"The Terror of Kyneton: Bucky the Butcher"

“Bucky: Southbound Slaughter”

The town of Kyneton had been left broken. Though police claimed they’d captured Bucky, deep down, the town knew better. The man they arrested — Stephen Harlan — wasn’t the Bucky. Maybe a copycat. Maybe just another man driven mad by fear. Because weeks after his arrest, the killings started again. This time quieter. Smarter. No signatures. No drawings. Just clean, efficient violence.

And then, Bucky vanished.

The 7:04 AM VLine train rolled out of Kyneton Station on a misty Monday morning, its lights piercing the grey fog as it made its usual route toward Melbourne’s Southern Cross Station. It was mostly empty — just a few commuters, a young couple with backpacks, a man in a suit, and a railway staff member punching tickets.

Somewhere in the third carriage, seated alone by the window, was a figure in baggy overalls, a hood up, red wig barely tucked under a faded cap. Nobody paid him any mind — just another tired passenger on the early train.

But tucked under his seat was a rolled-up knife bag. Surgical. Precise.

By the time the train reached Sunbury, the conductor was gone. Missing. His blood would later be found smeared across the toilet door. But by then, Bucky had already moved on — strolling between carriages, smiling at passengers, humming softly to himself like a lullaby sung off-key.

At Footscray, someone finally pulled the emergency brake — a woman screaming, clutching her partner’s limp body. Police were called. But Bucky was gone.

Not off the train.

Through it.

By the time the VLine rolled into Southern Cross Station, the heart of Melbourne’s transport network, Bucky had changed clothes. Now dressed like a city worker, high-vis vest and all, he calmly disembarked with the crowd — unnoticed, unbothered.

He walked straight into The Hub, the bustling café-lounge near the platform. It was packed with staff, tourists, and business travelers waiting for connections. He sat at a corner table, ordered a flat white, and waited.

No one noticed the strange expression. The twitch in his eye. The bloody scratch down the side of his neck. Not until he stood up, reached into the canvas tote at his side, and pulled out a 10-inch boning knife.

"Time for round two," he whispered.

What followed was a blur of screams, overturned tables, and bodies. A security guard tried to tackle him — he was stabbed five times before he hit the ground. A barista was dragged across the counter. An elderly tourist, hiding behind her luggage, watched in horror as Bucky smiled and licked the blade.

Within four minutes, he was gone again.

Vanished into the chaos of Southern Cross — blending in with fleeing commuters, boarding another train, or maybe slipping down into the Metro Tunnel.

Aftermath

The media exploded.

"BUTCHER ON THE RAILS: BUCKY STRIKES SOUTHERN CROSS"

"VLINE HORROR — SERIAL KILLER WALKS FREE"

Victoria Police launched a statewide manhunt. Surveillance footage was combed through. Psychologists called him a "nomadic killer" — a drifter who used public transport to evade detection. Urban legend? Terrorist? Possessed?

But the locals in Kyneton knew the truth.

Bucky wasn’t just a man.

He was something worse. Something that didn’t just kill — he enjoyed it. He laughed through it.

Maureen Griggs, watching the news from her quiet Kyneton home, turned off the TV and locked her door.

“He’s moving city to city now,” she whispered to herself. “And people think it’s random. But it’s not. He’s got a plan. He always did.”

Somewhere, on another VLine train or inside a tunnel beneath the city, a soft giggle echoed — high-pitched, childlike.

Bucky was on the move.

And he wasn’t done yet.