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Chapter Twenty-Five

Calum

The wind howls against the cottage walls, an unrelenting chorus that drowns out the ticking of the clock.

The fireplace spits and crackles behind me, its warmth barely reaching the icy fingers of dread crawling up my spine.

My canvas stands before me, the stark white expanse mocking my every attempt to capture her.

Annabel. Perfect, infuriating, unattainable Annabel.

I can feel her presence here, as though she’s just stepped out of the room. The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs filters through the walls, though the sea tonight is calm. It’s an impossibility, but I’ve learned not to question the peculiarities of this place—or of her.

My hand trembles as I lift the brush. I haven’t eaten in days; the crusted remains of uneaten bread lie abandoned on the table.

My body screams for rest, for sustenance, but I cannot stop.

Not now. Not when she’s so close. The brush drags across the canvas in slow, deliberate strokes.

The paint flows effortlessly, too easily, as if the image already exists beneath the surface, waiting for me to uncover it .

Her eyes come first. I’ve painted them a hundred times before, but tonight, they stare back with an unsettling clarity. Wide, dark, and brimming with sorrow—no, accusation. My breath catches. I set the brush down and step back, my gaze locked on the canvas. The room seems to tilt around me.

“Impossible,” I whisper, but the words feel hollow. Her eyes bore into mine, alive and knowing.

The cottage groans, a sudden, violent gust rattling the windows. I whirl around, heart hammering, but there’s nothing. Just the fire sputtering weakly and the shadows pooling in the corners. Still, the hairs on the back of my neck rise, an invisible weight pressing down on me.

When I turn back to the painting, it’s changed.

Her lips are there now, slightly parted, as if caught mid-breath.

They’re tinted with a bruised hue, the same shade they probably were when she was pulled from the cold water.

I force the thought away and pick up the brush again.

My strokes become frantic, feverish. I work in bursts, my hands moving faster than my mind can keep up.

Her face emerges from the canvas, hauntingly beautiful, a reflection of the woman who once consumed my every thought. But something’s wrong.

Her skin begins to wither under my brush, pale and translucent.

I can see the bones beneath, the hollow sockets where her eyes should be.

No matter how hard I try to fix it, the decay spreads.

The pink of her cheeks turns to ash, her high cheekbones sagging as flesh drips away.

The painting isn’t a portrait—it’s grotesque, a macabre vision of what I dread most.

I slam the brush onto the table, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My hands shake uncontrollably as I stagger back, collapsing into the nearest chair. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cold creeping into the room.

And then I hear it .

A faint scraping sound, like nails dragging against wood. It comes from everywhere and nowhere, filling the space between my ears and echoing deep in my chest. My head snaps toward the door, but it’s closed. Locked.

The sound grows louder, closer, until it seems to be coming from inside the walls themselves.

I clutch the arms of the chair, my knuckles white, as the floor beneath me vibrates with a low, guttural hum.

The smell of decay fills my nostrils—putrid, suffocating.

I gag, the taste of ash suddenly coating my tongue.

“Stop,” I choke out, though I know no one is listening. “Just stop.”

The air turns frigid. My breath puffs out in visible clouds, the heat from the fire no longer reaching me. The windows slam shut with a deafening crack, the force rattling the glass panes. I lurch to my feet, every muscle in my body coiled with panic, and whirl around to face the canvas.

She’s there.

Annabel stares back at me, her expression no longer sorrowful but twisted in rage.

Her eyes glint with a malevolent light, her lips pulled back in a snarl that exposes gleaming, impossibly sharp teeth.

The shadow I’d painted over her shoulder now takes shape, a looming figure with no discernible features except for its eyes—red and glowing like embers.

The canvas vibrates as though alive, her image trembling and shifting.

“You killed me!” her voice screams, guttural and otherworldly. The sound pierces through my skull, a jagged knife slicing through my thoughts.

I stumble back, tripping over the chair and crashing to the floor. Pain shoots up my spine, but I barely register it, too consumed by the horror before me. Her scream echoes in my ears, a relentless cacophony that drowns out the roaring storm outside.

“No!” I cry out, my voice breaking. “I didn’t—I didn’t kill you!”

The words sound pathetic even to my own ears. My vision blurs as tears streak down my face, hot against my frozen skin. The room spins, the walls closing in as the smell of decay intensifies.

I force myself to my feet, staggering toward the canvas. My hands reach for it, trembling, as though I can erase her fury with a single touch. But the closer I get, the more her features contort—her once-beautiful face now a mask of rot and ruin.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice raw. “Please, stop.”

The shadow on the canvas seems to shift, its form writhing like a nest of serpents. It leans closer to Annabel, its eyes burning brighter. And then, impossibly, she begins to laugh.

It’s not her laugh—not the light, musical sound I remember. This laugh is sharp and jagged, scraping against my sanity like broken glass. It spills from the canvas, filling the room with its unbearable weight.

I can’t take it anymore. With a roar, I grab the edge of the canvas and hurl it across the room. It crashes against the wall, the frame splintering, but the laughter doesn’t stop. It echoes in my mind, reverberating through my bones as I sink to the floor, my hands clawing at my ears.

“Make it stop,” I plead, rocking back and forth. “Make it stop.”

The laughter fades slowly, leaving only the sound of my ragged breathing and the crackling fire. The oppressive cold begins to lift, the smell of decay receding. But the damage is done. I can feel it in the marrow of my bones, in the hollow ache of my chest.

I force myself to look at the shattered canvas, half-expecting her to still be there, glaring at me with those accusing eyes. But it’s blank now—a stark, empty void where her image once was. The shadow is gone, too, leaving behind only splashes of dried paint on the wall.

A wave of exhaustion crashes over me, pulling me under. My limbs feel like lead as I crawl to the corner of the room, collapsing against the wall. My heart pounds in my chest, a relentless reminder that I’m still alive—though I don’t know how.

I close my eyes, the image of her decayed face seared into my mind. The words she screamed echo endlessly: You killed me. You killed me.

Did I?