Insufficent as ghost stories and the static staging only adds so much interest individually, but weaved together they form an unspoken context of a people haunted not by horrors, but history (though those two may be the same thing). We settlers, or so we call ourselves, brought the Ouija board with us, we brought the pop songs that recur, devilish detritus of Western civilisation that has managed to work its way into the dreamtime nightmares of the land's original owners. We store movies in their morgues.
(Full disclosure, it took me too long to realise the conceit here, that actors were retelling submitted stories, and so I briefly lost all respect for Claudia Karvan, though that chapter remains hilarious nonetheless.)