Intruder

“You tell yourself it’s about evidence, about justice — but truth has a way of turning the torch back on the one holding it.”

As I glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, I made a split-second decision. With a grunt of effort, I leapt over the fence into Luke's top-level backyard. My boot scraped the top rail, and for one awful moment I thought I'd fall backwards—but momentum carried me over. My jacket snagged on a protruding nail, the sharp tug briefly arresting my motion before tearing free with an audible rip.

I dropped to a crouch on the other side, breath caught in my throat, heart thudding. For a beat I froze—listening, assessing. But the night remained still, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional groan of distant traffic far below on Berriedale Road. The scent of eucalyptus and damp earth hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of adrenaline rising in my throat.

Moving with the stealth of a shadow, I stayed low, keeping to the edges where darkness pooled like ink. I crept beneath the bathroom window, careful not to brush against the rusted downpipe, and skirted the backdoor. Each step was calculated, each breath measured, like a predator stalking uncertain prey.

I paused as I reached the rear bedroom window—familiar and haunting. The interior beyond was cloaked in darkness, a blackness that seemed deeper than the night itself. A breath of wind stirred the blinds, causing them to sway gently, creating a hypnotic flicker of light and shadow against the wall inside. They moved like something breathing.

The window was still broken—just as I'd left it during my last, unauthorised visit. The glass glinted like ice in the moonlight, jagged and accusing, catching the silver light in wicked flashes. A grim confirmation that no one had fixed what I'd already broken.

A chill slithered up my spine, tightening around the base of my neck. Bye, Karl. The echo of that voice—my voice? Luke’s? Some twisted echo from my nightmare?—hissed through my mind. I swallowed against the rising tide of unease, a bitter taste blooming at the back of my throat.

My rational mind screamed at me to walk away. To go back to the car, report what I'd heard, and leave this mess to process and warrants and daylight. This is a line, it hissed. Once you cross it, you don't come back.

But I was already past that point.

The need to know—the need to stop him—was stronger than protocol, stronger than fear. I’d told myself this was about justice, but I was no longer sure if it was justice I sought, or something more primal: revenge, vindication, perhaps even salvation. I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

I stepped in front of the broken bedroom window and reached into my coat pocket, pulling on my black leather gloves with deliberate precision. The cool material whispered as it stretched over my fingers, creaking softly like tightening sinew. I flexed my hands, making sure the fit was snug. The gloves made my fingers feel distant, like they belonged to someone else—someone prepared to do what I couldn’t in daylight.

Then I leaned in and began to inspect the window frame. The cold bite of the air stung my cheeks as I worked, carefully extracting any remaining shards of glass that threatened to tear skin or clothes. Each sliver I removed, I placed gingerly onto the carpet just inside, like some strange ritual. The process was slow, methodical—my breath shallow, eyes darting constantly to the shadows around me.

The frame groaned faintly as I braced a hand against it. I lifted my right leg first, foot sinking into the carpet just beyond the threshold. The texture beneath my sole was oddly soft, yielding. But the sound—crunch—betrayed my presence. A piece of glass gave way beneath my weight. I froze, breath held tight, muscles clenched.

Silence.

No movement. No alarm. No footfalls on floorboards.

For a moment I was nothing but breath and heartbeat—my pulse thudding in my ears so loudly it drowned out the ambient hush. The air around me felt heavy, like the atmosphere before a thunderclap. My limbs remained tensed, every fibre on high alert, waiting for the inevitable crash of exposure. But the house remained still. I didn’t exhale so much as let the air seep out of me in a slow, trembling hiss.

Then, a sudden shout—a man's voice outside—cut through the quiet like a whipcrack. I jolted violently, the sound slicing through my nerves like a bolt of current. My heart leapt into my throat, an involuntary gasp catching midway. Adrenaline exploded through my system, numbing my fingers and sharpening every sense to the brink of madness.

I twisted toward the sound, startled and unbalanced. My boot slipped on something slick—blood? For one horrible second I thought so. But no. Just condensation, cool and innocuous, gathered from the broken window and smeared beneath my sole.

Still, it was enough.

I lost my footing and tumbled forward, landing hard in the centre of the room. The thud of my body hitting the carpeted floor was jarring, underscored by the sickening crunch of glass shards beneath my limbs. Pain bloomed in my shin and elbow as I landed awkwardly. My mind raced—had anyone heard? Had I just given myself away?

"Shit!" I hissed, the word torn from my throat, scarcely more than breath. I scrambled backwards, instinctively retreating to the furthest wall. I pressed my back against the cool plaster, my shoulder blades hunched as if I could melt into the architecture itself.

My eyes adjusted rapidly to the gloom, darting to the blinds, which now hung still. I peered through the narrow gaps, breath shallow and quick, lungs aching from the burst of exertion. My ears strained for any sound—any signal that I had been discovered.

Then, the voices came again.

"Hey, it's good to see you again," a young woman’s voice said brightly, followed by the deep baritone of a man replying with cheerful familiarity. The tone was light, conversational—neighbours, probably. Their words floated over the fence like wind chimes, utterly mundane in contrast to the feverish panic gripping me. Their exchange carried on a few moments longer before the sound of a door closing and a porch light switching off marked their retreat indoors.

They hadn’t seen me.

Or if they had, they hadn't cared.

Relief shuddered through me like a wave breaking against a seawall. My hands trembled as I checked myself over, sweeping glass from my sleeves and patting down limbs for signs of blood. Nothing too bad—just grazes, the kind of minor injuries I’d chalk up to poor judgement and raw nerves. My pulse still hammered, every beat pressing against my skull, but the worst—being caught—had passed.

I waited in the darkness, hunched against the wall like a fugitive, watching the street for several minutes longer. The couple’s porch light flicked off, plunging the street into deeper shadow. It left me more concealed, but also more isolated. The neighbourhood settled back into its nightly hush, but I couldn’t shake the sensation of being observed.

Inside the room, I began to take stock.

What had once been a hoarder's tomb—lined with garbage bags and scattered rubbish—was now clean. Not just tidied, but scrubbed. The transformation was unnerving. The room looked…. sanitised. Like someone had hit reset. But why?

Every single garbage bag was gone. Not one remained.

The sudden absence chilled me more than their original presence. It felt like someone had deliberately erased a crime scene. As though the house was preparing for an inspection, or a visitor. Or perhaps… for someone never to return.

I shivered. Not from cold, but from the creeping certainty that I was being drawn deeper into something I no longer understood. Was I too late? Had the evidence been cleared, the truth buried beneath bleach and careful deception?

Were there bodies? Or had I imagined it all?

Worse—was he here?

Was Luke Smith inside these walls right now, watching from some unseen vantage, waiting with a patient malice I couldn't match?

My throat dried out entirely, each breath raspy and shallow. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I pushed myself to my feet, legs trembling as adrenaline receded into pure exhaustion. The house offered no comfort, only silence that felt too perfect, too rehearsed.

I edged toward the open bedroom door. At least it wasn’t closed like before. No creaking hinges, no lingering echoes of phantom voices. Just a void beyond—dark, still, waiting.

And yet... there was no reassurance. No safety in familiarity.

I was alone. Unarmed. Trespassing in the house of a man I believed capable of murder.

And now, more than ever, I realised: if Luke Smith was indeed the monster I suspected, then I had just entered his lair—willingly, and utterly unprepared.