Every Light On

"There's a particular kind of fear that comes from learning you were never the only one—that the secret you thought made you special was handed to someone else entirely."

I landed on the floor with a jarring impact that rattled my teeth and sent shockwaves up through my spine. My palms slapped against cold flooring, the sting immediate and grounding. For a disorienting moment, I couldn't reconcile where I was—one second the Clivilius night had been swallowing me whole, and now I was sprawled on an indoor floor, staring at the wheels of a movable whiteboard.

What the fuck!

The thought ricocheted through my skull as I pushed myself upright, my knees protesting with a dull ache that would leave bruises by morning. My hands went instinctively to rub the soreness, a small grounding gesture amid the whirlwind of impossible transitions.

Then the smell hit me.

The room's atmosphere was thick enough to chew—a heavy, stifling miasma that invaded my nostrils and coated the back of my throat like oil. Body odour and alcohol, layered and pungent, the particular reek of too many people in too small a space for too many hours. I held my breath in instinctive defence, but necessity forced the exhale eventually—a loud whoosh that seemed to echo in the enclosed space.

Dim lighting cast everything in shades of grey and shadow, but my eyes caught the unmistakable flicker of poker machines in the far corner. Their garish lights pulsed with the hypnotic rhythm designed to keep gamblers feeding coins, a jarring contrast to the room's otherwise sombre atmosphere.

"Wrest Point Casino?" The words escaped as a whisper, my brain grasping for any framework that might explain how I'd gone from alien desert to Hobart's landmark gambling venue.

I turned slowly, cataloguing details with the desperate attention of someone trying to construct meaning from chaos. The room's only visible exit—a heavy door—stood ahead, promising more uncertainty beyond its frame. Each breath I took was tainted with the room's oppressive air, the weight of my isolation and disorientation pressing closer with every passing second.

My hand found the door handle, the metal cold against my palm. When it refused to yield, anxiety spiked through my chest—but worse than the locked door were the voices bleeding through from the other side. Leaning in, I pressed my forehead against the cold surface, straining to catch the words.

"Let me talk to her," a woman's voice demanded, assertive enough to be a command rather than request.

"She's not ready," came the response—deep, authoritative, carrying the particular weight of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

The handle rattled suddenly from the other side, and I stumbled backward, heart hammering. "Open the door, Charlie," the woman insisted, her voice sharp enough to cut.

Panic and adrenaline surged through me. I spun toward the whiteboard—my accidental portal to this bewildering situation. It's my only escape. The thought blazed through the chaos of my mind. But before I could move, another voice from beyond the door anchored me in hesitation.

"Sergeant Claiborne?" The inquiry was young, uncertain, directed at the deep-voiced man.

"What is it?" Claiborne's reply was terse, attention diverted.

"Mr. James is on his way to the station."

The handle rattled again, more urgent. "Charlie. Now." The woman's insistence had crossed some threshold—this was no longer request but ultimatum.

"Shit," I breathed, the curse reflexive. Names and fragments swirled through my mind—Sergeant Charlie Claiborne, Mr. James, a woman demanding access to someone. The tapestry of their urgency pressed against me, but I had no time to understand it. The whiteboard beckoned, my sole avenue of escape. Without allowing myself another moment to doubt, I activated my Portal Key and threw myself toward the swirling colours.

The Portal's illumination fractured the Clivilius darkness, and I emerged gasping into the settlement's night air. "Paul!" My voice cracked with relief and residual panic.

"We're almost at the Drop Zone," Paul's voice returned from somewhere in the gloom.

I inhaled deeply, bracing against the wind's gritty fingers as dust bit through my clothing. "I need to check the house. I'll be back soon." The necessity of understanding who had tampered with my Portal—who had added Wrest Point Casino as a destination—pressed against my chest like a physical weight. The possibility that my home had been a conduit for the intruder's escape, or worse, their current hideout, sent dread coursing through my veins.

The study was dark when I stepped through.

Not merely dim—utterly black, the study light having failed in ways that felt deliberate rather than coincidental. The Portal's fading glow offered momentary illumination before abandoning me to the shadows. A visceral sense of wrongness wrapped around me, the air thick with something I couldn't name but could absolutely feel.

I moved into the hallway with measured steps, every sense straining. The contrast hit me immediately—the overhead lights blazing with almost aggressive brightness, a stark counterpoint to the study's darkness. Why are all the lights on?

The instinct to call out for Cody or Gladys surged within me, a natural reach for familiarity. But the realisation that the Portal's activation might mean something hostile, something unknown, strangled the words before they could form.

They could be dangerous.

The thought crystallised as I moved deeper into my own home, which suddenly felt like enemy territory. Every shadow flickered at the edge of my vision. Every creak of settling floorboards sent my heart rate spiking.

Then I saw the blood.

The acrid taste of bile clawed up my throat, and I fought to suppress the gag reflex. My eyes traced the thin smear across the hallway wall—a crimson trail leading toward the living room, each streak a breadcrumb marking someone's desperate path. My feet felt weighted with concrete as I forced myself forward.

The living room had been transformed into a battlefield's aftermath. Camping gear—supplies I still hadn't yet transported to Clivilius—lay scattered in violent disarray. Overturned chairs, scattered equipment, a tableau of struggle that screamed silently of violence that had occurred while I'd been safely elsewhere.

I navigated around the remnants of a shattered camping lantern, glass shards glinting like teeth in the too-bright light. The stairway door drew my attention—marked by a sinister streak of blood on its edge, a macabre signpost I had no choice but to follow.

At the top landing, brightness assaulted my eyes whilst a chill breeze—uninvited and ominous—brushed against my skin. The door at the bottom of the stairs stood open, a gaping question: Was this someone's hasty exit, or their arrival?

I descended with excruciating care, each step a negotiation between silence and speed. My hands hovered at my sides, wary of touching walls that might betray my presence with even a whisper of sound.

The lower level greeted me with the sliding door standing open—and the glass marred by a bloodied handprint. Small. Delicate. Yet screaming of the chaos that had passed through here.

I approached, examining the print with growing horror. A small hand. The implications spiralled through my mind, connecting nothing and everything.

Stepping outside, the winter air seized my lungs with icy fingers. The mist of my breath ghosted in the darkness, and the silence pressed against my eardrums like pressure at depth. Nothing moved. No sound disturbed the night.

They're gone.

I retreated inside and secured the door, the bolt's click a feeble reassurance. Then—a creak of floorboards from above.

My body tensed, legs trembling despite every effort to control them. Someone was still here. Something was still here.

I climbed the stairs with my heart trying to escape through my throat.

The kitchen tableau stopped me dead.

Beatrix stood amidst the chaos, her figure striking against the mundane backdrop in ways that made my brain stutter. Her red dress—something elegant, something expensive—hung in tatters, fabric torn as though in desperate struggle. She was barefoot, wild-eyed, flex-cuffs binding her wrists in front of her. Blood trickled down her arm in a steady stream, droplets falling to the tiles in a rhythm that seemed almost musical in its regularity.

And in her bound hands, she clutched a large kitchen knife with the desperate intensity of someone for whom that blade represented the only barrier between life and death.

"Beatrix! What the fuck happened?" The words tumbled out, horror and disbelief colliding.

Her reaction to my approach was visceral—the knife rising, her knuckles blanching white as she gripped it tighter. Her breathing grew ragged, laboured, the sound of someone who'd been running on adrenaline for too long and was nearing collapse.

"Don't turn off the lights," she hissed through gritted teeth, the command carrying equal parts pleading and terror. The words weren't casual—they were survival instructions, wrung from whatever nightmare she'd endured.

I moved carefully, coaxing the knife from her grip with gentle persistence until her fingers finally unfurled and the blade clattered to the floor. The flex-cuffs were next—I retrieved scissors from the drawer, but the blades were dull, barely scratching the synthetic material no matter how I worked them.

"Use a lighter. It's easier if you melt them." Beatrix's whisper carried troubling familiarity with such restraints.

I found a gas lighter and applied flame to the cuffs. The material yielded slowly, weakening under sustained heat until I could snap the final band.

"You came from the casino, didn't you?" The pieces were assembling themselves.

Her slow, sombre nod confirmed it.

Questions crowded my throat, but I caught myself. Looking at her—the tremors wracking her frame, the wide unblinking eyes, the sheen of sweat despite the cold—I recognised shock when I saw it. Pushing her now would break whatever fragile hold she maintained on herself.

"I'm just going to lock the door to the stairs," I told her, moving to secure what meagre barriers I could. The lock was flimsy—more warning system than actual impediment—but its presence offered psychological comfort if nothing else.

The front door, at least, was properly secured. Small mercies.

Returning to Beatrix, I pressed again. "Beatrix, what the fuck happened to you?"

Her answer was not what I expected.

"I'm cursed," she murmured, resignation and fear saturating every syllable. Then she reached into the remnants of her dress and withdrew a small object, holding it in her palm for me to see.

I gasped. My lungs forgot how to function.

A Portal Key.

"Where did you get that?" The question leapt from me before thought could moderate it.

Beatrix's composure—what remained of it—shattered completely. Tears streamed down her face, cutting tracks through smeared makeup, as she crumbled to the floor. Her body heaved with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her chest.

"It's all my fault!" The admission was raw, pained, guilt and despair given voice.

"What's your fault?" I crouched before her, desperate to understand.

"They have Jarod!" The name clicked into place—Mr. James is on his way to the station. Jarod James. Beatrix's partner in whatever ill-conceived casino scheme had landed them both in this nightmare.

I rose, my gaze falling on the discarded flex-cuffs. "You both got caught stealing casino chips again, didn't you?"

"Yes," she sobbed, confirmation soaked in tears.

I took a deep breath. The Portal Key in her palm caught the light—evidence that I wasn't the only one navigating between worlds. "But where did the Portal Key come from?"

Beatrix's face, streaked with mascara trails like dark tears, was a canvas of fear and desperation. Her eyes flickered, weighing something I couldn't see.

"From the same person who gave you yours."

The implication that our fates were linked by the same mysterious benefactor—that someone had been distributing these impossible devices to multiple people—sent shock cascading through my system.

"You know who gave me mine?" The question sprang from me, driven by sudden, desperate need.

Beatrix's nod was confirmation.

"Who?"

Her head shook, adamant refusal replacing her earlier vulnerability. "Beatrix, I need to know."

"No!" The force of her response startled me. "I can't tell you. It's too dangerous, Luke."

I reached for a tea towel, dabbing at the lacerations on her leg and arm. Each stain was a reminder of the night's horrors, whatever had transpired before I'd found her. "Were you injured at the casino?"

Her eyes widened with resurgent terror. "No," she whispered.

"Then what happened?"

"It first attacked me in… in Clivilius."

The words sent ice through my veins. "First attack? It attacked you again? Here?"

"Yes."

"But how?"

"I think it followed me through the Portal."

My heart hammered against my ribs. How is that even possible? How could something living simply... follow?

Her description came in fragments—a blur of darkness and speed, an entity that seemed more nightmare than creature. Something that moved too fast to see clearly, something with an otherness that defied rational explanation.

"And it doesn't like the light," Beatrix finished.

I looked around the blazing room, understanding crystallising. "That explains all the lights on, then."

"Its eyes looked so dead," she added, and the detail painted a picture I desperately wished I couldn't visualise.

A shudder coursed through me—visceral, uncontrollable. We were facing something from another world, something that had crossed dimensions in pursuit of prey. This can't be good felt like the understatement of several lifetimes.

"We need to get your wounds dressed properly," I said, forcing practicality into my voice as I helped her rise.

"I don't want to go home," she whispered, vulnerability cutting through everything else.

"I'm not taking you home." I initiated the Portal, the familiar hum and glow painting the living room wall in impossible colours. Beatrix gasped, fear and awe mingling in the sound.

"I can't," she protested. "Jarod's in trouble. I need to find Leigh."

The name snagged my attention. "Leigh? He gave you the Portal Key, didn't he?"

Her lip caught between her teeth before she answered. "Yes."

"Do you know how to contact him?" The logistics of reaching someone who could distribute Portal Keys seemed impossibly complicated.

"Yes."

"And you trust him?"

"I do."

I laid out our course, a plan that balanced urgency with survival. "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 scattered camping supplies. "I need to get these to the settlement first. I won't be long."

Beatrix nodded, a silent pact sealed between us.

I picked up an unbroken lantern, then stopped at her voice. "Luke." The weight in her tone anchored me.

"I lost my phone in Clivilius."

"Shit." Another complication. "I'll see if I can find it." I turned my attention to the camping lantern. "Any idea how to get this thing working?"

Her shrug was answer enough. "Shit," I repeated.

Then the growl came.

Deep and primal, it resonated through the night air from just beyond the front door—a sound that wasn't merely heard but felt, vibrating through the house's foundation and up through the soles of my feet. Beatrix and I froze simultaneously, our gazes locking onto the door that suddenly seemed far too thin a barrier.

My heart became a war drum, each beat echoing the terror that flashed between us. We were statues carved from fear, neither daring to breathe too loudly.

Something broke in me—not courage exactly, but a desperate need to know what we faced. I took a careful step toward the door.

"What the fuck are you doing, Luke?" Beatrix's voice was a sharp hiss. She pressed against the pantry as though trying to melt into the shadows, eyes wide with disbelief.

I raised a finger to my lips, demanding silence. With two fingers, I pointed at my eyes, then toward the door—I need to see.

Her head shook violently, a silent plea for sanity. But sanity had abandoned this night hours ago.

Another growl—closer, more menacing—erupted from beyond the door. Beatrix jumped. Something cold raced down my spine. But the sound only propelled me forward, each slow step bringing me closer to whatever nightmare awaited.

The air thickened with every inch I advanced, tension becoming almost tangible around my chest. My mind raced through possibilities, each more terrifying than the last.

I pressed my palms against the door's cool surface, the wood almost vibrating with the presence beyond. Leaning in, I pressed one eye to the peephole.

The sight that met my gaze was torn from fever dreams.

"Shit!" The word exploded from me as I stumbled backward, my body's retreat faster than thought. I slammed into the entryway wall, the impact jarring through my shoulder and spine—and almost simultaneously, something massive crashed against the door from outside.

"Luke!" Beatrix's scream sliced through the chaos. She was moving before I could respond, her hand closing around the kitchen knife she'd dropped earlier, metal glinting under the blazing lights.

Adrenaline and desperate strategy collided in my brain. I pushed off the wall, lunging for the front porch light switch. My fingers found it, flipped it—

A howl of pain tore the night apart.

The sound was followed immediately by the scrape of claws against concrete—sharp, rapid, retreating. Whatever was out there, the light had driven it back.

I dared another look through the peephole, heart lodged in my throat, body tensed to flee.

The porch was empty.

"It's gone," I whispered, relief threading through the words. I grabbed Beatrix's arm, grip urgent. "Come on, we need to get out of here."

"Luke," she breathed, and the weight in her voice stopped me cold. "What the fuck have we done?"

I stared into her eyes—pools brimming with fear and tears, reflecting the chaos that had consumed our night. The question hung between us, unanswerable. I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her trembling frame.

"It's going to be okay," I whispered against her hair.

I didn't believe it. Not even slightly.

We couldn't make ourselves move. The escape we'd planned felt impossible now—every shadow a threat, every sound a potential harbinger. Instead, we sank to the cold kitchen tiles together, backs against the cabinets, shoulders touching.

Silence wrapped around us, thick and consuming. We sat lost in our own tumultuous thoughts as the night stretched on, a canvas of shadows and whispered fears.

We waited for sunrise.

It felt like waiting for absolution that might never come.