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Chapter Thirty-Eight

Calum

I wake in the middle of the night. My eyes instantly landing on the the mirror, unable to shake the sensation that something about it has changed.

It sits at the end of the hallway, its gilded frame warped by time and salt air.

The glass is cloudy, speckled with dark spots like decay spreading across its surface.

But tonight, it’s luminous, almost glowing, drawing me toward it like a moth to a flame.

I step closer, my bare feet soundless on the cold floor.

My reflection stares back, but it’s wrong.

There’s something about the eyes—my eyes—that makes me pause.

They look too wide, too knowing, like they’re holding secrets I can’t begin to fathom.

I raise my hand, and the reflection follows, but there’s a lag, a hesitation.

My hand trembles, but the hand in the mirror is steady, defiant.

“Annabel,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. The name feels like an invocation, a plea. The glass ripples as though disturbed by an invisible current, and I stumble back, my pulse hammering.

That’s when I see her shadow.

It’s faint, just a flicker, but unmistakable. It stretches down the hallway behind me, long and thin, the outline of her head and shoulders unmistakable. I spin around, expecting to find her standing there, her lips curved in that infuriating, mocking smile. But the hallway is empty.

A hollow laugh escapes me, bitter and raw. “Losing it, Calum,” I mutter under my breath. “Completely losing it.”

I turn back to the mirror, and my breath catches in my throat.

The glass is no longer cloudy. It’s clear, too clear, and etched into its surface is the symbol.

Over and over, the jagged lines crisscross, carved deep and deliberate.

The etchings shimmer faintly, as though they’ve been burned into the glass with something far more permanent than human hands.

The symbol multiplies, spreading like a virus across the surface of the mirror.

My reflection begins to disappear beneath the onslaught, but not before I see the final etching.

It’s over my eyes—my reflection’s eyes. A thousand versions of the same symbol, spiraling outward, consuming every inch of the mirror and my image with it.

“No.” The word escapes me, a desperate denial. I reach out, my fingertips grazing the surface of the glass, and the temperature drops instantly. It’s so cold it burns, and I jerk my hand back, the skin red and raw.

“Why are you doing this?” I yell, my voice echoing down the empty hallway. “What do you want from me?”

The only response is silence. No, not silence. Breathing. Slow, deliberate, right behind me.

I whip around, my vision swimming, and I see her again—just a shadow, fleeting and ephemeral, disappearing into the walls like smoke. My legs give out, and I slump against the mirror, my chest heaving. My mind races, the edges of my sanity fraying with every passing second.

I feel her now, not just in the air but in my very skin, like she’s seeped into my pores, into my blood.

The taste of salt lingers on my tongue, metallic and sharp, as though the sea itself is trying to claim me.

My hands shake as I push myself to my feet, stumbling down the hallway toward the studio.

I need to paint. It’s the only thing that keeps me tethered, the only thing that makes sense anymore.

The canvas waits for me like a patient lover, its surface blank and pristine.

My brushes sit in a jar of murky water, and I grab one without thinking, dipping it into the darkest shade of black I can find.

But my hand won’t move. The brush hovers above the canvas, trembling as though caught in an invisible current. My mind is blank, save for her face, her eyes, the way they stared at me in the painting before it was destroyed. Accusing. Loving. Betraying.

I close my eyes, and the image comes unbidden.

Her lips, curved into that maddening smile.

Her hair, wild and untamed, framing her face like a halo.

The necklace around her throat, the symbol gleaming like a brand.

My hand moves of its own accord, the brush dragging across the canvas in long, jagged strokes.

The room grows colder, and I hear the creak of floorboards behind me.

I don’t turn. I can’t. The air feels heavy, oppressive, pressing down on my shoulders like a physical weight.

I paint feverishly, the lines and shapes coming together in a grotesque symphony.

Her face emerges again, but it’s not the face I remember.

It’s twisted, decayed, the skin melting away to reveal bone and sinew.

“Stop it,” I whisper, but my hand doesn’t obey. The brush moves faster, the strokes more violent, as though I’m trying to exorcise her from my mind. But she won’t leave. She’s everywhere—in the paint, in the shadows, in the very walls of this cursed cottage.

The whisper returns, louder now. “Finish it.”

“No!” I scream, throwing the brush across the room. It clatters to the floor, the sound deafening in the silence that follows. My chest heaves, and I stagger back, my eyes locked on the painting. Her face stares back at me, hollow and accusing, the symbol etched into her forehead like a brand.

The room tilts, and I collapse into the chair behind me, my head in my hands. The whispers grow louder, overlapping and chaotic, like a thousand voices speaking at once. The words blur together, but one phrase rises above the rest, clear and cutting.

“You’re already dead.”

I freeze, my breath hitching. The room feels suddenly still, the air electric with anticipation. Slowly, I lift my head, my gaze drifting to the mirror in the corner of the studio. It’s cracked, the glass spiderwebbed with fractures, but my reflection stares back, whole and untouched.

And then it moves.

Not a normal movement, not a blink or a tilt of the head. It steps forward, closer to the glass, its eyes locked on mine. I can’t move, can’t breathe, as it presses its hands against the inside of the mirror, its lips curling into a smile.

“You’re already dead,” it says, its voice my own.

The world tilts again, and I’m falling, the darkness swallowing me whole. The last thing I see is her face, her hollow eyes staring down at me, and the symbol burning brighter than the sun. The whisper returns, soft but insistent, wrapping around me like a noose.

“Finish it.”