A box.
It’s small, no larger than a shoebox, its edges worn and weathered. My hands tremble as I pull it free, the whispers around me rising to a fever pitch. I fumble with the latch, my breath hitching as I lift the lid.
Nothing.
The box is empty.
A choked sob escapes my throat, frustration and despair crashing over me like a tidal wave. I hurl the box across the room, the sound of it splintering against the wall barely registering over the deafening silence that follows. The whispers are gone. The house is still. And I am left alone, broken and hollow, staring into the abyss I’ve created.
The room tilts, my vision darkening at the edges as exhaustionfinally takes hold. I collapse beside the hole, my body crumpling like a marionette whose strings have been cut. The last thing I see before the darkness claims me is the faint outline of Annabel’s face, hovering just beyond the edges of my consciousness.
Her expression is twisted, not with love or anger, but with pity.
“Let me go,” she whispers, her voice distant and echoing. “Holding on will only hasten your end.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me with nothing but the cold embrace of the earth and the crushing weight of my own guilt.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Calum
Later that morning, the brush glides over the canvas, trailing a soft curve of burnt umber across Annabel’s cheek. My hand is steady, though my mind races with a thousand fragmented thoughts. Her expression is peaceful, serene. A ghost of a smile plays on her lips, the kind she reserved for moments of triumph or secrets she intended to keep.
I glance at the painting, then at the others leaning against the walls, a testament to my descent. Annabel’s face stares back from every angle—eyes wide with joy, lips parted in laughter, brows furrowed in sorrow. A dozen versions of her, all conjured in the sleepless nights since I returned to Holiday House.
I rake a hand through my hair, damp with sweat despite the chill in the room. The sea air seeps through the cracked window, carrying the faint scent of salt and decay. My chest tightens, a sensation I’ve grown familiar with since she... since Annabel left. No, not left—was taken. The truth presses against my mind, a suffocating weight I can’t bear to name aloud.
My brush falters, streaking an unintended line across her shoulder.
“Damn it,” I mutter, stepping back to assess the damage. Her image remains intact, but something feels off. The colors are too vibrant, her expression too knowing. She doesn’t look serene—she looks amused, as though she’s laughing at my pathetic attempts to capture her essence.
“You think this is funny, Annabel?” My voice echoes in the quiet, and for a moment, I feel the absurdity of talking to a painting. But it isn’t just a painting. None of them are. They’re pieces of her, fragments of a puzzle I can’t seem to solve.
Exhaustion presses against my temples, and I drop the brush into the jar of murky water. The bristles fan out like they’re drowning, much like I feel most days. I wipe my hands on a rag and step away, needing space, air—anything to quell the suffocating sense of being watched.
I move to the other side of the room, my gaze falling on a stack of finished canvases leaning against the wall. One catches my attention, the painting of her standing by the cliffs. It’s the one that haunted me most, her silhouette backlit by a stormy sky, her raven hair wild in the wind. I don’t remember painting it—not entirely, anyway. It feels like it came to me in a fever dream, my hands moving on their own, compelled by something unseen.
I pull it forward, and as I do, something flutters to the ground. A piece of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges, lands at my feet. My breath catches, a mix of dread and anticipation tightening in my chest.
I kneel and pick it up, the texture rough against my fingertips. It’s another letter, the words scrawled in a hurried, almost frantic hand. My pulse quickens as I scan the lines, the familiar slant of Annabel’s handwriting pulling me under like a riptide.
You let me slip away. You didn’t see me for who I was, onlywho you wanted me to be. Now, I’m lost, and it’s your fault. You failed me.
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I stagger back, clutching the letter like it might disintegrate. My gaze flicks to the signature at the bottom—a strange symbol, drawn in what looks like ash. A crude spiral with jagged edges, almost like an eye, but it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
I lift the letter to my nose, inhaling the faint, acrid scent of burnt wood. Ash. It’s definitely ash. My hands tremble as I hold the letter up to the light, trying to make sense of it. The symbol stares back at me, mocking, taunting. It feels alive, a living scar branded onto the page.
“This wasn’t here,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “It wasn’t here last night.” I glance at the painting again, searching for answers in the stormy cliffs and the haunting curve of Annabel’s figure. But it offers none, only the silent accusation of her absence.
I sink into the nearest chair, the letter still clutched in my hand. My mind races, replaying every interaction, every argument, every whispered confession between us. Was she trying to tell me something all along? Did I miss the signs? My chest heaves with the weight of guilt, a familiar but unbearable companion.
The air in the room grows colder, and I shiver despite the sweater I’m wearing. The faint scent of Annabel’s perfume drifts through the air. It’s impossible, yet undeniable. I close my eyes, gripping the letter tighter, as though it might anchor me to reality.
The scrape of nails against wood jolts me upright a while later. My eyes snap open, darting around the room, but there’snothing—no one. The sound comes again, more insistent this time, like claws raking against the floorboards.
“Annabel?” I call out before I can stop myself. The word feels ridiculous on my tongue, but the silence that follows is worse. It presses against my ears, thick and suffocating, until I swear I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my skull.
A sudden gust of wind slams the window shut, and I jump to my feet, the letter fluttering to the floor. The room feels charged with an energy I can’t explain. The taste of ash lingers on my tongue, acrid and metallic, as though the letter has left a physical mark on me.
