AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is a rewrite of the original story from memory, with some bits added on.
2005
Phyllis has found a new place for us, a big old house called Wester Drumlins. I personally would have preferred a nice little apartment to a dilapidated wreck, but the prices are ridiculous these days. Despite my initial doubts, seven people have wandered in for no discernible reason since we moved in a fortnight ago. Why anyone would stop their cars at the side of the road and wander into this unstable and reputedly haunted building is beyond me, but that's humans for you.
Totally inexplicable.
It sorts out our mealtimes at any rate.
2006
We're into the new year and people are still coming. Yesterday some people from the police showed up and took away the increasingly large procession of abandoned cars parked outside the house. Which is quite decent of them, because we now have a nice view of the trees across the road again.
2007
A strange thing happened today. Two people, a man and a woman, walked into the house. This was not in itself strange, but the man, after consulting a machine that went ding, motioned the woman over to stand with him a few yards in front of me. They then both closed their eyes and waited. I wasn't feeling particularly hungry, but it seemed rude to ignore them, so took the pair of them.
Totally inexplicable.
And I have no idea how long the man's remaining lifetime was, but anyone who has experienced temporal vomiting before will know that spewing Chunks Of What Might Have Been into the upstairs toilet for a few hours is not an enjoyable way to spend your afternoon.
The next day, I awake to the musical sound of Phyllis swearing about the great dirty box some idiot has left in the front yard. The four of us head out to take a look. It's a police telephone box, like the ones you used to always see around the streets a few decades back. Only those ones didn't hum and smell like the raw power of the Time Vortex.
Totally inexplicable.
Phyllis suggests we try and break in, which I would normally disapprove of, but the box's owners are now trapped in the tail end of the Sixties, not to mention it's getting on to lunchtime and we're all a bit peckish, so I think it's okay.
After unsuccessfully trying to get inside the box with the subtle shrieking and clawing method suggested by Phyllis, I remember the man very indiscreetly dropped a key on the floor in my room yesterday. There seems something very odd about this whole thing, but I go along to get it anyway.
I return to the front yard to discover Phyllis in the middle of another fit of cussing. It turns out that, miraculously, in the time it took me to saunter into the house, pick up the key, and walk back out to the yard, some people from Scotland Yard turned up, loaded the thing onto a truck and drove off. Shows some humans are more efficient than others. It's a bit disappointing, but there's nothing we can really do about it now, so we just spend the rest of the day playing Scrabble.
The next week, some woman comes into the house to take photos. Well, at least she has a reason, unlike the other 12 people who came in here before. She doesn't photograph any of us, which is good, mainly because I never could get my head around the whole "picture of an Angel becomes itself an Angel" thing. We just leave her alone for the most part, except for Phyllis who, characteristically, immediately threw a rock at the photographer when she started peeling the wallpaper in one of the rooms. Apparently by some instinct, the photographer ducked just in time, then cleared out immediately.
I know we're thought of as the most malevolent life forms evolution ever produced, but throwing rocks at people? That would just make everyone think we're jerks.
WORK IN PROGRESS