My fingers tremble as they trace the slash running diagonally across my face, the same spot where Annabel’s ring had cut me in the dream. The wound is shallow but unmistakable, the sting fresh and all too real.
I stagger out of bed, my head spinning, and stumble into the bathroom. The harsh light blinds me for a moment, and when my vision clears, I see it—red streaks across my cheek, angry and raw. It’s impossible. It has to be. But the proof stares back at me, undeniable and taunting.
The dream isn’t a dream. Or maybe it is, but it’s something else, too. Something worse.
I grip the edge of the sink, the porcelain cold beneath my fingers. “You’re losing it, Calum,” I mutter, my voice shaking. “This is just… stress. Grief. It’s not real.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. The dreams have been getting worse, more vivid, more… physical. At first, it was just the cliff, the storm, her words echoing in my mind long after I woke. But now, the lines between dream and reality are blurring, bleeding together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I splash water on my face, the coolness grounding me for a moment. My reflection stares back, pale and hollow-eyed, a ghost of the man I used to be. Annabel’s voice whispers in my mind, soft and haunting:“Even in death, you’ll hold on.”
The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts. At first, I think it’s my imagination, but then I hear it again—soft, deliberate, moving down the hall. My breath catches, and I turn off the faucet, straining to listen. The house is old, its creaks and groans familiar, but this is different. This is someone, or something.
“Hello?” My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
No response.
I flip the light switch on but the hallway remains dark. The lightbulb must be out I think as I grab a flashlight from the cabinet and step into the hallway, my heart pounding. The beam of light sweeps over the dark wood floors, the faded wallpaper, the framed photos lining the walls. Nothing. The footsteps have stopped, but the silence is worse. It’s thick, oppressive, like the house itself is holding its breath.
I move cautiously, the floorboards creaking under my weight. The sound of the wind outside is a constant backdrop, but every so often, I think I hear something else—a faintrustling, a soft whisper. I follow it, my grip on the flashlight tightening.
The studio door is ajar, the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the gap. I push it open, the hinges groaning, and step inside. The air is colder here, and the smell of paint and turpentine is sharp and familiar. My paintings line the walls, each one a portrait of Annabel, each one capturing a different facet of her—her beauty, her sadness, her rage.
I approach the newest canvas, the one I’ve been working on for weeks. It’s unfinished, her face still a ghostly outline, her eyes hollow and unformed. But as I stare at it, the shadows seem to shift, the lines blurring and morphing.
“Calum.”
Her voice is a breath against my ear, and I whirl around, the flashlight beam swinging wildly. There’s no one there, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I feel her presence, tangible and suffocating, like she’s right behind me.
“You did this,” the voice whispers, soft but accusatory.
“No,” I say, backing away from the canvas. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.”
But the voice doesn’t stop. It grows louder, more insistent, until it’s a scream, echoing in my head, drowning out everything else. I drop the flashlight, clutching my ears, but it doesn’t help. The words are inside me, relentless and unforgiving.
“You did this. You did this. You did this.”
The sound crescendos, and I fall to my knees, my vision swimming. The paintings around me seem to come alive, their colors bleeding and swirling, their subjects shifting into grotesque parodies of themselves. Annabel’s face twists, her beauty marred by anger and pain, her eyes burning with accusation.
“Stop!” I scream, my voice breaking. “Please, stop!”
And then, silence.
The room is still, the air heavy and stifling. I open my eyes, my body trembling, and look around. The paintings are normal again, their colors static and lifeless. The only sound is the wind outside, its howling a mournful dirge.
I stagger to my feet, my mind racing. I don’t know what’s real anymore. The dreams, the voice, the wound on my cheek—it’s all too much. I can’t escape her, not in sleep, not in waking. She’s everywhere, her presence a constant shadow, her memory a weight I can’t bear.
As I leave the studio, my eyes catch on the unfinished painting one last time. Her hollow eyes seem to follow me, and I swear I see her lips move, forming a single, damning word:
“Murderer.”
I slam the door behind me, my heart pounding, and retreat to the bedroom. The bed is cold and uninviting, but I collapse onto it, too drained to care. As I drift into an uneasy sleep, her voice whispers in my mind, soft and haunting:
“You’ll never let me go.”
And deep down, I know she’s right.
Chapter Thirteen
