Page 9

Chapter Eight

Calum

The sea air is thick tonight, salt and brine clawing at the windows of Holiday House.

It shouldn’t be this quiet. The storms that usually pound Ravensreach Point this time of year have been replaced by an unsettling calm.

No howling wind, no crashing waves. Just stillness.

Except for the sound of waves that somehow seem to echo inside the cottage—soft, rhythmic, and impossibly close.

I shake the thought loose. The sound is in my head, a phantom noise from nights spent staring out at the surf with Annabel draped across my lap. Her laughter, soft and cruel, a melody undercutting the ocean’s roar. The memory pulls like a riptide, dragging me under.

Not tonight.

I set a blank canvas on the easel in the corner of the studio, forcing myself to focus.

My hands move mechanically, laying out paints and brushes.

The smell of turpentine bites at my nostrils, sharp and grounding.

I’ve been avoiding this—the act of creating, of confronting her absence head-on.

It’s easier to let the house swallow me whole, let the weight of her ghost press against my chest like a stone.

But tonight, I need the distraction.

The first stroke feels wrong, the blue too bright.

I scrape it off with a palette knife, cursing under my breath.

The second attempt is no better—a jagged line that cuts across the canvas like a wound.

My frustration mounts, bubbling hot and unchecked.

I slam the brush onto the table, sending a spray of crimson paint across the floorboards.

The smell hits me before I register what’s happened—jasmine. Light and heady, curling around me like smoke. My stomach drops. I twist around, my eyes darting to every corner of the room.

“Annabel?” My voice cracks, absurd and desperate.

The studio is empty. The air feels heavier now, oppressive. The jasmine scent lingers, growing stronger, until it’s suffocating. My pulse thrums in my ears as I step into the hallway, scanning the shadows that creep along the walls.

“Stop this,” I mutter, clenching my fists. “You’re not here.”

But she is. She always is.

The dining room is colder than it should be. The windows are shut tight, but the curtains ripple faintly, as if brushed by an unseen hand. Her favorite perfume bottle sits on the sideboard, though I distinctly remember locking it away in the attic weeks ago. It’s impossible. I know it’s impossible.

I reach for it, the glass smooth and cold under my fingers. The stopper slides out easily, releasing a fresh wave of jasmine that sends my mind reeling. Her voice is there, a whisper just out of reach, playful and cutting all at once.

You always did love to torture yourself, Calum.

I slam the stopper back into place, my breath coming in ragged gasps. This is grief, I tell myself. It’s grief and guilt and exhaustion. It’s not her .

Back in the studio, the canvas glares at me like an accusation.

I grab the brush again, forcing myself to work through the unease.

The lines come easier now, the colors blending into something close to her likeness.

Her face takes shape beneath my hand, delicate and perfect, just as I remember.

But something shifts as I work. Her eyes are wrong.

Too wide, too dark, staring out from the canvas with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.

Her mouth twists, the curve of her lips sharp and unnatural.

I step back, the brush slipping from my hand. The shadows in the background seem to writhe, forming shapes that shouldn’t be there. Figures—twisted and indistinct—loom behind her, their outlines blurred but unmistakable. They press against her, reaching, pulling.

“What the hell?” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of waves that now feel deafening.

I don’t remember painting them. My hands tremble as I reach out, my fingertips brushing the edge of the canvas. The paint feels wet, though it shouldn’t. I jerk my hand back, my heart hammering in my chest.

The studio feels alive now, the air crackling with something electric, something wrong. I stagger back, nearly tripping over the stool behind me.

And then, a laugh. Faint, lilting, unmistakably hers.

I wake hours later on the floor, the studio bathed in the soft glow of dawn.

My head aches, the events of the night before a fractured blur.

The canvas looms above me, her distorted face staring down with an expression that feels almost alive.

I scramble to my feet, ripping it from the easel and shoving it into the corner, face down.

The house is still now, the oppressive energy from the night before gone. But the scent of jasmine lingers, faint but persistent, as if it’s seeped into the very walls.

The rest of the day passes in a haze. I can’t focus.

Every room feels off, as if the angles are wrong or the light bends where it shouldn’t.

Her belongings are everywhere—her books stacked on the coffee table, her sweater draped over the arm of the couch.

I should pack them away, box them up and send them… somewhere. But I can’t.

Instead, I wander the house aimlessly, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. The waves outside are calm, but their sound persists inside, relentless and inescapable.

By evening, I find myself back in the studio, staring at the stack of canvases in the corner.

I pull one out at random, another unfinished portrait of her.

This one is softer, her features rendered with a gentler hand.

She’s smiling, her eyes alight with mischief.

It’s a memory from before, one of the rare moments when we weren’t at each other’s throats.

“I hate how good you are at this,” she said once, watching me paint her. She was sprawled across the chaise lounge, her hair spilling over the side in inky waves. “You make me look like someone worth loving.”

“You are worth loving,” I told her, my voice steady.

She laughed, low and bitter. “That’s sweet, Calum. Almost convincing.”

The memory twists in my mind, the edges fraying. I set the canvas down, my hands shaking. This is all wrong. She’s gone, and yet she’s here, her presence suffocating, her voice a constant echo. I can’t keep doing this—living in the shadow of someone who was never really mine to begin with.

But I can’t let her go, either.

I grab a fresh canvas, determined to paint something—anything—that isn’t her. My brush moves without thought, strokes of color blending into something abstract, chaotic. The act is cathartic, the anger and grief pouring out of me in violent streaks of red and black.

When I step back, the image on the canvas is unrecognizable. It’s a mess, a reflection of the turmoil inside me. But it feels honest, raw.

And then I see it. Hidden within the chaos, her face emerges, faint but unmistakable. Her eyes stare out at me, wide and accusing, her mouth twisted into a scream. The shadowy figures are there too, more distinct this time, their forms pressing against her, their hands reaching out.

I drop the brush, my chest tightening. The room tilts, the walls closing in.

Her laugh echoes again, louder this time, and the scent of jasmine floods the room.

I don’t remember leaving the studio. I find myself on the beach, the sand cold and damp beneath my feet. The waves crash against the shore, their sound a relentless drumbeat in my ears.

“Annabel!” I shout, my voice raw. The wind tears the name from my lips, carrying it out to sea.

There’s no answer. Of course, there isn’t.

The walk back to the house is slow, my legs heavy with exhaustion. The windows of Holiday House glow faintly in the darkness, a beacon against the encroaching night. But the sight of it fills me with dread.

Inside, the air is still, the scent of jasmine gone. I climb the stairs to the bedroom, my body aching with fatigue. Her side of the bed is untouched, the pillow still faintly indented from where her head once rested.

I lie down, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t come easily. When it does, it’s filled with dreams of her—her face, her voice, her laugh. And always, the shadows, closing in.

The next morning, I find the canvas from the night before propped up on the easel, though I don’t remember putting it there. Her face stares out at me, her expression frozen in fear.

I burn it .

The flames consume the painting quickly, the colors distorting and blackening until there’s nothing left but ash. But even as the fire dies down, I can still see her face, etched into my mind, haunting and inescapable.

I know she won’t let me go. Not now. Not ever.