The Walls Close In

“Portals aren’t miracles—they’re gambles. And today, the house nearly won.”

"Shit!" The word ripped from me, more reflex than choice, as my boots slid out from under me on the slick, mud-slicked ground of Myrtle Forest. The earth gave way with a sucking pull, and I barely caught myself—hands smacking down hard into the cold, wet muck before gravity could finish the job and pitch me flat on my back. The shock of it bit through my palms, seeping up my sleeves in a clammy rush.

Moments ago, I’d stepped through the Portal’s shimmering skin, leaving behind Clivilius’s bright colours and landing squarely in the teeth of a Tasmanian storm. Now, every sense was under siege. The rain came at me sideways, stinging my face like thrown gravel, while the wind funnelled through the trees with a mournful howl.

Over it all, the sirens wailed—shrill, climbing in pitch as they drew nearer. The sound cut through the storm, winding its way into my chest until I could feel it in my ribs.

Blinking against the downpour, I forced my eyes to sweep the churned-up mess around me. Everything was blurred by motion—the slanting rain, the restless sway of branches, the swirling rivulets of mud. The toilet block loomed a few metres away, its dull brick walls streaked dark with water. It wasn’t shelter; it was just another marker on the map of what could go wrong.

"Where are you, Gladys?" The words slipped out as a whisper, instantly whipped away by the wind. They felt absurdly small against the roar of the elements, a fragile tether of hope in a place that didn’t care one bit whether I found her or not.

I pressed my back to the wall of the building, using its bulk as a meagre shield from the rain’s full assault. The cold leached through the fabric of my clothes, but it bought me a fraction more clarity, enough to scan for any trace of her—footprints, movement, anything.

Then I moved, quick and low, skirting the edge of the structure with a pace born from desperation. Every step was a calculated fight for balance, the mud eager to claim me again. The world had narrowed to three beats: the hammer of my heart, the lash of the rain, and the single, consuming need to find my sister before the sirens arrived.

As I rounded the corner, the world seemed to compress into a slow, muffled reel. My breath snagged hard in my chest, tightening it until I could feel the pulse in my throat. And there it was—Gladys’s car. Even through the sheets of rain, it stood out like a bruise on the landscape, an oddly angular silhouette concealed around the side of the toilet block. One of its doors flapped wildly in the wind, creaking on its hinges like some wounded thing trying to take flight.

"Shit," I breathed, the word barely audible over the storm but sharp enough to sting my own ears.

The sight of it—deserted, askew, vulnerable—was enough to trigger a cascade of scenarios in my head. Each one was worse than the last, each one reaching deeper into the quiet dread that had been sitting in my stomach since Charlie’s call. My frown pulled tighter until I could feel the skin crease between my brows, the strain mirrored in the set of my jaw.

The storm didn’t just surround me—it got inside me, matching its rhythm to my own unease. Lightning carved quick, brutal flashes into the sky, revealing the ragged shapes of trees, the churn of the mud, the hard gleam of water on metal. Every time it lit up, it was like being dropped into a photograph of something moments away from breaking apart.

In that moment, drenched and wind-lashed, I wasn’t thinking about strategy or consequence. I was a sister, nothing more, standing on the knife-edge between panic and resolve. Whatever happened next would be shaped by desperation and a stubborn streak of love that had never learned when to quit.

I closed the distance to the car quickly, each step heavy and urgent, the rain prickling at my skin like sharp pins. "Gladys," I called, pitching my voice against the wind’s howl—sharp enough to cut but still low, as though the trees might be listening. The sound was carried away instantly, swallowed whole by the storm.

Leaning into the open door, I swept my eyes across the interior. It took only a heartbeat to confirm what I’d already known—she wasn’t there. The upholstery was darkened with damp, water dripping from the roof lining, everything steeped in the smell of wet fabric and the faint tang of metal. No note, no bag, no sign she’d left willingly or calmly.

I stepped back, the weight of the empty space inside the car settling on my shoulders like another layer of wet clothing. My eyes scanned the treeline, the rain blurring the world into moving curtains. Could she be in there, tucked away in the shadows of the dense undergrowth? Or had she pushed deeper, drawn by some frantic instinct into the forest’s deceptive embrace?

Then—a sound. Sharp, abrupt, and close. The slam of a car door, cutting through the storm’s roar like a gunshot, ripped me back into the moment. Adrenaline spiked hard in my veins, a rush so sudden it made my breath catch. The cold rain, already needling my skin, now felt electrified, every drop another jolt.

What do I do? The question ricocheted inside my skull, banging off the walls of fear and determination. My fist moved before the thought was finished, connecting with the side of Gladys’s car in a dull, unsatisfying thud. The vibration up my arm was small, but it grounded me in a way nothing else had.

The reality hit like a cold tide—the police were here. Somewhere out there, beyond the curtain of rain, boots were hitting the ground, radios crackling, eyes scanning for any sign of Gladys. My chest tightened as though the storm itself had hands around my ribs, squeezing, making it harder to breathe.

Time wasn’t just moving; it was falling away in chunks, and every second lost carried a weight I couldn’t afford. The forest trail beside the car gaped like a dark mouth, promising shadows, roots, and a thousand places to vanish—or be trapped. I can’t go after her, I told myself, though the thought landed heavy and sour.

But going back through the Portal route was no better. That way was police, headlights cutting through rain, questions I couldn’t answer, hands I couldn’t slip free from.

My heart was thundering now, a frantic beacon beating out its own code in my chest—move, move, move. My body obeyed before I’d decided, legs shoving me forward in a burst of motion. Not towards the forest, but back to the only solid structure in reach.

The toilet block loomed again, squat and unwelcoming, but in this swirling chaos it was shelter, shadow, and possibly the only gap left between me and a set of cuffs. Its wet brick walls glistened under the stormlight as I ran, the rain hammering down with such force it blurred the edges of everything except the urgent path ahead.

Tucked inside the musty confines of the toilet block, I pressed my back against the clammy, graffiti-scarred tiles, the damp seeping through my jacket like cold fingers. The air was thick—stale and sour—yet every shallow breath I drew felt loud enough to give me away.

Then the voices came.

"Karl, check this out," called a female officer, her tone sharp and carrying with unnerving clarity. The name alone sent a shiver straight down my spine.

A hard lump formed in my throat. Karl. My brain latched onto it like a predator scenting blood. Detective Karl Jenkins? The thought was a lead weight in my stomach, pulling me down into the gravity of what that meant. He wasn’t just any cop—he was a man with a memory for faces and the tenacity of a terrier.

"Well, this doesn’t make sense," came the reply—Karl’s voice, without question. Even muffled by the storm and walls, it had that same measured, analytical cadence I remembered. Hearing it here, now, made my skin tighten over my bones.

Despite the gnawing fear, curiosity prickled at me. What doesn’t make sense? What’s he looking at? My legs moved of their own accord, drawing me towards the doorway in slow, deliberate steps. I angled my head, straining every nerve to catch the loose threads of their conversation.

The female officer’s voice bled through again, slightly muffled but still distinct. "Just end here… just disappeared." Bafflement. There was genuine confusion in her tone, and the sound of it was almost a comfort. Almost. They hadn’t figured it out—yet.

Karl answered, his mind already running the logic through its gears. "There wouldn’t be much left of that wall if they’d driven into it," he reasoned. And there it was—that unnerving clarity. He was brushing dangerously close to the truth without even knowing it, circling the exact anomaly Luke had used to vanish.

My heart was a trapped bird inside my ribcage, beating against bone with frantic urgency. They were standing on the very fault line between their world and mine—the thin, rain-slick wall that had moments ago been my doorway from Clivilius.

That makes sense, I told myself, the thought a small, brittle raft on the flood of adrenaline. They could speculate all they liked; without the Portal, they were still bound to their reality. And for now, that was the only advantage I had left.

"There’s still this second set of tracks," the female officer’s voice cut sharper now, closer—each word carrying with it the scrape of boots over wet earth.

"Shit!" The curse slipped from me before I could think, no louder than breath, yet tasting bitter on my tongue. Second set of tracks. My stomach tightened into a hard knot, the kind that refused to loosen even when I swallowed. They were on her trail—Gladys’s trail—and the knowledge coiled around my ribs like wire.

I was hidden in shadow, but it felt like standing naked under a spotlight. The walls of the toilet block, already too close, seemed to inch inward, narrowing the air I had to breathe. Dampness clung to my skin and hair, and the stench of wet concrete and old disinfectant made every inhale an effort.

Each sound outside came to me magnified—boot soles squelching in the mud, the faint rasp of radios, the rustle of fabric under slick raincoats. The seconds stretched thin, straining under the weight of what could happen if a single head turned my way. I wasn’t just hiding; I was holding still in the web of fear and resolve that comes when you’re thinking about someone else’s safety more than your own.

"It’s here!" The woman’s voice rang out, sudden and triumphant. My body jolted, adrenaline flooding my limbs like a jolt of electricity. I’d known they’d find it—it was inevitable—but hearing it aloud was different. It landed like a fist in the sternum, real and solid.

"They must have taken off on foot. There’s nobody here," Karl’s voice followed, his words carrying that familiar, methodical weight. There was a trace of frustration in there too, the irritation of a puzzle that refused to fit together. His conclusion brought me a thin sliver of relief—Gladys wasn’t in their hands yet—but it also carried a warning: they weren’t stopping.

A crack of thunder ripped open the sky above, the sound so deep it seemed to vibrate through the brick walls themselves. It rolled and rumbled until it was part of me, matching my heartbeat’s wild tempo. For a breath, I wasn’t sure if the pounding in my ears was the storm—or the thought of them breaking that door open.

Startled, my elbow clipped the hand dryer, the hollow thunk of metal on bone sending a sting up my arm. The sound alone was enough to spike my pulse, but it was the broom—leaning precariously nearby—that betrayed me. It toppled in a graceless arc, smacking the edge of the sink before crashing to the tiled floor in a sharp, echoing clatter. The noise ricocheted around the cramped space like a gunshot.

"Shit!" The word left me on an exhale, barely audible, but thick with the weight of my own stupidity. The fragile veil of silence I’d been clinging to had torn, and now the air felt charged—thick with the knowledge that someone knew.

Karl’s response was immediate, instinctive, and utterly commanding. "Police!" The word cracked like a whip. "Come out slowly with your hands up." The authority in his tone left no space for questions or negotiation. It was the kind of voice designed to make people obey before their brain had caught up.

Panic sharpened my thoughts to a single, flashing point. Fight was suicide, and surrender was unthinkable. That left one option.

I moved in a blur—slipping across the tiles and into the furthest cubicle, the one that offered a sliver more concealment than the others. The door swung shut with a muted click, my hand on the lock turning slowly, carefully, until it caught without a sound.

I pressed myself into the corner, body curled small, every muscle drawn tight. My breath came shallow, deliberately quiet, the cold air of the cubicle mixing with the warmer, stale smell of disinfectant and damp paper. I could hear the rain hammering the tin roof above, the distant crackle of police radios, and beneath it all—the taut silence of people listening for movement.

In that small box of space, I felt the walls lean in, the weight of the moment pressing close on all sides. Fear and frustration warred in my chest, but beneath them both was something solid, unshaken—a determination not to be found, not here, not now. The thin partition in front of me was the only thing between freedom and the snap of handcuffs, and I wasn’t about to let it give me away.

The squelch of slow, heavy footsteps seeped into the block, each one deliberate, unhurried, and closing the gap between predator and prey. The sound pushed a wave of panic through me, cold and electric, like someone had wired my nerves straight to the mains. Every step was a countdown—thud, pause, thud—drawing nearer, threatening the thin, laughable barrier that stood between me and discovery.

My gaze flicked to the grimy concrete beneath me, the puddles of rainwater streaked with footprints. I grimaced, disgust curling my lip at the thought of my next move. But hesitation was a luxury I didn’t have.

The toilet seat clacked softly as I lowered it, the sound far too loud to my ears in that pressurised silence. I perched on top, my feet drawn up and balanced on the edge, every muscle taut as wire. My skin crawled at the contact—plastic cold and faintly sticky—but I forced my mind to narrow in on the essentials: stay small, stay still, stay unseen.

Outside, the storm’s voice poured through the rooftop vents in a drawn-out, mournful howl, the wind tangling itself with the hard crack and rumble of thunder. The noise swelled and folded in on itself, chaotic yet oddly in time with the pounding in my chest. The air tasted of damp concrete and the faint tang of cleaning chemicals, each breath thin and measured.

Do it, Beatrix, I told myself, a silent mantra that pulsed with urgency. The stakes weren’t just high—they were the whole bloody table. Gladys was still out there, somewhere between the trees and the law, and the only way I could reach her was to move now. But the unspoken fear scraped at me—if Luke had his Portal active, mine might… not work. And if it failed, I’d be trapped here with Karl on the other side of the door.

No more time to weigh it. My hand found the cool, familiar shape in my pocket, fingers slick from rain and adrenaline. I slid my finger across the activate button.

Light exploded in the cubicle, a sudden bloom of shifting colour that painted the grimy walls in impossible shades. The drab greys and dull browns of my cramped hideout dissolved into a swirling kaleidoscope. For the briefest breath—a half-second’s eternity—relief sparked inside me. It wasn’t safety yet, but it was the first breath of air after being held under water.

Then—bang! A loud thud shattered the tense silence, so violent it seemed to vibrate through my very bones. The cubicle walls shuddered around me, and with a sharp, splintering crack, the wooden door gave way. Tiny shards flew inwards, stinging my legs like angry wasps. The air reeked suddenly of raw timber and the faint metallic tang of force.

The frame buckled, hinges groaning in protest, and there he was. Karl.

Our eyes locked—a single, razor-edged second that stretched into an eternity. His expression was unreadable, a blend of grim authority and something more personal, as though he’d found exactly what he’d been looking for. My stomach clenched hard, the breath sticking in my throat. Then, just as abruptly, the door swung back on its damaged hinges, cutting him from view.

Time, which had paused on that knife-edge, suddenly roared forward. No weighing options. No second guesses. The moment was now.

The swirling colours before me weren’t just an opening—they were oxygen to a drowning woman. My body moved without hesitation, legs coiled and springing, arms propelling me forward as I dived headlong into the vortex.

In an instant, the reek of damp concrete and disinfectant vanished, replaced by the dry, powdery scent of Clivilius dust beneath my palms. I hit the ground in a controlled skid, knees buckling into the soft earth. My chest was tight, breath sawing in and out, the adrenaline sharp enough to taste.

Close! The command ripped through my thoughts, not just an order to the Portal but a plea from every fibre of my being. The vibrant whirl of colour snapped shut behind me, its last flicker sealing away the echo of Karl’s intrusion.

And just like that, the danger was gone—left on the other side of the wall. But the relief was a fragile, momentary thing. In the sharp aftertaste of the jump, I was still what I had been a heartbeat earlier: a fugitive, a sister, a soul running out of safe places to land.