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Chapter Fourteen

Calum

The graveyard breathes with an eerie calm as dusk settles over it, painting the world in hues of deep gray and lavender.

My footsteps crunch on the gravel path, the sound unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent expanse.

Holiday House looms behind me, a silhouette against the stormy sky, its windows dark and watchful.

This isn’t the first time I’ve wandered into the cemetery since coming back to Ravensreach, but it’s the first time I feel as though I don’t belong here.

The air thickens, damp with the scent of freshly turned earth and sea spray.

My pulse quickens as I glance around, noting the shadows that stretch unnaturally long, shifting like they have lives of their own.

I grip the coat around me tighter and wonder, not for the first time tonight, if I’m losing my mind.

Then I see them.

A group of figures drifts toward me from the far end of the graveyard, their movements fluid, unnatural, as if they’re gliding just above the ground.

There are five of them, all shrouded in varying shades of translucence, their edges blurred as though viewed through frosted glass.

They aren’t speaking, but their silence is oppressive, louder than any words.

My breath catches as I realize their faces are hollow, eyes sunken and empty, yet somehow still fixed on me.

I take a step back, my instincts screaming at me to run, but my body won’t cooperate.

I’m frozen, a spectator to my own unraveling.

One of the figures raises a hand and points, the movement slow and deliberate.

The others follow, their arms lifting in unison to gesture toward the edge of the cemetery, where the woods creep like dark fingers over the land.

No, not the woods.

Annabel’s grave.

A chill races down my spine, spreading like ice through my veins. I swallow hard and force my legs to move, each step heavier than the last. The group doesn’t follow, but I can feel their gaze boring into my back, their collective will pushing me toward the headstone I’ve avoided since her death.

When I reach it, I stop short, my chest tightening as if the air itself has turned against me. The grave is simple, unadorned. No flowers, no trinkets left behind by mourners. Just a slab of granite etched with her name:

Annabel Lee Dupin

Beloved Daughter, Eternal Muse

But it’s not the name that sends my heart into freefall. It’s the date beneath it.

The death date isn’t in the past; it’s in the future—weeks away.

My breath quickens as I stare at the stone, the numbers blurring and reforming like a cruel trick of the mind.

This can’t be real. It’s impossible. Annabel is already gone.

I was there when it happened—or at least, I felt it happen.

I’ve been living with the weight of it ever since.

A rustling sound behind me snaps me out of my trance.

I turn, half-expecting to see the group of ghosts again, but the cemetery is empty.

The wind picks up, carrying the salty tang of the sea, and I shiver.

When I look back at the headstone, the date hasn’t changed.

It glares at me like a warning, a taunt.

And then I see the grave next to hers.

I don’t want to look. Every fiber of my being tells me to turn around, to run back to the cottage and lock the door, to pretend none of this is happening. But something stronger—a pull I can’t define—compels me forward. My feet move of their own accord, bringing me to the adjacent headstone.

It’s smaller than Annabel’s, less ornate. The inscription is stark, unadorned:

Calum Vey

Devoted Lover, Tormented Soul

The death date matches hers.

My knees give out, and I collapse onto the damp earth, my mind reeling. I press my palms against the ground, desperate for something solid, something real, but the world feels as though it’s spinning off its axis. This isn’t just a warning—it’s a death sentence.

“I can’t live without my life,” I sob into the air. “Tell me how I’m supposed to live without my soul!”

The air shifts around me, growing colder, heavier.

I look up, and the ghosts are back, their forms encircling me like a silent jury.

Their faces, though indistinct, seem accusatory, their hollow eyes burning with a purpose I can’t comprehend.

One of them steps forward, raising a hand to point at me, then to the grave.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, this isn’t real. It can’t be.”

The figure tilts its head, as if mocking my denial. The others join in, their hands all pointing now, their silence deafening. I clench my fists, the urge to scream building in my chest, but no sound escapes. I’m trapped in their judgment, in this nightmare of my own making.

“What do you want?” I finally manage, my voice cracking. “What am I supposed to do?”

The shadow moves closer, its form solidifying just enough for me to see the outline of its face. It’s a woman, her features hauntingly familiar. Annabel.

Her lips part, but no words come out. Instead, the sound of the wind shifts, carrying her voice like a whisper through the trees.

“You,” it says, fragmented and broken. “Your fault. Your end.”

I scramble back, my heart pounding as her form flickers, dissolving into the shadows.

The others follow, their presence dissipating like mist under the morning sun.

But their absence doesn’t bring relief. It leaves a void, a suffocating emptiness that presses down on me like the weight of the grave itself.

I stare at the headstone with my name on it, my chest heaving, my mind racing. The implications claw at the edges of my sanity, each thought more unbearable than the last. Annabel’s death wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a harbinger. A curse. And it’s coming for me.

As the last rays of daylight fade, plunging the cemetery into darkness, I rise on unsteady legs and turn toward the woods.

The cottage is waiting, its windows glowing faintly in the distance, a beacon in the storm.

But I know that no amount of light can dispel the shadows that have taken root inside me.

Annabel’s voice echoes in my mind as I walk, her words a haunting refrain: “Your fault. Your end.”

When I reach Holiday House, the storm has started again, the rain slicing through the night like shards of glass. I step inside, the warmth of the cottage a cruel contrast to the cold that clings to me. I head straight for the studio, my sanctuary and my prison.

The painting of Annabel stands in the center of the room, her eyes following me as I move. I grab a brush, my hands shaking, and begin to paint, desperate to capture her image, to understand her message, to exorcise the demons that have taken root in my soul.

But as the hours pass, the lines blur, the colors bleed, and the painting takes on a life of its own.

Annabel’s face twists, her expression morphing into something unrecognizable—rage, sorrow, betrayal.

The brush falls from my hand, clattering to the floor, and I stumble back, staring at the canvas in horror.

The storm outside crescendos, the wind howling like a banshee, the rain pounding against the windows. I collapse into the chair, my body trembling, my mind fracturing under the weight of everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve done.

And in the distance, barely audible over the chaos, Annabel’s laughter rings out, hollow and haunting, a ghostly melody that promises no rest, no peace.

Only the end.