The Tank That Looked Back | Boomerverse Yarn #009

The Original Boomer had decided there were three things he wasn't going to do anymore. Follow strange lanterns. Pick up anything stamped ZEEHAN. And answer knocking that came from places nobody could reasonably knock from. He'd written them down on the back of an electricity bill. Then added a fourth. STOP GOING INTO THE BLOODY BUSH. That one seemed sensible. Unfortunately, his rainwater tank had other ideas. It started at 6:40 on Sunday morning. Boomer was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, when something knocked beneath the floor. Knock. Knock. He didn't move. “Not interested.” Knock. Knock. “Still not interested.” Then came a third knock. Boomer slowly turned towards the sink. That was new. The water tap began dripping. Once. Twice. Three times. Then stopped. He stared at it. “Righto. You've learned plumbing.” He filled his coffee mug, walked outside and headed towards the old corrugated water tank beside the shed. The tank had been there longer than he had owned the property. Rusty around the bottom. Dented on one side. Covered in faded green paint. It held rainwater, a few unfortunate insects and, according to Boomer, enough sediment to start its own geological department. Nothing particularly mysterious. Until he noticed the water level gauge. It read: 8:17 Boomer blinked. The gauge had never displayed numbers like that. It was supposed to say EMPTY, HALF and FULL. He tapped the glass. The numbers disappeared. FULL. “Good. Stay that way.” He walked back towards the house. Behind him, something knocked on the inside of the tank. Knock. Knock. Knock. Boomer stopped. “That is a very big no.” By nine o'clock, he'd convinced himself it was probably a possum. A possum inside a sealed rainwater tank. An unusually intelligent possum. Possibly one with a watch. Still more believable than Wednesday disappearing again. He fetched his toolbox and climbed the little timber platform beside the tank. The inspection lid was heavy. He hadn't opened it in years. The bolts were rusted solid. Boomer gave one a twist. It came loose immediately. So did the other three. He stared at them. “Bit suspicious.” He lifted the lid. Cold air rose from the opening. Not damp air. Cold. The kind that belonged somewhere underground, where sunlight hadn't been for a very long time. Boomer leaned forward. The tank was full. Perfectly still. Black water. Not a ripple. He lowered his lantern towards the surface. And that's when he saw the house. Not reflected above him. Inside the water. A little weatherboard house stood beneath the surface, perfectly upright, its crooked fence stretching away into dark trees. It had no windows. A red front door. And a blue lantern hanging beside it. Boomer pulled back. “No.” He looked around. His actual shed stood behind him. His actual house was thirty metres away. The water tank reflected neither. He looked into the opening again. The impossible house remained. And now— Its front door was open. Boomer gripped the tank rim. “I'm not going in there.” The door slowly closed. A thin strip of yellowed paper appeared beneath it. It floated upward through the water. Boomer waited for it to reach the surface. It didn't. Instead, the writing became visible as though he were looking through a pane of glass. YOU LEFT SOMETHING BEHIND. Boomer scratched his beard. “Yeah. Common sense.” The blue lantern flickered. The paper dissolved into darkness. And somewhere far below, a teaspoon clinked against enamel. He lowered the inspection lid. Very carefully. Then immediately lifted it again. The house was gone. Now the water showed something else. An old jetty. Rotting timber. Black water beneath the boards. Boomer recognised it. He'd been there. He'd heard the voice. Wrong Wednesday. He'd seen something standing beneath the water. The image shifted. The jetty disappeared. Now he saw the pub. The same bar. The same battered stools. And the same clock on the wall. Its hands pointed to 8:17. The clock ticked backwards. One minute. Two. Then stopped. Boomer stared into the tank. “Oh, you've got to be joking.” The pub vanished. A clearing appeared. Old stones in a rough circle. A biscuit tin. Three fishing hooks. A black pebble. The tin opened. Inside was another note. NOT YET. Boomer slowly stepped down from the platform. Whatever was happening in that tank was showing him places he'd already visited. But not quite as he remembered them. He'd never seen the pub without people. He'd never seen the lantern clearing from above. And he'd certainly never seen that house from underneath its own floorboards. Something was wrong with the pictures. Something was showing him things from angles he hadn't been standing at. He climbed back up. The tank was dark again. Then a new image appeared. Boomer froze. It was his own kitchen. His own table. His enamel mug beside the kettle. And sitting in his chair— Was Boomer. Same battered hat. Same grey-white beard. Same green rectangular glasses. Same miserable expression he'd worn every Monday since approximately 1976. Except this Boomer wasn't drinking coffee. He was staring directly upwards. Straight at the real Boomer. The Boomer inside the tank lifted one finger to his lips. Shhh. The real Boomer didn't move. Then the figure below shook his head. Slowly. Once. And pointed behind him. Something knocked on the outside of the tank. Knock. Knock. Boomer spun around. Nothing. The shed door was closed. The gum trees were still. A magpie sat on the fence, watching him. “Don't you start.” The bird flew away. Inside the tank came another sound. Not knocking. Scratching. Long, slow scratches against corrugated metal. Something was moving along the inside wall. Boomer looked down. The other Boomer was gone. The water showed his kitchen again. Empty. Then the kitchen door opened. A dark shape crossed the floor. Low. Quick. Black. Boomer caught only a glimpse before it vanished behind the table. He remembered seeing something like it near his shed on Friday. He remembered the note. NOT HIM. And the words scratched into his veranda. WRONG HOUSE, BOOMER. The water trembled. A voice came from deep inside the tank. Soft. Almost conversational. “Wrong one again.” Boomer leaned closer. “Wrong what?” Silence. “Wrong house? Wrong Wednesday? Wrong bloody teaspoon? You'll have to narrow it down.” The water became perfectly still. Then four words appeared across the surface. HE CAN SEE YOU. Boomer stepped backwards. “Who can?” The words disappeared. The tank began knocking. Not two knocks. Not three. Hundreds. All around the inside. A terrible metallic drumming that shook the timber platform beneath his boots. Boomer grabbed the lid. “Righto! That's enough!” He slammed it shut. The knocking stopped instantly. He stood there breathing hard. Then, from beneath the closed lid, came a single quiet voice. “Thank you.” For the rest of the afternoon, Boomer refused to go near the tank. He made his coffee with bottled water. He checked every tap in the house. He even rang a plumber. The plumber said he could come Thursday. Boomer told him Thursday was unreliable. The plumber hung up. By evening, the sky over the western hills had turned deep purple. Boomer was sitting on the veranda when he noticed something on the table. A teaspoon. Tarnished. Bent at the tip. Four letters stamped into the handle. ZEEHAN. Beside it sat a folded piece of paper. Boomer hadn't put either there. He opened the paper. There was a drawing. His house. His shed. His rainwater tank. And behind them, among the trees, another house. The windowless one. Only this time the drawing showed something he hadn't noticed before. A narrow line connected the two houses. It passed directly beneath his property. Under the veranda. Under the kitchen. Under the water tank. Boomer stared at the line. It wasn't labelled. At the end of it, beneath the strange house, someone had drawn a small circle. Inside the circle were three words. DON'T WAKE HIM. Boomer looked towards the tank. No sound. No movement. Just the occasional drip from the overflow pipe. Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Sunday. 8:17 PM. The drawing in his hand changed. The line beneath the houses disappeared. The little circle remained. But the words inside had changed. HE'S ALREADY AWAKE. Boomer slowly put the paper down. From the water tank came one long metallic groan. Then a noise he hadn't heard before. A sound like someone taking a deep breath. Boomer stood. He looked towards the trees. The blue lantern was there. Hanging from a branch that had been empty a moment earlier. Its light flickered twice. Then went out. For several seconds, nothing happened. Boomer waited. Then, from inside the tank, someone spoke. In a voice that sounded exactly like his own. “Put the kettle on, mate.” Boomer stared. A long silence followed. Then he shook his head. “Absolutely not.” He went inside. Locked the door. And made himself a coffee. With bottled water. Because some risks simply weren't worth taking. Outside, the tank's water level gauge slowly changed. FULL. HALF. EMPTY. Then— WEDNESDAY. And somewhere far beneath the house, something knocked once. Not asking to come in. Almost as though it had finally been let out.