Where Promises Vanish

"I've made deliveries to some strange places—hoarder houses, homes with attack geese, blokes who answer the door in medieval armour. But nobody warns you about gates that swallow dogs whole."

The drive to Luke Smith's address felt surreal, almost as if time was bending to accelerate my arrival.

The familiar streets of Hobart slipped past the windscreen in a blur of grey winter light and bare trees. I kept glancing at the dashboard clock, half-expecting to see the minutes jump forward, skipping the journey entirely and depositing me at that Berriedale driveway whether I was ready or not.

It seemed the universe was in on my growing anxiety, hastening my journey towards an uncertain confrontation.

The Brooker Highway stretched ahead, and I found myself gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary. My knuckles had gone white. The same hands that had held the birth certificate yesterday, that had scrolled through Jamie Greyson's Facebook profile.

The turnoff to Berriedale appeared too quickly.

The suburb was quiet, the kind of residential stillness that made you hyperaware of every sound. My tyres crunched over loose gravel as I navigated the winding streets, past weatherboard houses and established gardens, climbing the slope toward Wallcrest Road.

Arriving at Luke's place, I decided to reverse the truck into the driveway this time, a tactical move I hadn't considered yesterday.

The steep street and awkward driveway had made for a challenging exit. Reversing in now would allow for a quicker getaway, should the need arise.

I didn't let myself examine that thought too closely.

Should the need arise. What need, exactly? What was I expecting to happen here? It was just a delivery. Three more tents. Sign and go.

Except nothing about this felt like just a delivery.

The engine idled as I manoeuvred the truck, watching the mirrors carefully. The house loomed in my peripheral vision—the same brick facade I'd seen yesterday, the same neat garden, the same front porch where Luke had stood in his damp shorts whilst Duke made off with my manifest.

But something felt different today.

The air itself seemed heavier. Charged. Like the static buildup before a storm, except the sky was clear and pale with winter light.

As I swung the cab door open, it creaked loudly, cutting through the morning quiet.

Stepping out, my boots hit the cement with a solid thud, echoing the heavy pounding of my heart. The sound seemed too loud, too final, like a full stop at the end of a sentence I hadn't finished writing.

My stomach was in knots, a mix of apprehension and curiosity churning within me.

What if Jamie is here too?

The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. What would I say to him? What would he say to me? Would he recognise something of himself in my face, the way I'd tried to find resemblance in that blurry Facebook photo?

Would he know who I was?

The front door opened before I could overthink myself into paralysis.

"Duke, stop it," I heard Luke's voice reprimanding the small dog as he closed the front door on him.

The familiar yapping was muffled but insistent. Duke, clearly, had not forgotten the game of chase the manifest yesterday.

"Delivery for Luke Smith," I called out, even though I recognised him immediately.

It was a futile attempt to maintain some semblance of normality in a situation that felt anything but. The professional script, the careful distance. As if speaking the words could make this just another stop on my route.

"Yes," Luke replied, his face breaking into a wide smile as he approached.

He was dressed properly today—jeans and a pullover. The olive skin I remembered from yesterday, the slightly distracted look in his eyes. He seemed relaxed. Casual. Like a man with nothing to hide.

But he was hiding something. I was certain of it now.

"I just need you to sign here," I said, my voice steady as I pointed to the designated spot on the paperwork.

Luke took the pen from me and, using the brick wall as a makeshift table, quickly scribbled his signature.

Standing there, handing over the pen and paperwork, I felt a strange sense of duality—part of me was just the courier doing his job, while another part was deeply entangled in a personal quest, inching closer to answers about my father, Jamie Greyson.

It was a balancing act between professional obligation and personal intrigue, and I was right at the centre of it.

The pen moved across the paper. Luke's handwriting was hurried, barely legible. I watched his fingers, the casual way he held the pen, and wondered if those same hands had touched my father's face, had held him close in the bedroom I could glimpse through the windows.

The intimacy of the thought made my skin prickle with something between discomfort and desperate curiosity.

"Sorry, but do you mind if I use your bathroom quickly?" I asked Luke, my voice steady but my mind racing.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, partly driven by a need to compose myself and partly by an unexplainable urge to see more of the house—to find any clue that could link this place to Jamie Greyson.

When Luke handed back the signed paper, I tore off the bottom copy and handed it back to him. I could sense his curiosity about the change in process, so I silently communicated the reason: Larger orders require a more complicated form.

A lie. But a small one. And after nineteen years of being lied to about my own father, I found I didn't much care about the ethics of a fib to get inside the house.

"That's fine," Luke replied amiably.

He opened the front door and nudged Duke, the small dog, away with his foot. The Shih Tzu's black eyes gleamed with mischief, tail wagging furiously.

"It's just up the end of the hallway and to the left," he instructed, pointing towards the hallway.

I managed an awkward smile in response, feeling a bit like an intruder now as I brushed past Luke and Duke.

The interior of the house swallowed me.

The smell hit first—not unpleasant, but distinctive. Furniture polish. Dog. Something else underneath, something I couldn't identify. A slight chemical tang that didn't belong in a suburban home.

My strides were long and purposeful down the hallway, each step echoing slightly in the quiet house.

"I'll just be waiting outside," Luke called after me, his voice trailing off as I moved further away.

The front door closed behind him with a soft click.

I was alone.

In the silent hallway of the house, my heart throbbed against my chest, each beat echoing my growing trepidation.

The air around me was thick with the weight of unanswered questions, each detail of the house seemingly imbued with potential clues about Jamie Greyson, my father.

Could this home, with its walls and pictures, hold the key to the past I was trying to unravel?

The hallway stretched ahead, longer than it had appeared from outside. Cream walls. Neutral carpet. Framed photographs hung at regular intervals, but from this angle I couldn't make out the subjects. The ceiling light was off, leaving the corridor illuminated only by what filtered through doorways.

Something felt wrong.

Not dramatically wrong, not horror-movie wrong, but subtly off-kilter. Like a picture hung at a slight angle, or a piece of furniture moved three inches from its usual position. The house was too quiet, too still, as if it were holding its breath.

As I listened to the sound of the front door closing behind me, my footsteps became slower and more deliberate.

A sense of unease washed over me, my stomach churning with anxiety. I was acting on impulse, driven by a need to know if this could possibly be my father's house, if the man I never knew could actually be alive.

Duke, the small dog, quickly caught up to me, following me loyally down the hallway.

His claws padded against the carpet with each step, a small counterpoint to the thudding of my own heart. He seemed unbothered by my presence, as if strangers wandered through his home every day.

We passed a small bathroom first—not the one Luke had directed me to—its door half-open to reveal white tiles and a pedestal sink. Then a laundry room leading to a backdoor with a doggy door. A bedroom, sparse and impersonal, the bed neatly made.

Each room a silent witness to the lives of those who dwelled within.

I found myself cataloguing details without meaning to. The way the light fell through windows. The books on a shelf I glimpsed through a doorway. A jacket hung across the back of a chair that might belong to Jamie, might be evidence of his presence here.

The hallway felt endless.

Reaching the end of the hallway, I saw two larger bedrooms on either side.

The master bedroom door stood open on my left, revealing a sliver of rumpled white bedding and what looked like a chest of drawers against the far wall. On my right, another bedroom, this one set up as an office or study, the door mostly closed.

My nerves, now twisted into tight knots, reminded me of my initial pretext for this detour—I really did need to use the toilet.

The bathroom Luke had directed me to was exactly where he'd said. Clean, modern, everything in its place. I caught my reflection in the mirror above the sink and barely recognised myself. My face was pale, my eyes too wide, my jaw set with a tension I hadn't consciously maintained.

After a quick, nervous trip to the toilet, I emerged to find both Duke and Henri waiting patiently outside the door.

Henri must have escaped from wherever Luke had shut him away. The second Shih Tzu sat beside his brother, both of them looking up at me with those bulging, expectant eyes.

I couldn't help but chuckle at their loyalty.

Kneeling down, I extended my hand to them. Duke eagerly leaned into my touch as I scratched behind his ear. The small dog tilted his head, his eyes closing in contentment.

For a moment, I found a small reprieve in the simple joy of their companionship. Two fluffy dogs who knew nothing of my tangled history, who wanted nothing more than a scratch behind the ears and perhaps a treat.

As I stood up, my gaze inadvertently fell on the open master bedroom.

It looked almost inviting, a silent call to explore further.

"No. Don't do it, Joel," I whispered to myself, fighting the temptation.

The line between my professional obligations and personal curiosity had never been so blurred. Every instinct told me to walk away, to respect the privacy of this home, yet the burning desire for answers about my father was overwhelming.

My feet didn't listen.

Four steps from the bathroom, my resolve faltered and I found myself standing just inside the door of the master bedroom.

The room was an embodiment of simplicity—very clean, with a minimalist design that spoke of orderly lives. White bedding, pale walls, blinds drawn open to let in the weak winter light. A wardrobe with sliding doors. A bedside table with a lamp and a book, its spine too far away to read.

Amidst this unassuming backdrop, one item stood out, breaking the room's anonymity.

A small photo of Jamie rested atop a dark, wooden chest of drawers, the sunlight from the large window illuminating it.

My breath caught.

Jamie looked different in the photo—happier, younger than the images I had seen on Facebook. His smile was genuine, unguarded, the kind of smile that comes when you're with someone who makes you feel safe. The photo was clearly old, the colours slightly faded, the edges of the print worn soft.

An inexplicable pull drew me closer, and with trembling hands, I reached for the small frame.

But as I touched it, my finger accidentally nudged the latch, causing the photo to slip out and gently float to the floor.

"Shit!" I hissed under my breath, crouching to retrieve it.

The photo had landed face-down on the carpet. I picked it up carefully, meaning to slide it back into the frame, to erase any evidence of my trespass.

But then I saw the back of the photograph.

My eyes widened in shock.

The photo revealed a hidden secret. Four words, carefully calligraphed, met my gaze.

"Yours forever. Kate Gibbons," I read, my voice barely above a whisper.

The handwriting. That elegant, looping script I knew as well as my own. The same handwriting that had signed my school permission slips. That had left notes on the fridge when she'd be home late. That had addressed birthday cards with my name.

My mother's handwriting.

The revelation struck me like a lightning bolt.

I turned the photo over and there she was—the beautiful, youthful eyes of my mother, staring back at me.

She was young in the photograph. Impossibly young. Her auburn hair was longer than I'd ever seen it, her face unlined by the years of struggle and sacrifice that would come later. She was smiling at the camera—at whoever was taking the picture—with an expression of pure, uncomplicated happiness.

She couldn't have been more than twenty-three.

A wave of emotion welled up, my eyes stinging as I quickly slid the photo back into its frame and returned it to its place on the dresser.

My hands were shaking.

Standing there, my mind was a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief.

Does my mother know Jamie is still alive?

The question echoed in my head, unanswered, deepening the mystery that seemed to grow with each passing moment.

He'd kept this photo. All these years, he'd kept a photo of her with "Yours forever" written on the back. And he'd framed it too. Put it on his dresser where he'd see it every day.

The lie she'd told me—your father died before you were born—suddenly seemed so much more complicated than simple protective fiction. She'd loved him. Really loved him. And he'd kept evidence of that love for nearly two decades.

What happened between them?

Realising I had lingered longer than intended, I composed myself.

Luke was still waiting outside, and I couldn't afford to raise any suspicions. My cover story—the bathroom break—was already stretched thin. Any longer and questions would be asked.

Taking several deep, steadying breaths, I attempted to regain my composure.

My face felt hot. My eyes were still stinging with unshed tears. I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyelids, forcing myself to breathe slowly, to push down the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me.

Not now. Later. Process this later.

With one last look around the room, I made my way back to the front door.

The hallway felt even longer on the return journey. Every step felt significant, weighted with the knowledge I now carried. My mother and my father had loved each other. Had exchanged photos with forever promises written on the back. And yet she'd told me he was dead.

Why?

Opening it as casually as I could, I stepped outside, the fresh air a small relief to my racing mind and pounding heart.

"Sorry for taking so long," I called out as I stepped onto the porch, but the words quickly faded into the air.

My eyes darted around—Luke was nowhere to be seen.

A sudden unease gripped me, the stillness of the moment unsettling.

The street was empty. No sound of voices, no movement in the garden. Just the faint rustle of wind through the trees and the distant call of a currawong somewhere up the hill.

Where had Luke gone?

In a flash, Duke darted out from behind me.

My reaction was immediate, but my movements were too slow. I hadn’t closed the front door properly, and Duke had been waiting, his small body tense with anticipation.

Duke scampered down the steps with remarkable agility and took a sharp left, vanishing around the side of the house.

"Shit!" I cursed under my breath, my instincts kicking in as I chased after the mischievous dog.

Not again. Not after yesterday’s mischief.

"Duke!" I shouted, my voice laced with urgency.

The little dog seemed to find the chase exhilarating, darting through the long grass of the vacant corner block, oblivious to my growing panic. His brown and white fur flashed between the weeds, his stumpy legs carrying him faster than should have been possible.

"Luke!" I called out louder, hoping for some assistance in corralling Duke.

My plea went unanswered as I continued to pursue the dog, who was now heading towards the main road bordering the property.

The sight of roadkill remnants—the sad fate of several wallabies—flashed through my mind, intensifying my desperation. I'd seen them on the drive in. The twisted bodies by the roadside. The dark stains on the asphalt.

Tasmania's roads were brutal to wildlife. They'd be brutal to a small dog too.

My heart pounded in my chest as I sprinted, images of potential accidents involving Duke flooding my thoughts.

The dog's safety became my sole focus, pushing aside the revelations of the photo and the unanswered questions about Jamie Greyson. All that mattered in that frantic moment was stopping Duke before he reached the road.

My breath grew heavy, and a sense of urgency propelled me forward, every instinct honed on preventing a possible tragedy.

The grass whipped at my legs. My work boots weren't made for running, and I could feel the strain in my ankles, the burn in my lungs. But Duke was getting closer to the road, his trajectory unwavering.

In the midst of the chase, a sudden idea flashed through my mind.

Noticing Duke's frequent glances back to ensure he was still being pursued, I abruptly stopped.

Mirroring my actions, Duke halted as well, only a perilous five metres from the road.

We found ourselves in a standoff, our eyes locked in a silent battle of wits.

The road stretched beyond him, a dark ribbon of asphalt that could end his life in an instant. A car could come speeding by at any moment. Duke had no concept of the danger. To him, this was all a wonderful game.

Duke barked loudly, a clear challenge, as if beckoning me to continue the game.

When I edged forward, Duke hopped sideways, his short tail wagging with excitement.

"It's not a game, Duke," I said to him, trying to sound as stern as possible.

My words were met with another boisterous yap.

The standoff stretched. I could hear my own breathing, ragged and too fast. The currawong called again, closer now. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine rumbled.

Think. Think.

Switching tactics, I called out enticingly, "Treat? Want a treat?"

Duke's ears instantly perked up at the familiar word.

The effect was immediate, almost comical. His entire posture changed, the game forgotten in favour of the possibility of food.

"Come get a treat," I coaxed, starting to back away slowly.

Duke, his curiosity piqued, cautiously began to close the distance between us. His head tilted, weighing the options. Chase versus treat. Adventure versus reward.

Seizing the moment, I acted on another spur-of-the-moment idea.

I turned and began jogging back towards the house, stealing glances over my shoulder. To my relief and as I had hoped, Duke was now following me, drawn in by the promise of a treat.

The house grew closer. The truck. The driveway. Safety.

I increased my pace, and Duke kept up, his short legs working overtime.

Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I calculated the perfect moment. As he drew near, I slowed down just enough to let him pass.

The moment Duke was within reach, I pounced, securing him in a firm but gentle grasp as he wriggled in my arms, trying to break free.

"Got you," I breathed, relief flooding through me.

Despite his squirming, Duke suddenly paused and gave me a playful lick on the cheek.

I couldn't help but laugh, the tension of the moment dissolving into joy.

The thought crossed my mind: if my mother and I had more money and space, we would have got a dog. Maybe we still could.

The idea was comforting, a small beacon of normality in the midst of my tumultuous thoughts about my father and the mysteries that seemed to surround him.

As Duke and I made our way back from our unintended escapade, I noticed Luke standing at the edge of the front porch, his gaze fixed on the silent truck.

The scenario before me felt almost surreal, a mix of relief and unease settling over me.

Something was different about Luke's posture now. He stood too still, his body angled slightly as if he were listening for something. His smile was gone, replaced by an expression I couldn't read.

"So sorry," I apologised, approaching from the side with Duke in my arms. "I accidentally let your dog out. I didn't realise he would take off like that. He thought it was a great game," I explained, trying to sound apologetic yet lighthearted as I reached out to hand Duke back to Luke.

"Oh," Luke replied, a hint of surprise in his voice. "Yeah, he does that if he gets out. I'm surprised you managed to catch him. Normally it requires a serious bribe with something like chicken."

At the mention of chicken, Duke's ears immediately perked up, and he turned his head eagerly towards Luke.

I felt a slight sense of pride at having managed to catch Duke without resorting to complete bribery, but it was quickly overshadowed by my own internal reflections. The photo. My mother's handwriting. Yours forever.

"I nearly didn't catch him," I admitted, feeling a bit sheepish about the whole situation.

Luke took Duke from my arms, his expression softening.

"Well," he said with a light sigh, "the truck is all good to go."

"Go?" I echoed, giving Luke a puzzled look.

My mind was still partly elsewhere, caught up in thoughts about my father and the photo. The new tents. The boxes. The impossible question of what anyone could possibly need with enough camping equipment to shelter a small army.

"Yeah," Luke responded. "I managed to unload the boxes while you were in the bathroom."

Shit, I thought, a wave of embarrassment washing over me.

Did I really take that long?

That realisation explained Luke's absence when Duke escaped. He must have been moving the boxes around... the... back.

My thought trailed off as my eyes caught sight of the large back gate behind the truck.

The colours swirling across it seemed out of place, unfamiliar.

Was that there when I arrived?

The oddity of the gate momentarily distracted me from my earlier concerns. I blinked, certain my eyes were playing tricks on me. The colours shifted and moved, bleeding into one another like oil on water, but more vivid. More alive.

Red bled into blue. Purple sparked into existence where they met. The entire surface of what should have been an ordinary wooden gate was... rippling. Undulating. Breathing.

"The neighbour happened to be walking past," Luke continued, pulling my attention back. "He helped."

"Sure. Okay," I responded softly, trying to sound nonchalant.

"As long as you're happy," I added.

But my eyes drifted back to the gate, captivated by its unusual appearance.

The colours weren't paint. They weren't light reflecting off something. They were coming from the gate itself, swirling in patterns that seemed almost deliberate, almost intelligent.

"What the hell is that?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me as I pointed at the gate with its mesmerising swirl of colours. "I've never seen anything like it."

The moment the words left my mouth, the temperature seemed to drop.

Not dramatically, not enough to see my breath, but enough to notice. Enough to make the hair on my arms stand up beneath my sleeves.

"Henri, get back inside," Luke suddenly called out, redirecting my focus.

I broke my gaze away from the gate and crouched down, arms outstretched, ready to spring into action should Henri decide to bolt.

Having already let one dog escape, I was determined not to make the same mistake twice.

But as I prepared to intercept the dog, my legs felt unsteady, wobbly.

The world seemed to tilt slightly, as if the ground beneath me had shifted a few degrees off-level. I quickly reached for the metal railing of the step to steady myself.

What's wrong with me?

The colours from the gate seemed brighter now, pulsing at the edge of my vision even though I wasn't looking directly at it. The air felt thick, charged with something I had no name for.

Before I could fully regain my balance, Henri let out a small yip.

In the blink of an eye, he bounded down the three front porch steps.

"Henri, stop!" Luke shouted in a futile attempt to halt the dog.

I stood there, feeling helpless, as Henri dashed down the driveway and disappeared into the bizarre, swirling colours of the gate.

My mind struggled to process what I was seeing.

The dog didn't go around the gate. Didn't slip through a gap. He ran directly into the colours, and they swallowed him. One moment he was there—brown and white fur, stubby legs, wagging tail—and the next he was simply gone.

Vanished.

As if he'd never existed at all.

The whole scene felt surreal, as if the very fabric of reality was being distorted before my eyes.

"What the fuck," I whispered under my breath, my voice a mix of awe and disbelief.

Then, to my utter astonishment, Luke and Duke followed, vanishing into the strange, mesmerising wall of colours.

Luke didn't hesitate. Didn't pause to explain. He simply stepped forward, Duke still cradled in his arms, and walked into the swirling light as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The colours flared brighter for an instant—brilliant magenta, electric blue, deep arterial red—and then settled back into their hypnotic dance.

Luke was gone.

Both dogs were gone.

I was alone in the driveway, staring at an impossible phenomenon, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.

My eyes blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the impossible scene unfolding in front of me.

A sense of unreality washed over me, as if I had stepped into a world far removed from the mundane delivery job I had started the day with.

The truck sat silent behind me. The street was empty. Somewhere, a bird sang, oblivious to the fact that the laws of physics had just been violated in a suburban Berriedale backyard.

Staring at where they had disappeared, a multitude of questions raced through my mind.

Was this some kind of trick? An illusion? Or had I stumbled upon something far beyond my understanding?

As I stood there, rooted to the spot, the world around me seemed to spin, and I was left grappling with a reality that suddenly seemed as fluid and incomprehensible as the colours on that gate.

The swirling light continued to pulse, patient as a predator.

Waiting.