It sounded like a baby being killed. There it went again, echoing through the darkness. Bill put his arms round Mat. ‘Don’t move,’ he whispered, ‘I’m going to check this.’ ‘Don’t go,’ Mat ordered, ‘There’s a killer out there. Blow the whistle for Tom.’ ‘If we blow the whistle, whoever it is will know for sure where we are.’ A third time, the blood-curdling, human scream ripped through the night. The sound was coming from somewhere to their right, down in the thicker bush. The rough track down to Tom’s campsite was to their left. ‘Maybe it’s a possum,’ said Bill quietly. ‘Possums snarl and growl; they don’t scream like little children,’ said Mat. Bill knew Mat was right. Possums often had violent fights inside the roof above his bedroom. They bashed and thumped and sounded like giant, hoarse wildcats. ‘Could be a Bunyip, though,’ whispered Mat. ‘A what?’ ‘A Bunyip.
