Nothing Feels Real Yet

“Light doesn’t banish monsters. It just shows you where they’ve been—and how close they still are.”

My hands met the glass sliding door with an inelegant thud, the impact reverberating up through my arms. Panic blurred the edges of my vision as my trembling fingers fumbled at the lock, slipping once, twice, before finally managing to coax it open. The door gave with a reluctant groan, and I all but fell through the gap, spilling out into the frigid night.

The sensor light snapped on with an electric buzz, casting harsh, clinical light across the dew-damp grass. My shadow leapt out before me, long and distorted, a spectral echo of my dishevelled form. The cool air slapped at my skin, a jarring contrast to the suffocating intensity of the chase behind me.

Then—like a phantom materialising from the darkness—the creature surged forward, brushing against my leg as it passed. I froze. Its fur grazed me with the fleeting intimacy of a nightmare made real. A blur of black muscle and sinew, it sprinted into the yard, its guttural howl shattering the silence like glass. The sound was unearthly—more than just rage or pain. It was a proclamation of dominance. Of territory.

The encounter, though brief, sent a jolt through me so profound that my feet locked to the ground, my breath caught in my throat. My instincts screamed not to follow, not to engage. Whatever it was—whatever world it belonged to—it had brushed mine, and that was close enough.

It moved with fluid menace along the back fence, each motion a poetry of feral grace. Its snarls and growls painted the night in streaks of menace, a soundtrack to the surreal reality I found myself in. Then, as if compelled by some invisible thread, the beast turned its head.

Our eyes met.

Two pinpricks of void stared into me, hollow and endless. I could not say whether it recognised me, or merely saw me—but in that shared glance, I felt something pass between us. A warning. A challenge. A memory already forming.

A tremor rolled through me as I took a step back, then another, the grass crunching beneath my bare feet. Cold crept up my spine and into my limbs, each retreating step away from the creature pressing me further into the safety of the doorway. The chill of the metal frame bit into my back like a reprimand—solid, unmoving, and mercifully real.

The beast wasn’t done.

It lunged, not towards me, but at the invisible edge where the pool of light met the wall of darkness. Over and over, it pushed against that barrier—its snarls turning more calculated, its movements deliberate, watching me as it struck and recoiled. It was a performance of power, a predator testing the line, daring me to cross it or daring itself to break through.

I stood my ground, barely breathing, a single figure held in the tight, fragile space between light and shadow. The moment teetered—one heartbeat from disaster, one misstep from devastation. I couldn’t move. Not yet. Not until it chose to vanish.

Then, abruptly, the night was pierced by the blare of a car horn from the main road beyond the fence. The sound was unexpected and jarring. The creature reacted instantly, its ears flattening against its head as it twisted toward the noise, a low snarl rumbling from its throat before it vanished into the shadows with fluid, predatory grace. My breath caught in my throat—relief and disbelief colliding in a gasp.

It was a reprieve, however brief, and I seized it with a desperation born of raw survival instinct.

I bolted inside, slamming the door behind me with a force that rattled the glass in its frame. No time to consider any locks, I turned and ran, taking the stairs two at a time, my calves burning with the effort, but I didn’t slow. I couldn’t.

Lights came on in my wake—flick, flick, flick—each one a ward against the shadows, each switch a whispered plea for safety. The house brightened like a lighthouse amid a storm, but the illumination brought little comfort. Every lit corner felt like a spotlight on my vulnerability.

In the kitchen, my breath ragged, my hands—still awkwardly bound—fumbled against the knife block. The flex-cuffs bit into my skin as I reached, forcing me to brace awkwardly against the counter for balance. My fingers closed around the handle of the largest blade, its cool steel weight sliding into my palm like a long-lost ally. I pulled it free, the rasp of metal on wood cutting through the silence.

The knife’s heft was both a comfort and a reminder. A comfort because I now held something—anything—that might give me a fighting chance. A reminder because its presence confirmed, with chilling clarity, the very real danger I now faced.

A thump echoed through the house, a sound out of place in the silence. It reverberated through the walls like a war drum, striking a jarring chord in my overstimulated senses. My mind, already stretched to its limit, whirled with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. A door? A misstep? Had the creature returned? I couldn’t tell. The not knowing clawed at me, a suffocating presence in itself.

Gripping the knife tightly in my bound hands, I stumbled backwards and took refuge behind the large island bench. The bench loomed like a barricade between me and whatever was coming, but it felt woefully inadequate. I crouched low, pressing my back against the cabinetry, the handle of the blade slick in my grasp. The cold tiles beneath my feet felt suddenly wet and sticky. I looked down.

Blood. My blood.

The sight jarred me—crimson smears tracked across the floor, vivid and raw. I hadn’t realised how much I was bleeding until now. My leg throbbed, each pulse a wet sting, and my arm burned with the reminder of the earlier swipe. The trail I’d left behind was a grim breadcrumb path, a map of pain drawn across Luke’s home.

Then, soft but unmistakable, footsteps approached. The sound was delicate, deliberate, yet each step landed like a weight on my chest. They drew nearer, winding their way through the hall, unhurried but inescapable. My stomach clenched, muscles coiling like springs, a knot of dread and anticipation pulling tighter with every heartbeat. Who was it? Had the creature taken a new shape? Was this something—or someone—worse?

Hidden behind the bench, I tried to still my trembling breath, tried to quiet the ragged gasps that betrayed me. My heart pounded against my ribs, a relentless thud-thud-thud that seemed deafening in the silence.

Then, I saw him.

Peering from my hiding place, the figure moving through the living room came into view—and with it, a rush of breath left my lungs. It’s Luke. My relief hit like a tidal wave, sudden and staggering, washing over me with a force that nearly buckled my remaining strength. The knife dipped slightly in my grasp, the tension in my muscles loosening just enough to ache, as if the realisation of his presence had pulled a taut string free inside me.

"Luke!" The urgency to warn him clawed at my insides, rising like a tidal surge that begged for release. But my voice betrayed me—cracked and raw, it emerged as a whisper, lost in the barren dryness of my throat. Useless. Powerless. I could only watch, paralysed by the fear and the crushing weight of everything that had happened, as he passed through the room, oblivious to the peril that had haunted every shadow of this house.

His footsteps faded, a soft echo that vanished down the stairwell, and with it, my fragile sense of control crumbled. My mind screamed in helpless fury: Fuck! It's going to get him! The thought hit like a hammer, sharp and savage, as I braced myself for the inevitable. I waited for the sound of a scuffle, a crash, a scream—anything.

But nothing came.

The house remained unnervingly still. No guttural growls. No shout of pain. No muffled struggle behind closed doors. Just the faint, mechanical click of the downstairs glass door being pulled shut with a conclusive thud. The sound, though mundane, echoed like a gunshot in the charged silence. It was both a reprieve and a riddle—relief tangled with confusion, disorienting in its calmness.

Where had the creature gone? Had Luke seen it? Was it ever real?

Forcing myself upright, my legs trembled beneath me, unsure and weak from the onslaught of adrenaline. The movement sent a jagged bolt of pain through my injured arm, sharp enough to drag a gasp from my lips. Blood continued to ooze from the wound, warm and steady, marking a crimson path across the cold tiles. Each droplet fell like a punctuation mark, a reminder that although the beast had vanished—for now—the danger had not passed.

Then, Luke reappeared, stepping back into the living room. His voice, laden with shock and concern, broke the tense silence.

"Beatrix! What the fuck happened?" His eyes, wide with disbelief, swept over me—bloodied, bruised, my skin pale beneath streaks of grime and blood. The sheer horror on his face mirrored the turmoil still storming inside me.

As Luke drew nearer, my grip on the knife became a vice, locked so tight my knuckles had blanched to an eerie shade of white. I couldn’t let it go—not yet. It felt like the only thing anchoring me to a semblance of control. Each breath was shallow and ragged, scraped raw by the panic still seizing my lungs. My entire body was a battlefield—tensed muscles, trembling limbs, pain radiating from my gashed arm and leg.

"Don't turn off the lights," came my warning, strained through clenched teeth. It was a plea cloaked in a command, my voice thick with dread. The shadows no longer felt empty. They watched. They waited.

Luke’s approach slowed, his eyes locked on mine as he gently pried the knife from my fingers. The release made me shudder involuntarily—exposure replacing defiance. Without a word, he turned to the top drawer, retrieving a pair of scissors and immediately aiming the blades at the flex-cuffs biting into my wrists.

The plastic cuffs, once a symbol of control and order, now felt like shackles forged in panic. Every shift of my hands sent a spark of pain up my arms. I watched as Luke worked, lips pressed into a determined line. But his efforts were futile. The scissors barely grazed the surface, the plastic unyielding despite his force.

Frustration twisted my features, the helplessness of it all threatening to spill over. "Use a lighter," I whispered, my voice barely audible. It wasn’t a suggestion—it was the last card I had to play. The thought of staying bound, unable to fight or flee, was unbearable. "It's easier if you melt them."

Luke paused, just long enough to read the urgency in my eyes. Then, with swift precision, he retrieved the gas lighter from the drawer. The soft flick of the igniting flame was oddly comforting—a controlled fire amidst the chaos. He held it ready, the tiny blue blaze casting shadows that danced across my skin.

As he knelt beside me, preparing to burn through the plastic, a silent tension thickened between us. The air itself seemed to still. Each second dragged like a held breath. I stared down at the cuffs, waiting—hoping—that this would be the moment that set me free.

"You came from the casino, didn't you?" Luke's question cut through the tension, his voice low but steady as he snapped the last of the flex-cuffs. The plastic gave way with a harsh crack, the sound oddly final, and he tossed the remains onto the kitchen bench as if casting off the remnants of a nightmare neither of us fully understood.

I could only nod, slowly, the movement an effort of will. My body felt as though it had absorbed the weight of the entire night—each terror, each chase, each clawed encounter now stitched into my very muscles. They trembled without pause, spasming in the aftershock of adrenaline, while my gaze remained locked and unblinking, fixed on nothing and everything at once. As though if I looked away, the room might vanish—or worse, twist into another horror.

"I'm just going to lock the stair door," Luke said gently, stepping away. The words were practical, rational. But the second he turned his back, something primal inside me recoiled. The act, so small, so ordinary, was suddenly unbearable.

A shudder tore through me, violent and involuntary, as if the very air had turned to ice. The kitchen seemed to swell with silence, the corners darker, the shadows deeper. Luke's silhouette blurred before my eyes, not from distance, but from the swell of tears I refused to let fall. My vision fogged, my throat constricted, and with it came the creeping paralysis of panic.

"Don't leave me," slipped from my lips before I could stop it—a tremulous whisper, fragile and frayed, more breath than voice. It hovered between us, vulnerable and raw, the purest expression of the fear still clawing at my insides.

Luke's return was swift, his footsteps urgent, his presence suddenly towering with concern.

"Beatrix, what the fuck happened to you?" he asked again, his voice raw with frustration and alarm, as though seeing me like this for a second time was somehow more disturbing than the first. His eyes scanned my battered frame, taking in every bruise, every streak of blood, every tremble in my limbs. He needed answers—answers I barely understood myself.

"I'm cursed," I confessed, my voice hollow. The words felt strange in my mouth, fantastical and yet undeniably true. They didn’t just describe my night—they explained it, justified it. It was the only logic that fit the madness. My fingers moved with a shaky purpose, slipping beneath the bloodied fabric of my dress to retrieve the small Portal Key.

I opened my palm and placed it between us, offering it to Luke not as a solution but as an indictment. A tiny object with colossal consequence.

"Where did you get that?" he gasped, his voice tight with disbelief. His gaze snapped to mine, and for a moment, everything held still—the tension, the room, even the pain.

The tears I’d been holding back spilled over, blurring my vision until Luke became little more than a smudge in the haze. My knees gave way beneath me, surrendering to the pull of gravity and grief. I collapsed onto the cold tiles, the chill biting through me, grounding me in the awful truth of it all. "It's all my fault!" I cried, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I’d tried to carry.

"What's your fault?" Luke dropped to his haunches beside me, his eyes searching mine, desperate for clarity, for some way to fix this.

"They have Jarod!" The words came in a rush, a confession laced with anguish. Saying it aloud was like tearing open a wound that had barely even scabbed over. It made it real. Unchangeable.

Luke’s breath hitched, his brow furrowed. I watched the moment understanding dawned in his eyes, sharp and sudden. "You both got caught stealing casino chips, didn’t you?"

"Yes," I whispered, the admission searing my throat. It was the truth—ugly, damning, and inescapable. My shoulders heaved with the weight of it, sobs rolling through me like thunder.

Luke inhaled deeply, the breath long and deliberate, as though trying to summon patience from the depths of a soul already stretched thin. His eyes scanned my face, searching for understanding, or perhaps something to anchor him.

"But where did the Portal Key come from?" he asked, his voice steady but urgent—a question that left no room for evasion.

My eyes, heavy with exhaustion and smeared mascara, lifted to meet his. I knew I looked a mess—raw, crumpled, barely stitched together—but it hardly mattered now. The truth curled like a serpent in my throat, dangerous and coiled, waiting to strike if mishandled. How much could I risk? How much could I share without putting everything, and everyone, in even greater danger?

"From the same person who gave you yours," I said, each syllable carefully chosen, my voice low and cautious. I watched his reaction closely, hoping the implication would land without me needing to say the name aloud.

"You know who gave me mine?" His eyebrows lifted, surprise cracking through his composed exterior. He leaned in slightly, his expression shifting from suspicion to disbelief.

I nodded slowly, unable to trust myself with words.

“Who?”

I shook my head, the motion small but decisive, my eyes pleading with him to let it drop.

"Beatrix, I need to know."

"No!" The word erupted from me, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the tension like glass shattering on tile. "I can't tell you. It's too dangerous, Luke." My voice trembled under the strain of suppressed truth, but the warning within it was unmistakable. I wasn't just protecting a secret—I was protecting him.

Luke retrieved a tea towel from the drawer, his movements slow and measured, as if he feared that any sudden gesture might cause me to fracture further. The fabric, coarse against my torn skin, brought a sharp sting—but it was a distant echo compared to the storm inside me. My entire body felt brittle, like glass moments from shattering under the weight of what I had endured.

"Were you wounded at the casino?" he asked, his tone quiet but insistent.

At once, my muscles locked. The simple act of memory sent a ripple of fear cascading through my body. My mind recoiled, dragging me back to the moment—dark fur brushing against my leg, hot breath, the glint of eyes reflecting a light not meant for this world. My throat tightened.

"No," I said, the word barely audible. It escaped as if from a throat clenched shut with panic, a denial to the place my thoughts threatened to spiral.

"Then what happened?" Luke pressed, leaning in, his fingers pausing over a deeper gash as his eyes searched mine.

"It first attacked me in… in Clivilius," I admitted, the name sticking to my tongue like ash. Speaking it aloud made it real—too real. The very word conjured up the darkness, the bone-deep cold, the voice that had welcomed me like a whispered curse.

"First attack?" Luke's voice rose slightly, anxiety edging into his words. "It attacked you again? Here?"

The images came unbidden—slashing claws, overturned furniture, my own screams swallowed by the dark. The memory was sharp and close, as though the beast still waited just outside the circle of light.

"Yes," I whispered. It was the only word I could summon, but it carried the weight of everything I couldn’t say: the fear, the pursuit, the chilling certainty that whatever lived in Clivilius had followed me here.

"But how?" Luke's question was soft, almost reverent, as though the words themselves might disturb some delicate balance. His brow furrowed in concentration, his eyes clouded with thought, trying to assemble the scattered fragments of an impossible reality.

"I think it followed me through the Portal," I replied, the confession dredging itself from the pit of my chest. Speaking it aloud was like admitting to a fever dream, only this one had left blood trails and bruises. The words trembled on my tongue, heavy with disbelief, coated in a dread that hadn’t yet loosened its grip. "It looked like some sort of wild animal. It was black and it moved fast. I didn't get a good look. And it doesn't like the light."

"That explains all the lights on, then," Luke murmured, his gaze drifting across the illuminated space. His eyes passed over the hallway light, the kitchen down-lights, the overhead living room light—all blazing like a desperate ward against the dark. I followed his gaze, suddenly aware of how I'd painted this house in light like a prayer.

"Its eyes looked so dead," I whispered. The image surfaced unbidden—those lifeless pits that had fixed on me with no trace of soul or thought, just pure, primal intent. Saying it aloud did nothing to dull its impact. I dropped my gaze, but even the shadow of my own body on the floor felt intrusive, echoing the memory I was trying to erase.

Luke leaned closer, the warmth of his presence a small shield against the chill in my bones. His hands were steady, his fingers strong and sure as he supported me upright. "We need to get your wounds dressed properly."

"I don't want to go home," I said quickly, the words escaping in a rush before I could wrestle them down. The thought of facing my parents, of weaving lies that might explain the blood and fear written across me, was unbearable. What story could I tell? That I tripped in the woods? That I was mugged by a shadow? Nothing would make sense—least of all to me.

"I'm not taking you home," Luke said, and it wasn’t just a reassurance—it was a promise. He turned from me, purposeful, and with a flick of his hand he activated the Portal on the living room wall. The familiar shimmer bloomed into view, a kaleidoscope of impossible energy humming with its own uncanny life. My breath caught in my throat.

The Portal's sudden appearance was a punch to the chest—a reminder of the path I'd just taken, the beast I'd led into this world, the uncertainty that lay in every jump. My gasp escaped before I could stop it, sharp and involuntary. Was he about to take me back? Was there another one waiting?

But Luke didn’t falter. His stance was resolute. Whatever came next, he had made his choice—and now, so had I.

The memory of my promise to Jarod surged to the forefront of my mind, sharp and unrelenting. His face—defiant, afraid—flashed before my eyes, tethering me to my purpose with an iron thread. "I can't," I insisted, the words cracking under the weight of everything we’d been through. "Jarod's in trouble. I need to find Leigh."

"Leigh?" Luke echoed, his hand frozen mid-air as if the name itself had thrown a spanner in the gears of his thoughts. His brows knit together, his eyes narrowing as pieces began to fall into place. "He gave you the Portal Key, didn’t he?" The question carried a new gravity, tinged with dawning realisation.

I bit my lip, a reflex born of the futile instinct to hold something—anything—back. But it was no use. The truth had a way of slipping free, especially now when it felt like the only thing I could still offer.

"Yes." The word was barely audible, yet its echo rang loud between us.

Luke took a step closer, his expression unreadable. "Do you know how to contact him?"

"Yes," I said again, this time more evenly.

"And you trust him?"

"I do." The words came without hesitation. It surprised even me, the certainty of it. Trusting Leigh wasn’t just about intuition anymore—it was about survival, about hope, about the fragile strand of control I still clung to in this spiralling mess. He was a constant, whether by design or fate, and that had to mean something.

"Then find Leigh. Make sure you are somewhere safe where you can get yourself cleaned up and tell me when you get there. I'll meet you and help you get Jarod." Luke’s instructions were sharp, clear—like flares thrown up in the dark. Yet, even as he spoke them, his gaze drifted around the room, pausing on the half-scattered gear strewn across the floor. The camping supplies, chaotic but necessary, were a silent reminder of another obligation, another place that required him.

"I need to get these to the settlement first," he added, his voice dipping with the weight of dual priorities. "I won't be long."

I nodded, slow and deliberate. The thought of being alone again twisted something deep in my stomach, but I swallowed it down. There was no time for fear. No space for hesitation. Still, a soft gasp escaped me—unbidden, betraying the fragile knot of anxiety that coiled tighter with every second. The memory of the creature’s eyes—their emptiness, their malice—flickered at the edges of my vision.

The light would protect me. It had to.

"Luke," I called out, the urgency in my voice stopping him just as he stepped toward the shimmering veil of the Portal, the unlit camping lantern dangling from his grip like an afterthought. A last-minute realisation caught in my throat and pushed its way out before it could be swallowed by hesitation. He turned at once, the weight of weariness in his expression momentarily eclipsed by a readiness to face yet another concern.

"I lost my phone in Clivilius."

"Shit," he muttered, rubbing his jaw with a hand that bore the strain of the night. The word wasn’t just a curse—it was a release of tension, frustration, and a recognition of the fresh obstacle. The phone wasn’t merely a device—it was connection, contact, a lifeline now buried in an unfamiliar, hostile world. "I'll see if I can find it."

He lifted the camping lantern slightly, its bulk now more a puzzle than a source of relief. "Any idea how to get this working?"

I shook my head, a shallow shrug of helplessness. "I threw it at the creature," I admitted quietly, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did. There had been no time to examine, no instructions followed—just instinct and desperation colliding in a flurry of blind hope.

"Shit," Luke said again, his voice lower, more resigned. The repetition of the word rang in the air, encapsulating the madness of everything we were enduring. His sigh followed, the soft exhale of someone carrying more than just camping supplies and expectations.

Then, time fractured.

An ominous growl, low and guttural, rose from the other side of the front door. It was not the kind of sound that could be mistaken for the creak of a tree branch or the moan of wind. It was too intentional, too close—brimming with hunger and sentience. The kind of sound that curled around your spine and froze your breath mid-inhale.

We both stilled, statues locked in a moment of dread. Our eyes met, then jerked to the door as though pulled by invisible threads. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, frantic and unrelenting, the air suddenly thick with the scent of anticipation and fear. My palms, still slick with drying blood, pressed reflexively against the edge of the bench for balance.

A silent exchange flickered between us. No words were needed—only the wide eyes, the clenched jaws, the tension that crackled like static between us. Whatever was outside was no longer content with chasing shadows. It had found us again. And it was angry.