Where the Blood Dried

“Some places don’t need ghosts. The stains are loud enough.”

The study, enveloped in a quasi-darkness, felt almost alien—more haunted than abandoned. The blinds remained tightly shut, an impenetrable barrier against the outside world, letting in only fractured slivers of light that sliced across the room like forgotten memories. The air was heavy, thick with a silence that pressed in on me, laced with the musty scent of blood and scorched dust.

As I stepped forward, a sharp crunch shattered the stillness. I froze. The fragments of the broken light globe crackled beneath my shoe, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet. It reverberated through the room and through my body, a brittle echo of violence. A chill chased itself down my spine, prickling along my arms as the memories of that night surged unbidden. I could still feel the shadow panther’s breath, hot and fetid, pressing against my skin.

My gaze swept cautiously across the study, and there it was—the dark smudge on the door. A grotesque, rust-coloured bloom. A bloodied handprint.

My heart lurched before reason caught up with panic. It’s yours, I reminded myself. Your blood. Your hand. A remnant of the chaos, preserved like a warning. But that realisation brought no comfort. The image was no less grisly for knowing its source.

The hallway loomed ahead, stretched out in gloom and silence, and it was no less foreboding. Dried blood painted the walls in uneven strokes, like some grotesque mural carved from panic and pain. Each smear was a breadcrumb of trauma, a trail I’d left behind in a bid to survive.

I stopped. Completely still.

My ears strained against the suffocating quiet, searching for a whisper of movement—a breath, a growl, the creak of claws against timber. The silence roared. It was too complete. Too still. Every instinct in me braced for the panther’s return, even though logic whispered that it was gone.

"Leigh?" My voice cut the silence, thin and wavering. It sounded so small, so uncertain, echoing faintly off the walls. "Leigh, are you there?" I hated how desperate I sounded, but the need for human connection in this tomb of echoes was overwhelming. The thought of being truly alone in this place made my throat tighten.

Then, movement—sudden, shadowed—at the far end of the hall.

A figure stepped into view, silhouetted by the dimness beyond. I gasped aloud, staggering a step backwards, my whole body lurching in alarm. My heart leapt into my throat, every muscle coiled for flight. For one agonising second, I couldn’t breathe. It was happening again.

"Leigh," the name spilled from my lips like a prayer, a release of breath that grounded me. Recognition settled in. Relief surged like a wave crashing through my chest, sweeping away the terror in its wake.

I steadied myself, one hand pressed against the wall to anchor my shaking limbs, the thudding of my heart gradually slowing. He was here. I wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

"What the hell happened in here?" Leigh’s inquiry echoed from the living room, his voice edged with confusion and a trace of disbelief. I glimpsed his silhouette retreating from the hallway, swallowed by the dimness beyond the doorframe.

"I told you. I was attacked by a shadow panther last night," I called after him, forcing calm into my voice despite the way my heart surged into overdrive. The memory was fresh—too fresh.

Crossing the threshold into the living room, a low groan slipped from my lips before I could suppress it. "Shit." The curse escaped like steam from a cracked lid, not shouted, but worn and bitter.

The room was in ruins.

Camping gear lay strewn like debris from a shipwreck, tangled cords, burst zippered bags, and overturned chairs forming a chaotic landscape. Tarps sagged like deflated lungs, twisted into unnatural shapes. Every inch of the space bore the fingerprints of panic and violence. The carpet was caked with dirt and drying blood, and the oppressive staleness of it all seemed to cling to the walls like smoke.

Leigh had crouched beside a shattered camping light, the broken shell of it splayed across the floor like a fractured beetle. His fingers brushed against the cracked casing as he studied it, brows drawn. "It really is quite the scene in here," he remarked, his voice low, more observation than judgement.

I didn’t answer at first. His words hung there, suspended in the stillness, a gross understatement that barely skimmed the surface of what had unfolded. My jaw tightened. You really have no idea, I thought, the bitterness of it catching in my chest. Your Portal Key doesn’t prepare you for this.

My gaze shifted to the far side of the room, where the marble tiles in the kitchen met the frayed edge of the rug. The blood had spread there, smeared in uneven arcs. A part of my mind noted the strange, swirling pattern the stains had formed—almost artistic in its macabre design, like boysenberry jam left to congeal into a grotesque mural of the night’s terror.

It was surreal. All of it.

And yet, this was my reality now.

Pulling myself from the grim tableau, I forced my eyes away from the dried blood, the overturned gear, the heavy silence that seemed to buzz in my ears. There were things to do—promises made, responsibilities mounting like bricks on my back. I latched onto the nearest thread of purpose. Focus, Beatrix.

"I should really take all this gear to Clivilius first. I did promise Paul," I said, my voice quieter than intended, but firm enough to cut through the stagnant air.

Leigh’s voice followed quickly, not unkind, but probing. "What about Jarod?"

A flicker of irritation sparked in me, though I kept it reined in. My jaw tightened before I spoke. "Jarod will wait." My words were quick, decisive—an anchor dropped mid-storm. But the look Leigh gave me said otherwise. His eyes, fixed on mine, held a cocktail of concern and doubt, and the creased line between his brows asked what his voice didn’t: Are you sure this is the right call?

I braced against it, unwilling to be swayed. "I know Jarod. Trust me, he'll wait for me." My tone sharpened slightly, less defensive, more resolute—as much for my own benefit as Leigh’s. He’ll wait. He has to.

In a quiet show of solidarity, Leigh bent and lifted a sleeping bag, extending it to me. His fingers brushed mine in the handoff—just barely—but the gesture steadied me more than I’d admit. "I wish I could help you," he murmured, the regret in his voice cutting through his usual glib veneer. It was raw, unguarded.

"It won’t take me long," I said, gathering gear into my arms, trying to push aside the pressure mounting behind my temples. I adjusted a strap across my shoulder, wincing as it pulled on a raw scratch beneath my jumper. "I'll just leave it all beside the Portal."

Leigh gave a nod, solemn, almost ritualistic, as if he knew not to argue further.

With a final sweep of my gaze across the devastated room, I lifted my Portal Key. The Portal shimmered into existence on the living room wall, casting hues of lavender, indigo and molten amber that danced over the broken remnants of the night before.

I stepped through without hesitation, the cold chaos of the house dissolving behind me, replaced by the dry breath of Clivilius wrapping around my skin like a cloak. The warmth prickled against my cheeks, the sudden brightness almost blinding.

And still, somewhere behind me, two lives waited—one forged in blood and burden, the other built on shifting loyalties.