But as I turn away, I see it.
In the corner of the mirror, faint but unmistakable, is the symbol.
It’s not carved into the glass, nor is it drawn. It’sinsidethe reflection, hovering behind me like a brand etched into the fabric of reality itself.
And then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes.
My breath catches in my throat as the realization dawns: I can’t escape her. She’s everywhere now, in every shadow, every reflection, every beat of my frantic heart.
She wants me to finish it. And until I do, she won’t let me go.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Calum
The wailing shreds through my sleep, pulling me from the abyss of an uneasy dream. It isn’t gentle or distant. It’s guttural, raw, vibrating through the walls of the cottage like a living thing. My eyes snap open, and the room around me swims in pale gray dawn. For a second, I think it’s just the wind—a storm still lingering after last night’s chaos.
But no. This is human. A sound drenched in grief, in rage. A sound that claws at my insides.
I sit up too quickly, the blood rushing to my head. My vision darkens for a moment, and when it clears, the sound crescendos into a scream that almost shakes the walls. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bracing my hands on the mattress to steady myself.
“Annabel?” I whisper, my throat dry and cracking around the syllables.
No answer. Just that unrelenting wail. It feels like it’s coming from everywhere at once, above me, below me,insideme. I press my palms against my ears, but it’s no use. The sound is inescapable.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the silence swallows it whole.
I sit frozen for a moment, waiting, bracing for what comes next. The air in the room has changed. It’s thick, heavy, like it’s weighing me down in some invisible way. The fine hairs on my arms stand on end. I want to move, but I can’t. My body feels like it’s locked in place, a marionette waiting for its strings to be yanked.
Out of nowhere, a force slams against my face, hard and unyielding. My head snaps to the side, my cheek stinging with the heat of the impact. I gasp, bringing a hand to my face, fingers trembling as I press against the burning flesh. There’s no one here. Nothing that could have done this.
The slap echoes in the silence of the room, and I stagger to my feet, disoriented. My gaze shoots to the corners of the room, to the doorway, to the windows streaked with faint morning light. But there’s no one.
No one, and yet Ifeltit. The distinct, sharp burn of fingers across my skin.
I stumble toward the dresser, gripping its edge to steady myself as I lean toward the mirror above it. The reflection staring back at me is ghostly, my face pale, my eyes wild, the cheekbone on the left side of my face bright red with the unmistakable outline of a handprint.
A handprint.
My chest tightens, my breath shallow and erratic as my gaze locks on the fiery mark. It shouldn’t be possible, but there it is, a searing accusation branded into my skin. The fingers are long and delicate—herfingers. Annabel’s.
She can hurt me. This isn’t just whispers and flickering shadows anymore. This is rage. A fury so tangible it left its mark on me.
“What do you want?” I demand, my voice trembling with fear and defiance. “Why are you doing this?”
The mirror fogs over as though something unseen is breathing against it, a slow condensation that creeps over the glass. I watch, my pulse hammering, as shapes begin to emerge. At first, it’s indecipherable, but then the same jagged symbol carves itself into the fog. The lines are deliberate, drawn as though by an invisible hand. It glistens wetly in the dim light, a mocking reminder of the ash-covered walls.
Through the faint etching, her image flickers in the reflection—not fully formed, just a suggestion of a face, a curl of hair, eyes brimming with fury and sadness. My chest tightens, and I back away, unable to tear my gaze from the mirror. I want to look away, but her presence is magnetic, horrifying.
“Annabel, stop!” I shout, my voice cracking. “Tell me what you want from me!”
Her image wavers, her lips parting in a soundless scream. And then she’s gone, leaving only the fogged-over mirror and the symbol. My cheek still throbs as I clutch at the dresser, my nails digging into the wood.
My mind races, fragments of thoughts colliding into one another. This is no longer just grief twisting into delusion. Annabel’s anger is real. Her pain is real. And now, she’s making sure I feel it too.
I glance around the room, half-expecting her to appear again, her disjointed form emerging from the shadows. But nothing moves. The house is silent once more, and yet every creak of the floorboards feels ominous, like it’s echoing a warning.
I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at my reflection, waiting for something else to happen. The sun is creeping higher now, spilling more light into the room. It does little to soothe the oppressive weight pressing down on me.
