The storm builds like a crescendo, its furious symphony shaking the very walls of the cottage. Wind howls through the cracks, and rain lashes the windows, yet inside, I barely notice. My focus is absolute. The painting consumes me.
Annabel’s image stares back at me from the canvas, her presence so vivid it’s as if she might step out of the frame at any moment. The brush trembles in my hand, a marionette string guiding me through motions that don’t entirely feel my own. Her eyes—God, her eyes—they follow me. No matter where I stand, they pin me in place, daring me to look away.
I can’t.
“Almost there,” I murmur to myself, though the sound feels foreign. My voice, weak and hoarse, is swallowed by the storm outside. The air inside the room is thick, suffocating, laced with a metallic tang I can’t place.
The flames in the fireplace flicker violently, casting shadows that twist and curl like phantom hands along the walls. My strokes become frenzied, driven by somethingdeeper than inspiration—a compulsion, primal and unstoppable.
I glance at the room around me, the remnants of my obsession scattered like debris. Paint tubes, brushes, overturned jars, and half-empty glasses litter the space. Half a dozen other portraits of Annabel line the walls, each more lifelike than the last. Each one a step closer to this moment. To this painting.
Her lips are curved in a faint smile, but it’s the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. No, her eyes are too busy accusing me. Pleading with me. They shimmer with a strange light that seems alive, liquid, almost too real to belong to the static world of oil and pigment.
The storm crashes louder, shaking the windows. Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the room. It’s enough to catch a glint of something in the painting—around her neck.
I step closer, squinting at the locket that dangles against the hollow of her throat. A familiar unease coils in my stomach. It wasn’t there before. I didn’t paint it. Did I?
I drop the brush, reaching out with trembling fingers to touch the locket in the painting. The gold is etched with intricate patterns, and at its center is the same symbol from the letter—a jagged, looping sigil burned into my mind.
A shiver skates down my spine as I lean closer. The symbol pulses faintly, almost imperceptibly. I swear I can smell the acrid scent of ash and decay wafting from the canvas.
“Impossible,” I mutter, but the words are hollow.
The cottage groans, the storm outside screaming in protest. My knees buckle slightly, and I clutch the easel for support. Sweat drips down my temple, mingling with the paint smudges on my face.
The locket looks so real. Too real.
I need to stop. The thought is faint, fleeting, and quickly drowned out by the roaring need to finish. My hand finds thebrush again, and I drag the bristles across the canvas with a ferocity that borders on violence.
Her face transforms under my touch, her beauty deepening into something otherworldly, haunting. But there’s something else now, something creeping into the background—a shadow, amorphous yet menacing. It looms over her shoulder, shapeless but unmistakably there.
A guttural sound escapes my throat as the image burns into my vision. The shadow. The locket. The symbol. Her eyes. Hereyes.
The taste of ash coats my tongue again, bitter and acrid, as though the air itself has turned toxic. My hands tremble, the brush falling to the floor with a muted clatter. My knees hit the floor a second later, and I grip my hair, gasping for breath.
The cottage thrums with an energy I can’t describe. The shadows cast by the fire seem to ripple, shifting and bending into impossible shapes. I close my eyes tightly, willing it all to stop.
When I open them, the painting has changed again.
Annabel’s face is no longer serene. Her smile is gone, replaced by a gaping mouth twisted in a silent scream. Her skin, once luminous, now appears as though it’s rotting, her high cheekbones melting, dripping like candle wax.
My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat as I scramble backward. My heart hammers violently, each beat a painful reminder of my own fragility.
And then, the painting moves.
Her eyes dart toward me, locking me in place with an intensity that feels like a physical blow. Her lips part, and though no sound emerges, I hear her voice as clear as if she were standing beside me.
“You killed me.”
The words reverberate through my skull, each syllable a dagger driving deeper. I cry out, my voice hoarse and broken,as I fall onto my back. The world spins, the room darkening at the edges as shadows crawl closer, reaching for me.
The last thing I see before my vision fades is Annabel’s mouth twisting into a grotesque smile, her teeth bared in a macabre display.
I wake with a start, gasping for air. The storm has quieted, leaving only the steady drip of rain against the windows and the faint crackle of dying embers in the fireplace.
I sit up slowly, every muscle in my body aching. My clothes are damp with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. The cottage is silent now, oppressively so.
For a moment, I think it was all a dream—a vivid, horrifying nightmare born of exhaustion and grief. But then my eyes fall on the painting.
