The House That Wasn't There | Boomerverse Yarn #008

The Original Boomer had spent most of Saturday morning pretending nothing unusual had happened. This was becoming a hobby. He'd swept the veranda, made two coffees out of habit, and spent twenty minutes trying to sand three words off the timber beside his front door. WRONG HOUSE, BOOMER. The words wouldn't come off. Not because they were carved too deep. Because every time he looked away, they were back. “Righto,” he muttered. “Keep your bloody house sign.” He went inside. By lunchtime, someone had delivered a letter. That was unusual. The postie hadn't been down his track in three days. More unusual was the envelope. Old brown paper. No stamp. No return address. Just four words written in black ink. TO THE OTHER HOUSE. Boomer turned it over. On the back was a small drawing. Three trees. A crooked fence. A house with no windows. And beneath it, a number. 8:17. “Oh, you can bugger off.” He put the envelope in the kitchen drawer. The drawer knocked twice. Knock. Knock. Boomer stared at it. “Not opening that either.” The drawer knocked again. This time three times. Knock. Knock. Knock. Boomer opened it. The envelope was gone. In its place sat a tarnished teaspoon. ZEEHAN. Boomer closed the drawer. “I'm running out of drawers.” At four that afternoon, Boomer drove into town to buy bread, coffee and anything else that didn't mysteriously appear in his furniture. Halfway along an old forestry track, his ute radio crackled. That wasn't especially strange. The antenna had been bent since 2004. Then a voice came through. Not loud. Not clear. Just three words. “Wrong way, mate.” Boomer stopped the ute. He stared at the radio. “Excuse me?” Static. Then another voice. Or perhaps the same voice, farther away. “Not that one.” Boomer switched the radio off. The dashboard clock changed. 4:12. 8:17. 4:12. He looked up. There was a track branching off to the left. He'd driven this road for thirty years. There had never been a track there before. At the entrance stood three trees. Behind them, a crooked fence. Boomer took one long look. Then turned the ute around. “Nope.” He drove about fifty metres. Stopped. Sighed. Reversed. “Just going to look. That's all.” The new track was narrow and muddy. It wound through tall eucalypts and wet fern gullies before opening into a clearing. In the middle stood a weatherboard house. Old. Crooked. Grey as winter. No windows. Exactly like the drawing. Boomer stopped the ute. There was no driveway. No garden. No sign anybody had lived there. Only a front door painted dark red. And hanging beside it was an old kerosene lantern. Unlit. Boomer climbed out, keeping the ute running. “G'day?” Nothing. “Anyone home?” From inside came two knocks. Knock. Knock. Boomer stared. “Well, that's original.” Then came three more. Knock. Knock. Knock. He took a step backwards. Something small and black moved between the trees. Too quick to make out. A bird, perhaps. Or something that had no business being there. Then the lantern lit. Its flame burned bright blue. A shadow appeared beneath the front door. Not on the ground outside. On the inside. Something was standing directly behind it. Boomer waited. The shadow moved away. A thin strip of paper slid beneath the door. Boomer crouched. He didn't touch the handle. He wasn't that stupid. He picked up the paper. Four words. HE'S NOT HERE YET. Boomer read them twice. Then a third time. “Who's not here?” From inside the house came a metallic clink. Like a teaspoon tapping an enamel mug. Boomer closed his eyes. “Oh, for crying out loud.” The door handle slowly turned. Boomer stood up. “Don't you bloody dare.” The handle stopped. For a moment, everything went quiet. Then a voice spoke from inside. Soft. Almost disappointed. “Too early.” The lantern went out. Boomer backed towards the ute. And that's when he noticed something wrong. The ute wasn't running anymore. It wasn't even parked in the same place. It stood on the other side of the clearing, facing away from the house. Its driver's door was open. The dashboard clock glowed through the windscreen. 8:17. Boomer looked at his watch. 4:19. He looked back towards the house. It was gone. No collapsing walls. No flash of light. No noise. One moment it was there. The next, only trees. Even the crooked fence had vanished. Boomer stood alone in an empty clearing, holding the paper. “I'm definitely taking up gardening.” He drove home without stopping. The forestry track was normal again. No turn-off. No three trees. No crooked fence. By the time he reached his veranda, the sun had almost disappeared behind the hills. The words carved beside his door were still there. WRONG HOUSE, BOOMER. Except now there was something underneath them. Fresh scratches in the timber. Small. Neat. Almost apologetic. WRONG TIME, TOO. Boomer stared at the words. Then slowly unfolded the paper he'd taken from the house. HE'S NOT HERE YET. Only it didn't say that anymore. The letters had changed. Now there were five words. HE WAS HERE LAST WEDNESDAY. Boomer looked towards the trees. Far off in the bush, a lantern flashed blue. Once. Twice. Then darkness. He went inside, locked the door and poured himself a coffee. “Next time,” he muttered, “somebody else can answer.” And somewhere beneath his kitchen floor— Knock. Knock.