Page 47

Calum

Months have crawled by since I burned the paintings, and still I remain at Holiday House, my once-vibrant prison now subdued in muted grays and pale sunlight. The air feels thick with ghosts, their whispers tangled in the salty breeze.

Jonathan is gone. I tell myself it’s because he couldn’t bear the sight of her grave, just a short trek from the cliffs where it all ended.

But even as I think it, the truth circles like a shark.

Jonathan has always been a ghost whispering at the edges of my life.

His presence was never more than a shadow cast by Annabel’s brilliance.

And maybe I’m a ghost too. Love kills us slower than any weapon, I think.

The thought unsettles me, but I push it aside as I stand in the gallery.

The hum of whispered admiration flows around me, an almost tangible pulse of life.

My latest work—a series titled Love and Madness —hangs across the pristine walls.

Each piece is a raw wound, bleeding emotions too tangled to name.

The sea dominates every canvas, wild and unrelenting, its waves swallowing memories, faces, and the weight of human frailty.

Annabel is there, of course. She’s always there. Her silhouette lingers in the foam, her eyes glint in the storm clouds, her laughter echoes in the chaos of crashing waves. People praise the work as masterful, as transcendent. They don’t realize it’s a confession.

“She saved me,” I murmur, my voice too low for anyone to hear.

I don’t know who I’m speaking to. Perhaps the ghosts, perhaps myself. Perhaps her.

Back at Holiday House, the gallery’s applause still rings in my ears like an unwelcome guest. I climb the narrow staircase to the attic, the wood creaking beneath my feet.

The space above is cluttered with forgotten relics of lives I barely recognize as my own.

Dust clings to every surface, and the faint scent of mildew hangs in the air.

I don’t know why I’ve come up here. Maybe I’m chasing shadows. Maybe I’m looking for her.

In the far corner, a stack of yellowed newspapers catches my eye.

They’re tied with brittle twine, the kind that snaps with the slightest touch.

I kneel and untie the bundle, my hands trembling as I sift through the pages.

The headlines are mundane—political scandals, stock market shifts, the usual churn of human chaos—until one stops me cold.

“Local Tragedy: Lovers Lost at Ravensreach Point.”

The ink is smudged, but I can make out enough. A photograph accompanies the story: Annabel’s smile, radiant even in grainy black-and-white, and Jonathan beside her, his expression caught somewhere between smug and vulnerable.

My pulse quickens as I read. The article claims they both died that night, swallowed by the sea.

A double tragedy, it calls it. But I remember Jonathan standing in this very house, dripping rainwater onto the hardwood floors as he hurled accusations at me.

I remember the venom in his voice, the fire in his eyes.

How could he have died that night?

Unless…

The thought creeps in, insidious and uninvited. Unless he never left the cliffs. Unless he’s always been here, haunting me, unraveling my mind thread by thread.

The paper trembles in my hands as the attic seems to close in around me. The shadows deepen, their edges sharp and hungry. I feel his presence, just as I feel hers, and the weight of it is suffocating.

I descend the stairs in a daze, the newspaper clutched tightly against my chest. The house feels alive around me, its walls breathing, its floorboards groaning under the weight of all that remains unseen.

I collapse into a chair in the studio, the paper slipping from my grasp and fluttering to the floor.

Annabel saved me.

The realization crashes over me like a wave, cold and unrelenting. She knew Jonathan would haunt me, knew he would try to drag me into the abyss with him. Her death wasn’t an escape—it was a warning. A shield. A sacrifice.

I close my eyes, her face seared into the darkness behind my lids. She came to me because she knew death wouldn’t stop Jonathan. She came to save me from him, from myself, from the abyss that yawns wider every day.

Later that night, I pick up a brush, my hand moving almost of its own accord. The canvas before me is blank, a pale expanse that seems to stretch endlessly. I don’t think. I don’t plan. I paint.

Holiday House emerges from the strokes, bathed in the soft glow of a summer morning.

The cliffs are gentle, the waves serene.

The sky is clear, its blues unmarred by storms. And there, in the window of the house, a figure stands.

I can’t make out her face, but I know it’s Annabel. It will always be Annabel.

The brush slips from my hand, clattering to the floor. I stare at the painting, my chest tightening with a strange mix of grief and relief. She’s at peace now. I have to believe that. And faintly inscribed in the clouds behind Holiday House:

“It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love-

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”

The nights are still the hardest. The house is quiet, too quiet, and the shadows seem to press in from all sides. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying the moments I can never undo. Her laughter, her tears, her final words .

Finish it.

Weeks later, the gallery sends word: Love and Madness is a success. The pieces have been sold, prints commissioned, acclaim pouring in from critics and collectors alike. They call it my magnum opus, a work of unparalleled emotional depth.

I call it a funeral.

I refuse the invitation to the celebratory gala, choosing instead to stay at Holiday House. The thought of leaving this place feels wrong, as though I’d be leaving her behind. She’s here, in the walls, in the air, in the waves that crash endlessly against the cliffs.

I sit by the fire, a glass of whiskey in hand, and watch the flames dance. The painting of Holiday House leans against the wall, unfinished but perfect in its imperfection. I know I’ll never sell this one. It belongs here, just as I do.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. “For everything.”

The house is silent, but I feel her presence, warm and fleeting, like a summer breeze. And for the first time in months, I think I understand.

She didn’t leave me. She saved me.

And now, it’s my turn to save her.

As the night deepens, I find myself standing by the window, looking out at the cliffs. The sea is calm tonight, the moon casting a silver path across its surface. I wonder if she’s out there, somewhere beyond the horizon, watching over me.

“Let me in,” comes the whisper. I’m not sure if it’s reality or a figment of my mind. I don’t care.

“Goodnight, Annabel,” I whisper, my breath fogging the glass .

The house creaks softly, almost like a sigh, and I smile.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel at peace.

I move to my bed, my muscles weak with the sustained loss of her–my life.

I tuck myself into the cotton and down, feeling the cool sheets against my cold skin wishing not for the first time for the warmth of her at my side.

The slowest way to kill someone you love is to not love them enough, I think as hot tears hover at my eyelids.

My heartbeat slows, my breathing coming in shallow gasps.

That’s when I see her.

“Let me in,” my Annabel whispers again. My heart tightens like a vice. She’s relentless.

I’m in sight of my Heaven.

Death is the only reunion…

A final breath shudders through me, a tired smile turning my lips. “Take it, take my soul, sweet Annabel, it’s always been yours…”

THE END.