"The Ghostly Golfer of Redcliffe" – #RA13

The Ghostly Golfer of Redcliffe – A Game of Haunts and Handicaps

Birko enters the Redcliffe Golf Tournament, ready to prove he has what it takes to conquer the greens—despite his dubious golfing history. But his confidence takes a hit when he hears whispers of a mysterious ghost golfer who only appears on misty mornings to sink impossible shots before vanishing into thin air.

Birko is convinced it’s just a load of bunkum—until Piper starts barking at something invisible on the green. As eerie happenings unfold around Hole 13, Birko and Cinders find themselves chasing a legend. Is it a spectral sportsman? A brilliant prank? Or is there something much stranger at play?

Time to tee off… if they dare.

Act 1: Birko Takes a Swing at Glory

The sun was barely up, but Birko was already suited up for victory. Well, as much as one could be in a polo shirt that still had last week’s barbecue sauce stain. He stood proudly next to The Festy, golf clubs in hand, tea in the other, looking out over the crisp, green expanse of Redcliffe Golf Course.

“This is the day, Cinders,” he declared, stretching dramatically. “The day I cement myself in golfing history.”

Cinders, still clutching her steaming Milo, barely stifled a laugh. “Birko, last time you played, you took sixteen shots on a par three.“

“That was strategy,” Birko said, adjusting his grip on the clubs. “Had to study the angles.”

“You hit a bin.”

“A tragic obstacle,” he admitted.

Piper, tail wagging, sniffed excitedly at Birko’s golf bag, either sensing adventure or hoping it contained snacks.

The Redcliffe Golf Tournament was a yearly event, open to locals, weekend warriors, and the occasional semi-serious player. Birko had entered on a whim, convinced that his natural sporting instincts (which, to be fair, had never been proven) would kick in.

As they strolled toward the clubhouse, the chatter of the gathered golfers reached them. Talk of swings, handicaps, and strategy filled the air… but one word kept coming up.

“The ghost.”

Birko paused, mid-sip of his tea. “Did that bloke just say ghost?”

Cinders grinned. “Oh yeah, I read about this. The Ghostly Golfer of Redcliffe. Supposedly appears on misty mornings, sinking impossible shots before vanishing into thin air.”

Birko scoffed. “Right, and next you’ll tell me golf carts are haunted.”

Cinders shrugged. “All I’m saying is half the field refuses to play Hole 13. They reckon it’s cursed.”

Birko snorted. “Cowards. Probably just a foggy morning and a bloke with a good short game.”

Just then, the tournament organizer, old mate Barry, stepped up to the microphone.

“Alright, golfers! Good luck out there. Remember—if you see anything strange on Hole 13, don’t panic.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd.

Birko turned to Cinders, frowning. “That sounded ominous.”

Cinders smirked. “Scared already?”

Birko squared his shoulders. “Pfft. Me? Never. If there’s a ghost, I’ll out-putt it.”

Cinders patted his shoulder. “Sure, Birko. And if Piper starts barking at thin air, try not to run.”

Birko ignored her and strode toward the first tee with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Somewhere in the distance, a low mist curled over the course, creeping toward Hole 13.

And Piper? She had already started growling.

Act 2: The Phantom on the Fairway

Birko stood at the first tee, lining up his shot with the confidence of a seasoned pro—or at least someone who had watched a lot of golf on TV. He adjusted his grip, waggled the club a few times, and took a deep breath.

Cinders, leaning against The Festy with her Milo in hand, wasn’t buying it.

“Would you just hit it already?” she called.

“I’m visualizing my shot,” Birko said, narrowing his eyes at the fairway. “You can’t rush greatness.”

Piper, sitting by Cinders’ feet, huffed impatiently.

Birko finally took his swing. The club made a solid thwack! …and the ball soared a grand total of ten meters.

Silence.

Cinders took a slow sip of her Milo. “Wow. That was definitely a ball, and it was definitely hit.“

Birko cleared his throat, brushing imaginary dirt from his polo shirt. “Test shot. Warming up. The real drive’s next.”

As the tournament progressed, Birko somehow avoided total humiliation. He hit a couple of decent shots, a few dreadful ones, and at least one that landed in a sand trap so deep he considered applying for residency.

But the talk of the morning wasn’t his golf—it was the ghost.

Everywhere he went, fellow golfers whispered about Hole 13.

“Saw him last year—sunk a forty-foot putt, then disappeared into the mist!”
“My mate swears he saw his ball levitate before rolling into the hole!”
“It’s gotta be a trick, right? But no one ever catches him!”

Birko scoffed at the stories, but Cinders was enjoying every second.

“Oh, this is brilliant,” she whispered as they approached the ominous Hole 13. The morning mist had thickened around the fairway, swirling gently as though it had a mind of its own.

Birko rolled his shoulders. “Relax, it’s just a bit of fog. People love making up ghost stories.”

Then, as if on cue—

A soft thud echoed across the fairway.

Everyone turned. A golf ball had landed on the green… but no one had taken the shot.

Birko frowned. “Where did that come from?”

A murmur ran through the crowd. Then, another ball dropped out of nowhere, rolling smoothly to a stop—right next to the hole.

The mist swirled again.

And that’s when Piper started barking.

Birko’s bravado wavered.

Cinders grinned. “Still just a bit of fog?”

Birko swallowed. “Maybe it’s… atmospheric pressure?”

“Atmospheric pressure is making golf balls land perfectly on the green?”

Before Birko could respond, a dark figure emerged from the mist. A tall golfer in an old-fashioned outfit—tweed cap, knickerbockers, and a vintage golf bag slung over his shoulder. His face was hidden in shadow, but his stance was unmistakable: he was lining up another shot.

The crowd fell silent.

Piper growled lowly.

Birko grabbed Cinders’ arm. “Okay. I’ll admit, that’s a bit spooky.“

The phantom golfer swung, and the ball sailed through the mist—sinking straight into the hole.

A few onlookers gasped. Someone dropped their putter.

And then—just as quickly as he appeared—the golfer vanished back into the mist.

Birko blinked. “Right. So. Um. What the hell just happened?”

Cinders was beaming. “You just witnessed the Ghostly Golfer of Redcliffe. How’s that skepticism holding up, Birko?”

Birko took a step back, rubbing his temples. “You know what? I think this is a great time for a tea break.”

But Piper wasn’t done. She suddenly bolted forward, nose to the ground, sniffing the air like she was onto something.

“Oi, Pipes! Where are you going?” Birko called, jogging after her.

Cinders followed, eyes bright with excitement. “Looks like our ghost left a trail…”

The mystery was only beginning.

Act 3: Chasing Shadows on the Green

Piper tore across the misty fairway, nose to the ground, her tail wagging furiously. Birko and Cinders hurried after her, dodging confused golfers who were still gaping at the phantom putt they had just witnessed.

“Oi, Pipes! Slow down!” Birko called, half-jogging, half-tripping as he tried to keep up.

Cinders, somehow effortlessly keeping pace while still holding her Milo, smirked. “You realise she’s onto something, right?”

Birko muttered under his breath. “Yeah, onto my nerves.”

The trio followed Piper’s frantic sniffing until she stopped near a cluster of trees lining the course. The mist was still thick here, swirling like a living thing. Piper barked at something in the distance.

Cinders narrowed her eyes. “I swear I saw movement.”

Birko scoffed but subtly took a step behind Cinders. “Could be a possum. Or a very athletic kangaroo. Or, you know, a ghost golfer from the afterlife.”

A shadow flickered through the mist.

Piper growled.

Birko froze. “Right. Okay. No need for anyone to panic.”

Cinders tilted her head. “Are you panicking?”

“Absolutely not.” Birko swallowed hard. “But just in case, maybe we should all—”

Before he could finish, a figure stepped out from behind the trees.

A man, very much alive and not a ghost, wearing a vintage golf outfit eerily similar to the phantom golfer’s. He had a thick mustache, twinkling eyes, and held a wedge club over his shoulder like he was born with it.

“Well now,” the man said, grinning as he took a slow sip from a hip flask. “Didn’t expect an audience today.”

Cinders folded her arms. “So you’re the ghost?”

The man chuckled. “Ghost? No, no. I’m Clyde. Just a humble golfer.”

Birko blinked. “Mate, you just appeared from the mist right after a supernatural hole-in-one. That’s prime ghost behavior.”

Clyde raised an eyebrow. “That so?” He turned toward the hole, inspecting it like a craftsman admiring his work. “Well, I suppose people do love a mystery.”

Cinders wasn’t convinced. “So how do you explain what we just saw? Those shots were unnatural.”

Clyde grinned. “It’s all in the wrist, love.”

Birko crossed his arms. “And the vanishing act? What’s your excuse for that?”

Clyde took another sip from his flask, looking unbothered. “Golf courses have a lot of mist. And I happen to know this one better than most.”

Piper sniffed suspiciously at Clyde’s shoes. He gave her a friendly pat.

“Besides,” Clyde added, “people love a legend. Gives the course a bit of magic, don’t you think?”

Birko frowned. “Wait. Are you saying you’re faking the whole Ghost Golfer thing?”

Clyde winked.

Cinders gasped, eyes lighting up. “You’re in on it!”

Clyde chuckled. “You could say that.”

Birko threw his hands up. “So you’re not a ghost. You’re just a bloke with a killer short game and a fog machine?”

Clyde tapped his nose. “Can’t reveal all my secrets, mate.”

Just then, a golf cart rumbled toward them. The tournament organiser, Barry, hopped out, looking mildly annoyed.

“Clyde!” Barry huffed. “I told you, no shenanigans during the tournament!”

Clyde smirked. “Ah, Barry, don’t be a spoilsport. The legend keeps people coming back.”

Barry sighed. “And half of them refuse to play Hole 13 because of you.”

Birko shook his head in disbelief. “This whole time… it was just Clyde the Trickster Golfer?”

Clyde laughed. “You make it sound so disappointing. People love a mystery, son.”

Cinders grinned. “Well, you had me convinced.”

Piper barked in agreement.

Birko exhaled dramatically. “Right. So we didn’t encounter an actual ghost. No spirits, no hauntings, just a bloke with too much free time and a very suspicious golf handicap.”

Clyde tipped his cap. “That about sums it up.”

Barry groaned. “Clyde, you’re lucky people find this nonsense charming. Just don’t let it interfere with the game.”

Clyde clapped Birko on the back. “Don’t worry, mate. No ghosts today.”

Birko grumbled. “Yeah, just world-class trickery.”

Clyde smirked. “That’s the spirit.”

Birko rubbed his temples. “I need more tea.”

Cinders laughed. “Come on, Birko. You just solved the biggest mystery in Redcliffe golf history. That’s gotta count for something.”

Birko sighed. “Fine. But if I lose this tournament, I’m blaming ghost interference.”

Clyde winked. “Fair enough.”

As the tournament resumed, Birko stood at the tee, staring at Hole 13. The mist was still thick, but this time, he knew there was no ghost lurking inside.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders—

And promptly hit his golf ball straight into the bunker.

Cinders burst out laughing.

Birko groaned. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

Clyde chuckled. “Nope.”

Piper wagged her tail, clearly enjoying herself.

As the sun broke through the mist, the Ghost Golfer of Redcliffe was finally unmasked. But as far as Birko was concerned, this might be his scariest mystery yet.

Act 4: The Final Round

With the mystery of the Ghost Golfer solved, Birko should have been able to focus on his game. Instead, he was now faced with an even greater challenge—trying to finish the tournament without embarrassing himself completely.

Clyde, now thoroughly amused by the whole thing, had decided to stick around and watch.

“So,” Clyde grinned, leaning against the nearest golf cart. “After all that excitement, reckon you’ll still manage a respectable game?”

Birko squared his shoulders. “Absolutely. Now that we know there’s no phantom golfer messing with the scores, it’s just pure skill.”

Cinders sipped her Milo, completely unimpressed. “Birko, you’re currently dead last on the leaderboard.”

“That’s because of all the distractions,” Birko protested. “I was investigating a supernatural phenomenon!”

“You also hit your ball into a birdbath on Hole 7,” Cinders pointed out.

“That magpie had it coming,” Birko muttered.

Barry, the tournament organiser, stepped up to the microphone near the clubhouse. “Alright, folks, final round! Leaderboard is tight, but we still have some golfers left to finish their rounds—including a rather determined newcomer.”

Birko perked up. “See? Determined.”

Cinders rolled her eyes. “They mean hopeless.”

Birko ignored her and stepped onto the tee box for the final hole. Hole 18—one last chance to redeem himself.

The Pressure is On

The crowd had gathered around, mostly because they had all heard about “the bloke chasing ghosts” and wanted to see how badly he’d stuff up his final shot.

Clyde nudged him. “You got this, mate. Just… you know, aim for the actual fairway.”

Birko exhaled dramatically and lined up his shot.

Piper, sensing the momentous occasion, sat perfectly still, her eyes locked on Birko.

Birko swung.

The ball soared through the air—

And landed right in the water hazard.

A collective groan rippled through the crowd.

Clyde winced. “Oof. Tough break.”

Birko rubbed his temples. “Right. Okay. No need for anyone to panic.”

Cinders could barely hold back her laughter. “You wanna call ghost interference again?”

Birko sighed. “No. I’ll own this one.”

Barry waved him forward. “Take the penalty stroke and drop another ball.”

Birko trudged toward the water hazard, fishing another ball out of his pocket. He carefully lined up his next shot—

And sent the ball soaring straight into the trees.

The crowd gasped.

Cinders cackled. “Birko! You’re not supposed to aim for the forest!”

Birko stared at his club in betrayal. “I think I’ve been cursed.”

Clyde shook his head. “Mate, the only thing haunting you is your golf game.”

The Most Miraculous Shot in History

Determined not to be the laughingstock of Redcliffe forever, Birko stormed into the trees to find his ball.

After several minutes of muttering, some suspicious rustling, and an unfortunate encounter with a very annoyed possum, Birko finally spotted his ball sitting perfectly positioned on a rock.

He narrowed his eyes. “Alright, this is it. One good chip, and I’m back in the game.”

Clyde peered over his shoulder. “You know you’re supposed to get it on the green, not into another dimension, right?”

Birko ignored him, took a deep breath, and swung—

THWACK!

The ball launched out of the trees, bounced off a nearby bunker, hit a golf cart’s windshield, ricocheted off a sign that read “Caution: Slippery Grass” and—by some divine intervention—landed directly onto the green, rolling steadily… and stopping inches from the hole.

The crowd fell silent.

Cinders blinked. “Did that just happen?”

Clyde let out a long whistle. “Mate… I’ve seen a lot of golf in my time. That was either the greatest accidental trick shot in history or… no, yeah, that was just pure dumb luck.”

Piper barked excitedly, wagging her tail.

Barry, who had been mid-sip of his coffee, nearly choked. “That’s… That’s one for the record books.”

Birko beamed, chest puffing out. “Told you. Strategy.”

Cinders burst out laughing. “Birko, you just hit every possible object on this course, and somehow it worked.”

Birko shrugged. “Golf is a mystical game.”

With one final putt, Birko tapped the ball into the hole, throwing his arms in the air like he’d just won the Masters.

The crowd erupted into cheers, mostly because they couldn’t believe what they’d just witnessed.

Clyde patted him on the back. “Alright, mate. You might not be a ghost hunter, but I’ll give you this—you’re entertaining.”

Birko grinned. “I’ll take that.”

Barry shook his head, marking the final scorecard. “Birko… you still came in last.”

Birko’s smile faltered. “Wait, what?!”

Barry shrugged. “You took a lot of shots.”

Birko looked at the leaderboard, where his name sat comfortably at the bottom.

Cinders leaned in. “Hey, at least you didn’t get haunted.”

Birko sighed. “I dunno, Cinders. This feels worse.”

Clyde chuckled. “Don’t worry, mate. Losing is just part of the game.”

Birko crossed his arms. “Yeah? Then how come you won?”

Clyde winked. “Because I didn’t hit a golf cart, a bunker, a tree, and a sign before getting on the green.”

Birko huffed. “Technicalities.”

Cinders grinned. “Come on, loser. Let’s get you some consolation tea.”

Birko muttered under his breath. “I was robbed.”

As they walked back toward The Festy, the sun finally burned away the last of the mist. Hole 13 might not have been haunted, but Birko’s golf skills were definitely supernatural—just not in the way he’d hoped.

Act 5: A Legend in His Own Mind

Back at the clubhouse, Birko sat slumped at a table, arms crossed, staring daggers at the leaderboard.

Clyde’s name sat right at the top—first place. Birko’s? Firmly glued to the bottom.

“It’s rigged,” Birko muttered, stirring his stronger-than-usual tea with a vengeance.

Cinders sipped her Milo, completely unfazed by his dramatics. “Birko, you hit a golf cart, a tree, a bunker, a sign, and—what was the other thing?”

Clyde grinned. “Oh, yeah—the coffee machine.”

Birko threw up his hands. “How was I supposed to know it’d bounce like that?!”

Clyde patted his shoulder. “Look, mate. You might not have won the tournament, but you definitely won the crowd.”

Birko perked up slightly. “Wait… really?”

Clyde smirked. “Oh yeah. You’re a legend now.”

At that moment, Barry stepped up to the microphone, clearing his throat. “Before we wrap up today’s tournament, we’d like to acknowledge a truly unique performance.”

The crowd burst into laughter and applause.

Birko sat up straighter. “Oh, this sounds promising.”

Barry continued, trying to keep a straight face. “For sheer determination, unorthodox ball control, and the most baffling hole-in-five ever recorded in Redcliffe history, we present the **‘Most Entertaining Golfer’ award to Birko!”

The crowd cheered as Barry handed him a small, completely ridiculous trophy. It was a golden golf ball mounted on a base that simply read:

“Well, That Was Something.”

Birko held it up like it was the Masters Cup. “See, Cinders? I am a champion!”

Cinders rolled her eyes. “That’s not a real award.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Birko said smugly, tucking the trophy into his golf bag. “History will remember me.”

Clyde chuckled. “Yeah, mate. But mostly for hitting a birdbath and starting a magpie riot.”

Birko waved him off. “They’ll sing songs about me.”

Cinders smirked. “Yeah. Songs with the lyrics ‘Don’t Stand Near the Bunker’ and ‘Duck When He Swings.’”

Birko ignored her.

Tea, Consolation, and Piper’s Approval

After the speeches, the laughs, and a particularly emotional moment where Birko posed with his trophy for several photos he insisted on taking, the trio headed back to The Festy.

Piper, still basking in the glow of her earlier ghost-detecting heroics, wagged her tail proudly as they walked.

Birko reached down to give her a scratch. “Pipes, if anyone asks, tell them I was this close to winning.”

Piper barked enthusiastically.

Cinders raised an eyebrow. “You’re training the dog to lie for you now?”

Birko shrugged. “It’s called creative storytelling.”

Clyde leaned against The Festy, grinning. “So, Birko. What’s next? Think you’ll be back to take another swing at glory next year?”

Birko stared off toward the golf course, his expression serious.

“I’ve thought long and hard about it,” he said.

Clyde nodded. “Yeah?”

Birko turned back, grinning. “Absolutely not. Golf is a ridiculous sport.”

Cinders laughed. “Called it.”

Birko leaned against The Festy, crossing his arms. “You know what I learned today?”

Clyde smirked. “That you should probably take lessons?”

“No,” Birko said dramatically. “That my true strength lies elsewhere.”

Cinders rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

Birko nodded firmly. “I was not meant for golf. I was meant for high-speed pursuits, garden show victories, and unraveling mysteries.”

Clyde chuckled. “So basically, anything that lets you avoid scoring points?”

Birko sighed. “It’s an art.”

Cinders patted The Festy’s hood. “Well, at least you’ve still got your car. And your completely made-up ghost story.”

Birko grinned. “And don’t forget this beauty.”

He held up his golden ‘Most Entertaining Golfer’ trophy, beaming with pride.

Clyde shook his head. “You’re something else, mate.”

Birko sipped his tea, smug. “A legend, Clyde. A legend.”

The End.

Stay tuned for the next adventure:

The Strange Case of the Singing Statue

When a statue in Bray Park’s oldest park suddenly starts singing in the dead of night, locals assume it’s a prank. But when the songs seem to change each night, and the city council threatens to demolish the statue to make it stop, Cinders insists they investigate before history is lost.

Is there an old hidden speaker? A message from the past? Or is the statue trying to tell them something no one ever noticed before?

Find out next time!