“No,” I gasp, shaking my head. “No, I didn’t.”
But the painting doesn’t relent. Annabel’s eyes blaze with accusation, and Jonathan’s shadow seems to stretch, his hand tightening on her arm. The symbol on her locket glows faintly, a brand of betrayal.
“You killed me,” she says again, her voice echoing in my mind. “You never saw me. Not really.”
Tears blur my vision, and I fall to my knees, clutching my head. “I loved you,” I whisper, the words a broken plea. “I loved you more than anything.”
“Then why couldn’t you let me go?” Her voice is a razor, slicing through my defenses.
The storm roars, and the room shakes as if the earth itself is rebelling. The fire in the hearth flares, casting monstrous shadows on the walls. And then, with a deafening crack, the painting splits down the middle, the canvas tearing in two.
The room falls silent, the storm outside suddenly distant. I stare at the ruined painting, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Annabel’s face is gone, her image lost to the destruction. But the locket remains, painted in perfect detail on the jagged edge of the canvas.
The symbol stares back at me, its meaning just out of reach.
I collapse onto the floor, the weight of it all pressing down on me. The truth, the lies, the unanswered questions—they swirl together, a tempest I can’t escape. And in the midst of it all, her voice lingers, soft and haunting.
“You killed me.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Calum
I wake in the middle of the night. My eyes instantly landing on the the mirror, unable to shake the sensation that something about it has changed. It sits at the end of the hallway, its gilded frame warped by time and salt air. The glass is cloudy, speckled with dark spots like decay spreading across its surface. But tonight, it’s luminous, almost glowing, drawing me toward it like a moth to a flame.
I step closer, my bare feet soundless on the cold floor. My reflection stares back, but it’s wrong. There’s something about the eyes—my eyes—that makes me pause. They look too wide, too knowing, like they’re holding secrets I can’t begin to fathom. I raise my hand, and the reflection follows, but there’s a lag, a hesitation. My hand trembles, but the hand in the mirror is steady, defiant.
“Annabel,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. The name feels like an invocation, a plea. The glass ripples as though disturbed by an invisible current, and I stumble back, my pulse hammering.
That’s when I see her shadow.
It’s faint, just a flicker, but unmistakable. It stretchesdown the hallway behind me, long and thin, the outline of her head and shoulders unmistakable. I spin around, expecting to find her standing there, her lips curved in that infuriating, mocking smile. But the hallway is empty.
A hollow laugh escapes me, bitter and raw. “Losing it, Calum,” I mutter under my breath. “Completely losing it.”
I turn back to the mirror, and my breath catches in my throat. The glass is no longer cloudy. It’s clear, too clear, and etched into its surface is the symbol. Over and over, the jagged lines crisscross, carved deep and deliberate. The etchings shimmer faintly, as though they’ve been burned into the glass with something far more permanent than human hands.
The symbol multiplies, spreading like a virus across the surface of the mirror. My reflection begins to disappear beneath the onslaught, but not before I see the final etching. It’s over my eyes—my reflection’s eyes. A thousand versions of the same symbol, spiraling outward, consuming every inch of the mirror and my image with it.
“No.” The word escapes me, a desperate denial. I reach out, my fingertips grazing the surface of the glass, and the temperature drops instantly. It’s so cold it burns, and I jerk my hand back, the skin red and raw.
“Why are you doing this?” I yell, my voice echoing down the empty hallway. “What do you want from me?”
The only response is silence. No, not silence. Breathing. Slow, deliberate, right behind me.
I whip around, my vision swimming, and I see her again—just a shadow, fleeting and ephemeral, disappearing into the walls like smoke. My legs give out, and I slump against the mirror, my chest heaving. My mind races, the edges of my sanity fraying with every passing second.
I feel her now, not just in the air but in my very skin, like she’s seeped into my pores, into my blood. The taste of salt lingers on my tongue, metallic and sharp, as though the seaitself is trying to claim me. My hands shake as I push myself to my feet, stumbling down the hallway toward the studio.
I need to paint. It’s the only thing that keeps me tethered, the only thing that makes sense anymore. The canvas waits for me like a patient lover, its surface blank and pristine. My brushes sit in a jar of murky water, and I grab one without thinking, dipping it into the darkest shade of black I can find.
But my hand won’t move. The brush hovers above the canvas, trembling as though caught in an invisible current. My mind is blank, save for her face, her eyes, the way they stared at me in the painting before it was destroyed. Accusing. Loving. Betraying.
I close my eyes, and the image comes unbidden. Her lips, curved into that maddening smile. Her hair, wild and untamed, framing her face like a halo. The necklace around her throat, the symbol gleaming like a brand. My hand moves of its own accord, the brush dragging across the canvas in long, jagged strokes.
The room grows colder, and I hear the creak of floorboards behind me. I don’t turn. I can’t. The air feels heavy, oppressive, pressing down on my shoulders like a physical weight. I paint feverishly, the lines and shapes coming together in a grotesque symphony. Her face emerges again, but it’s not the face I remember. It’s twisted, decayed, the skin melting away to reveal bone and sinew.
“Stop it,” I whisper, but my hand doesn’t obey. The brush moves faster, the strokes more violent, as though I’m trying to exorcise her from my mind. But she won’t leave. She’s everywhere—in the paint, in the shadows, in the very walls of this cursed cottage.
