And then I see the grave next to hers.
I don’t want to look. Every fiber of my being tells me to turn around, to run back to the cottage and lock the door, to pretend none of this is happening. But something stronger—a pull I can’t define—compels me forward. My feet move of their own accord, bringing me to the adjacent headstone.
It’s smaller than Annabel’s, less ornate. The inscription is stark, unadorned:
Calum Vey
Devoted Lover, Tormented Soul
The death date matches hers.
My knees give out, and I collapse onto the damp earth, my mind reeling. I press my palms against the ground, desperate for something solid, something real, but the world feels as though it’s spinning off its axis. This isn’t just a warning—it’s a death sentence.
“I can’t live without my life,” I sob into the air. “Tell me how I’m supposed to live without my soul!”
The air shifts around me, growing colder, heavier. I look up, and the ghosts are back, their forms encircling me like a silent jury. Their faces, though indistinct, seem accusatory, their hollow eyes burning with a purpose I can’t comprehend.One of them steps forward, raising a hand to point at me, then to the grave.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, this isn’t real. It can’t be.”
The figure tilts its head, as if mocking my denial. The others join in, their hands all pointing now, their silence deafening. I clench my fists, the urge to scream building in my chest, but no sound escapes. I’m trapped in their judgment, in this nightmare of my own making.
“What do you want?” I finally manage, my voice cracking. “What am I supposed to do?”
The shadow moves closer, its form solidifying just enough for me to see the outline of its face. It’s a woman, her features hauntingly familiar. Annabel.
Her lips part, but no words come out. Instead, the sound of the wind shifts, carrying her voice like a whisper through the trees.
“You,” it says, fragmented and broken. “Your fault. Your end.”
I scramble back, my heart pounding as her form flickers, dissolving into the shadows. The others follow, their presence dissipating like mist under the morning sun. But their absence doesn’t bring relief. It leaves a void, a suffocating emptiness that presses down on me like the weight of the grave itself.
I stare at the headstone with my name on it, my chest heaving, my mind racing. The implications claw at the edges of my sanity, each thought more unbearable than the last. Annabel’s death wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a harbinger. A curse. And it’s coming for me.
As the last rays of daylight fade, plunging the cemetery into darkness, I rise on unsteady legs and turn toward the woods. The cottage is waiting, its windows glowing faintly in the distance, a beacon in the storm. But I know that noamount of light can dispel the shadows that have taken root inside me.
Annabel’s voice echoes in my mind as I walk, her words a haunting refrain:“Your fault. Your end.”
When I reach Holiday House, the storm has started again, the rain slicing through the night like shards of glass. I step inside, the warmth of the cottage a cruel contrast to the cold that clings to me. I head straight for the studio, my sanctuary and my prison.
The painting of Annabel stands in the center of the room, her eyes following me as I move. I grab a brush, my hands shaking, and begin to paint, desperate to capture her image, to understand her message, to exorcise the demons that have taken root in my soul.
But as the hours pass, the lines blur, the colors bleed, and the painting takes on a life of its own. Annabel’s face twists, her expression morphing into something unrecognizable—rage, sorrow, betrayal. The brush falls from my hand, clattering to the floor, and I stumble back, staring at the canvas in horror.
The storm outside crescendos, the wind howling like a banshee, the rain pounding against the windows. I collapse into the chair, my body trembling, my mind fracturing under the weight of everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve done.
And in the distance, barely audible over the chaos, Annabel’s laughter rings out, hollow and haunting, a ghostly melody that promises no rest, no peace.
Only the end.
Chapter Fifteen
Jonathan–past
The salt-swept wind claws at my face as I crest the path to the cliffs, a tangle of emotions knotted in my chest. She’s already there, perched precariously close to the edge. The hem of her dress flutters like a pale, beckoning flag in the wind. For a fleeting moment, she looks like something otherworldly—a siren drawn from the sea, set to lure men into the deep.
“Jonathan,” Annabel calls out without turning, her voice cutting through the roar of the waves crashing below. “You’re late.”
She always knows when I’m near. It’s uncanny, like she’s tuned into some frequency only I emit. I’d planned to approach her calmly, to wait until I could steady my pulse and tamp down the thoughts that have plagued me since the night I heard what she told him. But her presence—her very existence—renders rationality impossible.
