Things That Shouldn’t Travel

“Even wonder has a scent. And sometimes, it smells like rot.”

"Gee, you were quick," Gladys remarked, her tone a mix of surprise and something that sounded suspiciously like relief, as Luke reappeared in the living room. He looked almost human again—dressed in clean jeans and a plain T-shirt, the grotesque tableau of the truck momentarily erased, if only on the surface.

"Do you want to see this Portal or not?" Luke’s question cut through the air like a scalpel—sharp, direct, impossible to ignore. In his hand was a small device, unassuming at first glance, but unmistakably significant.

I stilled. My breath caught and emerged instead as a hiccup, which I masked with a sharp swallow. That has to be the Portal Key, I thought, my mind instantly snapping back to that fleeting moment in the hallway—the faint clatter of something metallic hitting the floor, my fingers curling around it before he could turn. I had held it in my hand for only seconds, but even then, I had sensed its weight was more than physical. That tiny object had buzzed with importance. Mystery. Power.

And now, here it was again. But this time, wielded with intention.

Luke raised the device and pointed it towards the living room wall with a calmness that didn’t quite fit the moment. I felt my spine straighten, instinctively bracing for… I didn’t know what. A bang? A flash? Nothing?

Instead, a small ball of light shot from the device, humming as it sailed across the room. It hit the plaster with an almost imperceptible sound—more vibration than noise. Then everything changed.

The wall came alive.

Colour erupted from the point of impact in a dazzling burst, blooming outward in undulating, electric waves. They pulsed, curled, shimmered like silk in water, each ripple more vivid than the last. Pinks bled into golds. Deep blues fractured into greens. The whole wall seemed to breathe, a living, shifting canvas of impossible energy.

I froze, eyes wide, barely breathing. The stories Leigh had told me, half-whispered and wrapped in caution, had always felt like the fever dreams of someone who'd seen too much. But now—now they were here. In this room. In this moment.

Real.

My knees felt unsteady, as though the laws of gravity had grown flexible.

"It's so pretty," I heard myself say, the words barely audible, as if afraid to disturb the magic with sound. I wasn’t sure who I was speaking to. Luke, Gladys, myself. It didn’t matter. The Portal was real. Tangible. Alive.

And it was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.

But beneath the awe, another feeling stirred—one I couldn’t quite name yet. Wonder, yes. But also fear. Because now that I’d seen it, now that I knew for certain it was real… I also knew nothing was going to be the same again.

Luke, perhaps emboldened by my reaction—or maybe propelled by his own curiosity—stepped closer to the wall, drawn to the swirling maelstrom of colour as though it held answers he desperately needed. His movements were cautious but purposeful, the kind of reverence one might show a living deity or a miracle unfolding in real time.

That's a good idea, a thought flickered in my brain, impulsive and irresistible. My fingers curled around a cushion beside me, the fabric warm against my palms. "Take this for me," I called out, the words tumbling from my mouth before I could second-guess the impulse. I tossed the cushion toward Luke, not as an offering but as a test—a test of reality itself.

The cushion never made it to him.

It passed into the Portal with no resistance, disappearing into the shimmering wall of energy as if it had never existed in this realm at all. There was no pop, no flash, no sound—just a clean, seamless absorption. It was as though the cushion had been swallowed by the air itself, gently, peacefully, completely.

“Shit. That’s incredible," I breathed, my voice tinged with something far deeper than surprise. It was awe—raw, unfiltered wonder at the impossible made real. My heart pounded as I stared at the empty space where the cushion had once been. That was it. Undeniable proof. This wasn't some trick of light, not an illusion or elaborate fabrication. The Portal didn’t just exist—it worked.

Luke didn’t need prompting. “I have another idea,” he said, already in motion. He disappeared into the hallway, only to return moments later with Duke and Henri's tiny beds bundled beneath one arm and a box of their soft toys in the other. The gesture was unexpectedly tender, a silent promise that the pups wouldn’t be adrift in an alien world without some comfort from home.

Watching him, I felt a knot tighten in my chest—pride, affection, and the barest flicker of fear all tangled together.

"Good idea," I echoed, though the words felt small next to the enormity of what we were doing. My mind was still struggling to comprehend it all. This moment was the stuff of myths, of science fiction. Yet here we were, standing in a familiar lounge, sending dog beds and throw pillows through a wall into God-knows-where.

And the terrifying part was—I wanted to follow.

"Oh yeah," Gladys said, her tone unusually light as she fished around in her handbag. Her hand emerged holding a small, slightly crumpled envelope. "Can you give this to Jamie for me?"

The envelope caught the light as she held it out—plain, white, unassuming—and yet it seemed to hum with the weight of unsaid things. The kind of letter written late at night, perhaps fuelled by guilt, wine, and the ache of unfinished conversations.

"What's this?" Luke asked, his brow furrowing as he took in the offering.

There was a pause—just long enough to suggest hesitation—before Gladys answered. Her voice, though firm, held the tremor of someone exposing a softer part of themselves. "It's a letter for Jamie."

"You wrote him a letter?" I asked, my voice curving around the words with a lazy drawl of sarcasm, though even I could hear the undercurrent of surprise beneath it.

"Yeah, well, I figured I can't exactly talk to him," Gladys shot back, her words sharp-edged.

"Oh yeah, I see your point," I relented, letting the sarcasm fall away. In the surreal context of today, the letter took on a strange kind of gravity. What else did we have, really, but these small attempts at communication across impossible distances? In a world that now included Portals and the dead returning as secrets, a handwritten letter felt both absurd and deeply human.

Luke didn’t speak. He just nodded—once, sharply—and took the envelope from her fingers with unexpected gentleness. He stood straighter then, as if the act of holding that small white rectangle anchored him to purpose.

And without another word, he stepped forward.

The Portal shimmered, its colours folding and unfurling like liquid glass. Luke moved into it as though stepping through a curtain, and then—he was gone. Just like that. The air felt thinner in his absence, the room left with a lingering hum where the magic had passed.

Gladys and I stood in silence, our glasses half-full, the last notes of tension still vibrating faintly between us. Around us, the world remained unchanged—cushions, wine, the mundane clutter of a lived-in space—but something had shifted, undeniably and irreversibly.

---

As I sat there, transfixed by the spectacle before me, the wall of swirling colours no longer felt like a projection or anomaly—it felt alive, sentient almost, a breathing phenomenon that pulsed with a rhythm all its own. The vortex of shifting light was hypnotic, ribbons of emerald and violet coiling and colliding in perfect, chaotic harmony. Each crackle of electric discharge that burst against the wall sent a shiver darting down my spine, as though the portal's energy had reached through the room to touch me directly.

"It's incredible, isn't it," I found myself saying, my voice no more than a breath, reverent and awestruck. The words floated between us like incense smoke, delicate and barely formed as I rose from the couch, unable to resist the gravitational pull that tugged me toward the portal. It felt like stepping into a lucid dream, one where logic and gravity bent quietly to the will of something far greater than either magic or science could fully claim.

Gladys murmured in agreement, the sound distant, her gaze glazed with the same quiet wonder. She raised her wine glass as if in a toast, her fingers tightening briefly around the stem before her lips met the rim again. There was a softness in her expression—unusual, for her—like a child at the edge of an unwrapped present, awed and unsure what to do with the moment.

The longer I watched, the more the dancing particles of energy seemed to echo something inside me. It wasn’t just fascination anymore—it was resonance. The kind that hummed through bone and blood, ancient and wordless. It stirred a longing I hadn’t known I’d buried, something raw and vital that pushed against the edges of who I thought I was.

My hand moved almost without instruction. Fingers extended, tentative at first, then determined. I crossed the space between us slowly, each step sharpening the world around me into crystalline detail. I could feel the energy gathering—static in the air, a prickling warmth against my skin. The hairs on my arms lifted. The sound of the room faded to a distant hush.

Closer still, my outstretched fingers hovered just a breath away from the whirling surface. The air there was charged, vibrating with unseen power, a silent drumbeat against my skin. I could feel it—this invisible threshold—buzzing with kinetic promise, daring me to breach it.

A gasp escaped me, involuntary. Not of fear—but awe.

"Don't touch it, Beatrix!" Gladys's warning sliced through the air like a whip crack, her voice tight with alarm, the sound jolting me from the trance-like pull of the Portal.

I whirled around to face her, the suddenness of the movement sending the last of my wine sloshing perilously close to the rim of my glass. The liquid churned in response to my agitation, mirroring the storm now gathering beneath my calm exterior. "I know what I'm doing, Gladys," I shot back, the words tumbling from my mouth with a bravado that felt paper-thin. I was bluffing—more to myself than to her—but the nearness of the Portal had infected me with a dangerous sort of boldness.

Gladys’s eyebrow arched slowly, the gesture cutting and precise. Disbelief danced across her face, tempered with a flicker of concern. "You do?" she asked, and though her tone was light, the question carried weight. It nudged at the hidden truths that bound us—truths I had tucked away behind vague remarks and careful omissions.

My confidence wavered, shoulders tightening as I shifted subtly to the side, putting a touch more distance between myself and the writhing wall of energy. "I... uh..." My voice faltered, caught somewhere between a confession and a lie. Heat crept into my cheeks, and I dared not meet her eyes for too long. Surely she doesn’t know. She can’t know. The thought spiralled in my mind, each turn accompanied by the hollow thud of my heartbeat.

Leigh’s voice echoed from the depths of memory, grim and unyielding: Clivilius owns them. The warning had been clear, his eyes dark with something that had looked eerily like fear. The Portals were not just doors—they were commitments. One step through, and the world you knew stopped being yours.

I took a slow, steadying sip of wine, its chilled sweetness doing little to calm the tremor working its way up my spine. The glass felt heavier now, as if imbued with the gravity of the moment. Before me, the Portal pulsed, hypnotic and radiant, its surface a slow undulation of vibrant light. Its beauty was breathtaking, yes—but it was also deceptive. A snare spun from wonder and woven with danger.

I stared at the space between us—the inches of air that might as well have been an ocean. If I were to brush its surface, even accidentally, I could vanish. Gone. No warning. No return. The thought clawed at my gut, a cold grip of realisation that banished the last of my reckless curiosity.

The room held its breath with me, the silence crackling like a live wire as I stood at that invisible boundary—one foot in my known world, the other perilously close to something vast and unfathomable. The Portal shimmered, as though aware of my indecision, as though waiting.

The sudden reappearance of Luke, emerging from the Portal with a purposeful stride, startled me. A jolt of surprise flared beneath my ribs, as if the sheer velocity of his movement had sent a shockwave through the room. One second ago, the air had been charged with the otherworldly hush of suspended disbelief—now it was all movement, instruction, momentum.

"How long did you say you've hired that other small truck for?" Luke asked, directing his question at Gladys with a clipped efficiency. His voice was anchored, practical—utterly at odds with the surreal display he had just emerged from, as if he hadn’t just stepped through something born of myth and theory.

Gladys, caught mid-sip, choked on her wine. A violent coughing fit overtook her, her shoulders hunching as she fought for breath. "Until Sunday," she wheezed at last, voice rough with the aftermath, her confusion etched clear across her face. Her eyes narrowed slightly, uncertain whether to be alarmed or simply bewildered by Luke’s sudden pivot to truck logistics.

I couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped past my lips. It was the kind of laughter that bubbled up in absurd situations—not born of humour exactly, but of pressure. Of disbelief.

But Luke pressed on, his mind evidently five steps ahead. He launched into a plan as though it had arrived to him whole and ready, born of some rapid-fire mental calculus while he'd been on the other side of the Portal. "We're going to do a truck swap. Move the truck onto the road for me, would you Beatrix?" His tone was calm, but there was urgency beneath it—an undercurrent of something that made my chest tighten. "I'm going to bring Gladys's truck back from Clivilius. You'll need to reverse your truck back into the driveway once I have left. Then I'll reverse mine in front."

A wave of anxiety surged up, unbidden, sharp and briny at the back of my throat. What is Luke up to? The thought coiled around my ribs like a tightening rope. This plan—precise, timed, almost militaristic—reeked of more than simple tidiness. It was too strategic. Too clean.

I set my glass down on the kitchen bench with more force than I intended, the sudden clink loud and brittle in the silence. It mirrored the skittering pulse of my unease.

"The keys are still in the ignition," Luke called over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. His words drifted back like breadcrumbs, scattered behind him.

"Beatrix, you can't be serious!" Gladys's voice rang out, sharp with disbelief as she pushed herself upright from the couch. Her expression was thunderstruck, the wine glass trembling slightly in her hand as she mirrored my pace toward the front door.

I didn’t respond. My legs were already moving. And though I wasn’t sure what I was stepping into, the momentum carried me forward—towards the unknown, and the next layer of secrets waiting to unfold.

Ignoring Gladys's exclamation, I slid into the driver's seat with a sense of purpose that felt almost cinematic. The moment my hands gripped the wheel, I was no longer just a participant in the chaos—weaving through shocks and secrets—I was now an active force, a driver of events both literally and metaphorically. My fingers wrapped firmly around the worn leather, the texture grounding me in the present.

With a deep breath, I turned the key. The engine roared to life beneath me, a guttural hum that reverberated through the cab and into my chest. It wasn’t just sound—it was sensation, as if the truck recognised my intent and responded in kind. The dashboard flickered to attention, and I felt the subtle tremble of mechanical energy pulsing under the bonnet.

A smile curled at the corners of my lips—unexpected, involuntary, yet deeply satisfying. There was a quiet thrill in the immediacy of it all. The steering wheel vibrated beneath my palms, each thrum sending a ripple of exhilaration up my arms. For a fleeting second, I imagined myself not in the middle of a cover-up or catastrophe, but piloting something powerful and obedient, something I could command.

I released the handbrake and nudged the accelerator, the truck lurching forward with steady grace. Every motion was calculated, each footfall of rubber on concrete measured. The temptation to test the vehicle’s strength—to give it a good push and feel it respond—was undeniable. But discipline won. This wasn't the moment for indulgence. I gently applied the brakes just beyond the boundary of the driveway, the truck responding with a sighing halt, precise and smooth.

My gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror, catching the movement that signalled our plan’s next stage. A second small truck came into view, edging into the scene with perfect timing. It was as if the portal had spat Luke out. He disembarked quickly, eyes scanning, posture alert.

He didn’t waste time. “Reverse the truck back a little,” he called, his tone brisk, practical—matching the urgency that seemed to have latched itself to everything we did now.

“Sure,” I answered, matching his coolness, letting my confidence bleed into the air between us.

Luke moved into position, arms raised in a precise choreography of direction—palms rolling and slicing through the air like signals on a flight deck. I eased the truck backwards, guided by his motions. The feel of it was fluid, familiar. My four-wheel drive experience paid off; this machine, smaller and lighter, handled like an obedient pup in comparison.

Gear shift, slight pressure, mirror check. Each step was methodical, instinctual. The truck glided back with grace, slotting into the needed position as if we’d rehearsed it. There was a quiet pride in the smoothness of it, a rare moment of control in an otherwise spiralling day.

And though my thoughts still churned with unanswered questions and surreal realities, for now, I was steady—hands on the wheel, eyes on the mirror, mind locked on the task.

When the vehicle came to a stop, I exited the cab briskly, my trainers hitting the pavement in a quick, purposeful rhythm. The urgency of our situation propelled me forward, adrenaline sharpening my senses as I rounded the back of the truck. Luke was already in motion, his movements sharp, impatient. He flung open the rear door with a metallic clatter, the sound echoing down the street like a warning shot.

From the front step, Gladys’s voice cut through the moment with the clarity of a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing, Luke?” she snapped, her tone laced with both alarm and exasperation. Her figure, silhouetted by the morning light, looked oddly regal—even heavy-footed and wine-woozy—her concern unmistakable.

Luke didn’t flinch. His hand slapped the side of the truck with a solid thud, as if to underline his logic. “We need to move the remaining goods into this clean truck,” he said flatly, like the plan should’ve been obvious all along.

A flicker of relief surged through me, as welcome as it was unexpected. Ahh. So, Luke really does have a plan. The clarity of it—finally, a thread of order—brought a subtle, steadying rhythm back to my heartbeat. For the briefest moment, the chaos and carnage felt just a little bit manageable.

Gladys made a tipsy attempt to rise from the step, fingers groping for the iron handrail like it was the only tether holding her to upright civilisation. Her face was flushed, likely a mix of wine and worry. The wine bottle, still cradled under one arm like a clutch purse, bobbed dangerously as she moved.

Luke paid her no mind, already crossing to the second truck. He flung those doors open with the same careless energy, hinges groaning in protest. “Okay, Beatrix, come help me move this stuff,” he called back, already scanning the stack of boxes inside. “Looks like there are only a few smallish boxes left.”

His tone left no room for debate. That, in itself, was oddly comforting—clear instructions, a task I could get my hands on. Something physical to distract from the mental fog.

I moved to join him when Gladys’s voice chimed in again, fragile but insistent. “What about me?” she called, her words floating towards us with that unique blend of stubbornness and insecurity only she could conjure.

I turned, hands half-raised, already bracing. “Shit, Gladys. You can barely stand,” I said, my tone sharper than I intended. The words felt like they slapped the air between us.

“I can so,” she huffed defiantly. Her grip tightened on the railing before, with theatrical effort, she peeled her fingers away and took one slow, calculated step down. Then another. The bottle in her arm wobbled but stayed in place.

I watched her descend like someone walking a tightrope, a parade of pride and peril in motion. Every step she took seemed fuelled more by sheer will than balance, but there was something unshakeably brave in her defiance. Even tipsy, even wobbling on the edge of poor decisions, she refused to be left out. It was maddening. It was admirable.

And in that moment, as surreal as it all was, I couldn't help but feel the strange, sobering unity of us all—flawed, fractured, and wildly unprepared—yet inexplicably bound by this mess, and each other.

Watching Luke as he clambered into the back of the truck, I was struck by the full weight of what we were doing. The sheer grotesqueness of it. This wasn’t just a clean-up. This was desecration and necessity, dressed up as logistics. The interior of the truck felt like it pulsed with death. The stench hit me like a wall—thick, warm, nauseating. It coated the back of my throat, seeped into my clothes. My stomach turned.

Instinctively, I pinched my nose, a feeble attempt to shield myself from the rancid air. It made no difference. The scent of decay was a living thing, a predator that slithered through the air and under my skin. My eyes watered.

Flies were everywhere. A dark, humming cloud of them, spiralling through the stale air in a frenzied dance, drawn to the source of death like vultures with wings too small. I watched them with revulsion, unable to shake the thought that they might have landed on the corpse only moments before flitting to my skin, my clothes, my face. A cold shiver rippled down my spine, my body recoiling from the invisible contamination.

"Here, Beatrix," Luke’s voice sliced through my spiralling thoughts like a blade. He thrust the first box toward me, and I reached out automatically, the corrugated cardboard grounding me. It was something real. Solid. Not dead.

I grasped it too tightly, my fingers indenting its sides as if I could squeeze the horror out of my system. My stomach churned again. Turning, I barked over my shoulder without thinking, “Gladys, come get this box.”

My voice was sharp, too sharp, serrated by disgust and panic and the need to get this over with. “And for fuck’s sake, hurry up!”

“Beatrix!” Gladys snapped back, scandalised, snatching the box from my arms with an offended huff. Her tone was half outrage, half solidarity—equally appalled, equally trapped.

I narrowed my eyes at her, heat prickling at the back of my neck. “Just put it in the other truck,” I snapped, already turning back to face the next task, the next box, the next chance to be done with this nightmare.

We fell into a rhythm then—tight, tense, wordless. Like some grim ballet. Box after box, each one a step closer to erasing the evidence, to separating ourselves from what lay just metres away. The three of us moved like cogs in a macabre machine. A blur of limbs and effort and muffled breathing.

Three minutes. That’s all it took. Three minutes to shift everything, as if speed might save us from consequence.

"I think that's all of them," Luke announced, his voice quieter now, almost respectful. He leapt down from the truck, his boots thudding against the bitumen, solid and certain. Then he moved around the side, his steps steady, like a man who’d just buried a body—figuratively, if not yet literally—and was already bracing for what came next.