The whisper returns, louder now. “Finish it.”
“No!” I scream, throwing the brush across the room. It clatters to the floor, the sound deafening in the silence that follows. My chest heaves, and I stagger back, my eyes locked onthe painting. Her face stares back at me, hollow and accusing, the symbol etched into her forehead like a brand.
The room tilts, and I collapse into the chair behind me, my head in my hands. The whispers grow louder, overlapping and chaotic, like a thousand voices speaking at once. The words blur together, but one phrase rises above the rest, clear and cutting.
“You’re already dead.”
I freeze, my breath hitching. The room feels suddenly still, the air electric with anticipation. Slowly, I lift my head, my gaze drifting to the mirror in the corner of the studio. It’s cracked, the glass spiderwebbed with fractures, but my reflection stares back, whole and untouched.
And then it moves.
Not a normal movement, not a blink or a tilt of the head. It steps forward, closer to the glass, its eyes locked on mine. I can’t move, can’t breathe, as it presses its hands against the inside of the mirror, its lips curling into a smile.
“You’re already dead,” it says, its voice my own.
The world tilts again, and I’m falling, the darkness swallowing me whole. The last thing I see is her face, her hollow eyes staring down at me, and the symbol burning brighter than the sun. The whisper returns, soft but insistent, wrapping around me like a noose.
“Finish it.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Calum
The lullaby that wakes me is soft at first, carried on the whispers of the wind through the cracked windowpane. It drifts into my consciousness like a ghost’s breath, pulling me from the restless haze of half-sleep. I sit up abruptly, my body coated in a slick sheen of sweat, the air in the room suffocatingly dense. The melody is familiar, but I can’t place it—a gentle, haunting tune that sends a shiver crawling down my spine.
“Annabel?” My voice cracks, barely above a whisper.
The cottage is silent except for the faint, repetitive creak of the rocking chair in the corner. It’s moving on its own, swaying forward and back with an eerie precision, as though guided by invisible hands. My pulse quickens as I throw off the covers, my bare feet hitting the icy wooden floor. The rocking chair stops the moment I approach, the lullaby cutting off mid-verse, leaving an oppressive void in its wake.
I can’t tell if the chair was a figment of my imagination or another fragment of her lingering presence, but I don’t care. I turn to the wall of paintings that dominates the studio.They’re scattered across the space—propped against walls, hung haphazardly, some even leaning against the furniture. Every single one is of her.
Annabel in the garden, her head tilted back in laughter, sunlight spilling across her black hair. Annabel at the cliffs, her face turned away, watching the horizon like a secret she’ll never share. Annabel drowning, her body floating lifelessly among jagged rocks like Ophelia, enchanting even in death, the sea foam tinged with crimson. Each portrait is a confession, a scream of my obsession, my inability to let her go.
I approach the most recent painting, the one I started two nights ago in a fit of delirium. Her expression here is darker, her lips parted as though caught mid-accusation. Her eyes, hollow and sorrowful, seem to pierce through me. Around her neck, the locket gleams—an anchor, a mystery I can’t unravel.
“Please,” I whisper, my fingers brushing against the canvas. “Just tell me what you want. Tell me how to make this right.”
The room doesn’t answer, but the weight of her absence feels heavier than ever, pressing against my chest like a vice. My gaze drops to the locket. I trace its outline with trembling fingers, the cold paint against my skin a sharp contrast to the firestorm raging inside me.
“You always wore it,” I murmur, my voice cracking. “What does it mean, Annabel? Why won’t you tell me?”
The room seems to exhale, the temperature dropping another degree. My breath fogs in the air, and I turn instinctively toward the mirror. It looms at the end of the hallway, its surface fractured and distorted, the cracks spreading like veins. The symbol etched into the glass has faded, but I can still see its faint outline, like an echo of something sinister.
I know what I have to do. My legs feel like lead as I move toward the mirror, the shadows around me deepening with every step. The lullaby starts again, soft and mournful. I reachthe mirror and stop, my reflection staring back with eyes that aren’t entirely my own.
“Annabel,” I say, my voice steady despite the terror clawing at my throat. “If you’re here, if you can hear me… please. Show me.”
The glass ripples, a faint shimmer spreading across its surface. My reflection blurs, the image distorting until it’s no longer mine. Instead, I see her.
She stands behind the glass, her face pale and luminous, her hair a wild halo around her. Her lips curve into a small, sad smile, but her eyes burn with something darker—anger, longing, despair. She reaches out, her fingers pressing against the other side of the mirror, and I do the same. The moment my hand meets the glass, the world tilts.
I’m no longer in the cottage.
I’m standing beside her.
The air is thick with the scent of salt and decay, the ground beneath my feet soft and damp. The ocean roars in the distance, the cliffs jagged silhouettes against a storm-gray sky. Annabel stands beside me, her gown billowing in the wind like smoke. She’s more beautiful than I remember, but there’s something off about her—a shadow that clings to her, an otherworldly glow that makes my stomach twist.
“You came,” she says, her voice light but edged with something sharp. She cradles her belly, and my breath catches as I realize what I’m seeing.
