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Chapter Four

Calum

The memories cut like a weapon. They come back in waves, leaving a lasting ache that reminds me she was real.

That our connection was honest and pure and not just a figment of my mind.

I’m choosing to drown in the pain because it’s the only reminder of her I have left.

She’s burrowed into the very marrow of my bones.

Love is the most destructive force of all, I think, as Annabel stares back at me from the canvas, her eyes accusing even in the smudges of wet oil. My brush hangs limp in my hand, the strokes half-hearted. Something about the storm feels different tonight—more alive, more... aware.

Then it starts.

A sharp, violent thud rattles the window to my left. My first thought is a branch from one of the old oaks outside, but another bang follows, then another. Each strike is rhythmic, purposeful. I glance toward the pane, dread slithering up my spine.

Hands. Pale, translucent, clawing at the glass.

Let me in. Let me in. Let me in .

I freeze, the brush slipping from my fingers and clattering onto the wooden floor. The hands move with an unnatural fluidity, their movements jerky and frantic, pressing harder against the glass as if trying to break through. They leave streaks of moisture—no, blood—smearing the window.

The air grows colder, thickening with an unnatural chill. My breath fogs as I stumble to my feet, my pulse pounding in my ears. I move toward the window, my steps hesitant, my body trembling with something primal. As I approach, the hands vanish, leaving only faint, bloody streaks behind.

A loud crash echoes from the other side of the house. My head snaps toward the sound, the hairs on my neck standing on end. I rush through the narrow hallway, my bare feet slipping on the floor as I round the corner. Another crash, louder this time, reverberates through the house.

The shutters. I need to lock the shutters.

I grab a lantern from the kitchen counter and make my way through the cottage, fastening the locks on each window.

The storm roars louder as I move, as though trying to drown out my thoughts, to shake my resolve.

The hands return, pounding against the glass wherever I go.

I refuse to look at them directly, focusing instead on the locks and bolts, my hands fumbling in the dim light.

Then I hear it—footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, coming from above.

My blood turns to ice. There is no “above.” Holiday House is a single-story cottage, save for a cramped storage space in the roof’s peak. I force myself to move toward the source of the sound, each step a battle against the rising tide of panic.

The ladder to the storage space groans as I climb, the flickering overhead light casting eerie shadows on the walls. My hand trembles as I push open the hatch, peering into the darkness above. The air smells damp, like rotting wood and saltwater.

A sudden rush of cold water cascades over me, drenching me from head to toe. I nearly lose my grip, gasping as the icy deluge soaks into my clothes. I clamber up into the space, my knees splashing into ankle-deep water that seems to be pooling from nowhere.

The walls. They’re bleeding.

Words scrawl themselves across the wooden beams, dripping red as if written in fresh blood.

You did this. You did this. You did this.

Over and over, the accusation wraps itself around me, choking the air from my lungs.

I reach out, my fingers grazing the dripping letters. The liquid is warm, sticky. Real.

The water rises faster now, climbing up my calves, then my thighs. My paintings, stored here for safekeeping, begin to float, their edges curling as the water warps the canvas. I lunge toward them, grabbing as many as I can, desperate to save them. They’re all I have left.

But as I gather the paintings, another figure rises from the water, her silhouette impossibly tall and terrible.

Annabel.

Her face is wrong, twisted with rage and hate. Her eyes burn with something otherworldly, her once-delicate features now warped into a grotesque mask of fury. She steps toward me, her movements jerky and unnatural, the water parting around her as though she commands it.

“It should have been you,” she hisses, her voice a venomous whisper that slices through the roar of the storm.

I stumble back, clutching the paintings to my chest as she points a skeletal finger toward the cliffs. Her words echo, reverberating in my skull, drowning out the storm, the water, everything.

“It should have been you.”

I open my mouth to speak, to plead, but no sound comes out. Her gaze bores into mine, searing with accusation and despair. My knees buckle, and I collapse into the rising water. It surges over my head, filling my nose and mouth, dragging me under as her voice crescendos into a deafening scream.

And then, silence.

I jerk awake, gasping for air, my body soaked and trembling. The room is dry. The water, the blood, the storm—all gone. The paintings are stacked neatly against the wall, undamaged. But the memory of her face, her words, lingers, a phantom weight pressing on my chest.

A loud knock at the door shatters the stillness.

I stagger to my feet, my body heavy with exhaustion, and make my way to the door. My fingers fumble with the latch, my mind screaming for me not to open it. But I do.

Jonathan stands on the threshold, his clothes soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead. The storm rages behind him, the wind whipping at his back.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice tight with concern. “I saw the lights on from down the shore and thought I’d check on you.”

I blink at him, struggling to process his presence. “Jonathan… What are you doing here?”

He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, his gaze sweeping over the room. “These old cottages flood so easily. I wanted to make sure you were—” He stops, his brow furrowing as he takes in my disheveled state. “You look like hell, Calum. Are you even sleeping?”

“No,” I admit, my voice hoarse. “I’ve been painting a lot at night.”

Jonathan’s eyes land on the stack of paintings. “Of her?”

I nod, glancing toward the canvases. My heart lurches as I realize the blood and messages are gone, replaced by the serene, lifelike portraits I’ve been creating for weeks .

“Jonathan…” I turn back to him, the words catching in my throat. “Did you see—” But he’s already gone.

The door swings gently on its hinges, the storm having eased to a quiet drizzle. I step outside, searching the shore for any sign of him, but there’s nothing. Just the endless expanse of dark sand and the faint outline of the cliffs in the distance.

I return to the cottage, locking the door behind me. My limbs feel like lead, my thoughts fractured and spiraling. I collapse onto the couch, the weight of the night pressing down on me until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.

As I drift into a restless slumber, her voice returns, soft and haunting.

“It should have been you.”