The Shadow House(61)
I turned off the highway and drove along wide roads strung with roundabouts like a beaded necklace. I passed schools, churches, small businesses with sun-faded signs, and about a thousand tradie trucks on their way to the next job. Popping up among the clusters of fibro fisherman’s cottages were Instagram-ready coffee shops, organic yoga studios and brand-new houses copied straight from The Block, all sure signs of a once-sleepy area in a state of rapid growth. The vibe was laid-back but orderly, pretty but bland. I could see why it might appeal to someone who’d suffered a great tragedy; it was the perfect blank slate.
Bundeenah Close was a quiet cul-de-sac positioned just two blocks from the beach. I pulled up outside but kept the engine running, peering out of the window, delaying the moment I had to leave the air conditioning and step out into the soupy summer heat. Number twelve was right at the end: almost-but-not-quite beachfront. It had high fences, neat hedges and a sign on the mailbox that said No Junk. The house itself, from what little I could see of it over the top of the gate, was a neat brick square with a grey tiled roof and a paved driveway at the side. The bushy crown of a tall tree rose from the front yard, its brilliant green leaves dripping over the fence like water.
I switched off the engine and got out. The sun had a bite to it, but the briny ocean breeze had me breathing in deep and wishing for a beer. Gingerly, I approached the house, opening the white picket gate and closing it carefully behind me. A curvy red-brick path took me to a set of three wooden steps and a front door with a mottled glass panel. I knocked and waited.
Soon enough, I heard footsteps. A fleshy shape appeared behind the glass. The door opened, and I found myself looking at neither a twinkly-eyed gentleman nor a crooked-toothed husk. Instead, Michael Kellerman was an ordinary-looking man in a plain grey T-shirt and beige walk shorts. He was tall and broad with rough skin and closely cropped hair that might have once been blond. I guessed he’d been quite the brick shithouse back in the day, but rounded shoulders and a weary, apologetic stoop made him appear to have slowly deflated, like a cushion that over time had lost its stuffing.
He squinted at me. ‘Yes?’
‘Hi,’ I said, aware that I was not quite projecting the warmth I’d intended. My shoulders had shot up around my ears, and for some reason I was clasping my hands like an orphan requesting more gruel. ‘I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time, I’m just—’
‘Are ya selling something?’ Michael Kellerman’s accent was pure rural Australia: thick and languorous, like he was chewing toffee.
‘No. I’m actually here because we, uh, we spoke on the—’
‘Ah, shit. Are you that chick who called yesterday? The journo?’
‘No – well, yes, but I’m not a journalist. I just want to talk.’
There was movement from within the house, a shuffle and soft bang, like the lid of a pedal-bin swinging shut, and Kellerman shot a glance over his shoulder.
‘I got your note,’ I said, taking a punt that the message in the farmhouse had come from him.
He swung back to me with his lip curled. ‘What? What note?’
‘The note in the—’
‘Look, love, I don’t know what your go is, but I need you to leave.’ He went to shut the door.
‘Mr Kellerman, we don’t know each other,’ I said, pushing back, ‘and I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but—’
‘Uncomfortable? Jesus fucken Christ.’ He passed a hand over his face. There was another muffled clang from inside. Michael glanced back again. ‘Listen, you’d better leave or I’m calling the cops.’
‘Do you think that maybe—’
‘Nup.’
‘—your wife might like to—’
‘Sorry, love.’
‘—because if she’s home, then—’
The door shut in my face, and Michael Kellerman went back to being a kaleidoscopic shape behind panes of glass, disintegrating as he disappeared back into the depths of the house.
‘Mr Kellerman, please.’ I stood on the step for a moment, biting my lip. Then I stepped closer to the door and raised my voice. ‘Mrs Kellerman? Renee? Can you hear me?’ I knew she was in there; I could hear her moving around. ‘Renee?’
I waited to see if any shape would return, but the house remained still.
I placed my hand on the door. The stained glass felt holy, like a confessional. ‘Look,’ I called, rallying the last of my courage. ‘I understand that neither of you want to drag up the past. I get it. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t want to either. But here’s the thing: in a way, I kind of am in your shoes. Like I said yesterday, I just moved to Pine Ridge, to the ecovillage that was built on your land. I have a fourteen-year-old son, Oliver. Some odd things have been happening, things that I think only you would understand, and I was hoping you could help me make sense of them.’
No sound; no movement. Michael Kellerman wasn’t coming back. I imagined him somewhere on the other side, listening patiently, hearing my sins.
‘Someone has been sending us packages. And then I found out that … that you and your wife might once have received similar things? Before your son went missing?’
I paused, trying to grasp the meaning of my words, but it felt like holding a bar of soap; my understanding of events kept slipping out of my own hands. I didn’t know how to explain the sense of dread that, despite all my rationalisation, was pressing against me from all sides, as oppressive as the summer heat.