Old Artie

One could say that the Bridge Hotel at Ouse died in the flood of 1929. From that time it festered for many decades, until someone saw its value and rescued the derelict building from death by mould and destruction. The new owners have an eye for value.

But Old Artie, who had previously been terrified at the hotel, was a man who liked a dare. He had a good sense of humour and liked adventures.

So, one night at a friend's house, stories of the strange and unexplained were being discussed (as they frequently are in Tasmanian homes). Artie dared Marcia to climb up the old steps to the second floor of the derelict Bridge Hotel.

Marcia accepted the dare.

Of course, it was a dark night. They had decided to wait until midnight for the full effect of their lark. Only part of the staircase was still useable. The rest had collapsed. Marcia clambered up the shaking steps to the top floor. She was quite pleased with herself. Leaning out of the window, she was about to tease Artie that he was a 'cowardly custard'. At that moment, Marcia (nineteen years old, a nondrinker, and strong from being in the saddle many hours a day) was suddenly touched strongly on the shoulder. It was a muscular and powerful hand which grabbed her. She flung her hand around to counter the clutching 'thing'. Nothing was there. No one stood behind her! She was alone. Her torch showed nothing.

Young Marcia screamed, of course, and ran down the steps. But there WERE no steps. In her terror, she had forgotten.

"Artie, it's him! It's him!" she shouted. The next thing she knew was that she had fallen down the hole in the steps, spraining her wrist and bruising herself. "Artie, we gotta go!" she yelled.

Artie was already in the ute and gunning the engine. They escaped. But from what?

Was the presence an old hobo who was sleeping there? But where was he? Why didn't her torch show anything?

But, happily, whatever it was which grabbed Marcia that night at the Bridge Hotel has gone to rest. It is no longer heard...or felt. Or so they say.