You can imagine my surprise when I went into the basement and found a boy strapped to a pipe on the far wall. I actually screamed. The original goal was to go into the basement to see if the original owners had left any WD-40 on the shelves. I had bought this house three weeks ago—my first house at thirty-two—and the previous owners had left some junk in the basement—but apparently they left more than I first realised.
He looked terrified at first, huddling against the pipe. Naked and bruised. The fact I could see his rips protruding suggested he had been here a while—and underfed.
“Jesus Christ,” I gasped, running over. “What the fuck? Are you okay?”
“Who are you?” he asked barely above a whisper, keeping his eye on the ceiling. “How did you get in here?”
“This is my home. Well, I just bought it but this is my fucking house. Who did this to you?”
He was about to answer when I reached to touch his restraints—my hand went straight through. We both paused, watching curiously. Shakily, I tried to touch his bloodied wrists again—my hand phased through his body.
“Fucking Christ,” I gasped. “What the fuck are you?”
He sobbed tearlessly, making his stomach vibrate.
“Please help me.”
“Yeah, I’ll call the cops.”
“On his phone? Maybe go and ask a neighbour or find a payph—”
I pulled out an android touchscreen. He cocked his head.
“What is that?”
Something sunk in my stomach. There was something very wrong with this boy. The screen lit up and I entered my passcode. He gasped.
“It’s a computer. How’s it so small?”
“It’s a cell phone.”
“My dad owns one of those, but it sure as hell doesn’t look like that.”
“What’s your name?” I asked him quickly.
“Oliver. Oliver Kemp.”
“Okay Oliver. We’re gonna get you help… but what year do you think it is?”
He looked at me confused. I was the crazy one.
“It’s uh, 1993,” he said assuredly.
Oh fuck.
There was a creaking sound—somebody was coming down the basement stairs.
“Hide” he mouthed, gesturing his head to the boxes under the shelves. “He has a gun.”
I did so without thinking, running to hide behind the boxes.
“You saying something just now?” the man’s voice asked.
“N-no,” Oliver lied.
Who the fuck was this man in my house? How did he get in? Why couldn’t I touch Oliver?
But, more importantly, why did he think it was 1993?
Whether I liked it or not, this was not a case for the police. Instead I Googled Oliver’s name, holding my breath as I heard the two of them talking.
“If you start making noise I’ll put the gag back in,” he warned Oliver.
“Okay. I-I’m sorry.”
“I’m gonna untie you. No funny shit.”
“No.”
There were many Oliver Kemp’s. Facebook profiles, all that. No news articles. So, I tried the missing persons website, entering his name.
OLIVER KEMP
D.O.B: September 1, 1976.
Ethnicity: Caucasian.
Hair: Blonde.
Height: 5’8
Scars and Marks: Oliver has a birthmark on his left arm.
Oliver Kemp was last seen at Five Rivers High School October 10, 1993. He was wearing blue jeans and a red jacket.
Oliver yelped. A loud smack followed.
“Shut up!” the man growled. “Take it, boy! Take it!”
I was furiously shaking, listening to the sobbing and grunting just on the other side of the boxes. It didn’t make any sense. Oliver couldn’t look that young if the kidnapping had happened that long ago. I was hiding in my own basement from ghosts.
The next thirty minutes was an eternity, but I can only imagine what it was like for the kid. If he was right, then the year was still 1993 for him, but he was never found. And this fucker in here with us was never caught.
“Back to the pipe,” he ordered, panting.
I could hear Oliver scrambling across the floor. There was silence as the man tied him up again. I remained still until the stairs creaked and the door slammed shut, giving it a few extra seconds for good measure.
Oliver’s nose was bleeding. His eyes were swollen with tears, but he looked relieved to see me. It made me feel all the worse.
“I want to try something, Oliver,” I said quietly.
He looked sceptical, watching my phone as I pulled it out. I opened the camera. The screen showed an empty wall. Only a pipe. I took the photo. The clicking sound made him jump.
“What did you do?”
With a sorry face, I showed him the screen. A photo of nothing. He was more interested in the phone itself—not realising what the photo showed.
“How did you do that? I thought you said it was a cell phone.”
“Oliver. It’s not 1993. It’s… 2018.”
He looked at me as if I was wearing a tinfoil hat.
“I just took a photo on my phone. And it shows that you’re not really here.”
He shook his head.
“It’s not 2018.”
“It is. This is the future. That’s why we can’t touch. Our times are, like, mixed up.
“You need to call the police. Please.”
I was on the verge of crying now. He looked at me as if I was the one doing this to him.
“Oliver, they can’t help you. We’re gonna figure something out.”
“Please! Please call the police!”
He shut his mouth quickly, looking to the ceiling again. I certainly hope I didn’t encounter than man upstairs myself.
“Oliver. Tell me everything you know about him. I’ll take down the details and get him in my time.”
“Your time? He hasn’t been caught already in 2018?”
I froze.
“Jesus. Am I dead?”
“I don’t know. You’re on a missing persons list.”
“Fuck!”
He leaned his head against the wall.
“What is happening?” he whined.
“I’m so sorry, Oliver. I will do anything I can to help. I’ll find him, now.”
“Maybe I’m still alive,” he whispered. “Like… still in his basement somewhere. How old would I be?”
Older than me, I thought. God help this boy if he was still alive living like this.
Oliver told me the man was Devin McPherson. He went to the same church as Oliver’s family. Oliver had even been over to this house for a barbeque. Devin was a gardener. That made sense. I bought this house and the garden was in immaculate condition. A horrible thought occurred: Maybe Oliver was buried in this yard.
“Oliver,” I began. “I’m going to go take a photo of the garden. I need you to tell me what’s changed in it.”
“Please don’t leave me,” he begged. “Please. I know you can’t save me, but I don’t want to be alone.”
“I’m not leaving you. I’ll be back in two minutes.”
He nodded, unassured.
I walked cautiously through my own house. Nothing had changed.
“Hello?” I called out.
Nobody answered. Perhaps Devin wasn’t here. This strange time shift ended in the basement.
I collected some photos of the yard. The cherry tree, hedges, and vegetable garden that I hadn’t planted anything in—I wasn’t much for gardening myself.
Oliver’s shoulders sunk in relief when he saw me coming down the steps. He had probably thought Devin was back.
“Have you seen the yard?” I asked.
“Yeah. Couple of times. I don’t remember it super well.”
“Okay. So, tell me if anything’s changed.”
He was more impressed by the ability to take photos on the phone than he was interested in looking at the photos.
“I don’t know, I don’t remember that,” he said, looking at the vegetable garden. “I think he had more trees. There was also, like, a big rock that he turned into a seat.” I swiped to the photo of the rock, now buried under some shrubs. “Yeah. That one.”
“So, the only new thing is the vegetable garden?” I confirmed.
“I… I don’t know. Why the fuck does it matter?” he asked.
There wasn’t time to answer. The basement door opened again.
“What did I say about making noise?” Devin growled, bumbling down the stairs.
I stood up. The fat, buff, man stood at the base of the stairs. He walked right through me. There was an electric feeling as he phased through my body. Oliver gasped.
I went for the stairs, stopping to grab the rusty shovel first.
“Please!” I heard Oliver yell. Maybe to me, maybe to Devin.
It was evening, but I got to work in the yard, digging up the vegetable garden. Just a square of dirt surrounded by a little wall of bricks. Dirt flung all over my yard. It was exhausting work, but I had a horrible hunch.
A stick flung off my shovel. I was up to my knees in dirt. It was now dark enough that I had to use my porch light to guide me. I scrambled to pick it up. It wasn’t a stick. Sure fucking enough, it was a bone. I sat at the edge of my new pit, sighing. Now I could call the cops.
First, I went back down to the basement. They weren’t there anymore. My basement was back to normal. He died in this room, that much was clear. Oliver was raped and killed in this goddam basement.
There was a police line around my house the next day. Homicide investigators were digging up the rest of my yard to see if there were any more bones. The skull of a young male was found deeper below the vegetable garden. Devin was the owner of this house fifteen ago before selling it during the housing bubble. The previous owners were the ones who sold it to me. Devin now lived in Vermont, retired. He was taken into custody a few weeks later.
I wish I had done more for Oliver. Perhaps I should have penned a letter to his family for him—but that would be a very traumatic experience for both of us. I still check the basement every few hours, slightly hoping he would be back. Back so I could comfort him more, tell him that he had been avenged. His killer was caught. But he would never return. I left him that night with Devin, terrified and alone.