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Chapter Thirty-Four

Calum

The cottage is cast in shadows, each corner of its grand but crumbling expanse steeped in an unsettling stillness.

I wake, gasping, my chest heaving as though I’ve been submerged underwater.

The dream is already fragmenting into jagged pieces, but the sensation it leaves is visceral—wet, choking terror like seaweed wrapped around my throat.

The storm has returned, battering the windows in waves, relentless as grief. I sit up, the sheets damp with sweat, and glance toward the doorway of the bedroom. It’s open, but only the faintest sliver of moonlight spills in from the hall. The rest of the cottage is shrouded in black.

Something isn’t right. I feel it like an itch beneath my skin.

The air is heavy, laced with a cloying scent I can’t place—burnt, metallic, and wrong. My pulse quickens as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet meeting the icy wooden floor. I wince but force myself to stand.

The hallway stretches before me like a dark throat, and though the storm howls outside, inside the cottage it’s deathly quiet. My skin prickles as I step forward, the floorboards groaning beneath my weight.

Then I see it.

The walls of the hallway are covered in ash.

It streaks the white paint in broad, furious strokes, forming the same jagged symbol that’s haunted me since I found it.

It repeats over and over, carved into my vision like a brand.

The ash smears where the wind from an open window must have caught it, dragging the shapes into sinister trails like claw marks.

I reach out, my hand trembling, and press my fingers against one of the marks. It feels cold and coarse, leaving smudges on my fingertips. The scent of ash intensifies, and my stomach churns.

“Annabel?” I whisper, the name catching in my throat.

A door slams behind me, the sound sharp and deafening against the silence. I spin around, my breath hitching as I search for the source. The shadows seem to close in, but I see nothing. Just the hallway and its grotesque markings, stretching endlessly into the dark.

Then I hear it—a faint rustle, like the whisper of fabric brushing against skin. My gaze snaps to the bedroom door. At first, it’s only darkness. But as my eyes adjust, I see a figure, pale and flickering, standing just beyond the threshold.

It’s her.

Annabel.

Her outline is fractured, the edges of her form dissolving and reforming as though she’s made of smoke. Her face is shrouded in shadow, but I can feel her eyes on me. They bore into me with a force that makes my knees buckle.

“Annabel?” My voice is barely audible, strangled by the terror clawing at my chest. “Is it you?”

She doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, but the energy in the room shifts—dense and oppressive, like the moments before a lightning strike.

I blink, and she’s gone.

No, not gone. Moving.

Her form distorts, bending and jerking as though the act of motion itself is unnatural. She rushes toward me, her figure a disjointed blur of pale limbs and trailing darkness. I stumble backward, my heart pounding so violently I think it might burst.

“Annabel, stop!” I cry, my voice breaking, but she doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t stop.

In a single, horrifying moment, she reaches me.

I brace for impact, for the feel of her, but she passes through me instead.

The sensation is excruciating—an icy, tingling jolt that sends my teeth chattering and my limbs shaking.

It’s as though I’ve been struck by lightning, but instead of heat, it’s deathly cold, a numbing chill that settles deep into my bones.

I collapse to my knees, clutching my chest as I struggle to breathe. The words echo in my head, bouncing off the walls of my mind like a drumbeat: Finish it. Finish it. Finish it.

It’s her voice. Her voice, furious and relentless, filling every crevice of my consciousness.

“Finish what?” I gasp, my fingers clawing at the floor as though I can find an anchor. “Annabel, what do you want from me?”

There’s no answer. Just the storm outside and the lingering chill of her presence. I’m alone again, but the cottage feels more alive than it ever has—alive with malice, with her.

I force myself to my feet, my legs trembling as though I’ve run for miles. The hallway seems to stretch endlessly now, its walls still scarred by the ash symbols. They seem to shimmer in the dim light, almost pulsing, as if mocking me.

I stagger back into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I lean against it, trying to make sense of what just happened. The air is thick, the room suffused with the lingering scent of decay and ash.

The painting stands in the corner, untouched but watching me all the same. Her face looks different now—less accusing, more… pleading. Her painted eyes glisten as though wet, and the locket around her neck gleams unnaturally, catching light that isn’t there.

I can’t take it anymore.

I grab the sheet draped over the nearby chair and throw it over the painting, covering her face, her scream, her eyes. But even hidden, I can feel her. The weight of her presence presses down on me, and her voice continues to echo in my mind.

Finish it.

I sink to the floor, my back against the door, and bury my face in my hands. The events of the night swirl in my head, a maelstrom of fear and confusion. The ash. The symbol. Her shadow. The way she felt when she passed through me.

I need answers. But from whom? The only person who might know is the one who’s haunting me.

I sit there for hours, or maybe minutes. Time has become meaningless in this cursed place. The storm begins to wane, the thunder rolling farther into the distance. The cottage grows quieter, but the silence feels heavier now, as though the walls themselves are holding their breath.

When I finally stand, my legs feel like lead. I cross the room to the mirror above the dresser, needing to see myself, to confirm that I’m still real. My reflection stares back, pale and hollow-eyed, a ghost of the man I once was.

But as I turn away, I see it.

In the corner of the mirror, faint but unmistakable, is the symbol.

It’s not carved into the glass, nor is it drawn. It’s inside the reflection, hovering behind me like a brand etched into the fabric of reality itself .

And then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes.

My breath catches in my throat as the realization dawns: I can’t escape her. She’s everywhere now, in every shadow, every reflection, every beat of my frantic heart.

She wants me to finish it. And until I do, she won’t let me go.