After midnight

After hours of deliberation the members of the committee prepared to put the proposal to a vote.

“So, the majority are in favour,”Mayor John Frankston declared, after the votes were tallied The committee murmured their consent, “Then I’ll give the winning sculptor the good news tomorrow.”

“Yes, John. I believe we’ve made the right choice. It’ll be an asset to the area and I think the ratepayers will be happy with the decision.” The financial secretary, Mr Smith, placed his pen in the top pocket of his suit jacket and stood before saying. “$5,000 for a such a large sculpture is pretty good value these days, and as you say it will be a good fit for Konjurup Park. A real tourist draw card.”

“It will add a bit of lightness and humour, act as a foil against the other more serious pieces.” The mayor agreed.


So it was that the work of art, known as “The Tourists,” was commissioned. It would comprise five figures, made of concrete, dressed casually as if they were tourists to the area. Two females, one carrying a handbag, the other wearing a large hat and a pair of sunglasses. They would stand alongside of three middle-aged portly males. All would be attired in colourful clothes. The guys in shirts and baseball caps and all would appear lifelike but half adult size.

The response from the community was, as usual for any small town, mixed. Some agreeing they would be quite a novelty and add colour to the park. Others wrote to the local paper complaining they were a waste of ratepayers’ money and surely there better things to spend the Shire’s money on? After all, the hospital needed urgent renovations, and what about the need for more aged care? Etc, etc.

Eventually, after the five quirky characters were finally installed, most of the locals became quite attached and were proud to claimed them as the town’s new attraction. It was even rumoured if one rubbed the head of the figure in the bright yellow shirt, he may possibly bring good luck, especially after a large first prize lottery win in the town.

Children loved to climb on their shoulders. Visitors had their photographs taken with them, even bridal parties would make the sojourn to Konjurup, to have, The Tourists, in their wedding photos.

After the grass had regrown around the feet of the figures, it appeared as if they were five normal, if small, tourists on a trip to see the delights of the town.


Across the road from the park, Mary Smith was sitting on the bed in her nighty. It was after midnight and she was attempting to get her three-year-old boy back to sleep. “For the last time, Ryan, there’s no such thing as goblins.”

Ryan held tightly to his mother’s neck as she tried to stand to leave the room. “I saw him looking through the window, Mummy,” he cried.

“Go to sleep. I’ll leave the light on. The curtains are closed now, no one can see in,”Mary said quietly. “Hush now, Ryan, there’s a good boy.”

After yet another thirty minutes, Mary, managed to extricate herself from her son’s room.

Entering her bedroom she saw her husband lying spread-eagled across the bed, leaving her no room. She shoved his leg out of the way. He woke and groaned in protest. Irritably, Mary asked, “Have you been telling Ryan spooky stories again? He’s terrified.”

“That kid’s got a vivid imagination that’s all.” Stan muttered before rolling back to his side of the bed.

Mary raised her eyebrows, “ Really?” She didn’t believe him for one minute. She looked around the bedroom for the cat, who usually slept on their bed. “Where’s Tiger, Stan?” she asked.

“Not seen him tonight, love. He’s probably out shagging.”



Mary’s cat never returned home. That was the beginning of “The great missing cat mysteries.”
Letters began appearing in the local rag about some deviant who’d been stealing cats or, even worse, trapping and killing them.

It was on Konjurup’s local Facebook chat group that someone decided all these missing animals and frightened anxious children had only started at the same time as ‘The Tourists,’ had been erected in the local park.

The more sensible inhabitants dismissed these statements as pure fantasy and the ravings of crazed minds, but others who could be convinced of such things kept the rumours going that The Tourists were some sort of malevolent beings.

The Shire was eventually persuaded to install extra lighting and cameras in the park and surrounds, as more and more townsfolk became wary of walking there after dark, especially after midnight, even though it offered a shorter journey home for many.

The mystery of the missing cats was eventually solved when a local man admitted he had been trapping and gassing them with his car exhaust. He’d been angry at careless cat owners who allowed their animals to roam into his garden, killing wildlife and fighting under his bedroom window.

Somehow though, The Tourists became a source of unease and children were advised to keep a wide berth.

The local kids would taunt each other, “They’ll come and find you while you sleep, so keep away.” Or, “You touched him. You’ll get sick now.”

Then came the mystery of the death of a young girl. Her body was found hidden under the bushes in the park by a dog walker one morning, She’d been strangled by her own scarf.

When the police checked the footage of the security cameras, there was nothing on them. Just the trees blowing in the breeze, the security lights still glowing brightly and The Tourists.

This was the first murder in Konjurup’s long history. The townspeople were shocked and not a little frightened. Sculpture Park became a place to avoid at all costs. The playground swings swung squeaking eerily in the breeze, their chains rusty from misuse. There were no more picnics on the grass, no sounds of children’s laughter, and eventually the place became feared. Talk was that ghosts inhabited the place and the spirit of the murdered girl roamed, seeking justice.

Whilst all this change was going on, The Tourists stood, immovable. Their expressions unchanged as they continued to gaze around at their surroundings. But, the bright paint of their clothes began to fade and they took on an air of weariness and despair. The grass grew tall around them.

No one had ever noticed the faded, darkened blood stains on the yellow shirt or the way the statue’s fingers had remained curled after he had tightened the scarf around the dead girl’s neck.

Young Ryan across the road ignores “the goblin”, which peers into his bedroom very late some nights. He now knows his parents don’t believe him when he tells of someone looking at him through his window.