Things That Shouldn't Follow

“Some doors keep things out. Some just buy you time. And some… were never built for what’s trying to get in.”

"What the fuck are you doing, Luke?" The whisper tore from my lips, sharp and ragged, thick with disbelief and panic. It wasn't a question, not really—it was a plea. A futile attempt to anchor him, to hold him back from the edge of recklessness. As I pressed myself against the cold, unyielding surface of the pantry door, the chill seeped into my spine, grounding me in place even as every instinct screamed at me to vanish into the shadows.

Luke turned slightly, just enough for me to catch the steely glint in his eye. His response came not in words, but in gestures—a finger to his lips, then to his eyes, then to the door. A quiet language of urgency and intention. He wanted to see it. To confirm what we’d only heard, as if the growls hadn’t already sketched terror into the very walls around us.

My head moved in a tight, desperate shake. No. No, no, no. We didn’t need to see it. We didn’t need to open the door to the monster we already knew was there. The idea that confirmation could possibly outweigh safety bordered on madness. My pulse surged painfully, beating out a rhythm of disbelief against my temples.

Then another growl, this one closer still—so close it felt as though the sound had shape and weight, slipping beneath the door and curling around our ankles. My knees threatened to buckle. It wasn’t just a sound. It was a warning. A promise.

Luke’s steps were slow, calculated. His body moved with the focus of a man walking a tightrope above a pit of knives. I watched, helpless, as he edged toward the door like a moth drawn to the flame of certainty.

Bloodied fingers curled reflexively into the fabric of my torn dress as I pressed a trembling hand against my chest. My heart thudded violently beneath it, each beat like a battering ram inside my ribcage. I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second, forcing myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. But even that simple act required conscious effort now. The fear wasn’t just in my mind—it had taken root in my body, coiling in my gut and tightening its grip with every second that passed.

Luke, now at the door, placed his palms against it as if bracing against an invisible tide. The way his shoulders tensed, his frame taut with restraint, made it clear—every fibre of his being was preparing for impact. He leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, and dared to peer through the peephole. The seconds stretched unbearably thin, suspended in a silence so taut it threatened to snap.

Then his sharp intake of breath—ragged, involuntary—pierced the quiet. It was the kind of sound that left no doubt. Fear, raw and immediate. My stomach lurched in response, and a wave of acid burned the back of my throat. My hands curled into fists at my sides as my eyes clamped shut, the darkness behind my lids offering no comfort. The beast, the terror that had stalked me across realities, was no longer some spectre haunting the edge of imagination. It was here. Real. Present. Pressing against our last line of defence.

The collision came suddenly, violently. A sickening thud as Luke’s body slammed back into the entryway wall was almost indistinguishable from the heavy, bestial impact of the creature hitting the door. Wood groaned in protest.

"Luke!" My scream erupted, jagged and raw, shattering the paralysis that gripped me. My limbs jolted into motion, my fingers reaching for the knife I’d abandoned on the kitchen bench—its steel now a fragile promise of protection.

But Luke was already in motion, adrenaline propelling him like a slingshot released. He twisted his body with fierce momentum, launching himself toward the porch light switch in a move that blurred recklessness with instinct. His hand struck the switch with a smack, the action sharp and desperate.

The result was immediate. Light burst forth, bright and accusing, cutting through the thick night. The creature outside reacted with a howl so full of pain and fury that it seemed to shake the windows in their frames. The sound clawed its way through the air, unholy and unforgettable. Then came the frenzied scrape of claws against concrete, the noise harsh and grating, like fingernails across slate—an animal retreating, but not defeated.

My breath hitched in my chest. The noise trailed off into the night, but the fear it left behind rooted itself deep, coiling cold and unyielding around my spine.

"It's gone," Luke's voice, barely more than a whisper, sliced through the lingering tension.

The silence that followed was not relief, but a stillness charged with the weight of survival. His hand closed around my arm—firm, steadying—an anchor in the emotional maelstrom. The contact grounded me, even as his grip carried an unspoken urgency. It was both comfort and command, an instinctual understanding that staying here meant inviting more horror.

"Come on, we need to get out of here."

"Luke," I breathed, the name escaping me like a tremor, a fragile thread of disbelief trailing behind it. "What the fuck have we done?" The words weren’t a question as much as a lament—a confession whispered into the wreckage we had barely escaped. The air around us seemed to thicken with it, the dread of consequences not yet visible but already pressing in.

My legs buckled beneath me, the adrenaline that had fuelled my frantic survival finally burning out, leaving only tremors and pain in its wake. Every inch of my body throbbed—my scraped palms, the deep gash along my arm, the sting of invisible bruises forming beneath the skin. My joints ached from exertion, from fear held too long, too tight.

We sank to the kitchen tiles together, not with drama but with the quiet, inevitable collapse of two people who had nothing left to give. The chill from the floor seeped into my bones, but I barely registered it—my mind already overloaded, my nerves frayed and exposed. Luke didn’t speak, nor did I. There was nothing to say. Our silence was a sanctuary, a fragile thread of solidarity woven in the aftermath.

Shoulder to shoulder, we sat amid the chaos, our shadows trembling under the soft glow of artificial light. And there, on that cold floor, we waited—not for rescue or understanding, but for dawn. For the pale light that might finally break this nightmare and show us, if nothing else, that we had made it through the night.