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Rhiannon’s voice was a strained whisper. “He’s here.”
A shape darkened the air near the far wall—taller than any of them, shadow reeking of seawater. The candles guttered almost to black.
A voice rose through the wind, rough and distant, barely audible:
“Verity.”
Amy’s pulse hammered. The shape turned toward her. The voice again—hoarse with disbelief, with pain.
Amy gasped. She tried to answer, but the words that came were not her own.
“For you,” she whispered. “Always you.”
Rhiannon snapped, “He doesn’t see you as yourself—don’t answer as her!” but it was too late.
The figure surged forward, air biting cold. “Liar!”
The word broke like thunder. The journal’s pages flung open, snapping under invisible wind. Candles blew out one by one until only the bowl of seawater glowed, trembling with light.
Sully lunged forward, pulling Amy from her chair as the nearest lantern tipped and shattered. Kelsey grabbed salt from the protective ring and hurled it into the air. The shape recoiled, roaring like surf on rock.
Rhiannon slammed her palm flat on the table, as she chanted sharply. The air frayed, and the lightning outside was blinding white against the windows for a heartbeat—then absolute darkness.
Followed by a silence so deep it pressed the breath from her lungs.
The only sounds were her own breath and Sully’s, his arms tight around her, and the drip of seawater from the overturned bowl.
Rhiannon’s voice shook. “He’s still bound by jealousy. He mistook Amy for his wife.”
She rose and flicked on the light switch, filling the room with comforting light, and looked at each pale face around the table. “No protection will hold if we continue tonight. We end this now.”
Sully still held Amy. “You okay?”
She nodded, though she felt her lips tremble. “He was so angry.”
“I know, I could feel him too,” Sully said, shaking his head in disbelief.
As the room came back to themselves. They began snuffing out what remained of the candles. The air felt heavy again, wet. As Amy lifted the soaked journal, she heard it—so faint she might have imagined it:
“Help him see.”
She looked at Sully, but he didn’t respond. A glance told her no one else in the room heard it either.
Rhiannon gathered the last unbroken candle, whispered a closing prayer, and blew it out.“We’ll try again at dawn, just before sunrise. When the strength of the spirits is diminished. It will be safer.”
Outside, the wind carried the long cry of the sea across the rocks—lonely, unresolved, waiting.
Sully insisted they spend the night together at his place. For once, Amy felt the need to be away from the mansion.
The next morning, the house hadn’t rested, even after the candles went dark.
All night, Amy felt it breathing alongside her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the captain’s outline, his accusation shaping itself in wind.
At dawn, a thin veil of mist hung over the cliffs. The sea, bruised and glassy, moved like something spent. When they arrived back at the house, she made coffee for everyone, though no one truly wanted it.
No one had slept.
Rhiannon looked drained but centered, her shawl folded around her shoulders. Her bag of tools clinked softly. “He’s calmer now,” she said as though she’d been in conversation with the air. “Morning light weakens his madness.”
