joan Lindsay’s novel of the same name. It is set in Australia (surprise!) in the year 1900 and focuses on Appleyard College, an ‘’Educational Establishment for Young Ladies’’ which is under the strict monitoring and regulation of its headmistress, Mrs. Appleyard. On Valentines Day of that year, the College plans a trip to the Hanging Rock, for the girls to be free and enjoy themselves for a day. Needless to say, that is not exactly what happens.

Let’s now look at some of the Gothic elements present in the movie, starting with the most obvious, the Hanging Rock itself. Many years ago, the indigenous people of Australia used the rock formation to hold sacred rituals and practiced their role as its custodians, before being forcefully ‘uninvited’ by colonialists. Its’ unusually sharp edges and overwhelming size loom silently above the people’s heads and the mere aura it gives off is almost tangible. The name ‘’Hanging Rock’’ alone is mysterious enough to pique your interest completely (at least that was the case for me).  Truly a fantastic example of the sublime with a distinctly Australian twist. In complementary fashion, the surrounding environment helps flesh out the sublime nature of the location even further. Wide, open fields of uneven, pale yellow and light brown terrain with hills and scattered groups of trees, varying in density. It evokes a sense of infiniteness that fits the Gothic genre like a glove. The thought of the cast being out there in this infiniteness, not guarded by the confines of Appleyard College helps strengthen the feeling of eeriness exuded by the rock. I find that the outback is a pretty genius spin on the staple of the Gothic, the fog. Whereas the fog aims to reduce vision to scare characters, readers and viewers alike, the outback does the exact opposite. Our sight is not hindered whatsoever, we can see precisely how empty and barren the land before us is and that is what makes the great outback just as scary as the fog. You know you’re at the mercy of nature.

Naturally the movie also has its fair share of uncanny moments. It may be debatable, but I think even Appleyard College itself can be considered uncanny from a modern point of view, as the regulations and restrictions for the girls are so twisted and far removed from what we consider acceptable today, it makes the facility seem even creepier than the rock itself. Though there are plenty of traditional examples as well, like all clocks simultaneously stopping after they arrive at the rock formation. On top of being creepy on its own, it helps blur the concept of time which supports the previously established atmosphere. Later on some of the girls start behaving in strange ways, acting outside of the norm they’re used to at Appleyard College like disregarding orders by their supervisors. It appears as if they are being lured in by the rock and have no control over their bodies.

To really get the whole picture, I highly recommend you watch the movie (or read the novel but the movie really is excellent), as my words can do neither the cinematography nor the soundtrack justice in any way. There is so much more to uncover, like the theme of order vs. chaos being represented by Appleyard and the outback respectively, but I wanted to keep it concise and focus on the Gothic elements. Once more, I urge you to watch the movie yourself, even if it may be fairly slow and definitely not an action-packed blockbuster. In regard to the Australian Gothic though, it is undoubtedly one of the all-time greats.

Bonus fun fact: Legendary Australian Singer-Songwriter Nick Cave held an amazing concert right at the real Hanging Rock not long ago (November ’22) together with Warren Buffet, which you should also check out 😉

by anonymous

Some things are scary. It can be the unknown in a dark alley, an old doll at a flea market, some irremovable stains, or simply the monsters under our beds. Sometimes it’s not physical, but only some unreasonable feeling in our guts. And sometimes it’s a whole composition of deeply rooted human fears, a cursed or blessed item, and the gut feeling combined.

That is what the woman in “Sleeping Dogs”, a short story written by Kirstyn McDermott, experiences. The story is part of Cthulhu Deep Down Under Volume 2, a collection of horror short stories published in 2018.

Our protagonist, a thirty-year-old woman called Ghost, is asked by her newest client to locate and secure a figure with only a sketch of the item. After a horrific nightmare, Ghost has a hunch about where to start and travels to Australia. A few weeks without any positive developments pass before she finds a new lead and eventually detects the required item. But as soon as she acquires it, her gut feeling and the people around her start to behave in strange manners, as if they are driven by other forces.

Ghost – a rather fitting name for the main protagonist of a horror short story, don’t you think? – has the ability to detect lost items. Not in the way a common detective would, but rather in a paranormal way. She is no magician or witch, yet always accompanied by a feeling in her guts that works like a metal detector, intensifying when her target gets closer.

Said gut feeling isn’t too scary, to begin with, but what makes the story sort of uncanny from the very beginning is the object Ghost has to locate. According to her client and her assistant, the last time the figure had been seen was about sixty years ago, and there are only two living people who ever caught a glimpse of it and could describe it.

But Ghost is encountered with the first real horror when she finds herself seemingly drowning, choked by muddy water, and surrounded by darkness and cold. A dream? A vision? It feels like it’s best to not know the answer.

The unknown which lingers in the darkness, in the “utter blackness that has never known the touch of light” (McDermott, 16), is something commonly feared by humans. It’s a deeply rooted instinct trying to protect us from potential dangers which remain unseen. Such invisible dangers and fiends are harder to deal with since most humans solely rely on their ability to see, instead of using their other senses.

Our protagonist luckily doesn’t have to face the fear of darkness for much longer but the next horrific element she encounters isn’t less frightening in any way, introduced by a strong inexplicable pain in her head. Ghost calls it a migraine, but a pain described as “colors [that] fracture and pulse in the centre of her vision, spreading rapidly, [making] her temples throb, [and causing] a dull ache […] along her jawline” (McDermott, 21) seems way too intense and sudden for a normal occurrence of migraine. This pain, and the fact that it was caused just by removing a wax seal from the figure’s box, revives the uncanny atmosphere in the short story. A strong migraine might not sound too scary for most readers but it is followed by a scene in which people around Ghost and the object start behaving oddly; somebody tries to steal the bag with the figure, and other people try to forcefully enter her hotel room. Ghost calls it a “matter of the walking dead” (McDermott, 25), referring to the people as zombies, which already sounds alarming. I think the idea of the stereotypical zombie would feel less sinister, considering that there is a visible cause that leads to people being zombified, but in the short story’s case, there is no disease, no chemical weapon, no virus; just an old figure. An old figure that erodes some sort of aura, strong enough to affect people close to it, within an unknown radius. This aura leads to people being externally controlled, by some force neither explained nor further investigated, but it’s safe to say that the affected people are not in charge of their bodies.

The short story makes use of several ways to create horror, angst, and an uncanny feeling. Deeply rooted fears, voices without origin, nightmares, and the fear of not being in charge of their own body; though luckily, our protagonist doesn’t have to experience them all. Using those different kinds of tropes creates a rich diversity of moments that might make you shiver in fear and expectation. Additionally, an allusion to a city mentioned in one of H.P. Lovecraft’s horror stories, “The Call of Cthulhu”, guides the reader’s mind into deeper spheres of horror.

The story begs the question: Should we always “let sleeping dogs lie” or should we, just like Ghost, wake them up and face them? Or is such adventurous behavior exclusive to stories and tales only?

What horrors might await once you start digging deep enough? You may go on a journey yourself, or maybe you prefer to follow another story’s protagonist. Either way, let me ask you: “What are your feelings about finding a lost city?” (McDermott, 30).