A deep growl pulled me from my sleep with a start, a primal sound that seemed to echo through my very bones. I blinked rapidly, struggling to dispel the heavy cloak of sleep that clung to me. My eyes, sticky with the remnants of a dream, fought to adjust to the oppressive darkness that enveloped our camp. The air was thick, laden with an ominous tension that seemed almost tangible.
"Lois, what is it?" Paul's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and laced with an undercurrent of anxiety. His words were a whisper, yet they pierced the silence with the precision of a dagger.
I turned, my movements sluggish, as if I were fighting against an unseen force. As I sat up, the vague outlines of Paul and Kain materialised from the shadows, their forms barely discernible against the backdrop of the night. The low campfire, now reduced to a mere smouldering ember, offered little in the way of light or comfort.
"The wind is picking up. Do you think it's another dust storm?" My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, strained and edged with a growing sense of dread. I could feel the faint stirrings of the wind, a prelude to the chaos that a storm could bring. The very thought sent a shiver down my spine, a silent prayer forming in my mind, hoping against hope that we would be spared the fury of the elements.
"I hope not," Paul replied, his tone sombre. He crouched beside Lois, his movements deliberate, as he took hold of her collar. Lois was a beacon of alertness in the sea of uncertainty. Her growl, low and continuous, spoke of a disquiet that had taken hold of her, a warning of something amiss.
"I think something’s out there," Kain whispered, his voice barely audible above the whisper of the shifting dust. He moved with a cautious grace, positioning himself between Paul and me, a silent guardian bracing against the unknown.
The tension in the air was palpable, almost as if it were a living entity that had descended upon our little group huddled in the wilderness. The three of us, along with Lois, were statues in the darkness, every sense heightened, every nerve on edge as we peered into the abyss that surrounded us. The waiting was the hardest part, the not knowing, the anticipation of a threat that remained unseen but deeply felt.
Lois's bark shattered the uneasy silence like a gunshot, sending a jolt of adrenaline through my veins. Her bark wasn't just a sound; it was a clarion call, a signal that all was not well in our makeshift sanctuary. Something's not right, the thought echoed through my mind, relentless and urgent. My brain was a whirlwind of activity, desperately sifting through possibilities, seeking a rational explanation in a situation that felt increasingly irrational.
"What's going on?" The sound of Glenda's voice, tinged with concern and confusion, cut through my tumultuous thoughts. She was moving toward us, her figure gradually emerging from the shadows, drawn by the alarm in Lois's bark.
My eyes, now somewhat accustomed to the dark, focused on Kain. He stood with a frying pan poised over the dying embers of our campfire, an incongruous image of domesticity against the backdrop of our growing unease. Then my gaze shifted to Glenda, her expression a mirror of the anxiety that gripped me.
"We don't know," Paul's voice was a reflection of our collective uncertainty, a verbal shrug in the face of the unknown.
"Probably just the wind picking up dust," I found myself saying, more in an attempt to reassure myself than anything else. Even as the words left my lips, a gust of wind swept through our camp, a tangible manifestation of my words. The wind was a sculptor, and we were its unwilling subjects, as it coated us in a fine layer of dust, stinging our eyes and caking our skin.
"It's getting stronger. We'd better get inside the tents," I suggested, my voice barely concealing the undercurrent of urgency I felt.
"Come, Lois," Glenda's voice was firm, yet tinged with an undercurrent of concern. She understood the gravity of the situation, her experience in the wilds making her all too aware of the dangers that lurked in the unseen.
Lois, steadfast and unyielding, let out a growl that resonated with a primal intensity. Her gaze remained locked on the void before her, a sentinel alert to threats invisible to our eyes. Her body was tense, every muscle coiled like a spring, ready to unleash her fury should the need arise.
Suddenly, the fragile silence shattered. "Duke! Get back here!" Jamie's voice erupted into the night, a blend of urgency and panic. He burst from his tent, a blur of motion in the dim light, as he chased after Duke. The dog, his instincts overtaking him, darted away with a series of loud barks that pierced the stillness, each echo a haunting reminder of our vulnerability in this vast wasteland.
"Shit!" The expletive escaped my lips before I could stop it, a visceral reaction to the unfolding events. I was on my feet in an instant, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, sharpening my senses, readying me for whatever came next.
"I got him," Jamie's voice, now closer, brought a momentary relief. He hovered over Duke, who stood at the edge of the tent’s front canopy, his barks a defiant challenge to the unseen dangers lurking in the darkness to our right.
"Shit! We're surrounded!" Kain's cry cut through the night, his voice laced with a raw edge of fear. He inched closer to the fire, its flickering light casting eerie shadows across his face. His movement was a dance of desperation, seeking the comfort of the fire's warmth, yet wary of its searing touch.
The notion of being surrounded, of unseen eyes watching from the shadows, sent a shiver down my spine. My heart pounded in my chest, a drumbeat of primal fear and determination. In that moment, the fire was not just a source of light and warmth; it was a beacon in the darkness, a fragile barrier between us and the unknown threats that encircled us.
As the fabric of the final tent fluttered, Karen and Chris stepped into the cool night air, their expressions etched with confusion and fear. "What's going on?" Karen's voice quivered, mirroring the tremor of uncertainty that rippled through our group. Chris positioned himself protectively beside her, his eyes scanning our small assembly for answers.
"I think it's just a dust—" Paul attempted to offer a semblance of an explanation, his voice trailing off as our attention was abruptly seized by a spectacle unfolding in the distance.
The faint glow of the Portal illuminated the horizon, its bright rainbow colours painting the dunes in a surreal light show. The spectacle was mesmerising yet unnerving, casting an otherworldly sheen over the landscape before it vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. A chill ran down my spine, the hairs on my neck standing at attention, as if sensing the unnaturalness of the phenomenon. If it wasn’t me that had activated the Portal, then who, or what, did?
"Is that Luke?" Karen's question, laced with concern, pulled my focus back to our immediate surroundings.
"I'm right here," I responded, my voice steadier than I felt. Inside, my emotions were a tumultuous storm of curiosity and fear, each vying for dominance. My body couldn't help but shudder, a physical manifestation of the internal conflict raging within me.
"Duke, stop barking!" Jamie's command pierced the tense air, his tone a mix of frustration and desperation as he sought to quell the canine's alarm.
Lois, undeterred, resumed her growling, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through the ground itself. Her instincts were in overdrive, her every sense attuned to the unseen dangers that lurked just beyond our circle of light.
The night had transformed from a peaceful respite into a tableau of tension and unease. Each of us stood on the precipice of the unknown, our fears magnified by the darkness and the growing realisation that we were far from alone in this vast, mysterious wasteland.
A chilling scream shattered the night's fragile calm, slicing through the air like a blade. It was a sound so raw, so filled with terror, that it seemed to freeze the very blood in my veins. The camp, once a place of weary rest, erupted into chaos.
"Lois!" Glenda's voice, thick with panic, cut through the tumult as the dog, propelled by some unseen threat, bolted into the night. Her loyalty to Lois was palpable, her fear for the dog's safety overriding all else.
Paul, with a reflexive burst of speed, lunged in a desperate attempt to catch the fleeing animal but grasped only at the empty air. Without a moment's hesitation, he and Glenda plunged into the darkness after Lois, their figures quickly swallowed by the night.
Kain seized the frying pan from the fire, turning it from a simple cooking utensil into a makeshift weapon. With a grim determination etched on his face, he too disappeared into the shadowy expanse.
Behind me, Jamie's presence was a grounding force amidst the pandemonium. "Grab Duke!" I shouted over the din, my voice laced with urgency. With that, I launched myself into a sprint, following the vanishing silhouettes of my companions.
The desert was treacherous underfoot, the dunes shifting unpredictably. My heart pounded in my chest, a frenetic drumbeat echoing my frantic pace. But the unforgiving terrain betrayed me, and I stumbled, the ground rising to meet me in a jarring embrace.
"Duke!" Jamie's call was a distant echo, a reminder of the dire situation unfolding back at the camp.
As I lay there, momentarily dazed, a shiver coursed through me, a visceral response to the overwhelming sense of vulnerability. "Please be safe," I murmured into the night, a plea cast into the vast, indifferent expanse.
Forcing myself upright, I took stock of my surroundings. The campfire's comforting glow was nowhere to be seen, replaced by an oppressive darkness that seemed to weigh upon my very soul. Panic clawed at my throat as I gasped for air, the taste of dust and fear mingling on my tongue.
Disoriented, I spun, trying to discern any landmark in the unyielding blackness. "Where the fuck am I?" The question was a whisper torn from the depths of my being, a stark testament to the isolation and confusion that gripped me as I stood alone, lost amidst the undulating dunes, the darkness a relentless foe, and the silence a mocking companion.
"Lois!" Glenda's voice, now a distant echo, carried over the wind, her tone laced with desperation and fear. The wind itself seemed to howl in response, its gusts growing fiercer, whipping around me, its invisible fingers like needles against my skin. Disoriented, I spun in place, trying to orient myself amidst the swirling sands and shadows.
Then, as if the night itself split open, another scream tore through the darkness, a human sound that was quickly swallowed by the vast emptiness. Almost simultaneously, the sky above me was ablaze with light, a brief but intense illumination that cut through the night like a beacon. For a fleeting moment, the world around me was revealed in stark relief, allowing me to grasp my surroundings before darkness enveloped me once more.
Approaching the Portal, its giant screen flickered to life, casting an eerie glow over the desolate landscape. The screen was a tapestry of shifting images, each displaying a different location, all of them familiar; all but one. It was a surreal sight, the Portal's light casting long, dancing shadows across the ground, transforming the mundane into the otherworldly.
In the periphery of my vision, I spotted Paul and Glenda, their silhouettes etched against the luminous backdrop. Relief washed over me at the sight of them.
"Everyone okay?" My voice, steady yet laced with underlying concern, broke the eerie silence that had fallen over us.
"I think so," Paul's reply came, his voice a mix of relief and lingering tension.
"Good. I'm going in," I declared, my gaze fixated on the screen, on a location unfamiliar yet inexplicably compelling. My heart hammered against my ribcage, a frantic drumbeat echoing my turmoil. Every instinct screamed at me to halt, to retreat from the unknown that lay beyond the Portal. Yet, something deeper, a relentless curiosity or perhaps a foolhardy courage, propelled me forward.
Landing on the floor with a jarring thud, the shock of the impact reverberated through my body. I looked about, my eyes locking onto the movable whiteboard, a silent witness to my unexpected stumble. What the fuck! The thought ricocheted through my mind, a mix of confusion and disbelief at the surreal transition from the desert's chaos to this new, bizarre setting.
Pushing myself to my feet, I felt a twinge of pain in my knees, a dull ache that punctuated the abruptness of my arrival. My hands instinctively went to rub the soreness, a small, grounding action amid the whirlwind of change.
The room's atmosphere struck me next—a heavy, stifling air that clung to my nostrils and coated my throat. The smell was a potent cocktail of body odour and alcohol, a pungent reminder of human presence and excess. I held my breath, an instinctive attempt to ward off the invasive stench, but necessity forced me to exhale in a loud whoosh, the sound oddly loud in the enclosed space.
Dim lighting cast a gloomy pall over the room, shadows clinging to the corners like spectres. My eyes, however, were drawn to the unmistakable flicker of poker machines in the far corner, their garish lights a jarring contrast to the room's sombre ambiance. "Wrest Point Casino?" The words escaped my lips in a whisper, a tentative attempt to label the surreal tableau before me.
Turning slowly, my gaze swept across the room, taking in the details, the odd juxtaposition of the familiar and the outlandish. The room's only entrance—or exit—stood ominously ahead, a doorway to yet more uncertainty. With each breath, tinged with the room's oppressive air, the weight of my isolation and disorientation pressed closer, a tangible presence in the dimly lit, enigmatic space that now contained me.
My hand on the door handle was tentative, as if the cold metal could offer insight into the unknown beyond. When it refused to yield, a pulse of anxiety shot through me, the voices on the other side growing louder, more tangible. Leaning in, the door's chill seeped into my forehead as I strained to catch the words being exchanged.
"Let me talk to her," the assertiveness in the woman's voice was unmistakable, a command rather than a request.
"She's not ready," the response was equally firm, a deep voice laden with authority and a hint of protective caution.
The sudden clatter of the handle, an attempt from the other side to enter, sent me reeling back, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "Open the door, Charlie," the woman's voice intensified, her demand slicing through the mounting tension.
Panic and adrenaline surged within me, propelling me to turn towards the whiteboard, my unexpected portal to this perplexing situation. It's my only escape, the thought echoed in my head, a beacon of clarity amidst the confusion. Yet, as I moved to retreat, a new voice from the other side anchored me once more in hesitation.
"Sergeant Claiborne?" The inquiry, tinged with youthful uncertainty, seemed directed at the same deep-voiced individual, now identified as Sergeant Charlie Claiborne.
"What is it?" Claiborne's reply was terse, his attention momentarily diverted.
“Mr. James is on his way to the station,” the younger voice informed, adding another layer of complexity to the unfolding scenario.
The handle's jarring rattle resumed, more urgent this time. "Charlie. Now," the woman's insistence brooked no argument, her tone broaching a threshold of command.
"Shit," the curse slipped from me, a reflexive acknowledgment of the escalating situation. With the names and fragments of conversation swirling in my mind, forming a tapestry of urgency and authority, I made my decision. The whiteboard, my inadvertent conduit to this bewildering scene, beckoned as my sole avenue of escape. Without allowing myself another moment to doubt or deliberate, I activated my Portal and propelled myself towards it, the voices and their demands fading into the background as I sought refuge in escape.
The Portal's illumination fractured the darkness, a beacon in the unsettling stillness of the night. "Paul!" My voice, laced with a mix of relief and anxiety, pierced the air, seeking my brother in the uncertain shadows.
"We're almost at the Drop Zone," came Paul's voice, distant yet unmistakably steady.
Inhaling deeply, I braced myself against the wind's dusty fingers, its sting biting through my clothing. "I need to check the house. I'll be back soon," I declared, my voice carried away by the gusts. The necessity of uncovering who had tampered with the Portal, who had dared to mark Wrest Point as a destination, pressed heavily upon me. The possibility that my house had been a conduit for the intruder's escape—or worse, their current hideout—sent a wave of dread coursing through me.
Upon entering the study, where the Portal's vibrant hues had been my guiding light, a stark absence greeted me. The room was plunged into an unsettling gloom, the study light's failure casting ominous shadows across the walls. A visceral sense of wrongness enveloped me, the air thick with an unspoken menace.
Treading cautiously, I ventured into the hallway, each step measured, my senses heightened to every nuance of my surroundings. The overhead lights, ablaze in almost blinding contrast to the study's darkness, sent a ripple of confusion through me. Why are all the lights on?
The instinct to call out for Cody or Gladys surged within me, a natural impulse for familiarity in the face of the unknown. Yet, the realisation that the Portal's activation could signify the presence of an unfamiliar, potentially hostile entity, stifled the call before it could leave my lips.
A tremor of apprehension ran through me, the silence of the house now a foreboding echo chamber for my racing thoughts. They could be dangerous! The notion that an intruder might be lurking within these walls, an interloper from another time or place, ignited a primal alertness within me. With each shadow that flickered at the edge of my vision, with each creak and whisper of the house settling, the line between friend and foe, safety and peril, blurred, leaving me adrift in a sea of uncertainty and fear.
The acrid taste of acid clawed its way up my throat, a visceral reaction to the horror unfolding before me. With effort, I suppressed the urge to gag, forcing the bile back down. My eyes widened in shock, tracing the thin line of blood smeared across the hallway wall, a crimson breadcrumb trail leading towards the living room. Each step felt like wading through molasses, my body heavy with dread as I moved toward the doorway.
The living room, once a haven of tranquility, was now a tableau of chaos. The camping gear, items that I had still to take to Clivilius, were strewn about in disarray, their scattered arrangement speaking volumes of a struggle that had taken place. The disorder was a silent scream in the quiet of the room, each overturned item and displaced object narrating a tale of violence.
I navigated around the remnants of a shattered camping lantern, its broken pieces a reflection of the fragility of safety. My destination was the stairway door, marked by a sinister streak of blood on its edge—a macabre signpost guiding my reluctant advance.
Reaching the top landing, the brightness of the overhead lights assaulted my eyes, a stark contrast to the darkness of my thoughts. A chill breeze, uninvited and ominous, brushed against my skin, seeping through my clothes and sending a shiver down my spine. The open door at the bottom of the stairs loomed like a gaping maw, raising an unsettling question: Was its open state a sign of someone's hasty exit, or a harbinger of an unwelcome arrival?
My muscles coiled in anticipation, every sense heightened. The line between predator and prey felt blurred, and I stood at the threshold, caught in the liminal space between the known and the unknowable, grappling with the decision to descend into the belly of my own home, now transformed into an arena of uncertainty and fear.
With each step down the stairs, a cautious dance of silence and vigilance unfolded, my hands hovering beside me, wary of grazing the walls and betraying my presence with a whisper of sound. The descent felt interminable, each step laden with a growing sense of trepidation.
Reaching the lower level, I paused at the threshold of the downstairs room, the light within casting a bright illumination that seemed to bleed into the shadows where I stood. The open sliding door greeted me with a chilling tableau: the glass marred by a bloodied handprint, small and delicate, yet screaming of the chaos that had passed through here.
Compelled by a mix of dread and determination, I approached the door, examining the print with a detective's scrutiny. A small hand—its implications spiralling in my mind, intertwining with the fragments of the night’s unsettling discoveries.
Stepping out into the biting cold, the wintry air seized my lungs, the mist of my breath a ghostly exhalation in the night's embrace. A hush enveloped the surroundings, an oppressive silence that heightened the sense of isolation. The absence of sound, rather than providing solace, amplified my unease—instinct whispering that the perpetrator of this night's turmoil had vanished into the darkness.
Retreating back inside, I secured the door with a resolute clack of the bolt, a feeble barrier against the night's shadows and their unseen threats. The sudden creak of floorboards above jolted me, an unsettling reminder that the house, with its echoing spaces and hidden corners, might hold more secrets yet to be unveiled.
My body tensed, a visceral response to the sound from above. For a fleeting moment, my legs betrayed me, a tremble of fear mingling with the cold that seeped into my bones.
Turning back to the door, my hand reached for the lock, a gesture of security in the face of unsettling possibilities. The small handprint, the casino… these fragments of the night wove together into a tapestry of intrigue and danger, each thread pulling me deeper into the mystery that had invaded my sanctuary, leaving me to stand at the crossroads of fear and the imperative to uncover the truth.
My ascent up the stairs was fuelled by a cocktail of adrenaline and dread, each step deliberate, each breath a silent whisper against the cloak of tension that enveloped the house. As I edged toward the living room, the anticipation was a tangible force, a prelude to the disarray I feared awaited.
The scene that unfolded before me was one of stark, jarring incongruity. Beatrix, her figure striking against the mundane backdrop of the kitchen, was a vision of dishevelled distress. Her red dress, once elegant, now hung in tatters, the fabric torn as if in a desperate struggle. Barefoot, she stood amidst the chaos, an island of turmoil in the stillness of the room. The flex-cuffs binding her wrists added a surreal touch to the tableau, a sinister reminder of the violence that had permeated the sanctuary of my home.
"Beatrix! What the fuck happened?" The words tumbled from my lips, a mix of horror and incredulity at her plight. Her presence, so out of place yet undeniably real, anchored the night's surreal events into a chilling reality.
Approaching her, I noted the paradox of her fragility and the latent threat she embodied, clutching the large knife with a desperation that belied her weakened state. Blood, oozing in a steady trickle down her arm, painted a macabre picture, droplets falling in a morbid rhythm onto the pristine tiles.
Her reaction to my approach was visceral. The knife in her grip became an extension of her will, her knuckles blanching to a ghostly pallor as she clung to it with a survivor's tenacity. Her breathing, ragged and laboured, grew more pronounced, a testament to her distress and the exertion of maintaining her defensive stance.
"Don't turn off the lights," she hissed, the words slicing through the tension-laden air, her voice a blend of command and pleading. Through her gritted teeth, the phrase carried an undercurrent of unspoken fear, a clue to the unseen horrors that had driven her to this state.
With a mixture of urgency and care, I coaxed the knife from Beatrix's unyielding grip, her fingers reluctantly unfurling as the weapon clattered to the floor, its ominous presence finally subdued. Turning my attention to her bindings, I retrieved scissors from the top drawer, their blades dull and uncooperative against the stubborn flex-cuffs. My efforts to cut through the synthetic material were frustratingly futile, the scissors barely making a dent.
"Use a lighter. It’s easier if you melt them,” Beatrix's voice was a whisper, yet it cut through the tension with a suggestion that spoke of a troubling familiarity. I paused, the implication of her words not lost on me.
Following her advice, I found a gas lighter and applied its flame to the cuffs. The material yielded to the heat, the bonds weakening under the steady application of the flame, a testament to Beatrix's unexpected knowledge.
"You came from the casino, didn't you?" I probed, breaking the cuffs' last resistant band and discarding them onto the bench. Her slow, sombre nod in response was a confirmation, a piece of the puzzle falling into place.
Yet, as a torrent of questions threatened to spill forth, I caught myself. Observing Beatrix, I noted the tremors racking her frame, the way her eyes remained wide and unblinking, the sheen of perspiration on her skin. She's in shock, the realisation hit me.
Ensuring our immediate safety, however fragile, became my priority. "I'm just going to lock the door to the stairs," I announced to Beatrix, trying to mask the unease I felt about the lock's reliability. Its frailty was not lost on me; it was more a psychological barrier than a physical one, its real utility being the warning its breaking would provide rather than any real impediment to entry.
With that task momentarily appeasing my need for security, I double-checked the front door, finding solace in its steadfast lock. Yet, the comfort was superficial, overshadowed by the uncertainty of what—or who—we were safeguarding ourselves against.
Returning to Beatrix, the urgency to understand her ordeal pressed heavily on me. "Beatrix, what the fuck happened to you?" My question, repeated in the hope of eliciting more detail, carried a weight of concern and a hint of desperation for clarity.
Her response was as unexpected as it was cryptic. "I'm cursed," she murmured, a statement so laden with resignation and fear that it sent a chill down my spine. The gravity of her claim was accentuated by her next action; she reached into the sanctuary of her dress, retrieving a small, enigmatic object. As she unveiled it, resting in the centre of her palm, the air between us seemed to charge with tension.
I gasped, the sight striking a chord of recognition and alarm within me. A Portal Key! The implications were vast, its presence a harbinger of deeper, more intricate mysteries. "Where did you get that?" The question leaped from me, a mix of awe and fear colouring my tone.
Beatrix's breakdown was a stark contrast to the composed demeanour she typically projected. As her tears flowed freely, a vulnerability seldom seen, she crumbled to the floor, her body heaving with sobs that echoed the turmoil within.
"It's all my fault!" Her admission was a raw, pained cry, laden with guilt and despair.
"What's your fault?" My query was gentle, an attempt to coax the story from her, to understand the depth of her distress. I crouched before her, trying to offer a semblance of comfort or at least a willing ear in her moment of unravelling.
"They have Jarod!" Her words struck a chord, pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. The memory of the earlier conversation outside the door resurfaced—Mr. James is on his way to the station. The connection was clear now: Jarod James, entangled with Beatrix in their ill-conceived escapades at the casino.
I rose, my gaze drifting to the remnants of the flex-cuffs on the bench, symbols of the night's chaotic events. "You both got caught stealing casino chips again, didn't you?" The pieces fell together, forming a narrative of desperation and folly that was all too familiar with their past exploits.
"Yes," she sobbed, her confession mingling with the weight of her tears.
I took a deep breath. I assumed the device was how she managed to escape the locked room. "But where did the Portal Key come from?" I asked her.
Beatrix’s face, streaked with the dark trails of her mascara, was a canvas of fear, uncertainty, and desperation. The way her eyes flickered, weighing the risks of her words, hinted at a deeper, more perilous narrative intertwined with the Portal Key.
"From the same person who gave you yours," she revealed, a statement that sent a jolt of shock through me. The implication that our fates were linked by the same mysterious benefactor of these powerful devices was both unsettling and revealing.
My astonishment was evident. "You know who gave me mine?" The question sprang from me, driven by a surge of curiosity and an undercurrent of apprehension about the implications of her knowledge.
Beatrix's nod was a silent confirmation.
"Who?" I pressed, the need for answers overshadowing the caution that perhaps should have tempered my demand.
Her refusal was emphatic, her head shaking in a gesture of adamant denial. "Beatrix, I need to know," I insisted, my voice a blend of frustration and desperation, seeking to pierce the veil she was determined to maintain around the truth.
"No!" The forcefulness of her response startled me, a clear indication of the gravity she attributed to the situation. "I can't tell you. It's too dangerous, Luke."
As I reached for the tea towel, my hands moved with a purpose, trying to offer some semblance of aid in a situation that was quickly spiralling beyond my understanding. Gently, I dabbed at the blood trickling from the lacerations on Beatrix's leg and arm, each stain a sordid reminder of the night's surreal horrors.
"Were you injured at the casino?" I inquired, my eyes briefly meeting the wounds as I spoke.
Her reaction was immediate, her eyes expanding with a resurgence of fear, a clear indicator that the origins of her injuries were far from the straightforward mishaps of a casino heist gone wrong. "No," she whispered, her voice laced with a tremor of dread.
"Then what happened?" I urged, my voice steady yet filled with a growing unease, sensing the gravity of what she might reveal.
Her next words sent a chill down my spine. "It first attacked me in… in Clivilius," she confessed, hinting at a terror that transcended our immediate surroundings.
"First attack?" I echoed, my mind racing to piece together the implications. "It attacked you again? Here?" The thought of a creature from Clivilius, capable of such violence, lurking in our midst was profoundly unsettling.
"Yes," she affirmed, her confirmation succinct, yet loaded with ominous undertones.
"But how?" The question slipped from me, a whisper into the void of my understanding.
"I think it followed me through the Portal."
I could feel my heart pounding. How is that even possible?
Her description of the creature was scant but terrifying—a blur of darkness and speed, an entity of such otherworldly nature that it seemed more a figment of nightmarish fantasy than a tangible threat. And yet, the evidence of its existence was irrefutably etched in the wounds Beatrix bore and the fear that clung to her words.
“And it doesn't like the light," Beatrix finished.
"That explains all the lights on, then," I murmured, connecting her aversion to darkness with the illuminated house that now felt more like a beacon of safety than ever before.
"Its eyes looked so dead," she added, a detail that painted a vivid picture of the creature's malevolence, adding a layer of personal horror to the unfolding mystery.
A shudder coursed through me, a visceral reaction to the realisation that we were now facing a threat of unknown origins and capabilities. The creature, with its dead eyes and aversion to light, seemed like something ripped from a tale of dark fantasy, yet its impact was all too real, its presence a shadow cast over our reality. The gravity of our situation was overwhelming—caught in a maelstrom of inter-dimensional peril, we were pitted against a darkness that defied comprehension. This can't be good, the thought echoed ominously, a stark understatement of the dire circumstances we found ourselves in.
Determined to address Beatrix's immediate needs while grappling with the broader crisis at hand, I steadied my voice, infused with a mix of resolve and urgency. "We need to get your wounds dressed properly," I insisted, gently coaxing her to rise.
Her voice, tinged with a vulnerability that cut through the tension, admitted a fear that transcended physical harm. "I don't want to go home," she confided, her words echoing the depth of her dread.
Understanding her apprehension, I assured her, "I'm not taking you home," as I initiated the Portal, the familiar hum and glow casting an otherworldly light against the living room wall. Beatrix's gasp, laden with fear and awe, resonated in the charged air.
"I can't," Beatrix protested, her concern for Jarod forefront in her mind. "Jarod's in trouble. I need to find Leigh."
Seizing upon her mention of Leigh, I sought clarification, another piece of the puzzle falling into place. "Leigh? He gave you the Portal Key, didn't he?"
Her admission came with a reluctant bite of her lip. "Yes."
My next question was laced with skepticism, born of experience with the elusive Cody. "Do you know how to contact him?" The logistics of reaching someone as enigmatic as Leigh, especially in our dire circumstances, seemed unlikely.
Beatrix's affirmative response, simple yet laden with significance, offered a glimmer of hope amidst my uncertainty. "Yes."
"And you trust him?" I pressed.
"I do."
Resolved, I laid out our course of action, a plan that balanced urgency with the need for safety. "Then find Leigh. Make sure you are somewhere safe and tell me when you get there. I'll meet you and help you get Jarod." My gaze swept the room, taking in the scattered camping supplies. "I need to get these to the settlement first. I won't be long."
Beatrix's nod was a silent pact.
Picking up an unbroken light, a tangible symbol of our tenuous grasp on safety, I was halted by Beatrix's voice, a thread of urgency weaving through her words. "Luke," she called, anchoring me to the spot with the gravity of her tone.
As I pivoted to face her, her next revelation added another layer of complication to our already fraught situation. "I lost my phone in Clivilius."
"Shit," I said. “I'll see if I can find it.” I turned my attention to the camping lantern in my hand. "Any idea how to get this thing working?" I inquired, hoping against hope that the light could offer me a shred of security, a beacon in the enveloping darkness of Clivilius.
Her shrug was a silent testament to our shared uncertainty, prompting another expletive to escape my lips. "Shit," I swore again.
A deep growl, resonating with primal ferocity, reverberated through the still air outside the front door. The sound was not just heard; it was felt, vibrating through the very foundation of the house and into the soles of my feet. In unison, Beatrix and I froze, our gazes locked onto the ominous barrier that separated us from whatever monstrosity lurked beyond. My heart pounded like a frantic drum in my chest, echoing the terror that flashed in our eyes. We were statues, carved from blocks of fear, neither of us daring to move a muscle or even draw a breath too loudly.
Breaking the spell of paralysing fear, a surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins. It wasn't bravery that moved me, but a desperate need to confront our reality. I took a careful, deliberate step toward the front door, each movement measured to avoid any sound that could betray my presence.
"What the fuck are you doing, Luke?" Beatrix's voice was a sharp hiss. She pressed her back hard against the pantry, as if trying to meld with the shadows, her eyes wide with a blend of fear and disbelief.
Raising a finger to my lips, I demanded silence with a stern, almost frantic gesture. My heart was a hammer against my ribcage, but I needed to focus, to be the eyes for both of us. With two fingers, I pointed at my eyes, then toward the door, signalling my intent to scout for any sign of the creature.
Despite her vehement head shake, a silent plea for me to reconsider, Beatrix's fear couldn't sway my resolve. There was a grim determination beneath my fear, a resolve to steal a glance at whatever nightmare hunted us.
Another growl, this one closer, more menacing, erupted from the other side of the door. It was a sound that seemed to crawl under our skin, making Beatrix jump and a shiver race down my spine. Yet, it only propelled me forward, each slow, cautious step bringing me closer to the unknown.
As I inched toward the front door, the air grew thick with tension, a palpable force that seemed to squeeze around my chest. My mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last, but I pushed them aside. I had to see, to know, to protect.
Heart thumping in my chest, a relentless drum of fear and adrenaline, I could feel the surge of my blood, a tumultuous river, echoing in my head. With hands trembling slightly, betraying my apprehension, I pressed my palms against the cool, solid surface of the door. The wood felt almost alive, a barrier pulsating with the unseen terror that lurked just beyond.
Leaning in, I pressed an eye to the peephole, the tiny glass lens my only window to the outside world. My breath caught, a stifled gasp of shock and fear, as the sight that met my gaze was one of night-terrors. "Shit!" The word burst from me, a reflexive exclamation as I stumbled backward, an instinctive retreat from the horror that had filled my vision.
My hasty movement caused me to slam into the entryway wall behind me with a jarring thud, mirroring the sickening impact of the creature against the door. The sound was a gruesome symphony of dread, the thumping of my heart now indistinguishable from the violent collisions echoing through the house.
"Luke!" Beatrix's scream sliced through the chaos, a sharp note of panic. I watched, with a mix of horror and admiration, as she rushed forward, her movements swift and decisive. Her hand clasped around the knife on the kitchen bench, the metal glinting ominously under the bright lights. It was a small gesture of defiance, a slender hope against the encroaching darkness.
In a single, fluid motion, driven by a surge of desperate courage, I pushed myself off the wall. My body acted on its own accord, propelled by the primal need to protect, to fight. Lunging toward the door, my hand found the front porch light switch, a flicker of strategy amidst the frenzy. The light, I hoped, would be an ally, a beacon to repel the darkness and the creature it concealed.
A painful howl erupted as the light bathed the porch, a sound that tore through the night with its intensity. It was followed by the chilling cacophony of sharp claws scraping against concrete, a visceral reminder of the threat just beyond the door. The sound was not just a noise; it was a tangible expression of our fear, etching itself into the very air we breathed.
In those moments, the world seemed to shrink to just the room, the door, and the unspeakable terror outside. Every sense was heightened, every shadow a spectre, every sound a potential harbinger of our demise. Yet, amidst the fear, there was a strange clarity, a sharpened focus born from the instinct to survive.
Daring to take another peek, my heart lodged firmly in my throat, I pressed my eye against the peephole once more. The world through this tiny glass lens seemed vast and unpredictable. My body tensed, ready to recoil at the slightest hint of danger, but what I found was an empty porch, the threat momentarily vanished.
"It's gone," I whispered, the relief in my voice mingling with an undercurrent of lingering fear. Hurrying over to Beatrix, I grabbed her by the arm, my grip firm yet infused with a tremulous urgency. "Come on, we need to get out of here," I urged, my mind racing with plans of escape, of finding safety beyond these confining walls.
"Luke," Beatrix's voice was a whisper, laden with a weight that pulled at the very air around us. "What the fuck have we done?" Her words hung between us, a brutal reminder of choices made and their unfathomable consequences.
I stared into Beatrix's eyes, pools brimming with fear and unshed tears, reflecting the mayhem and uncertainty that had engulfed our lives. Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her close, an attempt to shield her, to offer a semblance of comfort in a world that had tilted on its axis. "It's going to be okay," I whispered against her hair, my voice steady but my heart betraying me. I didn't believe my own words, each syllable a fragile shard of hope in the overwhelming darkness.
Our inability to move, to take the steps necessary for our escape, anchored us to the spot. We sat together on the cold kitchen tiles.
Silence enveloped us, a thick, palpable entity that seemed to consume the remnants of our resolve. We sat, lost in our own tumultuous thoughts, as the night stretched on, a canvas of shadows and whispered fears. The wait for the sunrise became our shared vigil, a silent plea for a new day, for a glimmer of light in the pervasive darkness, for a chance to mend the fractures in our reality.
My head jolted suddenly, a reflex that snapped me out of the unintended slumber. The transition from the murky depths of sleep to the harsh light of reality was abrupt, leaving me momentarily disoriented. My movement, sharp against the stillness that had enveloped us, caused Beatrix to stir beside me. She lifted her head, her hair tousled, eyes blinking away the remnants of her own brief escape into sleep, from where she had found temporary refuge on my shoulder.
The living room was touched by the first gentle rays of sunlight, slicing through the blinds and casting a pattern of light and shadow across the room. This new day brought with it a haunting realisation, crashing into my consciousness with the force of a car slamming into a brick wall at full speed. My eyes, reflecting the dawn's light, widened with a resurgence of fear, hinting that our ordeal was far from over.
"You said this creature followed you from Clivilius?" The question spilled from my lips, heavy with grave implication. I needed to understand, to piece together the events that had led us here, to grasp the full scope of the danger we faced.
"Yes," Beatrix replied, her voice a soft echo of defeat.
"Fuck!" The expletive burst from me, a raw expression of the frustration and fear churning inside. The camp! The thought struck me with the urgency of a thunderbolt. In a surge of energy fuelled by adrenaline and desperation, I sprung to my feet. The room suddenly felt like a cage, its walls closing in, suffocating in their inability to protect us from the horrors outside.
In an instant, I set the living room wall ablaze with technicolor, an eruption of colours that swirled and danced across the surface, a chaotic symphony of light. And then, just as suddenly, I disappeared, the vibrant display of colours vanishing behind me, leaving behind a room touched by the first light of dawn and the lingering echo of our fears.
