Groceries and Ghosts

“It’s the ordinary things that betray you—the knock on the door, the neighbour’s glance, a bag of groceries too heavy for tired arms.”

"Far out!" The exclamation burst from me as I sprang back off the couch, my fleeting hope of rest shattered. The cushions, still indented from my weight, had barely begun to cradle me when the doorbell cut through the silence. For a split second, the thought of surrendering to sleep had teased me, that seductive pull of escape, but the illusion was short-lived.

The couch had promised comfort—a momentary reprieve from the aches that throbbed through my body like the aftershocks of some personal earthquake. The boxes of shelving had been punishing in their bulk, awkward in their weight, forcing muscles long unused to real strain into reluctant service. My arms still burned from the lifting, and the stiff pull across my shoulders radiated into the base of my neck with every movement.

The Clivilius sun had been no kinder. It had pressed down on me all afternoon, an unrelenting tyrant overhead that seemed to take personal offence at human endeavour. Sweat had soaked through my shirt, leaving salt trails across the fabric like the remnants of some failed expedition, and every motion had been dogged by that heavy, sluggish fatigue that comes when heat drains not just the body but the will to keep moving.

With a heavy sigh that came from deeper than my lungs, I pushed myself upright, joints creaking faintly in sympathy with my exhaustion. Each step toward the front door carried a reluctance, as though my body conspired to remind me of its limits with every movement.

And then I opened it.

The sight that greeted me at the end of the driveway was almost laughable in its timing—a small Coles truck, parked neatly as if to mock me with another responsibility I had forgotten I’d actually asked for. The corporate red and white branding blared against the otherwise ordinary suburban street, cheerful and oblivious to everything that had happened in this driveway over the past twenty-four hours.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, my pulse still racing from the abrupt interruption, staring at the truck like it was both enemy and ally. Another task, another interruption, another weight to carry. The day refused to let me go. The universe seemed determined to pile obligation upon obligation until I collapsed under the accumulated weight of it all.

"Delivery for Luke Smith," the delivery man announced, his voice carrying the bored cadence of repetition, as though he had said the same words a hundred times already today. He extended the handheld device toward me, the faint beep of its screen cutting through the still air.

"Yeah, thanks," I replied, forcing my tone into something that resembled gratitude, though my body sagged with fatigue. The words scraped out of me like a rehearsed line, a mask over the exhaustion gnawing at my edges. "Just leave the bags by the front door, and I'll take them inside myself." My voice cracked slightly, betraying the weight of the day, and I silently hoped he would take the hint—that this exchange was to be quick, functional, nothing more.

I didn't want him inside. Didn't want anyone inside. The house felt too full of secrets right now, too charged with the residue of everything that had happened. The safe in the wardrobe, the stain on the driveway, the absence of Jamie and the dogs—all of it felt visible somehow, as though anyone who crossed the threshold would immediately sense that something was wrong.

"Not a problem," the man answered, his professionalism steady, indifferent to the storm brewing behind my eyes. He bent to his task without fuss, shoulders flexing beneath the crisp polo of his uniform as he began unloading the order.

Each bag he placed down seemed to mock me with its quiet insistence—another load to carry, another reminder of my day's unrelenting cycle of strain. As I bent to pick them up, the plastic cut into my fingers, the weight dragging on already aching arms. It was ridiculous, really—these bags were nothing compared to heavy boxes of shelving—but still, the act of lifting felt symbolic, as though my life had condensed itself into one long series of burdens to haul inside.

Groceries. I'd ordered groceries online last night. It had seemed important then—practical, forward-thinking, the kind of thing a person in control would do. Now it just felt like another task I'd created for myself, another obligation demanding attention when I had nothing left to give.

"Last one," the delivery man declared eventually, setting a bag heavy with tinned dog food onto the porch with a dull thud. The words, so ordinary in their delivery, landed like punctuation in the long sentence of my day.

"Thanks," I muttered, the syllable flat, more obligation than sentiment. My body moved automatically—bend, grip, heave, step, place—until the final bag rested just inside the door. Only then did I shut it, the click of the latch oddly satisfying, a fragile seal between myself and the world outside.

Yet the sense of relief was fleeting. My body still pulsed with a restless energy that wouldn't let me settle, that paranoid hum that had been building all day. Instinctively, my fingers threaded between the slats of the venetian blinds in the dining room, peeling them back just enough to peer through. The sunlight outside made the glass glare, but I squinted past it, searching.

The delivery man should have gone by now. He should have climbed back into his cab, the engine coughing to life, the truck pulling smoothly away. Instead, his silhouette lingered near the vehicle, moving slowly, too slowly, his posture unreadable from this distance.

I tapped my foot against the tiled floor, a drumbeat to my impatience. What the hell is taking the man so long to get back in his damn truck? The question looped in my mind, sharper each time it surfaced.

Maybe he was checking the next order on his list. Maybe he was sending a text message. Maybe he was taking a moment to stretch his back after lifting all those bags. Normal things. Ordinary explanations for ordinary behaviour.

Or maybe... maybe he was watching the house, clocking my movements, cataloguing details for someone else. Joel's killer? Some unknown observer who'd been tracking my movements? Cody, in disguise? The thought was absurd—paranoid to the point of delusion—but paranoia was becoming my default setting. After everything that had happened, how could it not be?

I stayed there at the blinds, unmoving, my breath shallow. Part of me knew this was ridiculous, that he was just another delivery driver going about his unremarkable day, but another part—the part shaped by Portals, bodies, and betrayal—refused to dismiss the possibility. In the space of twenty-four hours, I'd learned that strangers could appear knowing my name, that mysterious organisations might be watching me, that death could arrive in the back of a delivery truck. Why should this driver be any different?

Finally, blessedly, he climbed back into the cab. The engine turned over, and the truck pulled away, its red and white livery disappearing around the corner like any other vehicle on any other day.

I released a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding.

As soon as the delivery truck vanished from view, swallowed by the curve of the street, a sense of urgency surged through me like a current. The mundane interaction was over; now came the work that truly mattered. My hand slipped into my pocket and closed around the Portal Key, its cool, familiar contours grounding me, a tactile reminder of the extraordinary double life I was leading.

Satisfied—or perhaps simply forcing myself to be—I activated the device. Colours rippled into existence across the living room wall, a mesmerising veil that shimmered with promise and dread in equal measure. The swirling hues never quite stopped being beautiful, no matter how many times I witnessed them. Beauty and terror, wrapped together like lovers who couldn't let go of each other.

Stepping through, the transition hit me hard as always, a disorienting jolt that blurred the line between one reality and the next. The sensation was like being pulled through water that was also light, a brief suspension of everything certain before the other side resolved itself around me.

Clivilius unfolded with its haunting familiarity: dust spiralling in lazy eddies, small hills undulating into the distance, the silence of the land pressing down like a physical weight. The heat wrapped around me immediately, that dry warmth that seemed to seep into your bones. Yet Paul and Jamie were absent, their usual presence leaving the Drop Zone oddly hollow.

I lowered the first load of groceries, the plastic bags collapsing softly into the ochre dust. Their incongruous presence—bright logos and packaged goods against barren earth—made the place feel even more alien. Coles shopping bags in another dimension. The mundane and the impossible, sitting side by side.

"Paul!" My voice tore into the stillness, laced with irritation and a flicker of concern. I left to fetch the second armful, and then returned, unloading them with a thud that sent up a puff of dust. Still no answer. The hills remained mute, indifferent, my call swallowed by the vast emptiness. Where the heck is Paul? The question gnawed at me, the silence amplifying every stray thought, every paranoid whisper.

He could be at the tent site, helping Jamie. He could be working on the foundation, making progress on the concrete slab we still hadn't finished. He could be anywhere in this alien landscape, doing any number of useful things, and here I was shouting into the void like an idiot.

Switching tactics, I cupped my hands around my mouth and bellowed, "Food!" The word rang out across the valley, a blunt lure designed to stir him. The echo carried further than I expected, ricocheting across the desolate hills like a crude announcement to the whole world—if anyone else was out there listening.

A flicker of movement caught my eye, and moments later Paul's figure crested the nearest rise. Relief loosened the knot in my chest. His silhouette, small against the harsh light, was a comfort despite my frustration. Much better, I thought, my lips pulling into a smile that betrayed more warmth than I'd intended. Without a word, I turned back to fetch the next load.

"I don't have time to help you move them," I called out firmly as I returned, depositing another trio of bags beside the growing cluster. Plastic rustled, the goods piling up like an impromptu outpost of civilisation against the barren dust. The urgency of the day pressed at my back; there was no room for delays. "I have another delivery arriving within the hour."

"Another food delivery?" Paul's voice was tinged with surprise as he picked up the first bag. His brow furrowed, his curiosity clear, though his hands were already busy.

I nodded, wiping sweat from my temple with the back of my hand. "Yeah. I made two online grocery orders from two different supermarkets last night."

Two orders because spreading purchases across multiple retailers made the quantities less conspicuous. No single receipt showing bulk buying that might raise questions. No pattern that could be traced too easily if anyone started looking.

"Oh, I didn't realise," Paul admitted, his tone shifting into one of quiet appreciation, layered over the surprise still etched into his features.

With a sense of duty pressing heavily upon me, I stepped once more into the Portal's vibrant embrace. The familiar cascade of colour enveloped me, its swirling hues tugging at my senses as reality bent and folded. The shift was brief but disorienting, like being pulled through a dream that lasted only a heartbeat. Emerging again with the final four bags clenched in my hands, I set them down by Paul's side.

"There should be enough to last you at least a few days," I assured him, my voice carrying a mix of relief and urgency. The words hovered in the dust-thick air, unanchored, before I turned back into the kaleidoscope of the Portal. With a low hum, its shimmering surface swallowed me whole, only to collapse into itself the moment I passed through, the colours evaporating into the ether as though they had never been.

Back in the open-plan sprawl of my home, silence greeted me. The sudden stillness was almost oppressive after the stark openness of Clivilius. I paused in the middle of the living room, my eyes travelling over the interconnected spaces—the kitchen with its familiarity, the lounge with its sagging cushions still bearing the imprint of my interrupted rest, the dining table littered with traces of yesterday's ordinary life.

For a heartbeat, the house seemed to press in on me, its every object a reminder of normality already slipping away.

The thought arrived quietly, yet it struck with force. Maybe I should start packing up the house?

I lingered on the idea, letting it grow roots in the soil of my restless mind. The longer I stared at the neat rows of cupboards and the pictures still hanging on the wall, the clearer the notion became. Yes. When the boys finally get their sheds built, I'll bring through everything else in the house.

The thought carried more than practicality. It was no longer just about groceries or supplies—it was about uprooting myself entirely. A full commitment. The act of boxing up these rooms, of stripping them bare and shifting their contents into another world, would be a point of no return. Each plate, each blanket, each insignificant trinket would become part of a new life stitched together on alien soil.

Was that what I wanted? To abandon Tasmania entirely? To leave behind the life Jamie and I had built here—the house we'd chosen together, the neighbourhood we'd come to know, the ordinary comforts of a world where groceries arrived in trucks and water came from taps and you didn't have to worry about Portals and prophecies and mysterious strangers who knew your name?

The air felt heavy as I stood there, my gaze sweeping over the familiar spaces I had once thought permanent. The life I had known, anchored here in these walls, was dissolving, replaced by a future I had not chosen so much as stumbled into. Yet now, standing at this threshold, the choice seemed mine to make—or to abandon.

The Woolworths delivery van rolled up, its engine humming low as it slowed to a halt in the driveway. A timely arrival. Relief trickled through me—it spared me the potential chaos of juggling two deliveries at once. I had deliberately chosen overlapping delivery windows, not simply for efficiency, but because I couldn't afford to waste time. Every minute mattered now. Every detail had to be orchestrated carefully.

And yet, despite my planning, my body betrayed me. Each muscle ached, screaming for rest, demanding I collapse into stillness even as my mind insisted otherwise. Respite was a luxury I could not grant myself. Not yet. Not whilst there was still so much left to do.

Stepping onto the porch, I braced for the small theatre of transaction, preparing to meet the delivery driver with polite nods and perfunctory thanks. My mind was already half elsewhere, fixed on the urgency of unloading, ferrying through the Portal, moving quickly—keeping the rhythm alive before suspicion could creep in.

Then my attention snagged on something across the street. A familiar figure.

Terry. Our elderly neighbour was there, hose in hand, watering his manicured lawn. The kind of activity you'd expect from a retired man with too much time and too little to fill it.

Yet today, under my strained eyes, it felt anything but benign. His gaze wandered between the shimmering arc of water and my house, lingering a fraction too long each time.

A pulse of anxiety thudded through me.

Terry had always been the neighbourhood watchdog—not in any official capacity, just in the way that certain people appointed themselves guardians of suburban normality. He noticed when bins weren't taken in promptly. He commented on unfamiliar cars parked in the street. He kept track of comings and goings with the casual vigilance of someone who had nothing better to do.

Had he seen anything earlier? The delivery truck with Joel's body? The strange vortex of colour that erupted when I opened the Portal? The blood that might or might not still be visible on the driveway concrete?

Instinctively, I lifted my hand in a friendly wave, forcing normality into the gesture, pasting a neighbourly smile onto my face. After a moment, he reciprocated, his wave stiff but polite, before his attention drifted back to his garden.

On the surface, harmless. Ordinary.

But inside me, unease coiled tighter. Had he seen anything earlier? The thought gnawed like a rat at the base of my composure. One glimpse of something out of place—Joel's body being loaded, the trucks coming and going, the flicker of the Portal—and the entire house of cards I had constructed would come crashing down.

The street, once just a stretch of asphalt connecting friendly homes, now felt like a stage. And I, centre spotlight, was fumbling my lines whilst the audience watched with knowing eyes.

I realised then, with a heaviness that settled like concrete in my gut, that the days of casually driving trucks through the gate, of allowing the Portal's light to blaze openly, were over. Stealth was no longer optional—it was essential.

And that realisation stung. The logistics had already been difficult enough. Without the freedom of openly moving vehicles in and out, everything would become exponentially more complicated. Stupid, nosy neighbour, I thought, annoyance bubbling up alongside a reluctant acknowledgement. His watchful eyes had just made my life infinitely harder.

"Your signature please," the driver's request was brisk, his tone impersonal, his device thrust toward me with the kind of casual insistence that left no room for hesitation. He had stepped closer than I would have liked, his presence breaching that small bubble of space I guarded jealously, and for a fleeting second I wondered if he sensed the tension vibrating through me.

I obliged, scrawling my name in a quick, fluid motion, though the effort felt like signing away more than a receipt. Just another trace of me out there in the world—another breadcrumb for anyone who might start following the trail. Luke Smith, signed for groceries at this address on this date at this time. Another data point in the accumulating record of my existence.

The driver, satisfied, turned on his heel. His departure was swift, the transaction complete, my house merely another stop in a long chain of deliveries. Yet for me, the brief interaction left behind more than groceries. At my feet lay not just bags of food, but evidence of an ordinary life I could no longer claim—plastic handles cutting into my palms, tinned goods clinking against one another like little reminders of how fragile my cover really was.

I crouched, gathering the bags with deliberate speed. The ordinary weight of milk, bread, and tins pressed against my aching arms, but the urgency driving me forward transformed even this mundane act into something charged. Mimicking the routine of earlier, I ferried them to the Portal, each trip swift and hurried.

As I stepped through, the colours wrapped around me, the familiar jolt of transition reminding me of the gulf between one life and the other. The groceries, so normal in the world I had just left, seemed almost absurd against the dust of Clivilius. Depositing them near the Drop Zone, I raised my voice, sharp and clear against the empty expanse:

"Paul!"

The name rang out, my voice cutting across the still air with a note of command I hadn't intended, urgency spilling into the sound.

Without waiting, I turned back toward the shimmering gateway, knowing the burden of the next task was already tugging at me, pulling me homeward.

Back home, the familiar creak of the leather couch greeted me as I surrendered to its embrace, the sound like an old friend whispering promises of rest. My body sagged into the soft, worn cushions, muscles melting under the relief of stillness. My eyelids, weighted by exhaustion, drifted downwards, surrendering to the sweet allure of sleep. Even if only for a moment, I longed to dissolve into oblivion, to forget everything—the deliveries, the paranoia, the watchful neighbour, the weight of secrets pressing down on every breath.

But peace was fleeting.

"Shit! Glenda!" The name tore from my lips, raw and urgent, the realisation striking like a lightning bolt. My eyes snapped open, and I lurched upright as though burned, the fragile cocoon of rest shattering in an instant.

Dr. De Bruyn. The appointment. Jamie's wound.