‘I know thy works, and where thou dwellest, even where Satan’s seat is…’ – God
Several people have independently described Bundaberg to me as ‘Satan’s throne.’ There is no denying that this isolated country town is a microcosm of national coven activity, but why the Prince of Darkness would choose such a dump for his throne room is beyond my comprehension.
Several variables have lent credibility to the rumour. Bundaberg does sit smack atop one of the major Ley-lines occultists prize. Another clue was the enormous road sign that confronted visitors at the town’s entrance. The blood red sign contained the black silhouette of a huge bull with tall erect horns. Superficially, the bull poster advertised the El Toro restaurant located in the nearby coastal suburb of Bargara. On a sinister level it represented the horned bull of Mithraism and it indicated that Bundaberg was a coven capital.
Another of Bundaberg’s dark features is the legendary Hummock. The Hummock is a hollow, extinct volcano that dominates the area’s otherwise flat landscape. The cavern inside the Hummock is accessed via a number of the homes that sit on the hill, homes which are only ever sold on to approved coven members. Local Indigenous people informed me that the Hummock features a natural tunnel system which joins the main enormous hollow to surrounding landmarks including the local Catholic school and cemetery. Luciferian rituals are said to take place beneath the impenetrable Hummock.
Bundaberg is characterised by a lack of aesthetics, absence of culture and an obsession with sport. Its main street was once lined with iron laced heritage buildings and enormous trees that created a long cool green arch; but someone clad the buildings, and cut down every tree, creating a repulsive heat.
In the early 1990’s, a Bundaberg court house employee informed me that he processed one suicide per week. That statistic struck me as high, considering the town served a population of approximately 40,000.
Bundaberg’s air of suicidal futility was well captured in the school war-cry that local children shared with me:
‘Sex! Drugs! Rock-n-roll! Bundy High’s a f__in’ hole!’
If ever you want to know what is really happening in a community – ask the kids. The local children told me about the 26 primary school students being treated at the hospital’s psychiatric unit for the sexual and physical abuse they experienced at Bundaberg West State School, and which was eventually reported in the local paper. The kids informed me about the Bundaberg East State School principal who liked to watch children do cartwheels in their skirts, and who would force himself upon mothers in the school classrooms while they attended teacher interviews. The school cleaner complained to my Aunty Beryl that she would find semen all over the desks and floor. I attended this school for a while in Grade Six.
The most telling testimony came to me in 1998 from Samantha, a Grade 7 student at Woongarra State School. Samantha was an attractive 12-year-old with the body of a 16-year-old and the mouth of a 22-year-old. I met Samantha during a local cricket game. She was staying with my friend who was providing respite to the girl’s mother. The ‘tweenager’ was reportedly out of control and dating a man in his early twenties.
For some reason, Samantha decided to tell me all about her life, including her involvement in ‘witchcraft.’ The child said that she was introduced to witchcraft by her classmate whose house she often stayed at. In fact, her entire primary school class had been converted to witchcraft the previous year. ‘It was a really positive thing,’ Samantha explained, ‘because before that there was a lot of fighting and bitchiness, but after we all became involved in witchcraft it united us, and we all got on really well.’ Samantha told me about how the class would cast spells on their teacher. One of these caused her teacher’s chair to break, while another caused the teacher’s car tyre to go flat. Apparently it was really funny, and it gave the students a means of revenge against their ‘mean’ teacher.
Samantha then revealed what she benefited from witchcraft – a sense of control over her out-of-control life. The child was angry. Two years ago, police found her grandmother dead, mysteriously slain with a fork – the common eating utensil kind. Samantha wanted revenge against an unknown entity.
I listened patiently to Samantha for about two hours, quietly prompting. Once satisfied that the girl had shared everything, I made my stand. I looked the child dead in the eye and affirmed: ‘Now listen here and you listen well. You are playing with fire, missy! Right now, this whole witchcraft thing feels fun, but come your thirteenth birthday you will be initiated into the next step – which is not fun! Once you take that next step, you will reach a point of no return. The next level is human sacrifice where they murder little babies and children. Believe me, because I’ve seen it. I know it’s real, just as you know that magic really works. Take it from someone who has seen where all of this goes – stop now before it’s too late! This is your chance, right here, right now, to get out!’
Terror seized the girl’s being and she morphed back into a 12-year-old child. ‘What do I do?’
‘There’s only one way out of this mess. When I was your age, I noticed that these people were extremely rich, extremely powerful and afraid of no one or thing. But then I noticed that there was a source of power greater than theirs and that when they came up against that power, they lost. That power source was Jesus Christ. So, I figured that I would rather side with the God that held the greater source of power. The name of Jesus Christ is the only one that is able to free you from what you’ve got yourself into. Right now, Satan is lord over your life. You need to ask Jesus Christ to be Lord. You need to pray to God and ask Him to undo every curse, hex and spell that you are subject to.’
‘I want that! I want that right now!’
That afternoon, Samantha gave her heart to Jesus Christ and accepted a King James Bible. The last I heard, Samantha’s rebellious behaviour had quelled and she was reading her Bible daily. Ideally I would have recommended some church for Samantha to attend, but by that stage, I could think of none.
My mother originally moved to Bundaberg to escape my father and to be near her sisters. One sister, Beryl Jenkins, had lived in her beloved ‘Bundy’ the longest. My cousin David Mitchell rightly labelled Beryl ‘an evil bitch’ after holidaying with her as a child. When she wasn’t pretending to be a Christian elder at her Wesleyan Methodist Church, Aunty Beryl was heavily involved in her family’s true god – basketball.
Beryl was particularly spiteful toward two members of the human race, me and my younger brother Peter. Perhaps this was because Peter and I naturally excelled at everything, including basketball. I joined a basketball team in Beryl’s Across the Waves club after shooting a three pointer over Will, Bundaberg’s star male USA import during a social game. I have never in my life witnessed anything as dirty and dangerous as Bundaberg women’s basketball. The saddest moment came when a 15-year-old child on the opposing team broke her ankle. As the girl lay on the bitumen crying in agony, one of my team mates, the town’s only paediatrician, snarled, ‘Get her up!’ This same doctor ran the Bundaberg Rainbow Girls, a Freemason youth group for girls.
At the end of my first basketball season, all of Bundaberg’s opposing clubs nominated me for the overall Association trophy. However, Aunty Beryl and my own club gave me nothing. Peter also won a trophy that season, but he was struck down with an illness weeks prior to presentation night and was bedridden. Consequently, Aunty Beryl stripped Paul’s name off the trophy and was about to give it to another child when the only club member with integrity intervened, chided them all, snatched the trophy and marched it to my mother’s house.
But Aunty Beryl’s full capacity for evil manifested at her church which my family and I initially attended. Beryl’s daughter-in-law Marcie also attended that church. Marcie was my age and so we quickly became acquainted. She invited me to join the church youth group. When Marcie introduced a fellow youth group member who worked as a meter reader to me as, ‘He’s like a spy for us,’ I realised she was actively involved and had mistakenly assumed that I was also. It is a common error, considering coven members assume there is no escape.
Marcie warned me not to associate with a warm, pretty and musically talented youth group member named Lynette.
‘Why not?’ I puzzled.
‘She’s trouble,’ Marcie asserted. ‘She flirts with all the boys.’
‘What do you mean? What boys?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘She’s just caused a lot of trouble.’
Aunty Beryl also warned me against associating with. Then Pastor Peter Breen’s daughter repeated derogative things that her mother Mavis had uttered against Lynette. The whole church seemed to be gossiping about Lynette behind her back. Their comments were inconsistent with the modest sweet girl that I was observing. So, I did what a Christian is supposed to do – I decided to talk with Lynette and make up my own mind about her. To everyone’s horror, I invited the social outcast to a big Christmas party at Aunty Beryl’s house, and I spend the entire evening getting to know Lynette. Eventually, I told Lynette bluntly what people had been saying to me about her and I asked her what was going on.
Lynette told me about an incident that had occurred when she was 16 years old. Her older sister was about to be married but was killed in a car accident just south of Bundaberg, the week before her wedding. On the day of her wedding, the guests who had traveled for the wedding attended her funeral instead.
During the chaotic week following her sister’s death, Lynette fell ill. Her sister’s best friend, a nurse named Wendy, invited Lynette to stay at her house. Helen’s husband, Adrian, was the son of a church deacon and a notorious philanderer. One morning, Wendy gave Lynette a large dose of codeine medication which left the child extremely drowsy and sleeping in the spare bedroom. Soon after Wendy left for work, Adrian entered Lynette’s room, picked her up and carried her to his bed where sexually assaulted her.
I met with Lynette the following day. I placed some crayons and paper in front of her and asked her, ‘Draw it for me. Show me what Adrian did to you.’
Lynette drew the assault.
‘Now draw a thought bubble above your head. Inside the thought bubble, write words that you were thinking.’
She wrote, NO!
‘Did you tell your parents about this?’
‘What did they do?’
‘They could have had him charged but that would have broken up the church.’
‘So instead, everyone doesn’t know the truth and someone started the rumour that you flirted with him.’
‘And let me guess – your parents have been too preoccupied with your sister’s death to notice how you felt about being assaulted straight after your sister’s death?’
‘And just how do you feel?’
‘Like no-one would notice if I was gone.’
‘Do you wish you were gone?’
‘Have you thought about killing yourself?’
‘Have you thought of how you’d do it?’
‘Yes. Overdose on pills.’
I was myself young and inexperienced yet aware that the last time I kept silent about someone’s suicidal ideation they gassed themselves to death in Amsterdam. So, I had a go: ‘Lynette, this is a perfectly normal reaction to something bad that happened to you. Your sister was killed and while you were still in shock from that, and ill, and drugged, an adult sexually assaulted you. You were a child. None of this is your fault. You did nothing wrong.’ I paused. ‘I think you need to tell your parents about how you really feel. And I think someone needs to put a stop to all the church gossip.’
Lynette agreed. In fact, now she felt like standing up and telling the whole church.
‘How about we start with Pastor Breen? How would you feel about showing him these drawings?’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’
‘We could go right now if you like?’
We went looking for the pastor at the church but no-one was there. Then an idea dawned on me. I led Lynette into the empty church. ‘I’m going to sit in the pews,’ I suggested. ‘You stand at the front behind the pulpit. Pretend that the church is full. Tell the church what you would like them to know.’
Lynette addressed the invisible congregation and expressed what had been tearing her up inside since her sister’s death.
Peter Breen arrived, and I told him, ‘Lynette has something to show you. Show him the drawings Lynette and tell him what you told me.’
Lynette showed the pastor her drawings, carefully explaining each one.
Pastor: ‘I feel sick.’
‘Did you know any of this?’ I asked him.
‘No, Lynette, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘Well,’ I continued, ‘practically the whole church is gossiping about a wrong version of it, including my family and yours. Lynette here would like to get up in front of the whole congregation and tell everyone the truth. Instead, I think it’s only fair that you locate every single person who has been told the wrong story and tell them the truth.
He nodded. ‘And please don’t tell Mavis [his wife] about this. It’ll ruin her Christmas.’
That evening, Lynette and I met with her parents and filled them in on recent events, including the malicious gossip. I prompted Lynette to express to her parents how she felt.
‘I want to commit suicide,’ Lynette announced.
Her parents became still like stunned mullets.
I softly asked Lynette’s Dad, ‘Where is your daughter right now?
‘Where is your daughter right now?’
He thought for a moment. ‘In heaven.’
‘What do you think she thinks about that?’
‘Well…she’d be very happy.’
‘And what do you think God thinks of where she is right now?’
‘Well, he would be pleased to have her there.’
‘Okay, so your daughter’s in heaven, she is happy with that arrangement and so is God. God is sovereign, He loves us, but He decided to take her anyhow. I don’t know why God allows such horrible things to happen to us, I just know that we have to trust Him with the situation. While you have been grieving for your eldest daughter, you haven’t noticed that you’re about to lose your youngest.’
The full impact of my intervention with Lynette became apparent many months later. It all began one Sunday morning during church service. The pastor had introduced a new age doctrine to the church which involved having parishioners sit in a circle for service and inviting people to voice their opinion mid-service. One morning, the pastor gave a sermon on God’s image, and he asked people in the service to verbalise their impressions of God.
Troy, a nice young man who had been a Christian for about a week, raised his hand and excitedly offered his opinion: ‘I-I-I think of the song, He’s got the whole world in His hands. I’m-I’m into body building, and that’s just my thing. So, I see God like a big Arnie Schwarzeneger holding up the world in his arms!’
The congregation applauded.
Just then, a self-appointed church leader named Spencer Gere shot to his feet and pompously tore Troy’s opinion apart: ‘God is immaterial. He cannot be compared to mortal being, to some Hollywood actor …’
As Spencer raved on like a Shakespearean soliloquy, I turned to notice Troy behind me, deflating like a pool floaty. I arose and spoke, ‘The Bible clearly states that we are made in God’s image. We have arms – so does God. Troy may not have been a Christian for very long, he may not have been to Bible College and he may not have read a lot of books yet, but his understanding of God is just as valid. And now I’ll give you all something more important to focus on – someone in this congregation is involved in Satanism.’
The congregation applauded. Following the service, people approached me and stated:
‘Thanks for standing up for me.’
‘You said what we’ve all been thinking but didn’t have the guts to say.’
‘That guy has been putting us down for months.’
I was immediately summoned to an emergency meeting attended by Pastor Breen, Spencer, Aunty Beryl, Lynette’s Dad (Kevin) and the pastor’s brother-in-law. Instead of opening the meeting in prayer, Spencer launched into a criticism of me. Yet every time he went to address me, I was overcome with a deep spiritual repulsion, as though an evil spirit was daring to converse and I promptly cut him off: ‘Don’t you dare speak to me!’
Pastor: ‘You can’t talk to Spencer like that!’
‘He’s not a man of God!’ I snapped.
Pastor: ‘What you are doing is not of God.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Because you’re causing division in the church!’
‘Jesus said he came to separate the sheep from the goats.’
The pastor was speechless.
Aunty Beryl sat quietly with a smug look on her face.
Tears welled in my eyes.
Lynette’s father interjected, ‘No, no, no. This is all wrong. This is wrong. Fiona has done a lot to help our family. She saved our daughter’s life!’
But the wolf pack was not interested in words of reason, righteousness or support. Their criticism faded into background noise as I focussed on Lynette’s father:
‘Fiona, Fiona, ‘he implored. ‘Do you remember what you said to me?’
‘No,’ I sobbed.
‘You told me three things that helped me get over my daughter’s death.’ He counted the list off his fingers. ‘Where is my daughter now, what does she think about that, and what does God think about that.’
‘Thank you,’ I managed a small smile. Then I left.
The following Sunday I began attending the local Baptist church which had two ministers. One of the ministers reminded me of a stout Roman Caesar, especially when, mid-sermon, he patted his fat gut and irreverently boasted, ‘And you all know how much I like my food.’ After my third Sunday of attendance, this pastor asked to meet with me. During this meeting he said that Pastor Breen had phoned him and warned him not to let me attend this church because I liked to ‘lure vulnerable young women into questionable counselling situations.’ Pastor Glutton concluded, ‘We do not want you to be a vessel through which the Holy Spirit works in this church.’
Months later, Pastor Glutton caused a split in the church and eventually started up a new church in Bargara with half of the congregation.
At about this time, Aunty Beryl rallied Mum’s siblings plus my father into making a joint complaint to DOCS. Beryl alleged that my mother medically neglected my brother Peter who was not recovering from one of the numerous mystery illnesses that seemed to constantly plague Bundaberg in Biblical proportions. My mother had indeed sought medical attention. She had taken Peter to Bundaberg Base Hospital (notorious for Dr Patel’s killing spree) only to be told that there were no vacant beds and to go home and consult her GP in the morning. My mother took Paul back to his GP who wrote a medical certificate stating that there was nothing wrong with Peter. We later discovered that Peter had a rare virus that ate away the cartilage between two of his vertebrae and his hip. Peter’s GP was later struck of the medical registrar for multiple complaints of malpractice.
My sister-in-law thrust Peter’s medical certificate in Aunty Beryl’s grimacing face while I asserted: ‘Oh you care so much about Peter’s illness. You cared so much that you ripped his name off his basketball trophy!’
Beryl screamed hysterically, ‘Have you spoken to James Kraak yet? Well you should!’ and she left.
James Kraak was the pastor of the new church that my mother and siblings had been attending called the People’s Church. At that stage I was not aware that Kraak and his wife Helen had ritually abused my siblings at a kids’ holiday camp they held at Harvey Bay. I was aware that Kraak’s son had been suspended while under investigation for pedophilia at the remote primary school he taught at. In fact, I barely knew Pastor Kraak when I promptly drove to his house and said, ‘Beryl told me that I should speak with you. Why?’
Kraak turned red and snapped, ‘She shouldn’t have!’
‘What did you say to her?’
‘I’m not telling you!’
One year, there was a knock at my front door. It was Lynette’s father (Kevin) and Pastor Breen. Pastor Breen began, ‘Spencer Gere wanted to come, but I didn’t think that would be a good idea.’
‘We’ve had some experiences in the church which have led us to reconsider what you said about someone in the church being involved in Satanism.’
‘One of the ladies was sewing and the sewing machine just picked itself off the table and smashed itself to pieces on the floor.’
Pastor Breen: ‘What can you tell us about Libby Margots?’
I snapped, ‘You went and told that other minister that I liked to lure vulnerable young women into questionable counselling situations! Did you ask Kevin here what he thought of that conclusion before making that phone call? You have more than one Satanist at your church, Peter. For starters there’s that warlock that you’ve placed on a pedestal and who is picking on new Christians! And what the hell are you doing attending secret prayer meetings with the local Catholic priest at the Catholic Church?! Your every move is dictated by a coven. Here you are asking about Libby when she manipulated you into ordering me not to speak with her again. What the hell was that?!’
Pastor Breen left the building.
Later, sources told me that Peter Breen and his family had come under severe spiritual attack. One person who was dining with the Breens witnessed the whole family suddenly jump to their feet and rush into another room to pray. Pastor Breen left the ministry soon after, and his son Harley Breen whom my brothers befriended and was fond of, became a foul-mouthed comedian who joked about the hypocrisy of his father’s Bundaberg church.
The Libby referred to was Aunty Beryl’s friend. Libby Margots strategically drained the church’s financial and human resources via counselling for her, counselling for her homosexual husband and financial assistance for her six home-schooled children. Libby’s constant companion was a young woman who introduced herself to me as, ‘I’m Libby’s slave.’ Coven members call new initiates whom they are mentoring ‘slaves.’ My friend who regularly babysat for Libby (another Libby surnamed Fenner) told me about the goats and many other animals that Libby bred in large numbers, all of which would suddenly and mysteriously disappear. It was James Kraak who informed my mother that Libby was secretly in a relationship with a coven member named Robyn Brown.
My family and I quickly caught on to Libby’s game – and she knew it. That’s why Libby ordered Pastor Breen to tell my mother and me to stay away from her. However, Libby couldn’t have felt as threatened as she made out. At a church luncheon she casually walked up to me and asked, ‘Fiona, I saw you at the hospital the other day. What were you doing there?’
‘I was visiting Marcie.’ My cousin had recently suffered a miscarriage.
‘No, it wasn’t that. It was something else. What was it?’
I was volunteering at the hospital but had not told anyone about it. Such is the boldness that coven members exhibit when they seek information.
Libby was connected with the owner of one of Bundaberg’s land marks – the Purple Castle. This was a private dwelling which was built in the shape of a witches’ castle and painted in telltale purple. A bricklayer who laboured on the purple castle told my mother that he built a large round altar at its centre. The purple castle was owned and occupied by a woman who took in numerous young single mothers. Baby diapers constantly filled her clothesline. This was a blatant coven breeding centre.
Bundaberg featured a large coven which comprised entirely of members with Scottish heritage. One member of this was a woman we called ‘the hat lady’ because she sold handmade hats at the local market. My family were thrice confronted by this hat lady, once at a highland dancing event, once at a market and most memorably in Bonnie Jean’s fabric shop. During the latter incident, I stood at a large table glancing through pattern catalogues. My mother and sister-in-law Janine stood on the other side, doing the same. My baby sister Emma wandered nearby.
Suddenly we were surrounded by several people including the hat lady, a man in a full rainbow clown outfit and an obese, dark haired woman.
I snapped to attention. ‘Don’t let them form a triangle around us!’ I ordered my family. ‘Get Emma away from that clown!’
My mother fetched Emma. The hat lady came and stood very close to my right and began turning the pages of a catalogue. The clown stood close to my left, pretending to browse lingerie patterns. The fat lady stood at the counter, purchasing black and purple satin. I turned to the hat lady and affirmed, ‘I rebuke you in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ.’
The clown gasped, ran off to an obese woman who stood at the counter measuring yards of black and purple satin, and whispered something to her. The woman boasted aggressively, ‘She wouldn’t dare say that to me!’ Yes, I would.
The hat lady thrust her gargoyle face in mine and hissed, ‘Who do you think you are?’
I looked her dead in the eye and affirmed: ‘I-will-be-your-downfall.’
The hat lady flew into a rage, knocked me out of her way and snatched my catalogue. She slammed the book down on the table and began thumbing through the pages. ‘Rachel!’ she shrieked.
A thin, young store assistant nervously approached the table.
‘Rachel! Did you hear what this lady said? She rebuked me in Jesus’ name!’
Rachel’s eyes darted about nervously as she scanned my family for clues as to what she should do.
‘We’re just looking at patterns,’ my mother shrugged.
I gave Rachel a look of ‘who’s the crazy’ while twirling my finger around my ear.
‘Well?!’ the hat wench demanded: ‘What are you going to do about it?!’
Rachel stammered, ‘I-I-I don’t know what to do.’
The coven members congregated at the counter while my family and I stood in a small circle and began to pray aloud. Then the group disbanded and returned to normal behaviour, completely ignoring the fact that a group of people were praying aloud in the middle of a fabric shop.
I encountered another Scottish identity while participated in a local production of Les Miserables. John Harbison was a Bundaberg optometrist whose friendship seemed harmless until he began criticising my absent English boyfriend and saying, ‘He only thinks he loves you, but he doesn’t.’
Following an invitation to dinner one evening, I returned to John’s house for tea. We were seated on the back deck of his Queenslander home, glancing through one of his art books. I was commenting on one of the artworks when suddenly, coffee in hand, John leaned forward, stared at my eyes and declared: ‘Beezlebub, Lord of the Flies!’ This was a trigger phrase.
‘Huh?’ I shot him a puzzled look. ‘Beezlebub lord of the flies?! What does that have to do with the price of fish?’
John frantically scanned my face for signs of an impending expected reaction – but it wasn’t forthcoming.
That was John’s first blunder. The second came after I told him I was visiting England. What I had failed to tell him was that I would only be in England a few short months before travelling to Western Australia. I was interstate when my mother received a letter that John Harbison addressed to me. In his letter he stated that he was in a Scottish pub and had scoured the UK searching for me. ‘WHERE ARE YOU?!’ he screamed in writing that consumed half a page.
‘But he knew where you were,’ my mother deduced. ‘You told him you were in England. Why would he think anything else?’
John’s letter ended with a one page of list of grotesque and seemingly unrelated words including ‘vomit’ and ‘rhinoceros’ that resembled a curse.
The next time I spied John Harbison was during the early hours of the morning, under a full moon. My mother and I recognised him with three men standing together in the next door driveway. They were dressed in brown robes and pointed hats. The men stood out the front of 46 George St, near the front unit occupied by a South African man named Tony and his four-year-old-son. The little boy often entered our house uninvited and started talking to us. One day we caught him perfectly forming his hands into a satanic sign. We asked him what the sign meant. The child answered and then proceeded to talk us through and demonstrate his enormous repertoire of satanic hand signals.
On another day, the little boy walked into Mum’s bedroom, eating an ice block. When he finished, he showed my mother the stick and asked, ‘What does that say?’
‘Heaven,’ Mum read.
‘Do you know where that is?’ he pointed to the ground. ‘Down there.’
‘Oh, no it isn’t. That’s where Satan lives.’ Mum pointed to the sky. ‘Heaven is up there. God lives up there.’
The boy then pointed at my brother Peter and blurted, ‘We shot Peter last night!’
The previous night, Peter awoke screaming in agony and saying he felt something like electricity shoot up his arm.
That was the last time we saw the little boy. He and his father suddenly disappeared. A while later we spied a cleaning lady at their rented unit. Under the guise of being a potential tenant, my sister-in-law Janine approached the cleaner and inquired about the unit. The cleaning lady began complaining about the job. She described a strange brownish substance that was stuck to the bathroom floor and walls, and she invited Janine in to look. Janine returned to us looking a shade paler. ‘It’s everywhere! There’s a great pool of it all over the floor, and it’s splattered all over the walls and ceiling. It looks like someone was butchered in there!’
Following this incident, Bundaberg Centrelink social security office sent my mother a letter informing her that my brother Peter was dead. Then Mum found a little white note that a postal worker had taped to the inside of her Australia Post box which read, ‘Watch mail coming into this box.’ Then we found dried, dead chopped up animals scattered all over our front footpath. Then, on several occasions, taxis continually circled our block and drove past our house from midnight until 3am.
During our final year in Bundaberg, one of my brother’s began dating his classmate Anne Gillespie. Anne was of Scottish heritage and she lived in a Bargara house that was passed from coven family to coven family. Anne showed me a satanic altar that was erected in her back yard. She told my family that babies had been sacrificed in her home and that there was an enormous blood stain on the wooden floor of her upstairs bedroom, beneath the carpet. My brother clearly recalls a time that Anne’s parents drugged him and Anne during a party attended by local coven members.
Anne was 17 years old when she told my mother that she was frightened of her parents and she begged my mother to help her escape Bundaberg. When my husband and I left Bundaberg, we gave Anne a ride. As soon as we were gone, police Sergeant Greg Maloney phoned my mother’s house and hissed to my eight year old brother Michael: ‘Your mother has thirty minutes to tell me where Anne is or else I’ll come and get you all in my squad car!’
This was the same Sergeant who bullied a 16-year-old girl out of pursuing legal recourse for being gang raped by 10 young Bundaberg men. The girl assumed that her boyfriend was dropping her at work when he drove her to a warehouse where the perpetrators awaited. These men are now all prominent Bundaberg businessmen. The men proceeded to rape the girl all day and night. The girl attended Bundaberg hospital which reported the rape to local police. Sergeant Maloney subsequently interrogated the girl severely, including verbally abusing and accusing her in a manner inconsistent with police policy and procedures. When the girl broke down under this pressure, Sergeant Maloney concluded that he was seeing how the girl would withstand cross examination and that obviously she could not because of her reaction to his treatment.
My mother returned Sergeant Maloney’s call and informed him that Anne had already town left with me. Sergeant Maloney threatened, ‘We have the power to block every single road in the state, and we’ll do it! We’ll find them!’
They didn’t find us.
Later, I lodged complaints regarding the sergeant with several bodies including the CJC which was supposedly independent. The young woman from the anti-corruption commission whom I spoke with immediately contacted the Bundaberg’s Sergeant Maloney and informed him of my complaint. I correctly anticipated this and confronted her on the phone: ‘You just called Bundaberg – didn’t you!’
‘Yeah, I know exactly how you lot work.’
Anne’s parents placed a mental health warrant out for her despite no history or symptoms of mental illness. In an attempt to secure Anne’s rights, I consulted legal aid, paid a lawyer and studied relevant legislation. The police recorded an interview with Anne at my home. During this, Anne told the police all about the murders and child abuse that she had witnessed in her home. Anne repeated this information to the Department of Children’s Services (DOCS). In response, DOCS demanded an interview with my mother. DOCS acted more interested in what my mother might have said to influence Anne, rather than Anne’s allegations against her parents of involvement in child abuse and murder. When DOCS interviewed me, the first thing they asked was whether my brother, who was slightly older than Anne, was in a sexual relationship with his girlfriend.
‘No,’ I responded. ‘So, you’re more interested in pinning a statutory rape case on my brother rather than investigating Anne’s testimony of child abuse and murder in her parents’ home?’
Despite their best efforts, DOCS found nothing against my family – because there was nothing to find. Anne moved interstate with my family where she enrolled in her final year of high school. When she turned 18 years old she left us to meet her former best friend from Bundaberg at a nearby hotel. We never saw Anne Gillespie again.