The Night the Pub Lost Wednesday | Boomerverse Yarn #005

The Original Boomer knew something was wrong when the pub clock went backwards. Not by much. Just seven minutes. Then it did it again. Boomer was sitting at the end of the bar with a coffee because, according to him, beer made people too confident around unexplained glowing objects. Outside, rain tapped against the windows. Inside, six locals were arguing over whether the footy had already been played. “It was yesterday,” one bloke insisted. “No,” said another. “Yesterday was Tuesday.” The bartender looked at the calendar. Then at his phone. Then back at the calendar. “Apparently it’s Thursday.” Everyone went quiet. Boomer checked his watch. Wednesday. His phone said Thursday. The pub television said Thursday. The handwritten meat raffle board still said Wednesday. “Righto,” Boomer muttered. “That’s annoying.” A scratching sound came from the front door. The bartender opened it. A Tasmanian devil walked inside. Nobody reacted immediately. This was Tasmania. Then they noticed what it was dragging. Behind the devil bumped an old metal box about the size of a car battery, covered in rust, mud and faded yellow paint. It looked like something that might once have belonged beside a railway line. Or inside a hydro shed. Or somewhere nobody was supposed to enter. The devil dragged it directly to Boomer’s boots. Then sat down. Boomer stared at it. The devil stared back. “You’re not getting my coffee.” The devil sneezed. Something metallic dropped from its mouth. A small brass disc rolled across the floor. Boomer picked it up. One side was blank. The other had a single word stamped into it. WEDNESDAY. “Well,” said the bartender. “That seems fairly specific.” The old metal box clicked. Everyone stepped back. Boomer didn’t. A narrow slot opened in the front. A strip of yellowed paper slowly pushed itself out. Boomer pulled it free. There were only four words. YOU MISSED THIS BIT. The pub went very quiet. Then every clock stopped. 8:17. The rain stopped too. Not slowed. Stopped. Individual drops hung outside the windows like glass beads. Boomer walked to the front door. Across the road, a magpie was frozen halfway between the ground and a powerline. A ute sat motionless at the intersection. Its driver had one hand raised toward the radio. Nothing moved. Except the Tasmanian devil. It trotted outside. Naturally, Boomer followed. The devil led him behind the pub, through an old gate and toward a patch of scrub beside a disused service track. That was where Boomer saw the lantern. The same sort of old lantern he had followed only days earlier. It sat on the ground. Unlit. Beside it was a dented biscuit tin. Boomer stopped. “No.” The devil kept walking. “No, mate.” It stopped beside the tin. Boomer sighed. “Last time one of these turned up I got fishing hooks and no answers.” He opened it. Inside was a tarnished teaspoon. Stamped into the handle were four letters. ZEEHAN. Boomer stared at it. He already had one exactly like it. He reached into his jacket pocket. His spoon was still there. Two identical spoons. Same scratches. Same tarnish. Same bent tip. Boomer looked slowly toward the trees. Somewhere in the darkness came one quiet metallic clink. Then another. Then another. Like teaspoons touching enamel mugs. The old lantern suddenly lit. For less than a second, Boomer saw something standing beyond the trees. Tall. Still. Too far away to make out properly. Then the lantern went dark. Behind him, the pub clocks started ticking. Rain hit the roof all at once. A car horn sounded. The magpie finished flying to the powerline. Boomer looked at his watch. 8:18. His phone now said Wednesday. So did the pub television. So did the calendar. Everyone inside started talking at once. Apparently nothing unusual had happened. Nobody remembered Thursday. Nobody remembered the devil. Nobody remembered the clocks stopping. The bartender looked at Boomer. “You alright?” Boomer placed the second Zeehan teaspoon beside his coffee. “Nope.” The metal box was gone. So was the devil. The brass disc remained. Boomer turned it over. The word WEDNESDAY had disappeared. Something else was stamped there now. Two words. NOT YET. Boomer stared at it for a long while. Then slipped it into his pocket beside the spoon. The bartender leaned across the counter. “What does that mean?” Boomer picked up his coffee. “Absolutely no bloody idea.” Outside, somewhere beyond the pub lights, something metallic clinked once. And this time— Boomer didn’t go looking.