"The Terror of Kyneton: Bucky the Butcher"

“Bucky: Route to Nowhere”

The city had been on edge for weeks. Southern Cross Station was still a crime scene in the minds of commuters, though the cleaners had long since scrubbed away the blood. News anchors said Bucky had “probably fled interstate.” The police said “there was no indication he was still in Melbourne.” Both were wrong.

It was a wet Wednesday evening in the CBD. Office workers crowded under umbrellas, jostling for buses back to the suburbs. Down on Lonsdale Street, a Route 732 bus pulled into the stop — destination board glowing “Knox City”.

The driver was new. At least, that’s what the passengers assumed. A small man in an oversized high-vis jacket, cap pulled low, with a crooked grin that made people glance away. He waved them on cheerfully, not even checking Myki cards.

“Plenty of room up the back, folks. This one’s going express tonight,” he said.

The passengers chuckled at the idea of skipping stops. No one thought about the way he said it.

By the time the bus left the city, it was nearly full. Forty-seven passengers. Students. Shoppers. Office workers scrolling on their phones. The rain hammered down harder, the windows streaked with water, the wipers squealing.

The driver — Bucky — kept humming under his breath, the same off-key lullaby he’d sung on the VLine. Every now and then, he’d glance in the rearview mirror, and those who caught his eyes swore they saw something… wrong.

Somewhere past Ringwood, he took an unexpected turn. No one noticed at first — people trusted bus drivers to know the route. It wasn’t until the bus began winding up a steep, unfamiliar road that the murmurs started.

“Hey… this isn’t the way to Knox,” a man near the front called out.

“Shortcut,” Bucky replied. “Beautiful view from the top.”

The road grew narrower, the rain heavier. Soon, the bus was climbing Mount Dandenong Tourist Road, mist swallowing the headlights. The guardrails here were flimsy — thin strips of steel holding back sheer drops.

That’s when Bucky began to laugh. Low at first. Then louder. A sharp, broken cackle that bounced off the wet windows.

Passengers screamed for him to stop. Someone tried rushing the front, but he swerved violently, sending them sprawling.

“You wanted express,” he said, voice cold and playful. “And that’s what you’re getting.”

The bus reached the summit. Ahead, the road curved — but Bucky didn’t turn the wheel. He gunned the engine, the diesel roar deafening in the rain. The headlights lit up nothing but black night beyond the cliff’s edge.

The last thing anyone heard was his giggle.

Aftermath

In the morning, emergency crews found twisted wreckage in the gully below — no survivors. The driver’s seat was empty. No trace of Bucky.

The newspapers called it The Dandenong Massacre. The police called it “the work of a ghost.” But the commuters who’d seen him at Southern Cross knew the truth.

Bucky was alive.

And somewhere out there, maybe behind the wheel of another bus, another train, another taxi… he was waiting for his next “express route.”