Andrew's Stories

Night fell on the nursing home like a blanket of velvet, swallowing the harsh heat of the day. It was in these quiet hours, when most creatures were asleep, that Walter the wombat stirred from his burrow. Walter was a creature of habit, a wise old soul who preferred the cool solitude of the night to the chaos of daylight. For years, he had lived beneath the nursing home grounds, emerging only when the moon was high, his fur greyed with age and his movements slow, deliberate.

Few had seen Walter up close, and fewer still had spoken with him. He was a figure of myth, a ghost that lurked in the underworld of the home’s expansive grounds. But while he stayed hidden, Walter saw everything. His sharp, dark eyes missed nothing, and he could feel when things were amiss—like now. He had felt the unrest rumbling through the earth long before Fred’s squawking or Bruce’s anxious pacing. And now, the return of Rocky had the whole place on edge.

Walter was troubled.

The young didn’t remember how bad things had been when Rocky last reared his head. But Walter remembered. He remembered the fights, the jealousy, and the way Doreen had looked at Bruce with worry in her eyes. It had been ages since Rocky had vanished, leaving behind a peace that felt fragile even then. And now, as Walter emerged from his burrow under the cover of darkness, he knew that peace was under threat.

The air was thick, alive with tension as Bruce stood guard over Doreen and Little Bruce. George, young and brash, loitered nearby, eager to prove his worth but blind to the depth of the trouble they faced. Walter observed them from the shadows, the old wombat’s mind already turning, piecing together the signs. Fred perched high in the gum trees, a nervous bundle of feathers, as if sensing the storm to come.

Walter moved slowly towards Bruce, his presence barely making a sound in the still night. As he approached, Bruce straightened, sensing someone near. There was a moment of hesitation before Bruce recognised the old wombat and relaxed, though his tail twitched with unease.

“You’re not sleeping much these days, are you, Bruce?” Walter’s voice was deep, gravelly from years spent underground. It came from the earth itself, a quiet rumble of wisdom.

Bruce let out a sigh, his broad chest rising and falling with the weight of it. “Rocky’s back, Walter. Fred told me this morning. I can feel him out there, somewhere in the dark.”

Walter nodded, his gaze shifting to George, who was bouncing on his toes, eager for action. “The young never know when to keep still,” he said quietly. “It’s not brute strength that’ll win this. Rocky doesn’t fight fair, and he never has.”

Doreen, watching from the safety of the tree, spoke for the first time. “What should we do, Walter? If he’s back for me, Bruce can’t face him alone. And George—he’s too young, too headstrong.”

Walter’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “This isn’t a fight that will be won with teeth and claws, Doreen. We’ll need to be smarter than that. But first, we need to calm the grounds. Fear feeds Rocky’s power. We need to stop it spreading.”

Fred fluttered down to join them, his voice sharp in the night. “Easier said than done, mate. Rocky’s not one for patience.”

Walter’s eyes darkened. “No, but I am.”

And with that, the old wombat retreated back into the shadows, his mind already working on a plan, his ancient wisdom the only hope the nursing home had to restore peace. The night grew still again, but the tension remained. Walter knew it would take more than words to stop what was coming. And Rocky would be counting on that.