THE SKIER

Winter comes to Glen Hartwell in midsummer, and people start dying.

It was the 22nd of January 2025. The day before, Donald Trump had been sworn in as evil fascist dictator of the United States. He had promised to solve the 'Canadian problem' by welcoming Canada into the Union as the fifty-first state of America. A kind offer that the Canadians seemed strangely reluctant to accept.

Sixteen thousand kilometres away in Glen Hartwell, in the Victorian countryside, they had been sweltering beneath one of the hottest summers on record. Sheila Bennett, a thirty-six-year-old Goth chick with orange-and-black striped hair, had left her bedroom window open, sleeping on top of the covers at the Yellow House, in Rochester Road, Merridale. Midway through the night, it unexpectedly turned cold. Waking up shivering, Sheila got up to slam down the bedroom window, then got under the blankets for the first time in weeks and quickly fell asleep again.

By 6:50 AM, the mounting cold had awakened Sheila again, so, checking the clock, she got up and dressed in her police uniform. As Chief Constable, she was the second-top cop in the BeauLarkin to Willamby area. By seven o'clock, she was downstairs in the yellow-painted dining room of the boarding house, sneezing as she waited for breakfast.

"Mrs. M. can you turn the heating up?" asked the Goth chick.

"It's been on full since 6:15," said Deidre Morton, owner of the Yellow House. A short, sixty-something brunette, Deidre was obsessed with the colour yellow, which proliferated throughout the boarding house.

"Yes, we've both been up since shortly after six," said Natasha Lipzing. The oldest resident of the house at seventy-one, Natasha had never really shown her age ... until now. The Antarctic cold that had mysteriously swept over Glen Hartwell in the night seemed to have aged her twenty years.

"You ought to put on your overcoat," suggested Tommy Turner, a short, dumpy blonde retiree, who was rugged up in a seeming mountain of jumpers and coats.

"Come to think of it, I do have a police overcoat," said Sheila, "but it's tucked away at the back of my closet somewhere. Strangely enough, after seven weeks or so of hellishly hot weather, it never occurred to me that I might need to wear it again so soon." Getting up again, she said, "I'll go hunt it out while you're dishing up the grub, Mrs. M.."

"Grub?" demanded Deidre angrily as the Goth chick departed. "I'll have you know I am a trained chef ... I do not serve grub!"

"I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it, Mrs. M.," said Leo Laxman. A Jamaican by birth, Leo was a nurse at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.

"No doubt about it, you're the best chef this side of Melbourne," mollified Freddy Kingston. Like Tommy, Freddy was a recent retiree; a tall, chubby man, bald except for a Larry Fine-style ruff of curly black hair.

A few minutes later, Sheila returned wearing a thick police-blue overcoat and carrying two more.

"Sheils, it isn't cold enough for three overcoats," said Terri Scott. A beautiful ash blonde, Terri was the top cop of the area, Sheila's boss, and Colin's fiancée.

"No, I stopped into your room to bring down yours and Col's coats too."

"Thank God," said Colin Klein, eagerly snatching his police overcoat from the Goth chick. At forty-nine, Colin was a retired crime reporter from England, now employed by the Glen Hartwell Police Department.

"Thank the Lord for mad Goth chicks," said Terri, quickly climbing into her police overcoat.

"I choose to take that as a compliment," said Sheila, sitting down to start eating a hearty breakfast of porridge and treacle, followed by two Vegemite crumpets.

Half an hour later, Terri, Colin, and Sheila got up to go to work.

"I've got the latest single by the Devil's Advocates to play while we drive," said Sheila. Opening the front door, she stared out in amazement at the snow-covered street and said, "Although perhaps White Christmas by Bing Crosby would be more appropriate."

"This is the second year running that Glen Hartwell has had a white Christmas," said Colin. "Yet it's not supposed to snow in this country."

"Technically, it's four weeks since Christmas," said Terri.

Shivering, the three cops stepped outside, doing their best not to fall over on the slippery footpath while heading across to Terri's police-blue Lexus.

"Even so, snow in summer?" said Colin as they slipped, slid, walked across to carefully climb into the car.

"The Devil's Advocates have a song called 'Snow in Summer'," said Sheila. "It's about a mate of theirs who stupidly overdosed and died. I wish I'd thought to bring that one with me. So, for now, we can settle for 'How Evil' by the Devil's Advocates."

After starting the car, Sheila clicked play on the CD player, and it started to play the following:

"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?

"Just how sick are Trump's desires?

"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?

"How far will Putin and Trump conspire?


"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"Just how low will the U.S. go?
"Just how feral is America?
"Just how foul are Trump's desires?

"Can America beat the commonwealth?
"Just how evil is the United States?
"Will it overthrow all things decent?
"Can we beat Trump's Devils using stealth?

"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"Just how sick are Trump's desires?
"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"How far will Putin and Trump conspire?

"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"Will Trump start World War III?
"Will he put an end to democracy
"Will he set the whole world on fire?

"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"Just how sick are Trump's desires?
"Just how evil is the Evil Empire?
"How far will Putin and Trump conspire?"
-- Philip Roberts, April 2025


"Interesting," said Colin as the Lexus struggled to get traction upon the snow, "but since Trump only came to power, isn't it a bit early to talk about his evil desires?"

"Nope," insisted Sheila, then, "what the Hell is wrong with the Lexus?"

"We probably need snow chains to travel through this summer wonderland," said Terri.

"Have we got snow chains?" asked Sheila.

"Strangely enough, no ... since it never snows in Australia."

"Then what's all that white stuff in the street?" teased Colin.

"Anyway, we had a white Christmas in 2023," reminded Sheila. [See my story, 'The Iceman Cometh'.]


Over at neighbouring Bromby, people happily played in the snow that lined Burnley Street. Families built snowmen, a new experience for parents and children alike. Other kids threw snowballs at each other. One or two more adventurous souls attempted to snowboard using dick dragger (short) surfboards. Or clam draggers in the case of women.

The Murphy family had settled in to build a snow castle, complete with turrets and a drawbridge, using a bit of fallen bark discovered amongst the snow.

"So which castle is this, Dad?" demanded young Amy Murphy. At eight years of age, Amy was raven haired like her mum and promised to be a great beauty when she reached womanhood.

"Yeah, every castle's gotta have a name," said Larry Murphy, a nine-year-old with long blond hair. "Like Windsor Castle, or Castle Dracula."

"We'll call it Castle Bromby, after the town," suggested Austin Murphy, a tall, lanky blond man of thirty-nine.

"That's a great name," said Cecelia Murphy, aged thirty-six.

"Yay!" cried young Amy.

So busy were the Murphys building Castle Bromby, that they did not notice the flurry of snowballers, or dick dragger skiers. Until out of nowhere appeared a two-metre-tall, solidly-built skier, dressed entirely in gold, who, unlike the others, was using actual skis, with long, sharp ski poles, with snowflake-shaped baskets near the ends.

Narrowly missing Amy and Larry, the Skier whooshed down the slight slope of Burnley Street, heading toward where a small group of people had upended a steel drum and were burning wood in it to toast marshmallows and to warm themselves against the extreme cold.

"Hey, watch the kids!" cried Cecelia.

"Yeah, watch us kids," seconded Amy.

Ignoring mother and daughter, the Skier whooshed down the slopes toward the people grouped around the makeshift brazier.

"Tell me again why we're standing around a brazier freezing our arses off?" insisted Janey Marcough, a tall leggy redheaded thirty-something.

"We're having fun," insisted her husband, Sloan, a tall, heavyset man with almost military short brown hair.

"Freezing my tits off is not my idea of fun."

"Haven't you ever been out in the snow before, here in Australia?"

"Yes, when I was little, my parents took us to Mount Kosciuszko. I hated the cold then, and I hate it now."

"You'll get used to it, Honey. Remember when we went swimming in mid-winter last year? It was freezing when we went in, then after twenty minutes or so our bodies adjusted to the cold."

"Yours might have adjusted. But I came out covered in goosebumps larger than my nipples when I got out."

"Yes, I remember now. It was quite a turn on, seeing you covered from head to toe in nipples."

"It might have been a turn on to you ... but I almost died of hypothermia!"

"Yes, I remember ..." was all that Sloan got out before the Skier slid close enough to aim his ski poles at them.

Aiming the poles like rifles, the Skier made great streams of clear liquid shoot from the points of the poles. Liquid, which encased the Marcoughs, set like concrete and quickly asphyxiated them to death.

Skiing past the entombed Marcoughs, the Skier continued to shoot out his clear liquid again and again, until he had encased and killed ten or eleven people, without stopping. Then, using his ski poles as they were intended, he swept on down Burnley Street, continuing out into the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest beyond Bromby township.

Hearing cries from behind them, the Murphys looked around and saw the frozen remains of the Marcoughs and others.

"Hey, where did those ice statues come from?" asked Cecelia. "They're very realistic, you'd almost think they were real people."

"Real people," agreed young Amy.

"They weren't there when we started," said young Larry.

"And we haven't been here long enough for anyone to have carven them so accurately," said Austin. "Well, not so many of them."

Then, as people started screaming and running around wildly, the Murphys realised that something was seriously wrong.


Over at Ed Bussy's Auto Repairs in Wentworth Street, Glen Hartwell, Ed had just finished applying homemade snow chains to Terri's Lexus.

"Bonza, Ed," said Sheila. "I've never even seen snow chains before."

"Then how do you know they're bonza?" teased Ed. "But they'll do the job."

"Though with Victoria's goofy weather, we'll probably be back to scorching summer by this time tomorrow," pointed out Colin.

"How much do we owe you, Ed?" asked Terri.

"I'll add it to my police account."

They had climbed into the Lexus and started into Wentworth Street when Terri's mobile rang. Terri spoke on the phone for a few minutes, then disconnected and said, "That was Suzette at Mitchell Street. It seems people have been turned into ice statues over at Burnley Street, Bromby."

"Uh-oh, the Iceman's back," said Sheila.

"I seem to recall we killed the Iceman back in December 2023," said Colin.

"Oh, yeah."

An hour later, they arrived at Burnley Street, Bromby, which was now swarming with police and medical personnel.

"So is it like with the Iceman?" asked Sheila.

"No," said Tilly Lombstrom. A tall, attractive fifty-something brunette, surgeon, Tilly was the assistant administrator at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital. "This time they've been encased in an icy substance."

"So they asphyxiated to death," explained Jerry "Elvis" Green, the local coroner, nicknamed due to his adoration of the late King or Rock and Roll.

"You said ice-like?" queried Terri.

"We don't think it's just frozen water," said Jesus Costello (pronounced Hee-Zeus), administrator and chief surgeon at the hospital."

"So, first thing is to get the statue-people to G.H.&.D.C.H. and try to break off some of the frozen liquid to find out what the Hell it is," said Tilly.

Rather than using ambulances, the eleven frozen corpses were transported in a removalist van, rented from Oliver Burnside, a tall, burly, grey-haired man who looked a decade older than his fifty years.

Looking at the side of Burnside's van, Sheila read, "'Use Us, Or Move It Yourself'. That's not exactly a user-friendly motto, Oliver."

"Screw user friendly," said Burnside, "as the only removalist this side of BeauLarkin, they either hire me, or shift it themselves."

"Fair enough," conceded the Goth chick.


Eighty minutes or so later, they were in the morgue in the basement at the Glen Hartwell Hospital, trying to chip off some of the seemingly steel-hard 'ice' for testing.

"Maybe you should try using a blow torch," suggested Sheila Bennett.

"Strangely enough, we don't have any blow torches at the hospital," said Tilly Lombstrom.

"I'll get you a couple," said Terri Scott. Taking out her mobile phone, she rang through to the Department of Building and Works. She talked for a couple of minutes, then disconnected and said, "George will be over soon with a couple. He says he and Eunice will work them for us."

"Doesn't he trust us with them?" demanded Sheila.

"You do have a reputation for losing or breaking things," said Tilly.

"How dare you?" said Terri, Colin, and Sheila.

Forty minutes or so later, George and Eunice, a fifty-something brunette wearing a long ponytail, were at the morgue with two portable blow torches.

"Stand back, amateurs, and watch how professionals do it," said George.

George and Eunice lowered their protective goggles and approached one of the human statues upon a metal gurney.

Ever so slowly, George lowered the fine blue flame toward the yellowish substance upon the corpse of Sloan Marcough ... which immediately burst into flames, shooting red fire almost to the ceiling.

Alarms started blaring, and the smoke detectors in the basement burst, putting out the flames and soaking the occupants of the morgue.

"So that's how the professionals do it?" teased Sheila as they all ran for the stairs to the ground floor. "You should'a left it to us amateurs!"

"I'm starting to think we should have," agreed Eunice.

Five minutes later, they had stopped the water pouring from the ceiling, and a crew was in the basement mopping up.

In the changing rooms, they changed into borrowed hospital uniforms after drying themselves off with towels.

"In fairness," said Eunice, "we didn't know that stuff was so combustible."

"So what's next?" asked Colin Klein.

"I think they've got a waterjet cutter at the Glen Hartwell University," said Tilly Lombstrom. Then, for the benefit of Terri and the others, "It uses a fine stream of cold water to saw through metal et cetera without generating heat."

Taking out a mobile phone, she rang through to the University and spoke on the line for a minute.

"That was the janitor, the Uni. is locked up for the summer ... for want of a better term ... However, he gave me the name of Professor Geraldine Lewis, in charge of the science wing, so I'll have to find her number and give her a ring."

After tracking down the professor's home number, Tilly spoke on the phone for a while, then said, "She's agreed to open up the science wing for us, but we have to transport a body there, since the waterjet isn't portable."

"So are we using Oliver Burnside again?" asked Sheila. "Or are we shifting it ourselves?"


Nearly ninety minutes later, they had transported Janey Marcough's encased remains to the sterile science lab at the University in Wentworth Street, Glen Hartwell. Geraldine Lewis was a tall, extremely thin, fifty-something woman with long raven hair.

"So, how long will this take?" asked Colin.

"A minute or two at most to take a thin slice," said Pr. Lewis. "But we could use the waterjet to remove all of the substance from the corpse. Although that will take much longer, of course."

"Do you mind doing that for us?" asked Tilly.

"No, happy to oblige. I must admit to being intrigued by this mysterious substance."

"Fingers crossed it doesn't burst into flames," said Sheila as Geraldine started the waterjet cutter.

"Don't worry, the waterjet produces no heat," said Geraldine.

She effortlessly cut off half a dozen thin slices to be examined, then proceeded to remove all of the yellowy steel-strong substance from the corpse of Janey Marcough.

"That wasn't as difficult as I feared," said Tilly. "Although we still have another ten encased corpses at the morgue."

"Well, as long as I can keep some of the slices to examine here, I'll happily free the other corpses for you," said Geraldine. "As a scientist, I live for unexplained phenomena."

It took another ninety minutes to transport Janey Marcough's remains back to the morgue at the hospital and then return to the university with the other ten corpses. Then it took the rest of the day to remove the steel-strong coating from the remaining corpses. Which then had to be transported back to the hospital.


The next morning, Terri and the others set out in the Lexus straight after breakfast. After starting the car, the Goth chick placed a CD into the player.

"I hope that's not 'How Evil' again?" asked Terri Scott.

"Nope," said Sheila as the CD started playing:

"I a I a I a I'm dreaming dreaming

"Of a white, why, why, white Christmas...."

"That's not Bing Crosby, is it?" asked Colin.

"Nope, that's Elvis's superior cover version from the 1957 Elvis' Christmas Album," said Sheila. "I think Irving Berlin had gone senile by then. He rang around to hundreds of radio stations in the U.S. and Canada, begging them not to play it. He claimed it was a blasphemous rendition."

"How could it be blasphemous when it's not a religious song?" asked Terri.

"Well, exactly."


Over in Daley township, kids of all ages played in the snow that coated Davidson's Road. Either having not yet heard what had happened to eleven people the day before at neighbouring Bromby, or not believing the newspaper accounts.

Like the day before people were building snowmen, skiing on dick draggers and clam draggers, throwing snow balls at each other and building snow castles. One or two more cashed-up individuals had lashed out for snowboards or toboggans to slide down the slope of Davidson's Road from North to South. The more knowledgeable had even known to wax their boards to allow greater velocity zooming down the snow-covered street.

"Watch how you go!" Loni Moncrieff called to her son, who had secured the last toboggan in the area with a little financial help from his parents.

"Yes, Mum," said Daley, a tall, acne-riddled eleven-year-old with long flowing auburn hair like his mother's.

"We didn't help you to buy it so you could get yourself killed."

"How could I get killed tobogganing down a snowy slope?" demanded Daley.

"Listen to your mother," said Charley Moncrieff.

"Yes, Dad," said Daley with a sigh. He thought, Although I still don't see how I could get killed even if I fell off onto the snow at high speed?

Having finally finished waxing his toboggan, the eleven-year-old sat on the board and cast off using his gloved hands as paddles.

"Yeah!" he cried as the toboggan started to take off. Partly from excitement, partly to tease his mother.

"You be careful!" Loni cried after him.

"Yes, Mum!" called back Daley.

All around Daley skied, snowboarded, or tobogganed children of all ages, many squealing from delight ... or from terror as their boards accelerated faster than they had expected.

At the Northern end of Davidson's Road, a tall, golden-clad skier suddenly appeared and looked down the slope toward the unsuspecting fun lovers. Smiling almost lecherously, the Skier started down the slope, looking left and right for victims.

Seeing an elderly couple, Angie and Eugene Watkins, heading back indoors, having had enough of the cold, the Skier aimed a ski pole at them and fired out his clear liquid, which enveloped the couple, turning them into human statues.

Reaching the Moncrieffs, who were looking worried as they watched Daley soaring down the road, the Skier enveloped Loni and Charley without stopping.

Behind him, he heard someone call out, "Hey, look at that cool pair of ice statues outside the Watkins's place."

Without looking back, the Skier sprayed a young couple and their Australian Terrier, creating three more ice statues.

Not yet satisfied, he looked for a larger gathering and saw six people standing around a home-made brazier, and sprayed a thin stream toward them, missing the people, but putting out the fire that had been raging in the upended steel drum.

"What the Hell," said Rowena Singleton, a tall, lithe blonde in her sixties who had been one of those enjoying the heat of the brazier.

"What happened?" asked her husband, Ernie, a strongly-built farmer, with greying raven hair.

The Singletons looked skyward, thinking it was another snowfall, not suspecting for a second how close to death they had just come.

Cursing his bad aim, the Skier settled for a pair of German immigrants, Hanz and Frieda Hoffman, holding gloved hands as they strolled through the snow.

"Ah, Frieda, this reminds me of my childhood playing in the snow in Rothenburg ob der Tauber. I remember playing ..."

Which was all he got out before being turned into an ice statue.

"You remember what, Hanz?" asked his puzzled wife.

She turned to look at her husband,. Then seeing what he had become, opened her mouth to scream, only to become a silently screaming ice statue.

So far, so good, thought the Skier as he headed toward where four teenagers were preparing to start tobogganing down the slope. The first couple, a boy and his girl, climbed on the first board, but the second girl was more wary.

"Are you sure this is safe?" asked the girl, a pretty redhead.

"Of course, Ginger," said her boyfriend Anton, "just kneel on the board behind me and press up hard against me, holding on around my stomach."

"You're not just saying that so you can feel my tits pressed up against you back are you?"

"Of course," teased Anton, a mousy blond-haired boy with a laugh, "now come on, Ging."

Reluctantly, Ginger climbed onto the toboggan and pressed up as hard as she could into her boyfriend's back.

"Ooh, I can feel those big tits pressing up against me," teased Anton.

"Shut up!" said Ginger, ignoring the snickers from the other teens.

"Right, here, we go," said Anton, pushing off with his gloved hands.

At the same time, the other toboggan started and they slid down the street parallel for a few moments, before the two boys lost control of the boards, which turned inward toward each other and then collided, spilling the four occupants onto the cold snow. Although embarrassed by the failure, all four teens were unhurt and laughing.

"So much for that!" said Anton.

The Skier turned the four teenagers into ice statues, then skied on without stopping to admire his handiwork.

Further down the slope, approaching the end of Daley township, Daley Moncrieff, named after the founder of the town, Daley Bromby, was having the time of his life, unaware that his parents had been killed by the golden-clad Skier. Narrowly avoiding two teenage boys skiing on dick dragger surf boards, Daley laughed in delight, unaware that the Skier was closing in upon the three of them.

"All right, Daley, you're on," one of the teens called a challenge to the eleven-year-old.

As the Skier aimed at Daley, the two teens closed ranks behind him, and the clear stream of liquid intended for Daley Moncrieff soaked the two teenagers instead, turning them into human statues.

"All right, losers, the race is on," cried Daley, unaware of what had happened to the two teens behind him. Using his gloved hands like ski poles, he pushed the toboggan faster and faster down the slope until falling off as he reached the start of the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest beyond the township.

Closing rapidly upon the tobogganer, the Skier fired another blast of liquid at him. Coating Daley's toboggan, but missing the auburn-haired boy who fell off the board just in time.

Laughing excitedly, Daley had not noticed what had happened to his toboggan, or to the two teens who had challenged him.

Cursing his bad luck, the Skier sailed past Daley too rapidly to have a third shot at him. So, reluctantly, he decided to spare the eleven-year-old and skied rapidly off into the forest, as behind him, survivors had started to scream as they slowly realised what all of the life-sized statues were.

Daley turned to start back up the slope, staring in amazement at his iced-over toboggan.

"What the Hell," he said. He tried to pull the 'ice' away without success, then thought, I'll need to get Dad's help!

He started back up Davidson's Road until he found his parents, and was soon screaming in terror like everyone else standing upon the snow-clad road.


Terri Scott and the others were in the freezing morgue in the basement of the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital when they received a call from Suzette Cummings to tell them about the events that had just happened in Daley township.

Disconnecting, Terri said, "It's happened again. This time over in Daley."

Looking up from her electron microscope, Tilly Lombstrom said, "I'll come with you. We'd better ring Geraldine to see if she'll help us out again."

"And also Oliver Burnside," said Sheila Bennett. "So we won't have to shift them ourselves."

"You've done that joke to death, Sheils," said Colin.

Less than an hour later, they were at Davidson's Road staring in horror at the human statues. Glen Hartwell's six ambulances had arrived and started transporting hysterical survivors, including Daley Moncrieff, to the Hospital.

"So it's happened again," said Oliver Burnside, not looking upset, thinking, Work is work.

"Yes, whatever it is," said Terri Scott.

"Okay, let's get them shifted," said Colin Klein.

"Where to this time?" asked Oliver.

"Straight to G.H. Uni. to get this stuff cut off them again," said Terri.

They spent hours at the university with Geraldine Lewis using the waterjet cutter to remove the steel-hard yellowish substance from the corpses, which Oliver Burnside then transported to the Glen Hartwell Hospital to save time.

At the hospital, along with other local cops from the area, they set about interviewing the survivors before returning to Daley township to interview the entire population of Davidson's Road.

"You saw nothing out of the ordinary?" asked Terri Scott at number 22.

"Other than the street being coated in snow in the middle of summer?" queried the elderly, blue-rinsed lady, Tabitha Montgomery.

"Exactly," said Colin.

"Well, in the circumstances, everything was unusual, snowboarding, tobogganing, snowball fights ... all in summer. I don't think I've ever seen toboggans or skis before, except on telly. Of course, most people had improvised skis or snowboards, but one tall bloke, must have been two metres, had the real thing."

"Real skis and ski poles?" asked Sheila.

"Yes. He was draped out in an expensive-looking golden ski suit, with gold-coloured skis and poles." She hesitated for a moment, then said, "I don't think I've ever seen him around Daley township before."

"He was an outsider?" asked Colin.

"Maybe he heard about the sudden snowfall in the area and came kitted out to have a day out?" She hesitated again, then said, "Although he skied down the slope of Davidson's Road once, then headed off into the forest. "

"Which is strange if he came from somewhere else to ski," said Terri.

"Yes, that's what I thought," said Tabitha.

They continued going door to door interviewing people, each time receiving the same result, although not everyone had taken notice of the golden-clad skier.

As they approached number 58, two of Terri's sergeants, Stanlee Dempsey, a huge raven-haired man in his fifties, and Jessie Baker, a huge redheaded ox of a man, approached them.

Stanlee said: "So far, nothing of any interest, Chief."

"Except some people reported seeing a tall skier draped out in expensive-looking gear."

"But no one recognised him," said Stanlee.

"Did they see him do anything except ski down Davidson's Road and out into the forest?" asked Colin.

"Nope, one long ski down the street, then straight out into the bush," confirmed Jessie.

"Which seems strange if he was the only one in the street with professional gear, and he came from somewhere else to ski?" said Terri.

"Maybe he didn't think the conditions were good enough?" suggested Stanlee.

"Looks fine to me," said Sheila, looking up and down Davidson's Road. "And as a teenager, I used to do some skiing up in the mountain areas. A lot of the time, the snow slopes had less coverage than we've got here."

"Trust her," teased Colin, "the mad Goth chick knows her sports."

"Then why did he just snow through the town and leave?" asked Stanlee. "It can't have been too cold, he was reportedly the only one on the street rugged up properly in professional skiing garb."

"So he shouldn't have felt the cold," finished Jessie.

"Curiouser and curiouser," said Terri.

"What are you thinking, babe?" asked Colin.

"My gut instinct tells me we need to track down this golden-draped skier. We'd better ring Geraldine to see if there's anyone at G.H. Uni. who we could hire as a police artist, so we can get sketches done of this mysterious golden skier."

"But everyone says he was wearing snow goggles with a golden scarf wrapped around his lower face," pointed out Stanlee Dempsey.

"Still, it's the only lead we've got," said Terri.

An hour later, they were re-interviewing people, this time with seventeen year old art student Adelaide Donadin, a half-breed Aborigine, whose family lived in Boothy Street, Glen Hartwell.

Listening to the various reports, Adelaide drew half a dozen A4-sized images before coming up with one that everyone agreed was the golden-clad skier.

"So what's next?" asked Jessie Baker.

"Too late to do anything more today," said Terri, paying the promised fifty dollars to Adelaide for her services, "but first thing tomorrow we have to start again. Interviewing everybody over at Bromby, to see if any of them saw, or better yet, can identify the gold-garbed skier."

"So, where to now, Tare?" asked Sheila as they returned to the blue Lexus.

"Around to Mitchell Street Station, so I can get my fifty bucks back from petty cash." Then to Colin, "Be sure to distract the mad Goth chick, so she can't see where we hide the petty cash box."

"Oh, come on, Chief, don't you trust me with the petty cash?"

"I won't dignify that with an answer," said Terri as the Lexus took off.

"I wouldn't take all of it," teased Sheila, emphasising the word 'all'.


Early the next morning, they started along Burnley Street, Bromby, showing people pictures of the golden skier. Many hadn't seen the Skier, but others certainly had, although the sketch didn't allow for identification, since none of his features were visible.

By noon, they had started to think they were getting nowhere, when they came to 122 Burnley Street, where Old Man Joe Williamson lived. The best part of a hundred years old, Joe was frail and bent over, and walked with a wooden stick.

At first, the old man just repeated what everyone else had told them about the golden skier. Then as Terri started to thank him for his help, he hesitantly said, "There is something else ... I should have told you two days ago ... but I know a lotta people think I'm a bit ratty, and I was afraid of being locked away in a loony bin ...."

"What is it?' asked Terri, more in hope than expectation.

"As the skier skied down Burnley Street, he occasionally held up one of his ski poles ... pointed it like a rifle at people, and a great stream of clear liquid sprayed out and covered them, like it was a fireman's hose."

"You saw him do this to all the people turned into statues?" asked Terri.

"Yes. Don't ask me how he done it ... but I saw him do it time and agin." He hesitated, then said, "You don't think I'm crazy, do ya?"

"No, we think you've given us a vital clue," said Colin Klein.


Over at the base of Mount Peterson, outside Glen Hartwell, a gaggle of snow-crazed people were gathering for some serious skiing. Mount Peterson, or Haunted Mountain as some old timers call it, was steep enough to ski down, but shallow enough for the more determined to be able to climb the mountain to begin skiing, snowboarding or tobogganing down.

"Never thought I'd get to do any real skiing here in Glen Hartwell," enthused Del Culpeper, a tall, athletic forty-eight-year-old semi-professional skier who three times had almost qualified to represent Australia in the winter Olympics in his younger days.

"There ain't much snow at Thredbo anymore," said his wife, Janice, a dowdy brunette a decade younger than Del.

"Maybe you should stay at the bottom of the mountain, Jan, and film me as I ski down. We can send a copy of the video to Jeannette and her husband in Double Bay," enthused Del.

"Yeah," agreed Janice, "they always like rubbing our faces in all the great skiing in New South Wales."

"They'll be spewing when they see the video."

Del and Janice couldn't help laughing as Del started up the steep, but climbable mountain.

Elsie, Leonard, and Tobias Thornberry were also starting, a little more slowly up the mountain. Unlike Del, the Thornberrys had never done any skiing before, although they loved to watch it at the Olympic and Commonwealth Games, and whenever skiing was broadcast on TV.

"Race you to the top," teased Elsie, at thirty-two, the youngest of the three siblings.

"Save your energy for skiing down the mountain," warned Leonard.

At forty-one, Leonard was a good forty centimetres taller than Elsie, and nearly a hundred kilogrammes heavier, so he was in no state for running up mountains.

"He's right," agreed Tobias.

At thirty-seven and sixty kilos lighter than Leonard, Tobias was probably the fittest of the three, but saw no reason to hurry his pleasures, having always believed in 'slowly, slowly, catchy monkey'. He chose to ignore his more educated sister when Elsie told him, 'It's actually softly, softly catchy monkey, 'cause monkeys can go bloody fast, so there's no point going slowly!'

Having decided to conserve their energy going up the mountain, the Thornberry siblings started leisurely up Mount Peterson.

Sadie and Katie Mulholland were identical twins. Tall, leggy twenty-nine-year-olds with long raven coloured hair, they were fit enough for skiing, but only had clam-dragger (short) surfboards to use as snowboards. Nonetheless, they were as excited as the Culpeppers and the Thornberrys at their first-ever attempt at skiing.

"This'll be fabuloso," enthused Katie as they started slowly up the mountain.

"Fabuloso," agreed Sadie.

The two young women fancied they were well up on trendy skier talk, although the closest they had come to skiing so far, was watching it in a couple of the earlier James Bond movies.

Despite starting at different times, Del Culpepper, the Thornberry siblings, and Sadie and Katie reached the summit at about the same time.

"So, you wanna race?" Sadie shouted across to Del and the Thornberrys.

"You've only got clam draggers, I've got real skis," said Del.

"So?" demanded Katie. "You're not chicken to race against a couple of chicks half your age, are you, Pops?"

To drive the point home, Sadie did 'bark-bark-bark' noises while flapping her elbows like wings.

At first, Del ignored the taunting until Elsie, Leonard, and Tobias joined in, then he angrily said, "Okay, you're on, youngsters. You can follow me to the bottom of the mountain."

Sadie did one last 'bark-bark-bark' before dropping her clam dragger and climbing aboard.

"Okay, Gramps, we'll beat you to the old folks home," taunted Katie, as the six skiers started down the slope together.

Despite Katie's boasts, however, with his superior skiing experience and professional equipment, Del was soon zooming to a comfortable lead, leaving the Thornberrys and Mulhollands in his wake.

We'll see who gets to the old folks home first, thought Del, before wondering if that was quite what he meant.

Del was halfway down the mountainside, the Thornberrys about a third, and Katie and Sadie barely a quarter of the way, when the Skier suddenly appeared behind them at the top of the mountain. At his appearance, the snow started falling harder, until more than a metre of snow covered Mount Peterson.

The Skier watched the racing people for a moment in grim satisfaction. Then, lifting an air horn from his belt, he pressed the button, startling the skiers as the horn shrieked out. Then, as he continued pressing the horn, the snow atop the mountain began breaking away from the mountain, gradually gathering speed as it started down the mountain, until building into a full-blown avalanche.

"Avalanche!" shrieked Janice Culpepper at the bottom of Mount Peterson.

Despite her warning, the racing snow slide quickly buried Katie and Sadie, before moving on to the Thornberrys. More than halfway down the mountain, Del Culpepper looked at first as though he could beat the snow slide to the bottom of Mount Peterson. But finally, the avalanche buried him and half a dozen other would-be skiers, who had barely started up the mountain.

"Derren!" shrieked Janice Culpepper, using her husband's full name for the first time in years.

Despite not being built for running, she tried racing up the mountain, finding it almost impossible. Others wearing snow shoes, or with tennis racquets strapped to their shoes, managed to slowly, but steadily start up the snow drift, in the desperate hope of digging some of the buried skiers out before the twenty-minute cut-off period, after which people buried in snow will be dead from hypothermia.

By the time Terri Scott and the police and emergency services arrived on the scene, the twenty-minute cut-off period was well past, and no one had been dug out alive!

"Jesus, this is a change of pace," said Sheila, digging furiously through the snow with a small handled shovel which was kept in the boot of the Lexus for emergencies.

Many of the others were using their gloved hands to dig, others had removed their snow shoes, or tennis racquets, and were frantically trying without much success to dig up the snow. A few others had more success with dick-dragger, or clam-dragger surfboards.

By the late afternoon, they had dug out seventeen corpses, all of the missing, and had found no one alive.

Glen Hartwell's six ambulances drove back and forth carrying the dead and hysterical to the hospital.

"Now what?" asked Tilly Lombstrom, finally able to spend the time to approach Terri, Colin, and Sheila.

"Now we have to stop him," said Terri. "We can't just keep picking up the dead after he slaughters a gaggle of people."

"But how?" asked Sheila Bennett. "By the time we hear he's at some location, he's done his killing and moved on."

"And we don't have enough cops to patrol every street of every town in the area," pointed out Colin.

"And this time he struck outside town," reminded Tilly, as the four of them headed across to the ambulances.

"Somehow we have to get him to come to us," said Terri, "since we're too slow at going to him."

"But how?" asked Colin.;

"Well ... we do know someone who is up on supernatural monster legends, and how to combat them."

"Our witchy friend!" said Sheila.

"Magnolia McCready," said Colin, as Tilly climbed into the back of the last ambulance and the three cops climbed into Terri's police-blue Lexus.


1/21 Calhoun Street, Glen Hartwell, was the right-hand half of a subdivided yellow weatherboard house. In the front room, Magnolia McCready, a tall, busty redhead with electric-blue eyes, handed around cups of cranberry tea and homemade scones with raspberry jam and whipped cream.

"So what can I do for you this time?"

Terri hesitantly told Magnolia what had been happening in Glen Hartwell and the surrounding towns over the last few days.

"Sounds like the Skier," said Magnolia.

"Duh, even I could have told you that," said Sheila.

"No, you mad Goth idjit, the Skier is a Middle European legend dating back at least a thousand years. Supposedly, he always comes in summer, bringing his own private winter terrorland with him. Shooting the liquid that sets like steel from his ski poles is part of the legend, as is him starting avalanches."

"So, how do we stop him?" asked Colin.

"I can perform a calling spell to bring him to us," said Magnolia.

"Then we shoot the crepes out of him with our service revolvers," suggested Sheila.

"Afraid not ... he's a creature of snow and ice, so guns, knives, swords et cetera won't hurt him, according to legend."

"But I bet fire will," suggested Terri.

"Of course."

"So you call him here, then we burn your house down with him inside," teased Sheila.

"And she complains when I call her a Goth idjit," said Magnolia, shaking her head. "No, we find a clearing in the forest, without too many trees to burn ...."

"We'll have Hermione Meldon standing by," said Terri, referring to the local fire chief.

"Yes, and then I call the Skier to come and get burnt up by you three."

"How long will it take to prepare for the ritual?" asked Colin.

"Most of the night, then we'll have to find a suitable place for the fire."

"How about near the Yannan River?" suggested Sheila. "Nothing much grows there, because the river has polluted the neighbouring soil so much."

"Perfect," said Magnolia, Colin, and Terri as one.

As they stood up to leave, Magnolia held out her right hand and said, "Don't forget the most important part of the ritual."

"Is it still fifty bucks?" asked Terri, taking out her purse.

Magnolia thought for a moment, then said, "Better make it a hundred this time ... Inflation, you know?" When Terri hesitated, she added, "Or you can find another local Wiccan to perform the ritual."

Sighing heavily, Terri handed a hundred dollars to Magnolia, then the three cops headed out into Calhoun Street, Glen Hartwell.

"Head around to Mitchell Street, so I can get my money back from petty cash," instructed Terri after they had climbed into the Lexus. Then to Colin, "Be sure to distract the mad Goth chick again, so she can't see where we hide the petty cash box."

"Oh, that is so unfair," whined Sheila, as she started the police car.


At 6:30 the next morning, Terri, Sheila, and Colin were standing by the banks of the sewerage-brown waters of the Yannan River. On each side of the bank was parked a fire truck, which had its nozzle lying in the polluted water to draw from the river, if needed, to dose the proposed fire.

"I hope this works," said Terri.

"Trust me, have I ever let you down?" asked Magnolia, as she mixed and stirred ingredients in an earthenware pot.

"Well ...?" said Sheila, drawing a glare from the Wiccan.

While Magnolia chanted, Terri, Colin, Sheila, Stanlee Dempsey, and Jessie Baker all strapped flamethrowers to their backs.

"Who ya gonna call?" said Stanlee.

"Fire ... fighters," said Jessie.

"If I laughed any harder, I'd throw up," said Hermione Meldon, not showing any sign of being amused.

Magnolia had been performing her calling ritual for nearly twenty minutes when a heavy snow started pelting down, being blown all around the small gathering as violent winds started swirling around.

"I think the ritual is working!" called Sheila.

For another fifteen minutes or so, the snowstorm built up, the winds blowing strongly enough so that the police and firefighters struggled to stay on their feet. Almost being blown into the murky Yannan River, Terri managed to grab onto a blue gum tree growing a few metres from the river.

"When is he coming?" called Hermione, holding onto her fire hose with one hand and her fire truck with the other.

"Any minute now," shouted Magnolia to be heard over the howling winds, before going back to her ritual.

The murky waters of the Yannan had begun to ice over, no easy feat for heavily polluted waterways, as snow coated the river, then quickly solidified.

Finally, they saw the golden-clad figure of the Skier starting down the mountain of snow, which he had created, heading in their direction.

"Get ready," said Terri, "but let him get close before firing."

The Skier was only five or six metres away when the five police officers sprayed their fire out toward him. Missing by more than a metre as the Skier suddenly swerved to the left, obviously sensing their intention.

"Hey, I thought you were calling him straight to us?" complained Sheila.

"Yes, but he's not on a giant elastic band," pointed out Magnolia, "I've done my work, now you lot have to do yours to mow him down."

As she spoke, the Skier seemed released from the call of the Wiccan and turned to ski away.

"Not so fast, Goldie," cried Sheila. She and the other cops were also wearing skis. Holstering their flame thrower nozzles, they took up both ski poles to start skiing as fast as they could.

Ignoring Sheila's sarcasm, the Skier snowed back into the forest, with the five police in pursuit. Colin, having had experience skiing in England, was a strong skier, as was Sheila.

"Try to bring him back this way," called Hermione Meldon, "so we don't have to try driving the trucks through the snow."

"Will do," called Sheila, managing to stay just behind the Skier, with Colin close behind her, while Terri and the others fell way back.

"Can you get in front of him?" called Colin, shouting to be heard above the raging winds.

"I'm trying, but I doubt it," called back Sheila. "I think we just have to zap him and hope the snow will prevent the forest from burning.

"All right," called Colin.

The two cops dropped one of their ski poles each and grabbed the nozzles of their flame throwers. Their first blast went wide, as the Skier mysteriously swerved to the left at the last moment again, as though knowing when they were going to fire.

Sheila dropped her second ski pole to steady the flame nozzle with both hands and fired out a long burst.

Despite swerving again, the Skier was enveloped by the blue flames, his golden ski suit quickly whooshing alight. Then, despite the falling snow and swirling winds doing their best to douse the flames, with Colin also firing upon the Skier, he was soon burning furiously.

A loud, almost insectile screeching escaped the Skier as he began to melt beneath the flames that engulfed him. Finally, the last remnants of his ski suit fell, empty to the snow path, only to burn away, as the snow finally began to put out the fire.

Panting, Terri and the others finally caught up, too late to assist.

"Is that the end of it?" asked Jessie Baker.

By way of answer, the winds stopped howling, the snow stopped falling, and the sun started to shine through the clouds for the first time in days.

"Well, that's good news," said Terri.

"Except, by tomorrow we'll be back to forty-degree weather again," said Sheila. "You can bet on it."

"Oh, well, you can't please everyone," said Colin, making them all laugh.

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia