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Chapter Twenty-Seven

Calum

“Calum…”

Her voice. Sweet, lilting, but with an edge that chills me to the bone. I whip my head to the side, but there’s nothing there. Just the empty void of the bedroom, bathed in pale moonlight filtering through the cracked curtains.

My pulse thrums like a trapped bird against my ribs. The sensation returns, tracing down my jawline, light as a feather. I bolt upright, the sweat on my skin now cold and clinging. The whisper comes again, louder this time, insistent.

“Calum…”

I don’t want to move. I don’t want to look. But some primal force compels me, dragging me out of the bed with sluggish limbs. My feet hit the cold wooden floor, and the whisper transforms into a low murmur, then a chorus of murmurs, as if the walls themselves have grown mouths.

They’re surrounding me.

The murmurs escalate, each word sharper, more distinct. The faintest trace of breath lingers at the back of my neck, sending a shiver skittering down my spine. The whispers layer over one another, a maddening cacophony of words I can’t quite grasp, until finally, one voice breaks through the noise.

“You did this.”

The accusation is guttural, anguished, and unmistakably hers.

Annabel’s voice. My legs carry me forward before my brain fully processes what I’m doing.

The walls pulse with sound as if the house itself is alive and angry.

The whispers swell, becoming a scream, and I stumble into the hallway, my heart pounding in my throat.

“You did this!” The scream tears through the air, reverberating in every corner of the cottage.

I spin in circles, desperate to find the source, but it feels omnipresent, everywhere and nowhere at once. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my hands shaking as I clutch at the doorframes for support. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the sound shifts—no longer from above or around, but below.

The floor beneath me vibrates, the whispers twisting and tangling, funneling downward. I drop to my knees, pressing my ear to the wooden boards, and there it is—soft, guttural, rising and falling like waves against the shore.

The voice is beneath me.

I scramble to my feet, the room tilting as exhaustion and fear weigh down my every move.

I stagger to the shed, my fingers fumbling with the latch in my haste.

The hinges scream in protest as I wrench the door open and snatch a shovel.

My thoughts are jumbled, incoherent. All I know is that I have to dig. I have to know what’s under the floor.

Back in the house, I plunge the blade into the floorboards, the sound of splintering wood slicing through the quiet night. The work is brutal, relentless. Each swing of the shovel feels like a blow to my own sanity, but I can’t stop. I won’t stop.

Sweat pours down my face, mingling with the dirt and sawdust that clings to my skin. My breath comes in sharp, painful bursts. The whispers grow louder, almost mocking, their cadence in sync with the rhythm of my digging.

“You’ll never find it,” they taunt. “You’ll never understand.”

I grit my teeth, swinging harder. The hole widens, revealing the earth beneath the floorboards. My hands blister, but I don’t care. My vision blurs, but I keep going, clawing at the dirt with my bare hands when the shovel no longer suffices.

The hours stretch on, the world outside fading to nothing. There is only the hole, the whispers, and my frantic need to uncover whatever lies beneath. The dirt is damp and cold, clinging to my skin like a second layer. My nails crack, my fingers bleeding, but I don’t stop.

Finally, the first rays of dawn creep through the window, casting the room in a faint, golden light.

My body screams for rest, but my mind refuses to relent.

I reach down, my fingers brushing against something solid.

My heart lurches in my chest. I scrape away more dirt, revealing a smooth, unyielding surface.

A box.

It’s small, no larger than a shoebox, its edges worn and weathered. My hands tremble as I pull it free, the whispers around me rising to a fever pitch. I fumble with the latch, my breath hitching as I lift the lid.

Nothing.

The box is empty.

A choked sob escapes my throat, frustration and despair crashing over me like a tidal wave.

I hurl the box across the room, the sound of it splintering against the wall barely registering over the deafening silence that follows.

The whispers are gone. The house is still.

And I am left alone, broken and hollow, staring into the abyss I’ve created.

The room tilts, my vision darkening at the edges as exhaustion finally takes hold.

I collapse beside the hole, my body crumpling like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

The last thing I see before the darkness claims me is the faint outline of Annabel’s face, hovering just beyond the edges of my consciousness.

Her expression is twisted, not with love or anger, but with pity.

“Let me go,” she whispers, her voice distant and echoing. “Holding on will only hasten your end.”

And then she’s gone, leaving me with nothing but the cold embrace of the earth and the crushing weight of my own guilt.