Something woke her. Puzzling. A sound. Not possums on the roof. Dingoes? Blood-curdling pack howls had become a common occurrence. But she discounted that idea too. Gun shot? Occasionally heard in the vicinity, but usually just another wild pig meeting its fate. Unlikely in this case. The noise was closer, unusual.
Perhaps it was the girl stirring, she thought, savouring the euphoria of having a little one in her care. Earlier Annie had convinced Pippa’s mother to treat herself to a night out. The child was snug in the cot in her great-grandmother’s bedroom. The night was calm. But something had awoken Annie. She strained to listen. Could hear nothing.
It was chilly. No need to venture out, she thought, plumping her pillow and pulling the covers to her chin.
Hey. Was that movement at the curtains? What the hell? A bulky shape was approaching her bedside table. Frightened, now fully awake, Annie ventured to mutter,
‘Is that you, love? You shouldn’t have bothered. I said I’d bring Bub back in the morning. Let you have a sleep-in…’
Silence. Definitely not Lara then. Annie was face to face with trouble. An intruder in her home, her safe haven. A rustle of paper and meddling hands rummaging, a library book falling… no attempt at quiet now. What? Why? Car keys. The answer came to her in a flash. Her dread accelerated.
Then another shape, dark and lanky, at the end of her bed. Worser and worser!
Annie, a country girl known for her spark in her younger days, needed a strategy–pronto. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she calmed, steadied her voice.
‘You shouldn’t be in my house. There’s nothing here for you. I’m asking you to leave.’
Still no response. Her fear escalated. Two shapes loomed.
‘Leave my home now.’
‘Shut up, bitch.’
Shadows merged and Annie heard staccato whispers.
‘Get out. Now.’ she shrieked as she jerked herself up to a kneeling position at the bedhead.
This prompted snickers, nasty snickers. One snarled. ‘We want your money and your car keys, old woman.’
Annie considered her response, sifting and sorting wild thoughts. These undesirables exuded menace, familiarity and total confidence in the situation. Probably seventy years her junior, she estimated. Reasoning wouldn’t work with them.
Annie depended on her car. Giving in wasn’t her style. Her thoughts clarified. A plan jelled. She took a deep breath and …
Pippa whimpered, ‘Nana.’
This captured attention. Three heads spun towards the cot.
Annie’s inner furnace ignited. In seconds she switched on the bed lamp and dashed towards the child, her precious great-granddaughter, yelling at top volume, ‘Help! Jimmy! Help! Get the gun! Get the gun!’
The girl squealed. The intruders sprinted.
Trembling, Annie dialed Triple 0 and gentled the child. Flashing lights appeared along the highway. Sirens enticed bystanders, in a range of sleepwear, eager to convene in the crisp air. The story was told, multiplied many times over in subsequent days to neighbours, family members and random interested parties. This was no urban myth, but a rural true tale. A granny with grit.
Afterword
Gradually the full story was revealed. There were four intruders—two ventured into the bedroom, the other pair acted as lookouts. They’d travelled from town in a stolen sedan, abandoned when it ran out of fuel. Annie’s house was conveniently placed, her car a prime target.
Later the panicking four were canny enough in their flight/fright to detour from the highway. That screaming woman would contact the cops they figured. In the darkness, they ran along a dirt road, west to the irrigation channel verging extensive sugar cane paddocks. (Annie was pleased later to learn of this unplanned inconvenience borne by the lads.)
Many footsteps later they encountered a house with several parked vehicles. Agreement would have been immediate. Walking a further six kilometres to town would not have appealed to any of the gang. They approached with caution, a verifiable fact.
Strange but true. The owners of this property slept through the nocturnal visit. A stranger’s cap was found on their driveway the next morning. With no obvious explanation, security cameras were checked. At 2.30 am: there were the four, eyes flashing, slinking towards a vehicle with criminal intent. (One was proved to carry a weapon, a blade concealed in his sleeve.)
Then a sound. A low growl. The four-turn tail and sprint at Olympic speed in the opposite direction. A cap falls, discarded. Duty done; the kelpie resumes its vigil.
Subsequently, video and forensic evidence is compiled. Four juveniles, known recalcitrants, are apprehended and face court, each serving a custodial sentence in Brisbane. Reports from unnamed police sources reveal that the crime rate in town decreased for that duration.
Leaving Annie, famed forever for her courage and quick-thinking one dark night…
© Tropical Writers Inc 2026