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Chapter Eighteen

Calum

The studio feels colder tonight, the dampness from the ocean clawing its way through the walls.

The smell of turpentine and linseed oil hangs heavy in the air.

The canvas on the easel is a thing of torment, half-finished, half-alive.

Annabel’s face stares back at me, her eyes wide and unyielding.

They burn with accusation, as if to say, You think you know me? You never did.

I’ve lost track of the hours spent in this room, slashing brushstrokes into existence.

My hand moves as if guided by something other than myself, a compulsion I can’t explain.

What started as a simple portrait of Annabel—a quiet homage to her memory—has twisted into something grotesque.

Her delicate features remain, but shadows pool in unexpected places, warping her beauty.

And the eyes. God, the eyes. They follow me even when I look away.

A storm brews in the background of the painting, one I don’t remember adding.

Waves churn violently, gray and white foam crashing against jagged rocks.

The ocean looks hungry, as if it’s trying to swallow her whole.

My hand must have painted it, but it feels foreign, as though someone else held the brush.

I take a step back, the floorboards groaning beneath me. The room feels tighter, the air too thick to breathe. I tell myself to stop. Just for tonight. But I can’t. Not until I understand what the painting wants.

I pick up the brush again, my fingers trembling. The bristles are stiff, laden with paint. I dab the palette, mixing black with the faintest touch of crimson. The color of regret. Or blood.

As I reach for the canvas, a whisper threads through the room, faint and indistinct. I freeze, the hairs on my arms rising.

“Finish it.”

The words are barely audible, as if carried on the wind that howls outside. My breath catches. I turn slowly, scanning the room. It’s empty, of course. Just me and the shadows. But the whisper lingers, wrapping itself around my ears like a phantom’s touch.

“Annabel?” I say her name aloud, hating the way it sounds, fragile and desperate.

Silence.

The rain continues its assault on the windows, and somewhere in the distance, a branch snaps in the wind.

I tell myself I imagined it. Stress. Grief.

Too much coffee and not enough sleep. But deep down, I know better.

Holiday House has always had its secrets, and tonight it feels as though it’s watching me.

The brush touches the canvas, almost of its own accord.

The black paint spreads like a wound, deepening the storm in the background.

My hand moves faster now, guided by something I can’t name.

The waves grow larger, more violent, threatening to engulf Annabel entirely.

Her expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable. Fear .

I blink, stepping back. Her mouth, which I’d painted in a serene half-smile, now twists downward, trembling as if mid-scream. My stomach churns. This isn’t what I painted. I know it isn’t.

“Finish it.”

The whisper returns, louder this time. A command. I whip around, the brush clattering to the floor.

“Who’s there?” My voice breaks, echoing off the high ceiling.

No answer. Only the storm, relentless and unyielding. I press my hands to my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. I’m unraveling, I know it. But when I open my eyes, the painting is different again.

Annabel’s eyes are darker now, shadowed and hollow. They seem to glisten, as if wet with tears. Her hand—one I hadn’t painted—reaches out of the canvas, her fingers splayed as if begging for help. Behind her, the storm devours the coastline, pulling pieces of the land into its maw.

My knees buckle, and I collapse onto the worn wooden floor. The room tilts, spinning in and out of focus. My breath comes in shallow gasps, the walls pressing closer with every heartbeat. I need to get out. Now.

I stumble into the hall, the dim light from the studio spilling out behind me. The rest of the house is dark, the kind of darkness that feels alive, crawling and seeping into every corner. I grip the banister as I descend the stairs, my footsteps heavy and uneven.

In the kitchen, I pour a glass of whiskey, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop the bottle.

The liquor burns as it slides down my throat, grounding me, if only for a moment.

I lean against the counter, staring out the window into the storm.

The ocean is barely visible, a black expanse dotted with whitecaps.

Her voice comes again, soft and mocking. “Finish it. ”

I spin around, the glass slipping from my hand and shattering on the floor.

“Stop!” I shout into the empty kitchen, my voice cracking with the weight of my own desperation.

Nothing. Just the storm.

I don’t know how long I stand there, my chest heaving, my fists clenched. When I finally move, it’s not by choice but by compulsion. My feet carry me back to the studio. The painting waits for me, unchanged yet different, its presence oppressive.

I pick up the brush again, my hand steady now. The fear is still there, but it’s dulled, replaced by something else. Determination? Madness? I don’t know. All I know is that I have to finish it.

Stroke by stroke, the painting comes alive.

The waves climb higher, swallowing the rocks.

Annabel’s outstretched hand grows more defined, her fingers curling as if clawing for escape.

Her eyes bore into mine, pleading and accusatory all at once.

The shadows around her shift, taking on shapes I can’t quite make out—faces, maybe. Or monsters.

By the time I set the brush down, the first light of dawn is creeping through the window. The painting is complete, but it’s not a portrait anymore. It’s something else entirely. A warning. A curse.

I stagger back, my legs weak, and collapse onto the worn armchair in the corner of the room. The painting looms over me, alive in a way that no painting should be. My vision blurs, exhaustion and fear dragging me under. As I drift into uneasy sleep, her whisper echoes one last time.

“Thank you.”

I wake with a start, the afternoon sun glaring through the window. The storm has passed, leaving the world eerily calm. For a moment, I think it was all a nightmare. But then my eyes land on the painting.

It’s not the same as I left it .

Annabel is gone. The canvas is empty, save for the storm—a gray, churning abyss that seems to pull me in the longer I look at it. My chest tightens, my heart pounding in my ears.

I stumble to my feet, knocking over the chair in my haste. The painting is cold to the touch, the surface smooth and empty. No trace of her remains, not even the hand that had reached so desperately for salvation.

I sink to my knees, the weight of it all crushing me. The whispers, the changes in the painting, the storm—it’s all too much. I clutch my head, trying to make sense of the chaos, but the answers elude me.

And then, faintly, I hear it again. Not a whisper this time, but a laugh. Light and airy, like wind chimes in the breeze. Her laugh.

It echoes through the studio, fading into the distance. I look around, my eyes wild, but there’s no one here. Just me and the empty canvas.

And the storm inside me that will never end.