Page 29

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Calum

Later that morning, the brush glides over the canvas, trailing a soft curve of burnt umber across Annabel’s cheek.

My hand is steady, though my mind races with a thousand fragmented thoughts.

Her expression is peaceful, serene. A ghost of a smile plays on her lips, the kind she reserved for moments of triumph or secrets she intended to keep.

I glance at the painting, then at the others leaning against the walls, a testament to my descent.

Annabel’s face stares back from every angle—eyes wide with joy, lips parted in laughter, brows furrowed in sorrow.

A dozen versions of her, all conjured in the sleepless nights since I returned to Holiday House.

I rake a hand through my hair, damp with sweat despite the chill in the room.

The sea air seeps through the cracked window, carrying the faint scent of salt and decay.

My chest tightens, a sensation I’ve grown familiar with since she.

.. since Annabel left. No, not left—was taken.

The truth presses against my mind, a suffocating weight I can’t bear to name aloud .

My brush falters, streaking an unintended line across her shoulder.

“Damn it,” I mutter, stepping back to assess the damage. Her image remains intact, but something feels off. The colors are too vibrant, her expression too knowing. She doesn’t look serene—she looks amused, as though she’s laughing at my pathetic attempts to capture her essence.

“You think this is funny, Annabel?” My voice echoes in the quiet, and for a moment, I feel the absurdity of talking to a painting. But it isn’t just a painting. None of them are. They’re pieces of her, fragments of a puzzle I can’t seem to solve.

Exhaustion presses against my temples, and I drop the brush into the jar of murky water. The bristles fan out like they’re drowning, much like I feel most days. I wipe my hands on a rag and step away, needing space, air—anything to quell the suffocating sense of being watched.

I move to the other side of the room, my gaze falling on a stack of finished canvases leaning against the wall.

One catches my attention, the painting of her standing by the cliffs.

It’s the one that haunted me most, her silhouette backlit by a stormy sky, her raven hair wild in the wind.

I don’t remember painting it—not entirely, anyway.

It feels like it came to me in a fever dream, my hands moving on their own, compelled by something unseen.

I pull it forward, and as I do, something flutters to the ground. A piece of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges, lands at my feet. My breath catches, a mix of dread and anticipation tightening in my chest.

I kneel and pick it up, the texture rough against my fingertips. It’s another letter, the words scrawled in a hurried, almost frantic hand. My pulse quickens as I scan the lines, the familiar slant of Annabel’s handwriting pulling me under like a riptide.

You let me slip away. You didn’t see me for who I was, only who you wanted me to be. Now, I’m lost, and it’s your fault. You failed me.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I stagger back, clutching the letter like it might disintegrate. My gaze flicks to the signature at the bottom—a strange symbol, drawn in what looks like ash. A crude spiral with jagged edges, almost like an eye, but it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

I lift the letter to my nose, inhaling the faint, acrid scent of burnt wood. Ash. It’s definitely ash. My hands tremble as I hold the letter up to the light, trying to make sense of it. The symbol stares back at me, mocking, taunting. It feels alive, a living scar branded onto the page.

“This wasn’t here,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “It wasn’t here last night.” I glance at the painting again, searching for answers in the stormy cliffs and the haunting curve of Annabel’s figure. But it offers none, only the silent accusation of her absence.

I sink into the nearest chair, the letter still clutched in my hand.

My mind races, replaying every interaction, every argument, every whispered confession between us.

Was she trying to tell me something all along?

Did I miss the signs? My chest heaves with the weight of guilt, a familiar but unbearable companion.

The air in the room grows colder, and I shiver despite the sweater I’m wearing. The faint scent of Annabel’s perfume drifts through the air. It’s impossible, yet undeniable. I close my eyes, gripping the letter tighter, as though it might anchor me to reality.

The scrape of nails against wood jolts me upright a while later. My eyes snap open, darting around the room, but there’s nothing—no one. The sound comes again, more insistent this time, like claws raking against the floorboards.

“Annabel?” I call out before I can stop myself. The word feels ridiculous on my tongue, but the silence that follows is worse. It presses against my ears, thick and suffocating, until I swear I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my skull.

A sudden gust of wind slams the window shut, and I jump to my feet, the letter fluttering to the floor. The room feels charged with an energy I can’t explain. The taste of ash lingers on my tongue, acrid and metallic, as though the letter has left a physical mark on me.

I turn back to the painting on the easel, my breath hitching at what I see. Her expression has changed. The serene smile is gone, replaced by something darker—sorrowful, accusatory. Her eyes seem to follow me, glinting with an emotion I can’t name but recognize all the same.

“You’re losing it,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair. “This is just... exhaustion. Lack of sleep. That’s all.”

But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. Something is happening here, something I can’t explain or control. I glance at the letter on the floor, the strange symbol burned into my mind. It feels like a warning, a message from beyond the veil.

I step closer to the painting, my hands shaking as I reach out.

My fingers hover over the canvas, inches from her face, and for a moment, I swear I can feel her warmth radiating from the paint.

It’s impossible, but then again, so is everything else that’s happened since I came back to this godforsaken place.

“Who failed you, Annabel?” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Was it me? Was it Jonathan? What are you trying to tell me?”

The painting offers no answers, only the silent torment of her gaze. I turn away, unable to bear it any longer. The room feels like it’s closing in on me, the walls pressing closer with every breath .

I grab the letter from the floor and fold it carefully, tucking it into my pocket. Whatever this symbol means, whatever message she’s trying to send—I’ll figure it out. I have to. For her. For us.

The storm outside intensifies, the wind howling like a chorus of ghosts. The windows rattle in their frames, and for a moment, I think I hear her voice carried on the wind—a soft, lilting laugh that sends chills down my spine.

I sit back at the easel, my hands trembling as I pick up the brush again. The image of her face burns in my mind, more vivid than ever. I can’t stop now, not when I’m so close. The need to finish the painting consumes me, a fire in my veins that won’t be extinguished.

The brush moves of its own accord, the strokes frenzied and desperate.

Her eyes become darker, her lips fuller, her skin more lifelike with every pass.

The air grows colder still, the scent of decay mingling with the jasmine, and I swear I can hear the faint rustle of fabric, like someone shifting in the room.

I don’t stop. I can’t. The world narrows to the canvas and the brush in my hand, the lines and colors coming together in a symphony of obsession. Her face shifts beneath my strokes, becoming more vivid, more real—and more haunting.

When I finally step back, my heart pounds in my chest like a war drum.

The painting is finished, but it’s not what I intended.

Her face is beautiful, yes, but it’s twisted with fear, her eyes wide and filled with tears.

And behind her, barely visible in the shadows, is a figure—a looming presence I didn’t paint but can’t deny.

I collapse into the chair, my vision swimming as the room spins around me.

The taste of ash is stronger now, choking me, filling my lungs.

And then, as if to confirm my worst fears, the painting shifts.

Her lips part, and a scream erupts from the canvas—a sound so raw, so filled with anguish, that it shatters the glass of the window behind me.

“You killed me!” Annabel’s voice roars, her painted form coming alive before my eyes.

I fall back, my heart slamming against my ribs as terror surges through me. The room explodes in chaos—the wind howling, the windows slamming, the scent of death suffocating me. I claw at the floor, desperate to escape, but her voice follows me, relentless and unforgiving.

“You killed me!” she screams again, her face contorted with rage and sorrow. “You did this!”

And then, with a final, gut-wrenching cry, the room falls silent. The wind dies, the scent fades, and the painting is still once more. But the echo of her voice lingers, a haunting refrain that will never leave me.

I lie on the floor, my chest heaving, my mind shattered. The letter burns in my pocket, the symbol etched into my soul. Whatever this is, whatever she’s trying to tell me—it’s not over. It’s only just begun.