The Banishing (9 page)

“It’s going to be great,” she heard him saying as the camera tilted and followed him up the carpeted stairs. “We’ll make this our little paradise. Our little slice of heaven!” She heard her own voice, giddy with an almost childish joy, as she laughed, saying, “You’ve got a cute behind, but I need to zoom out a lot to get it in view!” The camera zoomed to his behind as he mounted the staircase, and he turned, gave her the middle finger, and burst into laughter. His eyes. So warm. So in love with her.

Melissa shifted herself on the bed, wiping at the tears falling steadily from her eyes. She sniffed, grabbed a tissue from the box at the bedside table, and dabbed under her eyes. Watching the footage felt like examining something in history, something of long ago. A life made extinct.

She realized as she turned back to the video, the camcorder had obviously been placed on a surface. It was now zoomed in on her and Mark hugging by the bedroom window, and the two of them had become like spirits haunting a home. Their marriage, the way they were living, the way he had treated her...it all seemed unreal, almost impossible.

Mark loved her, then. Part of her believed that he still loved her. They had enjoyed—until the last few months, at least—a very solid, good relationship. Mark wasn’t perfect—nobody was—but he was a good man, and he had treated her like a princess. Cooked her meals. Took her to the cinema. Rubbed her feet after a tiring shift on the ward. Who was this man he had become? Can people really change that swiftly?

Melissa watched the small camera screen and smiled. Mark’s face was pressed up to the camera lens, and he was making a stupid face, blowing a kiss into the camera. To her. She laughed. The sound seemed alien in the empty, shadowy room.

Good times they’d had. A good marriage.

I can’t give up on him
, she thought, clicking the screen shut and turning it off. It buzzed and then died down, red lights on the side of it dying as the power turned off. Something is wrong, and I need to help him. I can’t give up, not that easily. She stared down at her wedding ring and thought of the day they got married.

For better or for worse, she’d said. Maybe now that vow would be put to the test. If the test failed, she knew she would have to walk out on Mark, on their relationship, and everything they’d once planned and hoped for. Until then, she would try to help, try to change things.

Josh Howell had mentioned mental disorders. Anxiety issues. The list of possible reasons why Mark Sanderson had completely changed was endless, but Melissa felt a sudden determination to find out why. To her, knowing “why” meant there was a logical cause, a reason behind it all. Something she could name—and blame.

Chapter Twelve

She reached over, her hands gliding along the duvet and mattress, and she realized Mark was not there. His side of the bed was empty. Cold and empty. The bedroom was pitch black, which surprised her. She couldn’t remember turning off all of the lights, or even getting under the quilt and falling asleep.

Melissa squinted in the darkness of the room. From under the doorway, light spilled onto the carpet, creating a small puddle of yellow. She must have gone to bed and forgotten to turn off the lights downstairs. Surely Mark would have returned from his job by now? She knew he said he would be back late, but
this
late? She looked over at the bedside clock that blinked red digits into the shadows and saw that it was almost 2:00 AM.

She pulled back the duvet covers and stepped slowly out of the bed. Her head felt heavy, foggy with sleep. She wanted to go downstairs, to see if perhaps he’d fallen asleep watching TV. Or maybe he was eating some of the pizza she’d left for him. Either way, she needed to switch off the lights she’d left burning downstairs for the last few hours.

Melissa went to the door, pulled it open, and stood still for a moment, trying to listen for noise below. Nothing.

She saw from the upstairs corridor, peering over the banister, that she’d left all of the lights on. The lounge. The hallway. Probably the kitchen, too.
So unlike me
, she thought. She climbed down the stairs, stifling a yawn. She felt exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept at all. She ran a hand through her thick, dark hair and stretched. “I feel like shit,” she whispered to herself.

She went first to the lounge. It was empty. The TV was off. She snapped off the light and shut the door behind her. She walked through the hallway to the kitchen and saw Mark was not there, either. His note still lay crumpled in the bin by the door. Maybe he’d been called for another job; knowing Mark, he probably accepted.
Money, money, money
, she thought, a little pissed off that he hadn’t thought to call her. Then, she realized that he probably didn’t feel the
need
to call her. Husbands only told their wives things when they cared. Did he care at all about her right now?

The kitchen curtains hadn’t been drawn. She walked over—her bare feet slapping against the cold, tiled floor—and reached for the curtains. She almost stumbled when she saw the figure in the reflection of the window staring at her. The figure standing in the kitchen doorway, behind her.

Yelping in surprise—in shock—Melissa spun around, her stomach tightened in fear. With her own eyes, something she wasn’t sure she could trust, she saw a woman in a white nightdress.

The nightdress was covered in pools of bright, crimson blood. Pools that grew larger with what Melissa could only guess were gaping wounds beneath the material. Her arm was outstretched, and one long, bony finger pointed at Melissa from across the room.

Melissa took a step back as the figure in the kitchen doorway inched closer. She backed away, feeling the blood drain from her face, and she suddenly wondered if she might faint. She wanted to scream, but even her voice would not obey her.

The figure of the woman came closer, the blotches of blood growing wide on the dress, and droplets of the red liquid began splattering onto the kitchen floor.

Melissa covered her mouth with her hands, gasping at the grotesque woman in front of her. She tried to scream, again, but only a muffled, stunted groan escaped her lips.

The face. Melissa couldn’t tear her eyes away from the face. It was so thin, so gaunt, with gray, decaying skin stretched over the head. Clumps of flesh and withering skin fell from the head onto the floor, thudding noisily into the blood that was spreading on the tiles beneath her.

The face
, Melissa thought again, paralyzed with fear. She couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything as the figure opened its mouth. It looked like it wanted to talk, and Melissa couldn’t imagine anything worse than what the monster might sound like if it found its voice.

“Stop,” Melissa finally gasped, her back against the farthest wall in the kitchen. “Stop it!”

The figure didn’t retreat, but stood there, silent in its ugliness and horror. The eyes were almost black, lifeless, and soulless.

Melissa fell to the floor, her mind a shroud of blackness as the figure pulled up its white dress, revealing a patchwork of stab wounds across its body, flaps of skin gaping open, and with it, rivers of gushing blood travelling along the skin. White bones protruded through some of the wounds, sticking out of the broken flesh.

She didn’t remember what happened next. Her mind flooded with darkness, and she hit the kitchen floor, unable to fight against the woman-thing staring at her from across the room.

* * * *

When she awoke, she winced in pain. Everything felt hard, sore. Where was she? She pried open her eyes—still heavy with sleep—and remembered where she was...and why.

She suddenly lurched up, scrambling to her feet. The kitchen curtains were still wide open, pouring in early morning light. Melissa squinted, the light hurting her eyes, and looked over at the wall clock. It was just before nine in the morning. She couldn’t believe it. She had fallen to the floor and had literally spent the night sleeping there, her body lying against the cold, kitchen floor.

How could I sleep here?
Melissa thought, standing in the middle of the room. She was trying to understand things, to process thoughts that still felt slow after a deep sleep.
The woman. It had been after seeing that woman
. Melissa shuddered, feeling a rush of goosebumps travel the length of her spine as she remembered the gray skin and the open wounds. The blood on the floor. Melissa’s eyes turned to the floor, searching for evidence of blood. Of anything. She knew she wouldn’t see anything; whatever that thing in her house had been last night, it wasn’t real. Not normal.

She rubbed her eyes, turned to the kettle, and filled it up with water. She switched it on and grabbed herself a mug from the kitchen cupboard. She poured in two large spoonfuls of coffee—she needed something to sober her up—and added a spoonful of sugar to take the edge off the bitter drink.

She waited there, leaning against the kitchen work surface, her eyes staring at the place where the woman had been last night.

That horrific face of gray, stretched skin. The blood.

That inhuman thing.

No, I’m not going mad
, Melissa knew. She had seen it all with her own eyes. The same as the figure of the man in her lounge.

She sighed, then laughed.
Ghosts. Is that what I’m talking about, now? A mad husband and a house full of ghosts. Sounds about right
, she thought, shaking her head. Everything else in her life had tipped upside down. Everything that had once been strong and solid to her now appeared fluid, unsteady.
My husband has flipped, and now I’m seeing ghouls in the house.

She tried to clear her head, straighten her thoughts. The kettle clicked off, finally boiling, and the bubbling water inside gurgled noisily. She turned, poured in the water, and watched as the liquid melted into a dark brown. She poured in some milk then carried her drink into the lounge. She hated admitting it to herself, but every time she went into a room in the house, she felt tense, bracing for something—or someone—to be there, watching her.

It’s not my fault,
she thought, sitting down on the sofa and curling her legs beneath her.
If other people saw what I’ve seen lately, they might be a little nervous, too.

She enjoyed the dark lounge. The curtains here were still drawn, keeping daylight at bay. She took a sip of her coffee and pulled a face. It was far too strong, but she needed it to wake her up. She felt unbelievably groggy. As if she had been sleeping for days instead of one night.

Her head a little clearer and feeling more awake, Melissa thought back to the woman last night. The way she had opened her mouth, as if she was trying to say something. Melissa knew she had never seen anything more frightening. If she hadn’t passed out on the kitchen floor the way she did, then she knew she would have run from the house, petrified. It was like something from a nightmare. A horror movie. Even remembering it now, the whole thing seemed unbelievable.

Melissa considered herself an open-minded person. Okay, she reasoned, she wasn’t sure she believed in God, and she was even less sure about life after death. Until now. Were the things she was seeing
ghosts
? Could that be possible?

Melissa knew that what she had seen was real. She might be tired, utterly stressed with what was happening between Mark and her, but she trusted her eyes, her senses. It was all real. It had all happened, and thinking of the figure in the kitchen sent fear straight into her body, making her feel taut, on-edge, and nervous. No, it was real and just accepting that fact felt like a relief. It meant she trusted herself, even if other people would think she was crazy. The trouble was, this meant bad things. More things to worry about.

If there was…something…in her house, then
why
? Why was she seeing them? She sipped at her coffee, enjoying the warmth of it if not the taste.
Have they always been here? If so, why hadn’t she seen them before
?
What could she do about it?

If Melissa felt sure of one thing, it was that she didn’t want them there. She didn’t want to feel unsafe in her own home, because that’s how it made her feel. She needed to stop them. It made her feel vulnerable.

She looked at the corners of the lounge from where she sat, and felt relieved when no shadowy figures moved, when no faces appeared. She still felt watched, or was that just paranoia? Or tiredness?

Frightened of exploring these thoughts further, Melissa drained the last of her drink and placed her mug on the coffee table. It was then she realized Mark still was not home.

She hadn’t even thought of him, and he hadn’t called last night. If he had arrived home, he would have found her in the kitchen and woken her up, worried about finding her there on the floor.

He was still out. Somewhere. It was Saturday today. Melissa was off work all weekend, which was a relief. Normally, Mark took weekends off, unless business was exceptionally busy. He should have called her, either way.

Melissa went to the kitchen and dialed his mobile number.

Mark picked up almost instantly. “Hi Mel.”

“Where are you?” she said, feeling annoyed all over again. He didn’t give a shit about anything anymore.

“Huh? I’m on the road. Well, technically I’m in a café. Thought I’d pick up a bacon roll and coffee, because I can’t work on an empty stomach. You know that.” In the background, Melissa could hear the clatter of plates and dishes. The low mumble of voices chatting echoed down the line.