The Boathouse That Wasn't There | Boomerverse Yarn #010

By Monday morning, the Original Boomer had made a decision. He would not look inside the rainwater tank again. He would not listen to the voice that sounded exactly like his own. And he would definitely not investigate anything that knocked from underneath his house. Then the kettle whistled. Boomer hadn't put it on. “Lovely,” he told the kitchen. “Now you've learned breakfast.” Beside the kettle lay a folded square of paper. It was damp, although the bench was dry. Across it, in uneven blue pencil, somebody had written: BRING BACK THE BOAT. Boomer unfolded it. There was a drawing of a little boathouse on a rocky shore, a narrow jetty, and a lantern hanging from a hook. He knew the jetty. He'd gone fishing near it. He'd brought home a third Zeehan spoon and a profound dislike of underwater conversations. But there had never been a boathouse. On the back of the drawing were two words: LOW WATER. He looked at his rainwater tank through the window. Its gauge still read WEDNESDAY. “Mate,” Boomer said, “I've got no idea what sort of calendar you're running.” He folded the paper, put it in his pocket and made his coffee with bottled water. At ten past eleven, the kitchen tap knocked twice. Boomer knocked back on the bench. “Busy.” Something knocked three times from beneath the floor. He stared down. Then his phone rang. No number. No name. Just an old-fashioned picture of a telephone receiver and one word: SHORE. Boomer let it ring. He counted seven rings. On the eighth, the screen went dark. A teaspoon clinked in the drawer. “Fine,” he said. “I'll go for a drive. But I'm charging you for petrol.” The road to the coast was quiet. The west Tasmanian hills rolled away beneath low cloud, and the bush smelled of damp bark and last night's rain. Boomer parked well back from the water. The old jetty stood exactly where he remembered it: crooked posts, rotten decking, black water slipping between the timbers. But across the inlet was something new. A long, weathered boathouse with a sloping roof and a doorway glowing faintly blue. Boomer rubbed his eyes. Still there. He looked at the paper. Same building. Same jetty. Same lantern hook. The difference was the boat. In the drawing, a little wooden dinghy sat inside the boathouse. In front of him, the doorway was empty. A narrow board led from shore to the threshold. At its beginning someone had scratched: NO QUESTIONS AFTER THE SECOND KNOCK. Boomer read it twice. “Wonderful,” he muttered. “A place with customer service rules.” He stepped onto the board. Knock. The sound came from within the boathouse. He stopped. A second knock followed. Knock. Boomer lifted his boot off the board. “That's my lot, then.” The blue light flickered. A third sound came, not a knock this time but the unmistakable clink of metal against an enamel mug. Boomer thought of the spoons in his pockets, his shed, his drawer, and every other inconvenient place they'd turned up. He pushed the door. It opened without touching the frame. Inside there was no boat. There was no water either. The floor was dry dirt, scattered with eucalyptus leaves. Against the back wall stood a familiar kitchen chair. His kitchen chair. On it sat his battered hat. Boomer reached up. His hat was still on his head. He looked from one to the other. “Nope.” On the chair was a folded newspaper. Its date was WEDNESDAY. The day and month were blurred by water. The headline was perfectly clear: LOCAL MAN RETURNS WHAT HE NEVER TOOK. Underneath was a photograph of Boomer's own front veranda. The photo showed someone standing at the door with a long parcel wrapped in brown paper. The person's head had been cut out of the picture. Not blurred. Cut out, leaving a clean hole through which Boomer could see the wall. He set the newspaper down. Something shuffled in the far corner. Low. Quick. Black. He caught sight of a wet tail disappearing behind a timber beam. “G'day,” he called. “You're not the postie, are you?” There was no answer. From outside came a splash. Boomer turned. The little wooden dinghy from the drawing was now tied to the jetty. Its bow was pointed towards the empty boathouse. No engine. No oars. Just a length of rope that was slowly tightening as if someone were pulling it from the other end. Boomer hurried out. He reached the jetty as the dinghy bumped against the old timber. Inside sat a rusted biscuit tin. He didn't need to open it. He knew that tin. Three hooks. A black pebble. NOT YET. But the lid was already open. This time there were no hooks. There was a single piece of dry paper, folded into a triangle. He opened it carefully. The message read: YOU CAME TO THE RIGHT PLACE. Boomer felt strangely pleased. Then he turned it over. AT THE WRONG TIME. “Oh, get stuffed.” The water beneath the dinghy went perfectly still. He could see the boathouse reflected in it. Except in the reflection the building had windows. Four of them. Warm yellow light shone from every one. Someone was moving inside. Boomer looked up. The actual boathouse still had its blank walls and its empty doorway. In the water, a figure passed from one illuminated window to another. It seemed to carry something long over its shoulder. The wrapped parcel. Then the figure stopped at the last window. And raised one hand. Boomer did not wave back. A blue lantern appeared in the reflected doorway. It swung twice. Under the jetty, something tapped on a piling. Knock. Knock. Boomer remembered the note from the strange house. HE WAS HERE LAST WEDNESDAY. He remembered the warning beneath his water tank. HE'S ALREADY AWAKE. He couldn't tell whether they concerned the same person, or anyone at all. A black pebble rose through the water beside the dinghy. It floated without a ripple. Across its surface were three faint scratches. Boomer kept his hands in his pockets. “I'm learning,” he said. The reflected figure turned away. The windows went dark, one after another. Then the reflection changed. Now it showed the windowless house in the forest, with its red door and crooked fence. At the bottom of the water, something that looked like a door handle slowly turned. Boomer backed away from the edge. Behind him, a voice spoke from inside the boathouse. His voice. Exactly his voice. “Don't leave it there again.” Boomer turned. No one stood in the doorway. “Don't leave what?” The voice answered, quieter this time. “The wrong one.” The dinghy rope went slack. A gust of wind lifted the note out of his hand and sent it skidding across the jetty. He chased it. By the time he reached the end, the dinghy was gone. So was the boathouse. Only the old jetty remained. No foundations. No boards to shore. Nothing but wet stones and empty scrub where the building had stood. The newspaper lay at his feet. Boomer hadn't brought it outside. He picked it up and turned to the front page. The headline had changed. LOCAL MAN STILL HASN'T RETURNED IT. The photograph now showed his kitchen. His chair was empty. But his old hat hung on the back of it. Boomer looked at the battered hat on his own head. Then at the photograph. “That's going to be a bugger to explain.” He drove home before dark. The rainwater tank was quiet. The kitchen floor was quiet. Even the teaspoons kept to themselves. He almost relaxed. Then he spotted something on the veranda. A small wooden oar. Old, wet and freshly painted. On the blade someone had written: ONE LEFT. Boomer looked towards the trees. Far away, somewhere he could not see, a lantern blinked blue. Once. Then darkness. He leaned the oar against the wall. “No more boats,” he told the night. From beneath the house came one soft knock. Just one. As though somebody were counting. End of Yarn #010.