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Chapter Thirty-Five

Calum

The wailing shreds through my sleep, pulling me from the abyss of an uneasy dream.

It isn’t gentle or distant. It’s guttural, raw, vibrating through the walls of the cottage like a living thing.

My eyes snap open, and the room around me swims in pale gray dawn.

For a second, I think it’s just the wind—a storm still lingering after last night’s chaos.

But no. This is human. A sound drenched in grief, in rage. A sound that claws at my insides.

I sit up too quickly, the blood rushing to my head. My vision darkens for a moment, and when it clears, the sound crescendos into a scream that almost shakes the walls. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bracing my hands on the mattress to steady myself.

“Annabel?” I whisper, my throat dry and cracking around the syllables.

No answer. Just that unrelenting wail. It feels like it’s coming from everywhere at once, above me, below me, inside me . I press my palms against my ears, but it’s no use. The sound is inescapable.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the silence swallows it whole.

I sit frozen for a moment, waiting, bracing for what comes next.

The air in the room has changed. It’s thick, heavy, like it’s weighing me down in some invisible way.

The fine hairs on my arms stand on end. I want to move, but I can’t.

My body feels like it’s locked in place, a marionette waiting for its strings to be yanked.

Out of nowhere, a force slams against my face, hard and unyielding. My head snaps to the side, my cheek stinging with the heat of the impact. I gasp, bringing a hand to my face, fingers trembling as I press against the burning flesh. There’s no one here. Nothing that could have done this.

The slap echoes in the silence of the room, and I stagger to my feet, disoriented. My gaze shoots to the corners of the room, to the doorway, to the windows streaked with faint morning light. But there’s no one.

No one, and yet I felt it. The distinct, sharp burn of fingers across my skin.

I stumble toward the dresser, gripping its edge to steady myself as I lean toward the mirror above it. The reflection staring back at me is ghostly, my face pale, my eyes wild, the cheekbone on the left side of my face bright red with the unmistakable outline of a handprint.

A handprint.

My chest tightens, my breath shallow and erratic as my gaze locks on the fiery mark. It shouldn’t be possible, but there it is, a searing accusation branded into my skin. The fingers are long and delicate— her fingers. Annabel’s.

She can hurt me. This isn’t just whispers and flickering shadows anymore. This is rage. A fury so tangible it left its mark on me .

“What do you want?” I demand, my voice trembling with fear and defiance. “Why are you doing this?”

The mirror fogs over as though something unseen is breathing against it, a slow condensation that creeps over the glass.

I watch, my pulse hammering, as shapes begin to emerge.

At first, it’s indecipherable, but then the same jagged symbol carves itself into the fog.

The lines are deliberate, drawn as though by an invisible hand.

It glistens wetly in the dim light, a mocking reminder of the ash-covered walls.

Through the faint etching, her image flickers in the reflection—not fully formed, just a suggestion of a face, a curl of hair, eyes brimming with fury and sadness.

My chest tightens, and I back away, unable to tear my gaze from the mirror.

I want to look away, but her presence is magnetic, horrifying.

“Annabel, stop!” I shout, my voice cracking. “Tell me what you want from me!”

Her image wavers, her lips parting in a soundless scream. And then she’s gone, leaving only the fogged-over mirror and the symbol. My cheek still throbs as I clutch at the dresser, my nails digging into the wood.

My mind races, fragments of thoughts colliding into one another. This is no longer just grief twisting into delusion. Annabel’s anger is real. Her pain is real. And now, she’s making sure I feel it too.

I glance around the room, half-expecting her to appear again, her disjointed form emerging from the shadows. But nothing moves. The house is silent once more, and yet every creak of the floorboards feels ominous, like it’s echoing a warning.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at my reflection, waiting for something else to happen. The sun is creeping higher now, spilling more light into the room. It does little to soothe the oppressive weight pressing down on me.

I need answers .

I dress quickly, throwing on the first clothes my shaking hands can find.

My body feels like it’s operating on autopilot, my mind too fogged with fear and confusion to register the simple acts of pulling on jeans, a sweater.

My cheek burns hot as I shove the bedroom door open and step into the hallway.

The ash marks are still there, streaking the walls with their haunting repetition.

The sight of them makes my stomach churn, but I don’t stop.

I don’t know where I’m going—there’s nowhere left in this house that doesn’t carry her imprint—but staying still feels like an invitation for something worse.

I wander through the cottage, my footsteps hesitant.

The storm from the night before has passed, leaving behind an eerie stillness.

The air smells faintly of salt and decay, and I find myself drawn toward the studio where I’ve been painting her.

It’s the only place that might hold answers—or at least distractions.

The studio is exactly as I left it, the unfinished portrait of Annabel still dominating the center of the room.

Her image stares back at me, serene and beautiful, but I can’t look at her without remembering the anger in her face this morning.

The way her shadow moved, the force of her hand on my cheek.

I approach the painting cautiously, as though it might spring to life again. The locket around her painted neck gleams, its surface catching the light in a way that seems almost deliberate. I’ve been avoiding it, too afraid to inspect it closely. But now, I feel an undeniable pull.

I reach out, my hand trembling, and press my fingers to the painted locket. The surface is smooth, cool to the touch, but as I lean in closer, I notice something I hadn’t seen before.

There’s a faint engraving on the locket’s surface. A symbol. The same jagged lines that have haunted me, carved into the painted gold.

A shiver runs through me, and I step back, my hand falling to my side. The room feels colder, the shadows deeper. The mark on my cheek throbs in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of her presence.

“What do you want me to finish?” I whisper, my voice breaking. “What am I supposed to do?”

The air around me shifts, a faint rustling like the sound of fabric brushing against skin. I spin around, half-expecting to see her standing there again, but there’s nothing. Just the empty room and the lingering scent of decay.

I can’t stay here. Not like this.

Grabbing my coat from the back of a chair, I throw it on and head for the front door. The morning light is harsh as I step outside, the chill biting at my skin. The ocean stretches out before me, endless and unforgiving, and for a moment, I feel like I’m staring into a void.

The wind whips around me as I make my way toward the cliffs. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but the pull is undeniable. The waves crash against the rocks below, their relentless rhythm matching the pounding in my chest.

As I stand at the edge, the symbol flashes in my mind again, burned into my memory. It feels like a key, but to what, I don’t know. Annabel’s voice echoes in my head, her anger, her pain, her demand: Finish it.

I close my eyes, the wind tearing at my hair, and for the first time, I let myself surrender to the fear, the grief, the guilt. Whatever she wants, whatever she’s trying to tell me, I have to figure it out. Because if I don’t, I’m not sure I’ll survive her wrath.