The Line Beneath the Boards | Boomerverse Yarn #012

The scratching beneath the Original Boomer's kitchen floor stopped precisely when he switched on the light. That was considerate of it. Less considerate was the thin black line now running across the boards. It started under the kitchen table. It ended at the back door. And it hadn't been there ten seconds earlier. Boomer crouched, scratched his grey-white beard and ran a finger across it. Dry. No paint. No charcoal. The line seemed to be part of the timber. “Better not be structural.” His camping compass sat on the table, needle pointing straight down. Beside it lay the little wooden oar. ONE NOT RETURNED. There were two chalk marks below the words. Boomer hadn't brought the oar inside. He was beginning to suspect his household had very poor boundaries. He pushed a kitchen chair across the line. The chair legs stopped with a jolt, although nothing stood in their way. He tried lifting the chair. No trouble. Tried sliding it again. Stopped. “Ah,” he said. “It's fussy.” When he turned away, the line moved. Now it curved around the chair and continued towards the door. Boomer straightened. “That's just rude.” He carried the chair outside. When he came back, the line was gone. In its place was a square of yellowed paper. On it, someone had drawn an old railway siding, a water tower, and three short marks beside a gate. The gate was labelled: BEFORE WEDNESDAY. Boomer checked his watch. Tuesday. Probably. His phone said Tuesday too, but he'd stopped trusting that particular witness. He remembered the radio that had warned Old Mate about Zeehan. He remembered the pub clock at 8:17, the jetty, the windowless house, the tank that showed impossible reflections and the boathouse that vanished. None of them had been inclined to explain themselves. Now his kitchen was handing out railway timetables. “Fair enough,” he muttered. “Can't have a mystery without public transport.” He drove out towards an abandoned siding near an old service road. It wasn't the famous railway in Zeehan. It was a forgotten little place with a cracked platform, a rusting water tower and a gate hanging off one hinge. He had passed it dozens of times. The gate had never been painted blue. Today it was. On the post were three chalk marks. Below them someone had scratched: LEAVE THE THIRD. Boomer stared at the words. He had seen one knock beneath the house, two knocks at his front door, and three beneath the boat. He didn't know whether this was a count, a warning or someone's idea of a joke. And he wasn't about to decide on behalf of the universe. At the foot of the gate stood a biscuit tin. A dented one. Familiar enough to make his stomach sink. He opened it with the end of a stick. Inside were three rusted fishing hooks and a photograph. Not the same hooks, necessarily. He'd learned that objects could look identical without offering any proof they were. The photograph showed his ute parked at the siding. His ute was parked there now. But in the photograph, its driver's door was open. Boomer looked over his shoulder. The real door was closed. In the photograph, a figure stood behind the driver's seat. The head had been cut away, leaving an empty oval. He lowered the picture. The ute's door creaked open. Boomer didn't move. A lantern flickered beneath the water tower. Blue. Then amber. Then dark. From the tower came the soft clinking of teaspoons. Boomer looked back at the photo. It had changed. The door was shut again. On the back, in small handwriting, were four words: NOT THIS ONE EITHER. “Bit hard to please, aren't you?” The old siding sign rattled in the wind. A voice came from beyond the gate. Almost a whisper. “Leave the third.” Boomer looked through the gap. He saw only long grass and a little pool of rainwater. In the pool's reflection was a weatherboard house with no windows. Above its red door hung a blue lantern. But the real grass beyond the gate was empty. Boomer backed away. He returned the photograph to the tin. He left the hooks. He left the tin. And, for good measure, he left the stick. Back in his ute, he noticed a fresh mark on the dashboard. A chalk line. Then another. Then a third. The radio crackled. He reached for the knob. Before he touched it, the speaker whispered: “Not Zeehan.” Boomer froze. The radio went dead. This was the first time anything had told him where not to go without giving him the full name of a new problem. He drove home. The black line had returned to the kitchen floor, but it no longer pointed at the back door. It pointed directly at the drawer containing the spoons. Boomer refused to open it. A small envelope lay on the table. Inside was a single card. Three chalk marks on one side. On the other: COUNT WHAT'S MISSING. Boomer set it down. He considered all the mugs, spoons, houses, doors, days and mysterious visitors. “That's going to take a while.” From the drawer came three crisp knocks. Then silence. He looked at the card again. One of the chalk marks had disappeared. End of Yarn #012.