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 was 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.”
End the Madness Pls!
