“Father, is it possible that somebody might be…I don’t know how to explain it. That somebody might be acting under some sort of force. An evil force. Like, they are under control of something really bad, and it’s making them act in a way that is not them…” Her voice died, and she swallowed hard. Tears had started to dampen her eyes, and she wiped them away, embarrassed.

Father Owen finally looked over at her. “You’re talking about possession.”

Melissa looked into his eyes. They were serious. Believing. She didn’t know what to think. “Does the church still believe in possession?” she asked.

“Yes. Some cynics like to dismiss it all as scaremongering, but it’s real. The church still appoints exorcists to perform the ritual of banishing the evil spirit.”

“You do believe, then?”

“Oh yes. It’s real. The devil exists, Melissa. I know it. It’s real.”

“The devil?” she asked.

Father Owen nodded. “Yes. Or his demons. Evil spirits. Whatever is it, whatever name you use. It always comes back to him—the evil one.”

Melissa fell silent. Didn’t know what to say or think. “I’m not sure we’re talking about demons,” she said.

“It is rare, Melissa. Very rare. Most cases of possession are in fact undetected mental illnesses. Any priest worth his vows would send a person to see a psychiatrist first before even considering an exorcism.”

Exorcism. Possession. Evil spirits. Words and thoughts struck her like a knife, and she almost winced at where she was, what she was doing. She wondered what Mark or Sharon would think, seeing her there, talking about these things with a priest. “Rare, but possible,” she said at last.

“Indeed. As I said, though, mental illness is the first thing to be considered.”

“What if I know it’s not mental illness? That’s exactly what I thought it might be at first, but I’ve seen things, too. In my home. Like…spirits. Also, I know Mark—that’s my husband—has been hearing voices. I saw it myself with my own eyes. There was some sort of…entity in the room with him, and I believe it may be ordering him to do things. Evil things.”

Father Owen looked over at her, again, but his face was expressionless. “Melissa, I believe things like this happen. There is no way I can give you any answers without seeing Mark—is that his name? Without going to your home. Without the opinion of a medical professional. To do anything else would be harmful. You could be right. There could be something evil in your home, but we should first try taking small steps. If you’re talking about exorcism, then we can’t just jump to that. We have to—”

“Small steps like what?” Melissa asked, stopping the priest mid-sentence. She didn’t want to hear what he couldn’t do. She wanted help. Advice. To know what he could do for her, for Mark.

“I could come to your home and bless it. It’s a very honored, catholic tradition. It’s almost like an ‘exorcism’ of the home.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“You’d need to get Mark to agree to see somebody, like a psychiatric doctor. Rule out mental illness.”

“I told you!” Her voice rose, full of frustration. “I’ve seen things, too. We can’t both be mad. I saw things in the house. A shadow. A woman. Please, believe me.” She felt like throwing herself to the floor in desperation.

“Look, please. I want to help, but even I’d need permission before performing a full-blown exorcism. It does rarely happen,” Father Owen said. His voice was warm and reassuring. “Also, it’s not something I can do myself. Two priests are needed for the ritual…and assistants. Strong men. A whole team. It’s not just a matter of me turning up and muttering a few prayers, I’m afraid.”

“Do these blessings ever work?” she asked, finally.

“Sometimes it’s all that’s needed. I can’t make any promises, though.”

“Would you come?” she asked.

The priest turned his gaze back to the crucifix and nodded. “Of course. When?”

“Next week. During the day. It has to be when Mark is out at work, or he’ll get mad.”

“I see.”

“How about Tuesday at noon? I could get home on my lunch break.”

The priest nodded. “Where do you live?”

Melissa grabbed a piece of paper from her pocket and scribbled down her address.

The priest’s face dropped. His skin whitened, and his eyes widened. “Oh dear.”

Melissa turned to him. “What is it?”

“This is where Grace Danvers used to live, isn’t it?”

Melissa’s heart and stomach lurched, her mind racing. “Why? Did you know the Danvers? I was going to ask you about them, too.”

Father Owen stood up, his hands shaking loosely at his sides. “She had the same problems,” he said, his voice low and thick.

“What do you mean?”

“She had problems. She thought something evil lived inside that house, and her husband used to abuse her. Is that happening to you, too?”

Melissa didn’t have to answer. Her eyes met the priest’s and he nodded, knowingly.

Chapter Eighteen

Just hearing it said aloud like that confirmed something that frightened her. Deeply. It made her feel as if she were floating, lost without a lifeboat. Things that couldn’t be real, just couldn’t be possible, were happening.

In her life. In her house. In her marriage.

Father Owen stood there, at the end of the bench, and Melissa saw fear in his eyes. Despite his strength, his unwavering faith, she could see that he was frightened. He looked like he wanted to back away, escape her and everything she was talking about.

The realization that she lived in the same house that Grace Danvers used to live in had struck something in the old man that had left him visibly shaken. Seeing that in him only made Melissa feel worse. She suddenly felt queasy, a little lightheaded—she wondered whether that could be from hunger. When was the last time she ate properly?

“I will come to you on Tuesday,” Father Owen said at last, breaking into her thoughts. “I have to be honest with you, Melissa, because to be anything less would be a disservice to you as well as myself. I tried to help that woman, and I couldn’t. Things got worse, if anything. I tried my best—and I don’t mind admitting that I am weak—but I failed. Everything I tried failed her.”

Melissa nudged herself out of the bench and stood up, so that she was facing the priest. Outside, a heavy wind was thrusting in heavy gusts against the windows, against the building. It seemed to groan under the pressure. Rain still splattered against the windows, and the noise of the stormy weather echoed around the tall, empty church.

“I need to know everything,” Melissa said, standing in front of Father Owen. She couldn’t let him leave just yet. She had to know. “It’s important. If I tell you what’s happening to me, will it remain confidential?”

Confidential. Josh Howell knew everything that had happened, Sharon knew some, and now the priest, too? Melissa felt a stab of guilt. If too many people knew, would the police end up on her doorstep? Would they take Mark away? It was a risk, but she felt cornered. Desperate for help and answers. She stared into the priest’s gray eyes. “You don’t have to tell anyone, do you?”

Father Owen shook his head. “It will remain private, Melissa. Who you tell will be your own choice. I have to warn you, though. If what you’re going through is the same as the Danvers, you will need help. More than I could give. More than I’m capable of.”

“What happened to Grace Danvers, Father? I have reason to believe that something happened in my house to the Danvers that might be happening to me.”

Father Owen looked up at her, his face grave, taut. Gray. He shuffled back down to the bench and sat down. Melissa nudged in beside him, waiting for him to talk. He fell silent, and for a moment, Melissa wondered if he was praying.

“Father?” she pressed, frustrated.

The priest didn’t move. His eyes remained closed, and his hands lay intertwined in his lap. “Grace Danvers was a beautiful girl. A stunning girl. I can’t tell you anymore than what I saw and heard myself, Melissa. Okay?” Without waiting for Melissa to respond, Father Owen continued. “She was like you, actually. Skinny. Long, dark hair. I don’t know her exact age, but I’d guess she was in her twenties.”

Melissa nodded, watching as the priest found memories and brought them to the surface. His expression seemed troubled, as if the simple act of remembering was causing physical distress.

“She said she was a Catholic, although she never came up for Communion at Mass, never came to confessions. She always came on a Sunday morning, slipping in at the back. She normally always arrived late, and normally always left before Mass ended. She never stopped to speak to anybody, but I’d always see her arrive and leave. She came most weeks.”

Melissa nodded, but said nothing, afraid to interrupt the priest. She had to hear what he knew. It might help. She had nothing else to do. The idea that what was happening to Mark was somehow connected to this girl seemed crazy, but she had learned over the last few weeks that anything was possible and what she thought was real wasn’t always.

“Occasionally, she would come to the church here, like you are now, just to speak to me. She seemed very shy. Very uncomfortable with opening up. I don’t know whether that was her normal nature or whether she was wary of talking to me, but she always seemed hesitant, weary. When she first came, she would just talk about theological things. She would talk about the existence of God, about why God allowed bad things to happen to good people.”

Why God allowed bad things to happen to good people. The words slipped inside her mind and burned, leaving their mark. Those were words she had thought recently. In the car, earlier. Grace had thought these things, too.

Father Owen coughed, shifting in his seat. His eyes remained firmly shut, as if he was frightened of looking, of seeing. “She discussed her beliefs with me. How she prayed every day, how she believed in God. Her heartbreak seemed to start when she started doubting that God cared at all. That thought, however it had been sown in her mind, was what haunted her the most. She was frightened that she had been forgotten by God, left behind. That He couldn’t possibly love her.”

Melissa nodded. “I don’t blame her. A lot of people start to feel disillusioned, don’t they? I’m sure you see that a lot.”

“What I saw in Grace was shocking. When I first spoke with her, her faith was strong, almost child-like. She believed in God whole-heartedly. It was in her eyes, the way she lit up when she talked about Him. So, when she…” Father Owen paused, pensively lifting his glasses from his face and rubbing his tired eyes. “She changed. Over time. I could see the change in her, even in her eyes, Melissa. Something was dying inside her. Her faith, her life, her hope. Gradually, her visits became depressing, dark. I started to…I started to dread them, God forgive me. She would come and talk about things I didn’t want to hear, but I felt so bad for her.”

“Things like what?” Melissa pressed.

“She would tell me that her husband—his name was Richard—was doing things to her. Awful, awful things. Evil things.” Suddenly the priest’s eyes shot open, and he turned to Melissa, his gaze steady. “Is Mark…is he abusing you, Melissa?”

Melissa turned away. This time it was her eyes that faltered. She shrugged. “I don’t want to go into the details, but yes, things are bad.”

The priest shook his head. “It’s happening again, then.”

Melissa felt confused, unsure. “I don’t understand any of this. Just because this…this Richard guy was abusing Grace…I don’t know what any of this means.”

“Neither do I, honestly. Grace used to say that the house was bad, and that it had evil energy. After a while, when she got really depressed, when she lost her faith, she’d even tell people in town about it…about the evil house and what it was doing to her marriage and her life. People started to think she was a bit crazy…they were quite afraid of her.”

“She actually came to you for help, because of the things that were happening?”

Father Owen smiled weakly. “She trusted me too much. I couldn’t do a thing. She asked me to come to the house to bless it for her, and—”

“She asked you to do that, too? Oh my God. This is weird. This woman walked in my shoes…or…I’m walking in hers. This is freaking me out. Exactly the same things happened…” Melissa suddenly felt uneasy, wondering if she even wanted to hear anymore, but the priest carried on.

“I didn’t get to go,” Father Own said, his voice flat and dejected.

“What? Why?”

“I was contacted a day later and was told she had died. I had to do her funeral.”

Melissa slumped forward, leaning over with her head in her hands. The realization that what Grace Danvers had gone through was identical to her own experience sent slivers of fear through her skin. To know that she was dead…she couldn’t put words together to even digest how the knowledge made her feel. She felt stunned. Frightened. “How?” she asked, at last.

“Suicide.”

“No.” Melissa didn’t know what to say. Outside, gusts of wind continued to hammer against the building, and the church creaked noisily against the onslaught.

“Yes,” Father Owen said, shaking his head with defeat. “I’ll never forget. She came to me week after week, spoke about the evil things her husband did…told me she thought her house was evil…I just listened. Never did a thing. Didn’t know what to do!” The priest’s voice rose and reverberated around the thick, stone walls surrounding them.

“How did she do it?” Melissa asked, finally, although she thought she knew the answer already.

“She stabbed herself. Four times across the stomach.”

Melissa’s mind raced back to the night in the kitchen. The figure of the woman in the doorway. Stab wounds gaping along her stomach and abdomen.

She had seen Grace Danvers. With her own eyes.

The dead woman had been in her home.

Chapter Nineteen

Now, she knew she wasn’t imagining the things happening in her home. Not that she ever thought she did—she had trusted her own eyes and instincts implicitly. It made her uncomfortable to admit it, made her feel almost weak, feeble, but it was true, and she couldn’t deny it.

She had seen…ghosts. People in her house who should be dead. Gone. The woman that had lived in her house, who had spent her last years under the same roof as Mark and her, had thought the same things she had. Something evil was in the house.

Making her husband do things. Making him change.

It sounded like something from a horror movie, but it was happening. The more Melissa saw and the more she learned and experienced, the more it had simply made sense. The thing that scared her more than any ghost in her kitchen—probably more than the talk of possession—was what to do next.

What could she do? What do people do in these situations? How do you stop something…whatever it might be…from taking over somebody you loved? The thing that made them strike out. Hurt. Abuse. That’s what it is, Melissa thought. Abuse. How do you stop something you can’t communicate with, you can’t control, can’t even see?

Melissa suddenly wanted to laugh in a way she felt was not sane; she had seen it. The thing. The black shadowy thing on the camcorder.

Her one and only piece of proof. It is proof I need, she thought, her mind racing. Who would believe her? Even the priest said that the locals had started to think Grace Danvers had gone mad and she’d come to be known as the local eccentric. Spouting mad stories about an evil house.

She couldn’t blame people for thinking Grace had become unhinged. Melissa knew that if somebody had ranted around town about ghosts and evil entities roaming in houses, she too would have laughed it off, rolling her eyes, and wondered why she hadn’t been locked away under the Mental Health Act.

She knew now it was true, though. It had to be. It was the only way the whole sorry mess made any sense.

What to do about it?

Melissa felt like crying in frustration. She felt like she had been handed a key without knowing where the door was. The information would be useless without being able to do anything with it.

Melissa stepped out of the church, after thanking Father Owen for his help. He seemed distressed, and she felt guilty about leaving him. Talking about his memory of Grace Danvers had obviously been difficult for him, like opening healed wounds. He had smiled, reassuring her that he would stop by Tuesday to bless the house. It was the least he could do, he had said. Melissa wondered if he felt that by somehow helping her, he was helping Grace. Helping her now in a way he wasn’t able to help before.

If he could do anything at all, he would do it. Melissa knew that and felt extremely thankful that the priest had given her his time, his honesty. He didn’t have to do any of it, but he did.

Outside, the rain had eased off. Only a fine mist of damp crowded the air around her, and the wind had died down, sending only the occasional, half-hearted gust.

She stepped around the side of the church, suddenly wanting to take a look at Grace Danvers’s grave.

Surely, this was where she was buried.

Melissa didn’t know why, but she wanted to see it.

Rows and rows of grave stones jutted from beneath the earth, surrounded by a carpet of unkempt grass. She scanned them from the edge of the graveyard.

She didn’t have to look for long. The red rose was what grabbed her attention. The grave looked newer, fresher than many of the others around her.

There, only a few feet away, stood a gray marble headstone, a single, red rose laid across it. The sight saddened her. She stepped closer to it, passing carefully by the other graves.

The writing was engraved in a deep gold, each word sliced into the marble rock:

GRACE DANVERS

Beloved Wife

You will be missed. Now and Always.

1979-2005

Melissa felt tears swell in her tired eyes, and this time, she let them fall. This woman had been like her. She too had been young. Healthy. Had had a good (?) marriage. Then, she had died young. At her own hands.

Had Grace really experienced the same as she was? Had her husband changed because of something inside the house? The questions gathered momentum in her mind until she couldn’t ignore them. She had to know. Had to get answers. Maybe Grace Danvers knew things Melissa didn’t know. Something that might help.

Yet here she lay, dead. Answers might be buried with her, Melissa thought, staring down at the single rose.

She reached forward and picked it up. It looked fresh, bright. Somebody had only recently placed the rose on Grace’s grave. Who? She looked again at the epitaph on the grave. Beloved Wife.

Suddenly, the thought struck her: Was Grace’s husband still visiting her grave? Was he still playing the loving, devoted husband? The man who, according to Father Owen, had been abusing Grace in the most vile, evil way. That man was still tending to her grave?

Melissa placed the rose back onto the soil and straightened up.

She’d have talk to Richard Danvers.

Chapter Twenty

Driving back home, Melissa drove quickly, probably recklessly. She hadn’t realized she’d been out so long. It was almost noon. Mark would definitely be up by now. He might have been up for hours, and he’d want to know what she’d been up to. Where she’d been.

If he didn’t like the answers…right now, she didn’t even want to think about that.

Melissa gripped the steering wheel. She leaned forward, craning her neck, as if that would help her to reach home quicker. Her thoughts kept spiraling back to the Danvers.

How fantastic, how weird the whole thing was.

Only a few days back, Melissa had considered herself a skeptical woman. On the verge of atheism. Now, she was desperate to learn about a dead woman she never knew…blaming ghosts for her husband’s violence.

She shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts and gather some clarity.

Things were what they were. As crazy as it all was, as mad as it made her feel that she was finding herself believing in it all, Melissa couldn’t let that stop her. If there was something she could do to stop the death of her marriage, then she’d do it. No matter how bad, how crazy.

She thought of Grace lying under the ground. Decomposing. She’d died trying, too. Hadn’t she? Melissa nudged that thought away and turned her attention to the road ahead.

The roads were clear. She’d be home within minutes.

* * * *

“Tell me this is a joke.”

Melissa knew that with every word she spoke, she was waking something inside of Mark that she didn’t want to see. She sat at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea. She’d offered to make Mark a drink, but he simply shook his head “no”.

As she expected, he’d demanded to know where she’d been. At first, he seemed pissed off that she had dared to sneak out of the house without telling him—like a prisoner who had broken parole—but now, he was staring at her with a look of pure disbelief. She wondered, in that moment, as he sat across the table from her, how he could do the things he’d been doing to her over the last few weeks and then act as if she was the crazy, unbalanced one. It inflated her at the injustice, at the way he looked down at her with disgust, but she tried to remain calm. She had to try and reach him.

The memory of the other night came to the forefront of her mind. The knife. His threats. He had done that after she tried to confront him last time. She knew what he was capable of now, and with each word, she watched the reactions on his face…searching for warning signs. She looked for when to stop, to recognize when enough was enough.

It was not that time, yet. She took a sip of her tea, trying to find the right words, the right way to approach the things she’d been thinking. “Mark, please listen. No, I am not crazy, and I’m not joking. You know me. I’m not weird. I‘m not one of those people who buy into conspiracies and—”

“—But,” Mark said with a smirk on his face, “you believe that something evil is in this house.”

Yes, and it’s getting to you. Melissa felt sick. How could she get him to see what she knew? Or would he never be able to see while the…thing…that was in the house had some kind of hold over him? She considered that might be the case.

“Mark, please. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you have changed. It was gradual, little things at first, but now…well, you know. You’re hurting me. It’s not you. I don’t believe this is you. The people who lived here before us—the Danvers—they went through something similar. They were fine, happily married, but the guy—his name was Richard—started hitting his wife and…and she started to see things in the house, like I am.”

“You mean ghosts?” Mark shifted slightly on the chair, leaned forward. His face was flat, unreadable, but Melissa knew he was probably laughing at her. Watching her for entertainment purposes. Her stomach contracted, and she felt sick again, a wave of nausea she found crippling, unbearable.

“I told you I saw things. A man in the lounge. A woman in the kitchen.”

Mark sighed. “Fuck. You’re really losing it, aren’t you? My wife is a whacko.”

Melissa felt her face redden. She wanted to hit him. She’d never wanted to lash out so much in her life. “It’s either that, or it’s you, Mark. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here. That your…behavior isn’t your fault. Maybe I’m in denial.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “Shut up.”

Don’t push him. Get up and go. Do something else. Warning signals flared like fire in her head, and she wondered whether to pursue the discussion with him, anymore. Maybe she’d have to do it without him. Do what? she thought, despairingly.

Then, the camcorder flashed into her thoughts.

Without saying anything, Melissa ran into the lounge and found where she’d left the video she’d filmed of Mark the day before.

The shadow. Mark in a trance.

She reappeared moments later and switched on the small camcorder. She could show him. He could see for himself. Wasn’t that the reason she’d wanted to film him in the first place?

Her heart flipped wildly in her chest. The footage was gone. It had been taped over. Melissa looked from the camera to Mark and then back again. “You saw this, didn’t you?” she said, feeling her mind crumble, breaking down.

“Saw what?” Mark asked, a smug smile spilling onto his face.

“That video of you and that black shadow…you saw it. You know! You must know! Tell me if you saw it…”

Something stirred in his eyes, twisting darkness behind his pupils. His face suddenly darkened, like the shadows in his soul. Mark pulled back his chair, stood up, and started to leave. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Melissa didn’t believe him.

Chapter Twenty-One

She couldn’t trust Mark. She almost laughed at the thought—hadn’t she known that all along? The video had been wiped, and he was the only one who could have done it. Whether he was being…influenced by the thing in their house or not, she could not trust him, could not gain his support, his help.

She had to face it alone. Had to do it for the both of them.

Melissa stepped into the bathtub and lowered herself into the hot, soapy water. It felt good being enveloped by the warm, comforting fluid that caressed her body as she lowered herself. She realized, as she reached for the washcloth and began absentmindedly running it across her breasts, arms, and stomach, that the whole situation was out of her control.

She hated that.

Melissa understood that the more things she saw and the more things that happened, the more powerless and frightened she felt. How could reality flip inside out like this so abruptly? What would her Mum say if she were here? Her Mum, who believed in God, in life-after-death, in spirits, and in the devil. Angels and demons. What would she have made of everything. What would she have suggested?

Turn to God, she would have said. Pray for help. Receive communion. Attend Mass. No doubt she would have said all of those things, but Melissa had the disturbing feeling that whatever was happening ran deeper than that. Besides, Father Owen was dropping by on Tuesday to bless the house. There was a chance that might help. That was what Grace Danvers had planned on doing…but she’d killed herself before the priest got the chance to try. Would that have been the miracle answer they needed, to stop whatever it was doing these things? The thing that had changed Richard Danvers and now Mark. Had it stopped there? What about whoever lived in the house before the Danvers moved in?

Melissa felt a wave of fear when she considered this nightmare could have been going on for…decades. Centuries. How old were the properties around here, anyway?

Had the previous tenants seen…those figures in the house, too? Shadows. Shadowy figures creeping in the house…watching, waiting. Talking to Richard. The way they’d spoken to Mark.

Melissa tried desperately to set aside the uncomfortable, frightening thoughts.

She suddenly had the feeling of being watched. She pulled back the shower curtain and looked about the room. Of course, it was empty; she’d locked the door when she’d first come into the bathroom.

She sat back, taking a deep breath. Stop it. It’s just everything getting to you. Making you nervous. She plunged beneath the water, pulling her head under the blanket of bubbles, and then rose up, taking a deep breath.

She quickly lathered some shampoo through her hair and rinsed it.

Then, she felt it, again. Like eyes watching her.

Melissa quickly stood up and grabbed the large bath towel, wrapping it around her body. She suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable, as if she was surrounded by…something or someone, but she knew the place was empty.

She thought of the shadow man she’d caught on the camcorder and shuddered. Despite the heat of the bathroom, goosebumps glistened against her wet skin. She wanted desperately to dress and get out of the bathroom.

She pulled the plug, watching as the water circled toward the hole in a miniature tornado. It gurgled noisily as it drained the soapy liquid away.

Melissa reached for the pink sweatshirt and white lounge bottoms—her favorite home wear—from the floor and quickly pulled them on, despite her skin still being damp from the bath. The urgency to get out, to get away from the invisible eyes, was incredibly claustrophobic, intense, and pressing.

Then, she froze. She heard something. A lot of noise coming from down the hall. Her bedroom? What the hell is that?, she thought.

Melissa instantly unlocked the door and stood out in the hallway.

“Mark?”

No reply.

“Shit.” Melissa waited there, listening. A loud, rumbling noise echoed down though the hallway. She knew then it was definitely coming from the bedroom. The noise, the sound, was unidentifiable. It could not be likened to anything she had heard before.

It sounded like an army of thumps, whacks, and draggings.

Loud. Booming.

She felt the vibrations along the floor, through the thick, white carpet, and against her bare feet.

“Shit! Mark, where are you?”

Still, no answer.

Melissa had the urge to flee. To just get out. She didn’t know what the noise was or what was creating the noise, but she knew it was bad. It could only mean something awful. More bad things.

She took three large, deep breaths in an attempt to steady her breathing, trying to slow the pounding of her heart banging incessantly against her chest.

“God help me.” Melissa said the words before she even knew she was going to say them, and they stunned her momentarily. God? Was He really involved in any of this black, merciless mess that was wrecking her life, her home? His presence felt bleakly absent. As it always had in her life.

Still, in some dark corner of her mind, in some dark recess, she searched Him out. Wanted His help.

The noise down the hall continued its ugly throng, its loud, undulating pulsation of chaos, and Melissa took a tentative step toward her bedroom.

Frightened of who—or what—she might see behind the closed door.

Thumps. Creaks. Bangs. Scratching, etching noises. They rose, barking loudly against the walls of her bedroom.

Melissa felt weak, fear clutching at her heart and mind, and she hesitated at the doorway, at the threshold of whatever lay at the other side. God help me, she thought again, and reached for the door.

She twisted the silver knob and flinched when she felt a burning sensation. She recoiled and looked down at her hand. The skin on her palm was red, inflamed. The handle had burned her.

“What the hell is going on?” Melissa’s mind raced, and she could find no real answer to something that should be impossible, to something illogical. She pulled the sleeve down from her pink sweatshirt, and with the material of the sleeve over her red, sore palm, she reached for the door handle again. This time, despite the heat reaching through the thin material, she twisted the knob and pushed the door open. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

The room was a horrific explosion of noise, movement, and commotion. The room was alive.

Melissa took a step backward, almost falling, her eyes riveted to the scene in front of her.

Her wardrobe doors were opening and closing, banging loudly as they flipped backward and forward. Drawers were opening and closing, too. Occasionally, an item from inside the drawers would flip over the sides and spill onto the carpet.

Oh God, what’s happening, she thought wildly, staring at the scene. Her bed was rocking, moving backward and forward, banging against the wall, and then shuffling along the carpet, as if being adjusted by unseen hands.

Her curtains kept fluttering. Open. Shut. Open. Shut.

Melissa, feeling waves of cold, icy air flush against her skin from the room, took another step back, her hand over her mouth, terrified yet drawn to the scene in one complete turmoil of emotion.

“Who…who are you?” she finally screamed, finding her voice. “What do you want? Why are you doing this?”

The room, indifferent to her fear, her demands, carried on with its frantic, almost rhythmic disarray of her bedroom, and Melissa fell to her knees and began sobbing.

She covered her ears with her hands and lowered her head, so it was in between her knees. Rocking back and forth, she felt broken, bewildered.

“Stop the noise…make it stop…make it stop….make it go away…” Her voice tumbled out in broken, disjointed whispers.

Suddenly, the room in front of her fell silent. Dead. As if it had stopped breathing. Expired.

Melissa looked up from the floor and saw that the flutter of movement, the banging had stopped.

Everything was suddenly as it should be. Normal and perfect. As if nothing had ever happened.

Chapter Twenty-Two

She climbed the stairs to the second floor slowly, as if fast movements would break something inside of her. She felt exhausted, drained, and hopeless.

It was Monday morning, and she already felt shattered. She had a whole day at the ICU ahead of her, but first Melissa was on her way to the Psych department to see Josh. When she’d turned on her mobile phone, she’d seen three missed calls from him, and a text, asking her to get in touch. He was worried, he’d said, and he had been thinking about her.

So, before driving to work, she’d given him a quick call and arranged to see him in his office before starting her shift that morning.

After a night of no sleep—not even a moment had she been spared, never granted the comforting oblivion of sleep—she felt as if she could collapse at any moment. She was working, moving, thinking on an energy that was almost dead. An energy that would die if the madness carried on for much longer.

Last night had tipped her over the edge, somehow. Done something to her soul that even the shadow thing hadn’t been able to do…nor the figure in the kitchen. It was only a matter of time, Melissa knew. How much craziness, insanity, fear, could one person seriously take before they cracked?

She knew she was nearing the edge of something petrifying.

She walked down to Josh’s office and knocked. Waited. After a moment, his voice came from inside. “Come in, please.”

Melissa entered, forcing a smile as she saw Josh shuffling and moving around papers and folders on his desk. He looked up at her, and his face dropped. His eyes widened. He stood up, dropping the papers onto his desk, and went over to her. “Jesus, Melissa. What’s happening to you?”

Melissa closed the door and shrugged. “Good to see you, too,” she said, looking up at him.

Josh seemed shocked. She could see it in his eyes. “You look…not good.”

Melissa forced a laugh. “Thanks. You’re not so good at the compliments, are you?”

Josh didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. “Shit, Melissa. How can someone change so much in just a few days? Seriously, you look like you’re wasting away.”

Melissa threw her coat and bag on the desk. “Look, you know what’s going on with me. I’m sorry if I look like a mess…” Her voice trailed off, and she suddenly wanted to get out. She felt a hint of embarrassment.

Josh sighed. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” He stared at her, long and hard. His gaze remained fixed on hers. He looked scared for her.

Melissa felt numb. Too tired. “It’s bad, yes,” she admitted.

Josh turned, went to the desk, and picked up the phone. He reached forward, handing the receiver to her. “Please?”

Melissa stared at him. “What?”

“The police. You promised. You said if it got worse, you would. I’m worried.”

Melissa took the phone from his hand and placed it back onto the cradle. “No.” The word hung limply, a stubborn air about it. I can’t, and I won’t. It isn’t Mark. This was never about him. It’s the house.

Josh’s face darkened. He reached for the phone again and started punching in digits. “I will, then. I won’t let him hurt you. I can’t let him hurt you.”

Melissa felt a sense of warmth for him. She could see he meant what he said. Her mind and her heart softened. “Please, wait. Listen to me. There’s more to this whole mess than you know. Please. Just listen for a minute. Give me one minute.”

Josh slowly, reluctantly hung up the phone and went over to the couch and plopped himself down, watching her. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Melissa suddenly felt trapped. She barely knew this man. Yes, he seemed nice. Seemed to care—for some reason—and he seemed to want the best for her. How well did she know him, though? What would he think of what she knew? What she had started to believe?

“One minute, then I’m calling the police,” Josh said. His face looked determined, but she saw the swell of emotion rising in his eyes.

Just tell him. What’s the worst that can happen? You’ll get committed to a mental institution, an inner voice warned. Or he’ll think you’re plain crazy. Or he’ll call the police, anyway. Melissa’s mind reeled with a thousand possibilities and worries, and she felt paralyzed, unable to process anything. She didn’t know what to do.

“Right, I’m calling the police. I told you how I felt about this the other day. He can’t treat you like this. He’s a fucking monster—” Josh rose from the seat and went to the phone again, but Melissa pounced forward and stood in front of the desk, blocking his way.

“No! Okay, okay. It’s not Mark, okay? It’s not him doing all of this.”

Josh said nothing for a moment. His face melted into a frown, creases nagging at the corners of his eyes. “You mean it’s somebody else? Someone else has been…abusing you?”

Melissa sagged. Slumping against the desk, she ran a hand through her long, wavy hair. “No, that’s not what I mean. If I tell you this, you’ll think I’m crazy, but I’m not.”

Josh raised his eyebrows. “The only thing I’ll ever think you’re crazy for is not reporting this thing to the police sooner.”

“I can’t…it’s not like that. It’s the house. The house is making Mark act this way. It’s not him…not really. There’s something going on, Josh. I know, I know…it sounds stupid. I know how it sounds, but the house Mark and I bought a year ago…there’s something about it. Something bad. Evil. Trust me. What Mark is doing to me isn’t him. It’s the influence the house is having on him.” Melissa fell silent and took a deep breath, feeling twists and knots form in her stomach.

Josh clapped his hands. A loud, sharp sound in the silence of the office. “Well,” he said, a smile tipping at the corner of his mouth, “that’s the best story I’ve come across.”

Melissa flinched, as if she had been struck. What did I expect? She couldn’t find words, didn’t know whether to carry on or run out. She wanted to do both and none at the same time.

Josh shook his head. “It’s very common, actually,” he said at last. “It’s something you come across a lot.”

“What?” Melissa asked.

“The way we project our fears, our experiences onto others. It makes dealing with bad things easier to cope with. It’s much easier for your mind to digest the house being evil than it is for you to believe the man you love could raise his fist to you and treat you like this.”

Melissa laughed. This time it was real. “Shit. You really think that?”

Josh nodded. His words were slicing sharply into her mind, but she knew he believed what he saying, that he wasn’t simply saying it to belittle her. She felt she knew at least that much.

“You’re wrong,” Melissa rasped. “I know. I’ve seen things, Josh. Things that sound crazy but are true. I’m not mad. I’m not one of your psychiatric patients, so don’t analyze me. Please!”

Josh stepped back, as if letting air between them would cool down the situation. “What things, then?”

He’s looking for more evidence that I’m cracking up.

“I saw things in the house. I saw the figure of a woman in my kitchen. She was covered in blood, and then she just disappeared.”

Josh’s face remained still, expressionless. “Go on.”

“I saw…well, remember I told you Mark was having weird trances, where he’d have a conversation with people who weren’t there?”

Josh nodded.

“I filmed him the other night. He was talking, and…when I played it back, I saw it on the camera. This thing, this dark shadow was on the film, and Mark was talking to it.”

“We’re talking about ghosts?” Josh said, incredulously.

Melissa fell silent, again, knowing how it all sounded.

“Melissa, look I’m sorry about earlier. I was being an ass, I know that. I apologize, but I’m just frustrated. I’ve seen men like him before, and I’m not kidding with you. Some women end up dead before they admit there is a problem. I can’t see that happening with you.”

Melissa turned on him, a flare of anger rising in her stomach. “Why? Why the hell do you care, anyway?”

“It’s because I like you,” Josh retorted instantly. “A lot.” He looked away from her, his cheeks flushing red, and Melissa felt stunned.

“Like me…like how?”

“You’re not stupid,” he said flatly.

Melissa searched for a response, and she couldn’t find any. She felt a sense of disbelief, and—to her dismay—a hint of happiness that Josh felt that way about her. It had been so long since Mark—or anyone—had given her attention. Love. Passion. Interest. Any of it. Here Josh was—good looking and intelligent—and he was interested in her. She couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t flattered. She was. Any woman would be.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” she admitted truthfully.

“I know. I over-stepped the mark. I’m sorry.” He was still looking away, his eyes drawn to the window. Sunlight poured in, sending slivers of light across his face and across the desk.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “I’m flattered.”

Josh glanced at her and rolled his eyes. “Like I said, I over-stepped the mark. Can we forget what I said and start again—”

“No. I don’t want to forget.”

“What?”

Melissa walked over to him and placed her hand on his arm. She looked up at him, into his eyes, so that he couldn’t avoid her stare. “I want to remember. The last few months have been hell. I can’t remember the last time anyone…you know…made me feel special. Wanted. I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true.”

“You’re married,” Josh said. “So, let’s move on. I can’t let this…I don’t know.” Melissa felt for him; he seemed suddenly like a lost, confused boy. Embarrassed. Like a rabbit caught in headlights.

She smiled. “If I wasn’t married—” she said, and she knew she didn’t have to finish the sentence.

Josh smiled back, his eyes warming, again. “Are you going to call the police?” he said.

Melissa felt a pang of annoyance return, but she tried to repress it. “What I’ve told you is true. I’ve seen things in our house. I genuinely believe that whatever is there, it’s influencing Mark. You don’t know him…I’ve known him for years, and what he’s doing isn’t him. I’d bet my life on it. I always had a nagging feeling there was something more to this whole thing.”

Josh raised his hands as if it resignation. “Well, there ends any help I can give you. I’ve told you what I think about that. I think we project our—”

“Yes! You told me, but I just know you’re wrong. I’m not projecting my fear onto the house. It’s real, and it’s happening.”

“What’re you going to do? Go ghost hunting while your husband keeps beating you? Hope he doesn’t end up killing you?” Josh’s voice remained calm, but Melissa knew he was frustrated.

“Give me time. I don’t know how, but I will find out what this thing is…I’ll have to take it from there.”

“I didn’t know you believed in such things.”

“You don’t know much about me at all,” she retorted. “Just so you know, until recently, I didn’t believe in any of that stuff. Though, sometimes you can’t ignore what’s happening right in front of your eyes.”

“Melissa…please consider what I said.”

Melissa nodded. “I will, if you’ll consider what I’ve been saying.” Deep down, she knew he wouldn’t.

“What will you do? Really?” he pressed, the sunlight closing in behind clouds, scattering shadows across the room, across his face.

“I have to find out more about who lived in the house before us. Grace and Richard Danvers. They lived there and experienced the same thing as Mark and me.”

“What? He hit his wife, too?”

Melissa nodded. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“Well, domestic abuse is surprisingly common—”

“Oh come on!” Melissa chided. “It’s more than a coincidence. The link between what happened to them and what’s happening now is just too strong.”

Josh stepped closer, reached his arms forward, and embraced Melissa. They remained close, their bodies pressed into each others, until Melissa suddenly—oddly—felt guilty about the contact and pulled away.

She said goodbye and promised to call him later.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The shift on the ward was slow, agonizingly slow. Time dripped like drops of water from a loose tap. The hands of the clock barely moved. Melissa kept thinking about Josh and his confession. Thinking about what he said sent a hot, fiery flush to the surface of her skin, and she tried to keep at bay how he’d looked at her, the way he said he felt about her.

It was a compliment. She was flattered, but even remembering his words presented a pang of guilt that fluttered relentlessly in her chest. Like an angry bird, desperate to flee.

She had to think of Mark. Remember the man he was, the man she might be able to help him become, again. The man she still loved—despite the things that had happened.

There was hope. She had to hold onto that much.

The steady beeps of monitors and BP machines filled the quiet, subdued air of Intensive Care. Melissa’s day had been fairly easy. She had done several bed baths, changed bedding from a patient that had passed away—another heart attack victim—and had taken routine blood pressures, EKG readings, and undertook the weekly stock check of medical supplies.

Now, she wanted to, needed to get out. It had been nagging at her all day—her desperation to find out where Richard Danvers was. She wanted to speak to him. He might know more, and he might tell her. He might be able to help. Even if it was a long shot, she had to try. What else was there to do?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Sharon said, creeping up beside her as she poured herself a cup of tea in the staff room.

“You know…” Melissa said, letting her voice trail.

“You look like shit.” Sharon said, her eyes running over Melissa, appraising her, analyzing her.

“Thanks. That’s the second time I’ve heard that today.”

“Sorry but…shit. When’s the last time you ate? You look like you’re wasting away, and the bags beneath your eyes…God, Mel. When are you going to wake up and smell the coffee? Realize that the bastard is slowing killing you.”

“Don’t you start…”

Sharon paused. Her face taut. “Huh? You’ve told someone else?”

“Josh Howell. The guy you gave my number to, the guy from the—”

“I know who he is!” Sharon snapped, her eyes glowing and her face instantly lightening. “So, you and he are close now, huh?”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “No. Not like that, anyway. We just spoke about everything.”

“What does he say?”

“He wants me to call the police.”

Sharon’s face fell serious. “I think he’s right. Look what he’s doing to you. The other night, I actually had a nightmare about you and Mark. The whole thing is like something from a horror movie. I actually feel scared for you. I’ve come close to calling the police, myself—”

“Don’t you dare!” Melissa snapped, feeling her frayed nerves coming close to a breaking point. “Don’t. I’m sorting it out, okay? Don’t call the police.”

Sharon stood there, frozen. “Fine. I’m trying to be a good friend, Mel. Push me away if you want, but you know what Josh and I are saying is right. You’re in denial if you think you can handle this.” Sharon turned and walked away, leaving her tea on the kitchen table.

* * * *

The rest of the shift went uneventfully. Nothing happened. The darkened, shadowy ward felt like a morgue…rows of people, eyes clamped shut, their bodies gaunt and covered by thin, white, bed sheets…skin gray under the glow of the monitors that were situated next to their beds. It all seemed disturbing to Melissa. More than usual.

By five o’clock, when Melissa stepped out of the hospital and into the parking lot, she was relieved to breathe in the cold, icy air. The sky had already begun to darken, the winter season stubbornly pushing away any remaining sunlight.

She wanted to cry. All day—especially since leaving Josh in his office that morning—she had felt raw, vulnerable. Melissa knew life was not always easy. She didn’t hold any irrational, unreasonable beliefs that good people deserved good things. That people who led good, decent lives necessarily had good luck, good health…Life never worked that way.

Things were bad, very bad, and she knew neither Mark nor her deserved what was happening.

Melissa reached her car and unlocked it, just as she felt the first splatter of rain tap the ground by her feet. She looked up and saw dark, brooding clouds shifting across the sky, knowing more heavy rain was on its way.

“Great,” she mumbled, jumping into the front seat.

She pulled on her seatbelt, turned on the ignition, and was about to pull out, when she heard her mobile phone ringing.

Melissa grabbed it from her bag and saw that Josh was calling. For a moment, she considered not answering—still feeling slightly awkward about their chat that morning—but she knew she’d feel bad doing that, possibly making things worse between them, so she answered.

“Hi. How has your day been?” Melissa dressed her voice in a light, casual tone, but she knew Josh would read through it.

He knows what a mess I am. What a mess I’m in.

“I’m glad I caught you. Are you still at work?” Josh asked.

“Well, I’m about to drive home. Why?”

“Where are you, now?”

Melissa sat back, turning off the engine. The car fell into thick silence. “I’m in the parking lot. About to drive home. What’s up?” She thought Josh sounded strained, on edge. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he said, “but I wanted to see you before you went home. I have something to show you, and it’s a little awkward, if you get my meaning.”

Melissa frowned, staring out of the window as heavy rain tapped like fingernails against the glass. It was pouring now, the sky blackening with ugly, shadowy clouds. “I don’t really get your meaning. Do you want me to come over to your office?”

“I’ll come to you. Where are you parked?”

Ten minutes later, Melissa saw Josh running toward her car. He was wearing a long, black coat—elegant, she thought—and holding a briefcase over his head, sheltering himself from the onslaught of rain.

Melissa reached over and opened the passenger door for him, and he saddled in, pulling the door shut behind him.

He swept in cold, fresh air with him. His wet coat was dripping small drops of water onto the floor and seat, and as he lifted his briefcase onto his lap, he smiled at her and said “hi”, all the while avoiding her eyes.

He still feels awkward. About his feelings.

Melissa tried to nudge the tense atmosphere away and smiled back, nodding toward the case resting on his knees. “What have you got in there? FBI files or something? Why the big secret?”

Josh seemed to relax, his shoulders loosening up a bit. He smiled over at her, again. “Well, this kind of has to be secret, Melissa, or I could get into big trouble.”

“What’s going on?” she pressed. She felt tired—no, exhausted—and wanted desperately to get home, get to bed, perhaps without even eating dinner. Melissa had never felt so drained. She worried about her drive home, because she had felt so drowsy all day.

Josh ran a hand through his dark hair. Sighing, he looked at her as if he was contemplating something serious, something that unsettled him. “I recognized the names you gave me this morning,” he said at last, looking over at her. Meeting her eyes for the first time.

“The names?”

“Grace and Richard Danvers.”

“Shit. You’re kidding me! You knew these people?” Melissa gasped.

Josh, saying nothing, fumbled with the lock on his briefcase and pulled out a thin, green folder. It was slightly bigger than A4, and on the top, left hand corner was a sticker:

PATIENT: RICHARD DANVERS

PATIENT REFERENCE NO: 427389

REFERRED TO: PSYCHIATRIC UNIT; DR. JOSH HOWELL

“Josh! He was your patient? Why didn’t you—I can’t believe this.”

Josh turned from her and stared out at the splinters of rain plummeting against the car and shrugged. “I didn’t know, not at first. When you said the name Danvers, I knew it rang a bell. After you left, the name kept nagging me. You have to remember, I see a hell of a lot of patients, so names come up, and I don’t remember half of them…” His voice died, and he turned back to her. After a moment, he said, “I looked it up. Saw the file on Richard. Then, it came back to me—who he was and why I’d seen him. Then…well, let’s just say, Melissa. I’m a rational man, but what I saw hit me like a brick.”

Melissa stared down at the file on Josh’s lap. She wanted to read it, but she paused, waiting. Her heart began thundering, and she knew Josh had learned something.

Something important. Or he wouldn’t have come.

“Josh, what is it? I need to know.”

“Well, either there are a lot of deluded people out there, or you might be onto something about that house. You were right—it must be more than coincidence.”

“Why? Tell me, Josh. What’s in that file? What did Richard tell you?”

Josh cleared his throat. Staring down at the green file and fingering it, running his fingers along the edge of it. “I only saw Richard a handful of times, hence the thin file. I saw him after Grace had committed suicide. He was a mess. Completely broken down. When I say mess, I mean, he was sane and everything, but he was just a shell of a man after his loss.”

“The man who beat and raped Grace was suffering from grief, because he drove his wife to suicide,” Melissa said aloud to herself. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Josh didn’t say anything for a moment, then he shifted in his seat, handing her the file. “I’m breaking a lot of rules doing this, Melissa. You can have a look now, but I need to return it, tonight. It’s mostly medical history, GP history, whatever. There are other things in there, though. Things he said that I noted down.”

“Can you wait while I read it?” Melissa asked, reaching over and taking the file from him.

Josh nodded. “Melissa,” he said, his face pale in the half-light, “It’s weird. The things he said matched with what you were saying. Things about the house. At the time, I thought he was in some sort of denial, like a coping mechanism…it’s common. In the context of what you said this morning, it’s just eerie.”

Melissa nodded, hungry to read whatever it was that had disturbed Josh so much. She thanked him for what he was doing—knowing what a risk it was to share confidential patient records—and opened the file.

She shuffled past pages of his date of birth, address, GP history, and found some handwritten notes at the back. Written by Dr. J. Howell.

She took a deep breath and began reading.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Notes by Doctor Josh Howell:

I have been asked to meet with Richard prior to his mental health act assessment. He is new to the mental health service, having presented no symptoms in the past, and there is currently no evidence of mental illness in his family history.

Richard Danvers has expressed that he is suffering from grief due to the loss of his wife, Grace Danvers. He has described this grief on numerous occasions as “overpowering”.

Grace died from multiple, self-inflicted stab wounds to the stomach and abdomen. Her suicide was, in Richard’s own words, “expected, but still shocking, still unbelievable”.

Richard has found the last two months—Grace passed away in September—difficult to cope with. He admitted that he hadn’t been sleeping well, sometimes getting as little as two hours of sleep per night. He appeared drawn, gaunt, and tired.

Richard admitted that he himself has, at least on two occasions, contemplated suicide. He is currently prescribed a variety of painkillers and anti-depressants and is using over-the-counter sleeping aids.

Richard has been expressing delusional thoughts that his wife killed herself, not because of him, but because of something that lived in the house they shared at 46 Bambury Court. He believes that something resides in the house that caused his behavior to altar, to the point that he was unaware of what he was thinking, doing, or watching at any given period of time.

Richard felt that he could spend whole days unaware of what he had done. He described those occasions as “lost time”, as if he had somehow been taken over.

I asked Richard if he felt it was possible that losing his wife after he had been subjecting her to abuse could be the underlying cause of his depression and anxiety. He said “no”, that it was all “because of the house”.

During my time with Richard, he became upset, tearful, often appearing afraid. I asked him about this, and he said he was always frightened, because of the things he had seen in the house and the things it made him do.

J. Howell: Richard, what do you believe is in the house you and Grace shared?

RD: Demons. Or a demon.

JH: What makes you think that?

RD: Grace saw it. She tried to tell me many, many times. (At this point, Richard starts crying.) She knew somehow what was going on and that the demons made me do the things I was doing. She knew before I ever knew, before I ever dared to believe her.

JH: You used to hit Grace, didn’t you?

RD: Yes.

JH: How did that make you feel at the time?

RD: I don’t remember.

JH: You don’t remember how you felt?

RD: I don’t remember hitting her at all.

JH: You don’t remember punching her or sexually assaulting her?

RD (Still crying): No! No! I didn’t remember any of it, I told you. Whatever lived in that fucking house—it was the one doing those things through me! I told you. It was never me, never, ever me!

JH: You understand you will be undergoing a psychiatric evaluation tomorrow, and doctors will be assessing your mental state. If you truly don’t remember abusing Grace, then this is significant; however, you might have suppressed the memory. It’s the brain’s coping strategy at times of stress.

RD: I don’t care, anymore. I know they think I’m a fucking lunatic for blaming the demons, but it’s real. It’s real. It’s them who need locking up! Ask Grace!

JH: Grace is dead, Richard.

RD: Because of them! Because of what they made me do.

JH: You heard voices?

RD: Not exactly. Grace told me I heard things. She heard me talking to them.

JH: Do you take any responsibility for Grace’s suicide?

RD: It was the demons in that house, Doctor. I swear. The demons in that house.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Melissa read to the bottom of the handwritten notes and turned to Josh. His eyes were staring ahead, and he seemed lost in thought.

“What happened to this guy?” she asked, panic rising like vomit in her stomach and throat. Above them, a slice of white tore into the sky and a rumble of thunder crackled overhead.

“He is in Saint Margaret’s Mental Health Facility,” Josh answered. “They locked him up. I looked into it. The day after I made those notes, they gave him a mental health assessment, and because of all his ravings about the house and demons making him abuse Grace, they sectioned him.”

Melissa sighed. “They thought he was crazy.”

“Of course,” Josh said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Not now I wouldn’t. Shit, Josh. Richard went through exactly the same thing Mark is right now. What does that tell you? This is real. I told you. It’s all happening. It’s far too much to be a coincidence. I told you what I saw…that thing in our lounge…” The memory of the black, featureless figure crept into her mind, and she pushed it away, the ugly memory mocking and awful.

Josh shot her a look, dark and angry. “Look what happened to Grace! You need to get out before you end up—”

“I’m not suicidal, Josh. Tired? Yes. Drained. Upset. Angry, even. I am not going to kill myself.”

“Then, what will you do?” he asked, placing the folder inside his case.

“I’m going to see Richard in Saint Margaret’s. Are you coming with me?”

* * * *

They shared her car. Josh decided—reluctantly it seemed, to Melissa—to go with her. She had the feeling that Josh was still finding it hard to believe what was happening. That there could possibly be something so dark, something beyond our understanding, out there. Something intelligent enough to mess with people’s minds, with people’s heads. She couldn’t blame him. She could barely digest the reality in her mind or even believe it. If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes…she would have already called the police on Mark and left him.

Things would have been different.

She felt very unsure that she could have changed any of it.

Josh was a sensible man. He worked in psychiatry. Studies of the mind. Of course, he was finding it hard to come to grips with what she was saying. Of course. She didn’t blame him. Things were what they were, Melissa thought. Despite his obvious reluctance to give in, to fully let go of his skepticism and misgivings, she was glad to have him there, beside her.

They drove to Saint Margaret’s in silence. The rain, heavier now than ever, was pelting against the car windows, sending the world around them into fluidity. Every now and then, thunder rumbled across the dark sky, lightening occasionally pulsating across the blanket of black, sending the world alight for brief moments at a time.

Josh was staring ahead, calling out occasional directions to the mental health unit; he explained that during his time training, he had to do several placements in mental health facilities across Buckinghamshire, Oxford, and London. Saint Margaret’s was one of the places he’d been to. Luckily, he was good at remembering where it was. Melissa didn’t have a map, and neither of them was good at reading one.

For a while, the silence between them was welcome. Melissa felt so lost in her thoughts about the Danvers, about Mark, about their house—everything, in truth—that she enjoyed being able to get lost in her thoughts. All day at work, she had felt numb; too tired to think or even care, but after reading Richard Danvers’s file, she was shocked into action. The evidence that backed up everything she had so far thought.

Of course, Melissa realized sullenly that it didn’t help that Richard was in a mental health facility. No one believed in him at the time, and look where he ended up. Where would she end up? What about Mark?

The silence, as they drove on, started to become slightly uncomfortable. She knew it was because Josh still felt awkward about what he had said.

It had to be. Until today, Josh had been nothing but vibrant, confident, and self-assured. Now, he seemed shy and coy, his eyes darting when she met his. She hated that. She suddenly wished he’d never told her.

“How much longer?” Melissa asked, breaking the taut air between them.

“Get off the motorway at the next exit, then take a left. After that, we’ll only be a few minutes away.”

Melissa nodded, looking up at the sky as another shot of lightening sparked above them and then smiled. “I used to hate thunderstorms as a kid. Used to frighten the living daylights out of me.”

Josh laughed. “I can’t say I used to be a fan, and if the power blew, I’d freak out. Let’s just say I wasn’t past sneaking into my parents’ room and sleeping with them.”

Melissa laughed. “Bless you. I thought I was bad.”

“What is it we’re doing?” he asked, his voice suddenly void of the lightness, weightlessness of moments ago.

Melissa peered over at him. “I just need to see Richard. I don’t know what he’ll be able to tell me, but I just feel that I have to see him. It’s not as if I have a million other options, is it?”

Josh sighed. “I meant us. Is it just me, or is there something between us?”

Melissa felt a jolt, something like electricity passing through her, and she fell momentarily into silence. This again, she thought, partly annoyed and yet—frustratingly—flattered, again. “I don’t know what you want to hear from me, Josh. I do like you, yes. I can’t say I haven’t noticed that you’re not bad to look at—” she flashed him a smile, then added, “but I’m married, and I wouldn’t be putting myself through hell like this if I didn’t love my husband. Do you not realize how much easier my life would be if I walked out on him at the first sign of any of this crap? This living hell. It’s only because he’s worth it. I knew who Mark was before all of this mess. After losing my parents...he was the one who was there for me, helped me pick up the pieces. I saw a side to him...no, not a side to him, but the real him. He’s a good man, beneath all of this. I don’t know what else to say. I’m only human. It’s not like I don’t…you know...” she trailed off, feeling her cheeks burn red. “You’re great, and if I wasn’t married...”

“But, you are.”

Melissa snatched another look at him. “Yes, I am.”

“He must be a special man,” Josh said, his eyes turning back to the window. His face looked gray under the darkening light, shadows passing across his skin as they drove.

“He is. Josh, you don’t even know me. I’m honestly flattered, really because you’re…bloody gorgeous,” she said and laughed, a forced, unnatural sound. “You don’t know me,” she repeated. “I don’t know what it is that you think you like about me, but really, I’m not all that great.”

Suddenly, the awkwardness had passed between them, and the air between them seemed more relaxed.

Melissa pulled off the motorway at the exit that Josh pointed out, and she wove her way into the left lane that he indicated.

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Who can? Can you really describe why somebody gets under your skin? You can’t, can you? Things are just…the way they are. I’m sorry I keep bringing this up. You’ve got enough on your plate…and Mark doesn’t sound like someone I should be messing with,” he added coyly.

Melissa shot him another look. Annoyed. “Hey, come on.”

“What? You’re defending him, now? I’m seeing what he’s doing to you right before my eyes. I’ve only known you a week, and you’re…changing before my eyes. You’re skin and bones, now. I see how wrecked you are. You are going to defend him?”

Melissa felt heat rising in her chest, but she tried desperately to avoid arguing; she felt too tired to argue, since she barely had enough energy to do the things she had to do without adding more problems to her list. “I’m not defending him, but I’m not blaming him, either. As I’ve told you—several times now—it’s that house.”

Josh sighed a heavy, exasperated sound. “I don’t know what to think about all this.”

“You read that file, didn’t you?” Melissa snapped. “Isn’t that why you showed me?”

“I suppose. Yes, it’s weird.”

“More than weird. Two couples have virtually the same experience in the same house.”

“It can happen.”

“Come on! Richard Danvers’s history clearly shows he was normal, stable, and never laid a finger on a fly his entire life, then a few months after moving into 46, he is beating his wife…raping her.” Melissa’s voice lowered.

Josh turned to her. “Has Mark ever…?”

Melissa left the question hanging in the air, although she suspected that her silence gave Josh the answer he was seeking.

“You don’t have to believe any of it. You don’t have to even come in if you don’t want. Wait in the car.”

“No,” Josh protested. “I’ll come in. Now, I want to know what this whole thing is about, too.”

“Well, let’s hope we’ll get some answers—somehow.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asked.

Melissa shrugged. “I’m supposed to be. The way I’m feeling, I don’t know. I’m so tired.”

“Want to meet at lunch? I’m working, too.”

“Can’t.” We shouldn’t.

“Why?”

“I have to get home. I have a priest coming over at noon.”

Josh turned to her, his eyes wide. “You’re kidding me!”

“No. Father Owen is coming over to bless the house.”

“Bless the house?” he repeated, incredulously. “What’s that going to achieve?”

Melissa shrugged. “What harm can it do?”

* * * *

The building looked ugly, foreboding. It was large, looming, and over-powering. They had driven through a long, winding, graveled driveway, surrounded by large trees that shook under the heavy rain continuing to scatter beneath brooding clouds.

They pulled up outside of the building. The parking lot was almost full. Melissa guessed that they were owned by staff on duty. Saint Margaret’s was far from town—isolated—and she thought that anyone employed there would have to drive to get anywhere near the place.

The engine shuddered to a halt as Melissa removed her keys from the ignition. “Here we are,” she said, staring up at the unit.

It was large. Three stories high. Black windows stared at them like dark eyes, and Melissa shivered. “This place is like something from a horror movie. What kind of patients stay here?”

“Mentally ill,” Josh said.

“I know! I mean…there’s no dangerous people, are there?”

Josh looked over at her and smiled. “Hannibal Lector? No. This unit is for acute, mental health illness, meaning you’ll find people with schizophrenia, paranoia, depression, and suicidal tendencies, but no criminals. You’d have to go over to a forensic unit to see the real hard cases.”

“Thank God,” Melissa said, pulling open the car door. “Are you coming, then?”

They both walked up a short flight of steps to a set of large, double doors. There was a buzzer on the right hand side, and Melissa pressed it. Suddenly, a voice crackled over the intercom: “Hello. How can I help you?”

“I’m a nurse. I travelled over to see a patient you have here.”

“I’ll open the door,” the voice replied curtly. Another buzz crackled, and the door was released. Melissa pulled it open, and they both stepped in, Josh stepping behind her as she approached a large desk in front of them. She guessed it had to be the reception.

There was a woman seated behind the desk, a phone beside her, and lots of paperwork scattered all around her. She was middle-aged, with short, blond hair, and glasses perched on her nose. She peered over them at Melissa and Josh as they approached.

Melissa smiled—despite the horrible smell of bleach, urine, and chemicals that pervaded the air around them—and walked over to the desk. “I’m Melissa Sanderson. This here—” she turned, motioning to Josh, who was standing beside her—“is Doctor Howell, a psychiatric professional. We’re both here to see if it’s possible to visit with Richard Danvers.”

The woman behind the desk remained expressionless, her eyes flat and unreadable. “I see. You don’t have an appointment, I’m presuming?”

Melissa shook her head “no”, but quickly said, “I know it’s not ideal, but I’d really appreciate even 10 minutes with Mr. Danvers.”

“May I ask why? Nobody ever comes to see him. Not ever.”

Melissa forced a smile. “I knew him from a long way back, at school,” she lied. “I found out he was here, and I’d love to just see him.”

The woman nodded and said, “Give me a moment. I’ll see what I can do.” She turned and left Melissa and Josh standing at the desk, tired and irritated.

They were climbing a large, spiral staircase. The middle-aged woman—she said her name was Chloe, but Melissa thought that didn’t suit her at all, for some reason—was bringing them upstairs to Richard Danvers. Apparently, she had said, they had told him he had visitors, and he was now waiting to see them in a communal area upstairs.

Chloe shifted her heavy weight as she ascended, pausing occasionally to catch her breath after the steep climb.

They eventually reached the top and found themselves at the far end of a long hallway. The walls were dark green and the carpet was gray. Melissa thought it looked depressing, lifeless, and wondered why they wouldn’t make more of an effort in a place where they were supposed to be lifting people out of their daily depression and stress.

Imagine being stuck inside here, she thought.

Melissa and Josh followed behind Chloe as she started down the hall, silently.

A strong smell—a fusion of body odor, cooked food, and urine—made Melissa want to gag, but she knew her stomach was empty. She hadn’t eaten all day, and that even if she did need to vomit, her retching would be dry and would produce nothing.

After they had shuffled a few feet down the hall, Chloe stopped abruptly and nodded toward a door. It was closed, and on the front in small, black letters it said: visitor’s room #2. Chloe smiled and said, “I’ll give you 15 minutes, then I’ll be back up to escort you out. Most people don’t like coming back down without a member of staff…they don’t like it when other patients tail them.”

Melissa nodded but wondered how any patient could follow her. She hadn’t seen another person since she arrived.

Chloe turned on her heels and headed back to the stairway. “Here goes, then,” Melissa said quietly, looking over to Josh.

Josh raised his eyebrows and reached for the door handle, turning it and pushing open the thick, wooden door.

Melissa stepped inside. The room was small, no, tiny. Inside, there was one table with three chairs scattered around it. Next to the table sat a small, stained sofa. Aside from that, it was empty, void of anything—any character, any homely feeling. It was cold. Basic.

Melissa’s eyes drifted to the sofa and the hunched figure sitting on it. She didn’t even know Richard Danvers, but immediately, something inside of her stirred, and she felt touched by the broken, damaged sight of the man.

He was tall, with a thin layer of brown hair. He was wearing a blue dressing gown, and on his feet were a pair of slippers that seemed too big for him. His face was lowered, staring at the ground, so Melissa couldn’t see his face. She could see only that his eyes were open, fixated on nothing but the floor beneath his feet.

He didn’t look or move as Melissa stepped over to the sofa and sat down beside him.

Josh closed the door behind him and pulled a seat from the table and sat there, watching them both. Removed, outside of the situation. He’s frightened, and he doesn’t know what to believe, Melissa thought, glancing over at him.

She turned back to Richard and said, “I know you don’t know me, and I’m sorry to just arrive on you like this. Please, forgive me. I’m here for something really, really important, and I think you might be able to help.”

Richard looked up, and his eyes finally met Melissa’s. “Who are you?”

She smiled, “I’m Melissa Sanderson.”

The man nodded. He had dark, brown eyes. Although Melissa knew he was only in his thirties, she could instantly see the way his experiences had drawn the life out of him and had drained part of his life away. He had the look of a man on death row—defeated, helpless, and desperate.

“I know you lost Grace, your wife,” she said, feeling a pang of guilt at bringing up the dead woman’s name. Melissa heard Josh shuffle in his seat and saw from the corner of her eye that he was staring at them both intently. “I also know you told the police and all the doctors here that it was something in the house you used to live that really made her…” Melissa didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t believe she needed to.

Richard Danvers remained still, like a waxwork. Only the blinking of his eyes portrayed any hint of life beneath his hardened exterior. “It’s all true,” he said, almost to himself. His voice was barely a whisper.

“I believe you.” Those three words changed something in the room, changed something in Richard. Something came to life, an electric charge scattered between them in the room. Richard looked back at Melissa, his eyes wide, his mouth open as if he was about to speak.

Melissa spoke first. “It’s true. I believe you. Nobody has until now, have they? I do. I promise.”

Josh reached over from where he sat, whispering, “You don’t know what you’re dealing with here. You might make his condition worse by adding to—”

Melissa waved Josh off, annoyed with his interruption. “Richard, listen. Please. I believe you. When you lived at 46, something was there, wasn’t it? You spoke about it before. You changed, didn’t you? You hurt Grace? You didn’t even know what you were doing, though. It was something in the house. This is so important, Richard, because it’s happening to me, now.”

Richard leaned forward and shook his head. “It’s happening, again?”

Melissa nodded. “Yes. To me. I’m living there, Richard. My husband has changed. To a whole other person. He’s doing things to me the way you did…” here she faltered, unsure about referring to the abuse he inflicted on his dead wife.

“I can’t help,” Richard said, his voice flat and resigned.

“You might be able to!” Melissa pressed. “Anything you can tell me, anything at all. I have to know what is in that house. Before something worse happens to me, to Mark, my husband. Please. You’ve seen what it can do. What do you know?”

Richard sighed heavily. “I couldn’t help then. How could I now?”

“You couldn’t help before, because it…took you over, somehow. The way it is Mark. It has some sort of power over men. I don’t know how or why, but that seems to be what it does. I can see what’s going on, and I might have a chance to stop it all.”

Richard laughed. A hard, dreadful sound. “No. It can’t be stopped. Not what’s in there. It’s pure evil. Now that it has your husband, I don’t think it will let go.”

Melissa felt goosebumps run along her back. From the cold or her fear, she couldn’t tell. “What do you know? Please. What do you remember? What did Grace tell you?”

“Nothing. Leave, please.” Richard turned from her, his eyes locked back to the floor and his feet.

“No. Richard, how can you not help me? I thought you wanted people to believe you? I do. I know what you went through with Grace. I know that none of that was your fault.”

“I can’t,” he repeated.

Melissa grabbed his arm. “Please?”

Richard turned to her, his eyes narrowing on hers.

“You’re scared, aren’t you? Still. After all this time. That house scares you. Is that why you won’t help?”

Richard, ignoring her words, stood up and began shuffling out of the room, his slippers dragging along the thick, green carpet.

Josh stood up. “We should go. This was a waste of time. I don’t know what we were thinking.”

Melissa blinked back tears. “Shit, Josh. He was my only hope.”

“He’s a man locked in a psychiatric unit. What did—?”

“Stop it! You know what this meant.”

Melissa stood up and walked out of the room. Josh followed her. They descended the staircase and headed through reception.

The receptionist looked up from her computer. “You’re done already?” she asked. “I’ll press the buzzer so you can get out,” she said.

Melissa forced a smile and nodded. She waited until the door clicked, and she pulled it open.

They both climbed into the car, eager to get in from the rain, which still fell in heavy drops from the black, night sky.

“Well, that’s that, then,” she said, fumbling for her keys. Shit. What now?

“I’m sorry,” Josh said. “I know you really wanted this to lead to something.”

She turned on the ignition, and the car whirred to life. A knock on the car window made her jump, and her heart hammered as she turned and saw a face pressed against the glass.

It was the receptionist. Chloe.

Melissa rolled down the window. “Yes?”

Chloe smiled. “Sorry. I wanted to catch you before you left. Richard Danvers just asked me to give you this.”

Chloe handed a brown paper bag through the window, and Melissa took it from her. “What is it?” she asked, looking down at the package, now damp from rain.

The woman shrugged. “Have no idea. He just said you should see it. He said you needn‘t bother returning it.”

Melissa thanked the woman and shut the car window. She turned to Josh. “Maybe it wasn’t a waste of time, after all.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

One large notebook. Handwritten. Some sort of diary or account written by Grace Danvers before she died. Melissa stared at the black book and felt hungry to devour its contents, but she couldn’t.

In the porch of her house, she hesitated at the threshold, wondering whether she should go somewhere where she could be alone to read the notes. She knew Mark was inside, though. Waiting. Wondering where she’d been, again. She’d arrived home late from work, without a word of explanation. He was on edge on a good day, but now?

He’d be mad. Angry. More than that.

Suddenly, the front door opened and she saw Mark, his eyes narrowed onto her, looking puzzled. “Are you going to stand out there all night or something?”

Melissa lowered the bag containing the book. She didn’t want Mark to see it. She forced a smile. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I just got caught up. They’re so short-staffed on the ward right now.” She moved forward to step in, hoping against all hope that Mark wouldn’t force her to say anything more—what could she say?—but stopped short when he raised his hand to stop her.

“No,” he said, a smile curling his lips. “Let’s go out. I’ve fancied getting out all day. You and me.”

Melissa hesitated on the doorstep. “Out?” The entire concept that she, that they, would go out and do something, share anything together, seemed alien to her. Something from the past. A relic from a time she barely remembered.

She stared at him, looking deep into his eyes. Searching for something there—malice, trickery. It has to be a joke. He has to be messing. This isn’t what he does. Not anymore. “Out where?”

Mark smiled again, warmly, and shrugged. “You can pick. How does that sound? Cinema? Something to eat?” he waited, leaning his weight against the front door. Melissa didn’t know what to say. She felt exhausted beyond belief, drained, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and read Grace Danvers’s diary, but how could she say no? Was the man she loved, the man she had been missing for so long, standing before her? Here again?

She finally nodded. “Okay, but can I go upstairs and get changed quickly? There’s no way I can go out dressed in my work clothes.”

Mark nodded, stepping aside. “Okay.”

Melissa ran past him, up the stairs, and into the bedroom. She peered around the door and saw that Mark was pacing the hallway downstairs, waiting. The front door was still open, pushing in the cold, night air.

She went over to her underwear drawer, pushed the diary—still wrapped in the brown bag—into the bottom drawer, beneath a layer of bras, and closed it. She went to the wardrobe, pulled out a long, black skirt, a tight-fitting black top, and a red scarf. One of her favorite “going out” outfits, as she called it, and quickly changed.

So, what’s this about?, she thought. Mark wants to take her out. The first time in…she couldn’t remember in how long. Lately, he would barely speak to her, barely look at her, except when he was…doing those awful things. Those evil things. Now, he wanted a good night out? It didn’t seem right. Didn’t fit, somehow. Yet, it was happening.

Inside, Melissa could feel her guard rising, steel barriers of defensiveness and fear surrounding her heart and mind.

She didn’t trust him. Couldn’t. She would still go. Had to, really. She knew that.

She checked herself over in the mirror and froze. What Sharon and Josh had said was true. Who was that woman staring back at her?

Her dark, once full, bouncy hair looked limp and lifeless, hanging loosely around her face. Damp from rain, it looked greasy, unkempt. Her face was bare of makeup, her skin pale. The skin beneath her eyes was saggy and dark. Though, her body was what shocked her the most. She looked thin. Beyond thin. Frail. Bones jutted from her shoulders and her hips. Her clothes hung looser on her than ever before.

Who am I? What is this thing doing to me?

She stared at herself, the full-length mirror mocking and malicious. She felt ugly.

Josh wants me like this?

Suddenly, in the mirror, a flash of black scampered across the room behind her, and she spun around, her eyes wild with fright.

Nobody, nothing, was behind her, but she knew. The black thing. The shadow man. He’d been there, as always, enjoying the view. Enjoying the destruction he was causing.

“You look lovely,” Mark said, staring up at her as she descended the stairs.

“I don’t feel lovely,” she answered honestly, then regretted saying anything at all. She quickly added, “Shall we see a movie, then? Get something to eat afterwards?”

Mark nodded. “That’s fine with me.”

Melissa stepped down, following him out to the car. The night was black, thick with an impenetrable darkness.

They climbed into the car—she into the passenger seat, Mark into the driver’s side. He pulled out in silence, turning onto the main road, which was almost empty.

“So what’s this in aid of?” Melissa asked at last. She suddenly—unsettlingly—felt awkward around this new man. The normality, banality of it all. How things were before….just how they were before.

“I had it in my head all day. I think that way a lot, when I’m on the road, you know? I spend all day thinking about you and us and the things I want us to do together, and then by the time I get home, I’m exhausted and don’t end up doing anything.”

Except the way you hurt me. Hit me. Rape me. Melissa pushed away the wounded thoughts, trying to ignore them. She tried to enter the spirit of the night with Mark, to enjoy the rarity of what normal couples took pleasure in every week. “Well, it’s nice,” she answered truthfully, looking over at him. “I’m glad you suggested it.”

They reached the cinema complex just after 7:30 PM and found a parking space by the main entrance. Melissa was glad of it, since the rain continued to fall steadily and hard.

They stepped out, and she stole a glance at Mark as he pulled on his coat. He looked different, somehow. Different than the last few days, few weeks, perhaps. He looked younger, more relaxed. Melissa melted into familiar, warm memories of their early dates as a couple and couldn’t help but smile to herself. They were good together. It had been good. Once. It could be, again. Watching him now, his eyes falling over her and his smile brightening up the dark night, she believed anything was possible. She even dared to believe things could switch back to the way they were overnight.

Miracles could happen, couldn’t they?

They walked together into the main entrance, and Melissa felt his body close to hers, and his hand stretched outward to meet hers, their fingers intertwining. She looked over and smiled at him, asking him how this could be with her eyes, and his silent answer was…it just was the way it was. Enjoy it while it lasts.

The complex was busy, crowded with teenagers, couples, and gangs of kids pushing their way to the Pick ‘N Mix stall. The smell of popcorn and ice cream permeated the air around them, sickeningly sweet.

They went over to the large listings board to look at the films showing that night.

“What do you fancy?” Mark asked, his eyes searching the board in front of them. His hand still melded with hers.

“I don’t care. It’s just nice to be here with you,” Melissa said.

Mark smiled, leaned over, and kissed her on the cheek. “You pick. I always pick bad ones,” he said.

“That new romantic comedy? Broken Hearted?”

“Sounds cheesy as hell, but it‘s your choice,” Mark answered, pulling out his wallet.

He walked over to get in line. “I’ll buy. You want to get something to drink?” he called.

Melissa shook her head. “I’m going to run to the toilet.”

She walked, weaving her way through the crowds pressing around her, feeling light-headed, almost giddy with…how normal things seemed…how good it felt to be here with her husband. Could things really change so easily? Inside, she didn’t believe it could, but she found the strength inside herself to at least indulge in the possibility that it could be okay from now on…that things could just somehow turn out right.

How normal this all seemed, she thought, walking toward the TOILET sign that hung from the ceiling in neon letters. How normal. People here, doing normal things. Buying food. Watching movies. Making noise. Talking. The normality. No ghosts here, no shadows, no haunted home. Possessions. Priests.

She was here. Alive. It was so good.

She found her way to the red door of the women’s restroom and entered.

It was empty. All of the doors were open.

She entered the last cubicle on the right, locked it, and lifted her skirt.

Then, she froze when she heard a noise. A noise that didn’t belong in an empty toilet. It was laughter. Giggling. It echoed and bounced around the empty toilet, sending the hair on her arms straight, creating a carpet of goosebumps along her back. She straightened up and waited there, her ear pressed to the cubicle door.

“Hell-hello? Is somebody out there?” she called.

Again, a small giggle from somewhere in the room.

Melissa felt her legs turn to fluid, her chest tighten in fear.

“Who is that?” she called.

A small voice, neither male nor female, replied, “I am the one.”

Melissa felt the blood drain from her face. She pulled herself out of her paralysis, unlocked the cubicle door, and stepped out into the main toilet. She looked around her—all of the toilet doors were open, except one.

One door at the end was shut. She knew it had been open when she entered, and she hadn’t heard anyone come in behind her.

Melissa tried to steady herself, to steady the onslaught of frightened, panicked thoughts that somersaulted wildly through her head, and walked over to the closed door.

She stopped outside it.

“Who is it?” Melissa repeated, flushed with anger. “Who the fuck are you, and what do you want?”

Another giggle sounded from within the locked cubicle. The sound was ugly, cold, inhuman. Unnatural there, in the cold, sterile toilet.

Melissa slowly, cautiously, lowered herself to look beneath the toilet door. A flash of black fleeted across the floor, and suddenly, the whole room was plunged into darkness.

Melissa screamed and scrambled toward the main doorway, falling and stumbling along the way.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Mark drove in silence. The air between them was stifled with unspoken words. She could tell, she could see, Mark didn’t get it. Didn’t understand. He had watched her as she scrambled out of the dark toilet, her eyes wild with fright and her screams echoing, bouncing along the walls of the complex. He had been embarrassed, and he didn’t understand it. People around them had stopped, staring at her, and some even laughed. Staff approached, one even asking Mark if he needed security called as if Melissa was insane, a threat to anybody. They didn’t know, they couldn’t know, Melissa had thought, feeling trapped and petrified from the experience.

So, Mark wasn’t talking. He was still mad. He didn’t understand her? After everything that she had put up with…his anger, his tantrums, the way he was acting, the way he had changed so suddenly. At one point, as he grabbed her arm and pulled her from the cinema, he had asked her if she was going mad. Whether she was seeing ghosts, again.

The truth was she might well be going mad, she had answered. Something struck her, though. Mark genuinely seemed surprised, shocked at the way she had acted. He had seemed scared of her behavior. So maybe—and she wasn’t sure she even believed it herself, but the thought persisted—maybe it was only when they were together in the house that the power, whatever it was, did things to Mark. Changed him. Influenced him. Perhaps, when they were away from the house, things were normal, he was normal, again. He had seemed himself again once he stepped out with her, driving away from home.

Maybe everything he had said and done was bound to the building they lived in. The thing that ruined Richard Danvers’s mind. The thing that sent Grace to her death. It was all tied to the house. Melissa knew, when they returned home that night, that Mark might turn on her again…the way he had been. While they had been out together, the entity had no hold on him. Could it be?, Melissa thought.

The idea seemed to fit. It felt true.

Whatever it was, whatever it all meant, Mark had walked out of the cinema and refused to go back inside. He had said he wanted to go home, that going out had been a mistake.

He was right, but at least Melissa had learned something she didn’t know before: when Mark was away from their home, he was not the monster he had become. Bad things only happened inside. Something like happiness seeped through her mind when she digested the thought, realizing that perhaps the whole matter would dissolve to nothing if she could convince Mark to move with her, to find a new place. Something cheap. Even if it meant losing out on the money they’d put down on their current mortgage, it would be more than worth it.

If she could convince him. Mark would never believe her. He already thought she was the crazy one. When he was in that house, whatever the thing was that took control of him made sure he didn’t remember, didn’t know what it was making him do. So, why would he want to move at all?

It’s likely that he wouldn’t, Melissa thought, staring out of the car window as more rain tapped against the glass. Now was not the time to approach the subject, not while he was still annoyed—embarrassed by her—but she would have to talk to him about moving…and soon. Before things could get worse.

Mark pulled the car into the driveway and the engine shuddered, dying to a low rumble before falling into complete silence. Mark looked over at her before opening the door, muttering something about taking a bath, and then he stepped inside the house, leaving the front door open behind him.

Melissa waited a few moments, saw the lights flick on from inside the house, then climbed out herself. Inside, she waited until she heard the bath running and heard the click of the bathroom door locking, then she ran upstairs, fumbled around in her drawer, and pulled out the brown paper bag. She slid the book out, quickly kicked the bedroom door closed behind her, and sat on the bed, opening the handwritten diary to the first page.

Richard got angry again, today. I didn’t do a single thing this time. Last time he had an excuse—I burned his meal—and this time there was no reason at all, but he was still mad, madder than I’ve ever seen anybody in my entire life.

I never saw such rage in anybody, before. I waited until he left the house to go into town before looking at what he’d done, and I couldn’t believe it. There are bruises and cuts all down my stomach, arms, and legs. I even found a bite mark! A bite mark! Can you believe that? I didn’t even realize he’d done that, but then again, he was all over me like a monster. Out of control. I had to call in sick to work—it wasn’t even that they would see my injuries, but I have been aching and hurting so badly, I couldn’t go in. I just couldn’t do it.

Melissa re-read the first page, feeling a pang of anger for this woman she didn’t know. That she too had suffered the way Melissa was, that she had been abused in such a dehumanizing and humiliating way…it hurt her to see the words across the page, as if each sentence was opening her own wounds. She listened for Mark, hearing him from the bathroom, the sounds of water and slaps of the washcloth echoing down the hallway. She had some more time. Melissa returned to the diary.

I’m scared of Richard. It’s not him anymore. He forced me to have sex with him last night while we were in bed together, and he hurt me. I’ve been bleeding all day, today. It’s like he ripped something inside of me. I know it sounds stupid. He laughed when I asked him to stop, and then I knew it wasn’t him. I looked into his eyes, at his face, and I saw someone I didn’t recognize. There was a black void of darkness to his eyes. It just wasn’t him. I know people would really think I was crazy, and they’d probably end up locking me away, but I swear to God it was not and I mean not my husband. It wasn’t Richard. Not the man I love.

Melissa wiped tears that had begun falling steadily down her cheeks, trying to stifle the sobs burning within her. She didn’t want Mark to hear. “I know it all, Grace,” she whispered, staring down at the paper. “I really know what you went through.”

I heard him again last night. I think this is the fourth time it’s happened that I saw Richard talking to himself…no! Not to himself, but to someone I couldn’t see. I think somebody was there, in the house with us. I could feel somebody there in the room with him. It scared me, badly. I was so scared, I thought I might pass out. Hearing him talk like that, about wanting to cause death, needing blood, as if he was obeying orders from somebody or something…I could see Richard was hearing something that had power over him. I heard him agree to have sex with me, again, to hurt me, again. I knew I was in for more pain, and I was right. I don’t want to talk about that.

From inside the bathroom, Mark was whistling a tune. Something Melissa didn’t recognize. She heard the showerhead turn on and the whiz of heavy water splattering the bath. Melissa turned back to Grace’s notes.

I can’t cope much longer. I don’t know what to do. I can barely leave the house to go to work, anymore. I’m calling in sick all of the time. My manager has threatened disciplinary action. What can I do? I look like a mess. Richard is worse than ever. He doesn’t talk to me anymore, only to that thing he keeps hearing. I wonder if he is going mad, and sometimes I wonder if that madness is contagious, because I don’t feel too straight-headed myself, anymore.

I spoke to Father Owen, again. He can see what’s happening…I can’t tell him everything, but I have said that there is something in this house making my husband do bad things to me. I thought he might call a doctor or the police or something, but maybe he is a good guy, because he just sat and listened, and he didn’t judge.

He said God loves me, wants me to get help, wants good things for me. I used to believe that, and I told him so. He said I must continue to believe it. When I told him some of the things I saw in the house—I swear there are shadows following me! —he told me about spirits, about demons. Things that frighten me beyond belief, but it had a ring of truth about it. What do I do? I tried to talk to Richard, asked him to get help, told him he was ruining our lives, but that made him worse. He acts as if he doesn’t know what he is doing, and I know it makes me sound crazy, but I believe him…he just doesn’t seem to know.

I think it’s the demon in our house. It’s controlling him. I told the priest that, and he offered to come by next week to bless the house. I asked him to come as soon as he could, because I was willing to try anything!

Melissa heard the bathroom door click open and she froze, shoving the diary beneath the bed sheets and quickly standing, making it seem as if she was about to change into her night clothes. When she heard Mark step out and descend the stairs, followed by the blare of the TV from the lounge, she took a deep breath, pulled out the book again, and continued reading.

I found out some stuff. Things that sound like they belong in some sort of horror movie. I went to the library—I wanted to find out about the house, to see if it had any history that might help me understand what’s going on. I thought they might have one of those old newspaper archives that I heard about, but they didn’t. I asked the librarian, and she said I could try using the internet—they had that there! —to search for any news articles to do with the property I was interested in.

So, I did that. I typed it into the search engine, and it was there. I had to go through a few pages, but eventually I found it. Dated 1989. A man called Sebastian Harping. Now, I know it all, and it all makes sense. I understand what the evil is, and I know I can’t do a thing about it.

Melissa looked up from the notes, and she could see, could sense the distress building in Grace as she wrote. Sebastian Harping. Who was he? What did he have to do with anything? Melissa turned the page and quickly scanned the rest of the notes, but found no further mention of the man, of the house, or of Richard. The last page was empty, save for a reminder for Grace to borrow a book she had seen at the local library: Demons in Exile, by E. F. Brown. Melissa ripped the small notation out of the last page and knew that she had to get to the library tomorrow. Whatever Grace had learned about Sebastian, whatever the book was she had so urgently needed to see, it had all happened shortly before she took her own life.

Before Father Owen had a chance to bless the home.

Melissa tucked the notebook inside her drawer again and went downstairs. She waited beside Mark, until he was tired and went upstairs to bed, before turning on the laptop and beginning her own search.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Why didn’t I try this before? Melissa sat on the sofa, hunched over the laptop, waiting for the webpage to launch. She should have looked into the history of the house sooner, but Grace had helped her. Led her. Pointed her to the information she needed.

The search engine appeared at the top of the screen, and Melissa typed in Harping, Sebastian, 1989. A long list of articles appeared, many from news agencies. Melissa scanned down the page and felt her head spin as she read the titles that appeared before her:

Harping’s House of Horrors. Man Kills Six Women in Home.

Harping’s Trial Commences—Victims’ Families Arrive at Court

“Trying to Conjure Demons,” says Harping.

Death of Women in Satanic Ritual

Harping Commits Suicide as Victims Finally Laid to Rest.

Melissa scanned down the list of linked articles and felt a wave of nausea crash over her. Sebastian Harping has lived in this house. In her house. In 1989, he murdered six young women from the local area in a bid to conjure a demon. The women’s deaths, Harping believed, served as some sort of sacrifice. Melissa pulled up one of the articles and raced through it, her face taut with fear. Harping was 26 at the time and had been fascinated with the occult since his teenage years. He had been a typical loner, a recluse, and he didn’t make friends easily. He never had a girlfriend, according to the article.

Melissa moved the page up, reading more. He murdered all six women over a period of six months. On the sixth of December of 1989, he used their blood and organs in a ritual, some sort of bid to summon a demon. Six, six, six, Melissa realized, sickened. The number of the beast.

Melissa shut down the computer and sat there in stunned silence. Thoughts hammered wildly inside her frightened mind. Sebastian had lived here. He had done those awful, awful things, here. Invited demons.

Those poor women...he killed those six women.

It had worked, then, Melissa thought, her stomach twisting into icy knots.

Whatever he had tried to call, whatever he invited here, came.

It was working its power over Mark the way it had on Richard and to any others who lived here before.

* * * *

She couldn’t sleep. Her mind was wide open, full of thoughts that could not be silenced. She lay there in the darkness of the bedroom, the only sound the light tapping of rain as it flushed against the window panes. Mark lay beside her, his back turned to her and breathing slow and steady. Melissa wondered in that moment, in the silent calm of the house, if she was the one going mad. Is this what going insane feels like? she thought, over and over.

The clock on the chest of drawers beside her glowed red into the darkness, and she saw that it was 2:00 AM. A long night ahead, she knew. Sleep was an elusive stranger to her as she lay there, trying to mold and sculpt thoughts into something manageable, something comfortable.

Instead, the realization of what had happened under the roof in which she now lay—the sadistic, horrific horrors of the six murders committed within the rooms around her—kept her mind and eyes open. She knew she wouldn’t be sleeping, tonight.

She turned to Mark, watching the rise and fall of his back as he breathed, the duvet tucked tightly around him, and she suddenly felt the urge to pull him closer to her, to hold him. How long had it been since they embraced that way? Since they held each other? Made love? Not the intrusive, bitter rape that she had been forced to, but the tender love Mark used to lavish on her, that almost too-comfortable intimacy, as if their bodies belonged to the other, so close, so undeniably beautiful.

Now, all was ugly and perverse. Melissa realized she had begun to feel tired, not only of the evil things she had endured, but also from the battle of separating what Mark had done to her that really came from the…demon in the house. She had tried for so long now to look through what Mark was doing, the cruel things he had said and done, and to see that there was something behind the scenes making it all happen…that Mark was little more than a puppet to something much bigger.

The fault was not his, yet when she looked at him, she was reminded of it all…she hoped, desperately, that if they reached the other side of this hell she—no, they—were going through, that she could one day look at his face and not see those harrowing memories come to life.

That he would just be her husband. Mark, the man she adored.

Something moved, shifting beyond the bedroom door. A noise. Something ruffled in the dark, and Melissa snapped her head toward the door, straining to see through the mosaic of shadows and shapes in the darkness that surrounded her.

Someone’s outside the room! Melissa sat forward, staring ahead, toward the door. She sat still, trying to hear, and after a beat of silence, she heard a giggle coming from the hallway beyond the door.

That thing is here, Melissa realized, and then felt stupid for even thinking it. It was always here. Had they ever really been alone since moving into the house?

Melissa shut her eyes, took three deep breaths, and tried to steady the swell of panic rising within her. She opened her eyes, glanced at Mark—still in a deep sleep—and realized he could be no help to her. In truth, she thought that if she woke him, it would suddenly be much worse, because when Mark was conscious, he could be trapped under the influence of…whatever it was.

Better that he stays asleep, she thought, throwing back the covers and stepping onto the bedroom floor. She tip-toed toward the bedroom door, pressing her face against it to listen.

Another giggle from beyond the door. “It’s me!” a deep, rasping voice said. Melissa jerked back, frightened at how close the voice had sounded to her.

Her heart was racing, clamoring against her ribcage, sending her blood into icy tides through her body.

“You have to go,” she said. She opened the bedroom door slowly and peered out into the hall.

Empty. Darkness. Shadows.

She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her, leaving Mark in his sleep of oblivion.

She stood for a long moment, the sound of her breathing loud in the quiet of the house.

A giggle again, menacing and humorless, and this time from below.

Melissa walked over to the stairs, and holding onto the side rail in the darkness, descended slowly. “You have to go,” she whispered again to the darkness. “You know that, don’t you?” she said.

Again laughter. This time, the laughter boomed with a dark, foreboding power. It sent her skin rigid with ice, with fear. Such an inhuman, ugly sound.

“I know what it is that you’re doing now,” she whispered into the thick blackness of the hallway. “I know Sebastian called you here, and you came, didn’t you? You thrive on hurting women, don’t you? You like to control men so that you can beat us, rape us. Torture us? That makes you a coward. You know that, don’t you?”

Silence. No response, but she felt something change in the air about her, something stirring, something charged, like electricity passing along the walls and the air in which she breathed. A presence. Melissa knew instinctively that her words were giving it energy. Making it angrier, somehow.

She reached the downstairs hall and froze there, standing in silence. A ghost, an apparition of the night. Noise came from the lounge, and Melissa spun around, paced into the dark room, and saw that the TV had switched on, the volume full blast. She ran in, heading toward the power plug on the wall, and froze when she saw the TV screen.

On it, shaky and blurred like a home movie, was an open casket. Beside it crying, was Mark, shaking and sobbing, his face puffy and red from his tears. The camera jerked shakily toward the casket, surrounded by flowers, and inside she finally saw the body. Pale, waxy, taut skin, gray. Her. Melissa Sanderson. Dead. Both of her eyes had been crudely stitched shut, and her mouth too had been threaded shut, the skin puckered and ugly.

She suddenly felt sick and gagged, lurching forward at the sight meeting her on the TV screen.

Her funeral. Her death.

It’s not real. I’m here, her thoughts retaliated as she stared at the ugly abomination.

The camera zoomed into the dead, threaded face—her face—and suddenly her body in the casket began jerking as somebody leaned forward to close the lid on her corpse.

Her body. Trapped inside. To decay.

“No!” Melissa screamed, falling to her knees, her eyes glued to the screen. “No! Stop it!” she cried out.

Suddenly, the TV screen flickered and turned black. The image and the noise faded to silence, nothing.

Melissa, still on her knees, shook with heavy sobs that filled the air around her. She let the tears fall, heavy and unbidden, her whole body twisted with each desperate cry.

Something sharp hit her on the back.

Melissa, stunned, turned around to see a dark object on the floor beside her. She leaned forward on her hands and knees and picked it up. It was the photo of her wedding with Mark, a single crack down the middle of the glass on the frame.

“He is mine, and you are his,” a deep, rasping voice spilled into the silence. The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, seeming both near and far.

“Fuck you!” Melissa shouted, pulling herself to her feet. “You’re going. I’m going to get you out of this fucking house!”

She felt her whole body tremble, with anger this time, not with tears, and clutching the framed picture of her wedding day, she ran back upstairs.

She needed Mark. Had to have him with her.

When she reached the doorway to the bedroom, she saw his silhouette against the window, the moonlight shedding its glow across his body. He was staring at something outside, shaking his head.

“Wanting her dead,” he said, his voice small, almost silent, in the stillness of the bedroom. “Wanting her dead.”

Suddenly, Mark spun around and faced her. Melissa wanted to scream when she was that his face was an empty patchwork of shadows...in that darkness, she couldn’t even find his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“I’m sorry but I don’t feel well,” she lied on the phone to her manager. “I’ve been up all night. I think it must be the flu or something,” she added. There was no way at all, Melissa knew, that she could go to work. She was broken. Tired. A wreck.

She mumbled more apologies and hung up, staring dully at the kitchen around her. The normality of everyday life mixed in with the horror of the night before. She sat there at the kitchen table, holding a mug of hot coffee, staring into space and wondering what had happened.

She remembered seeing Mark at the window, talking to…it, again. After that…her mind hit a window of emptiness…Had she gone back to bed and fallen asleep? Had Mark returned to bed? None of the memories came. All she knew was she had woken that morning in bed as normal.

Mark dressed and left for work a few minutes ago, leaving the house in silence. Didn’t even say goodbye, Melissa thought, bitterly.

Now, she was alone. In the house. With it. The demon. She shivered and looked around her, but she couldn’t sense anything. Yet, she didn’t feel safer for it, knowing on some level that the thing could deceive. That it was probably always here, watching and waiting, like a cat watching a bird through the trees.

Prowling. Ready to pounce.

Melissa took a sip of the strong, black coffee. The warm drink felt good. She couldn’t face eating again, despite her awareness that her body was breaking down. She was becoming nothing but skin and bones…but she couldn’t force herself. The idea of eating sickened her.

It occurred to her that it was probably the demon, too. Out to destroy everything, even her own immune system. Her enjoyment of food. Hadn’t everything been tainted, now? Not just her marriage, but her own body and mind?

All tainted.

Melissa looked up at the wall clock and saw it was almost nine.

“The library,” she said to herself, remembering the book Grace mentioned.

* * * *

She decided to walk. She was in desperate need of fresh air. Melissa knew she was taking a risk. If somebody from work saw her out after she had called in sick, she’d be in trouble, but that was the least of her problems.

This was much bigger.

By the time she reached the town library, she had worked up a sweat. Despite the cold, winter air, she had warmed up on her brisk walk, her desperation to get to the book spurring her on.

She didn’t have a library card, but she knew she’d be able to have a look through the book while she was there, and maybe photocopy something, if need be.

Melissa climbed the short steps up to the double doors of the main entrance and went inside.

The smell of wood, polish, stale air, and books lingered all around her, and she smiled at the librarian standing behind the front desk. She knew it’d be quicker if she asked, rather than waiting to find the book herself.

Melissa smiled and went over to the desk, pulled out the small slip of paper she tore out of the notebook, and handed it across the desk. “I’m looking for this book,” she said. “Demons in Exile, by E. F. Brown.”

The old woman picked up the paper, squinted down at the handwritten note, then handed it back. “Should be under the Spirituality/Occult section,” she said. “From here, turn left, keep going until you pass the Religion section, and then you’ll find the place you’re looking for.”

Melissa thanked the woman, snaked her way through the aisle of book shelves, and kept going until she found the section. Spirituality/Occult, it said it bright, blue letters above the shelving unit.

Melissa looked around her, suddenly feeling self-conscious as she ran her hand along books about haunting, demons, possession, and poltergeists. Crazy things, she thought to herself.

She lowered herself, scanning the row of titles. At first, she almost missed it, but as she went through the row of books again, she saw it nudged between a copy of the Satanist’s Bible—Was there such a thing? she thought, disgusted—and a study on mental illness and possession.

There. Melissa pulled out the small paperback and looked at the cover. Demons in Exile, by E. F. Brown. A picture of a cross was in the center of the cover, followed by a small pentagram beneath. Symbols of hope and evil, Melissa knew, staring down.

Clutching the book, Melissa went over to an empty table at the far end of the library and sat down, immediately flipping through the book.

The book was written by somebody who seemed to know what they were talking about. How somebody became an expert on demons and demonic possession, she didn’t want to know. Just turning the yellowed, aging paper felt like trespassing, somehow. Touching upon another world she wanted no part of. Melissa scanned over the introduction page and felt a chill—like icy fingers caressing her body—as the words jumped out at her:

The name demon derives from the Greek word “Daimon”, meaning “intelligent”. Demons know, think, understand….They have the ability to enter into a person’s body, to control them, affect them. Demons have the ability to attach themselves to homes, to people, to objects…Melissa swallowed hard and felt sick at the words—the words that had been her life for so long now.

Demons can affect an individual’s speech, even at times expressing a new language previously unspoken by the possessed person. Often times, individuals possessed will enter a trance-like state…Melissa lifted her gaze from the page, searching back in her mind at the countless times that she had walked in on Mark talking, interacting with it. With the demon.

Melissa looked around her, and the library seemed empty. Not surprising for a Monday morning, but she found the pressing silence, the stale, thick air to be suffocating. She wanted out, but she couldn’t borrow the book. She hadn’t joined the library when she moved to town.

She unzipped her coat, leaned forward, her head inches away from the page, and began skim reading, again…

Demons can be violent, aggressive in nature. They like to inhabit individuals in order to express this negative nature. In famous cases of demonic possession, death has been caused (although, this is rare); more often than this, violence occurs in the family home. Discord, chaos, and to segregate the family unit are all particular favorites of the demon.

Melissa recognized the words, the familiarity of them pressing in her mind, awakening memories of things she saw and felt.

Although one cannot fully understand what they are, it is believed that demons existed before human beings inhabited this earth. Many people believe they were once angels, and they, in their thirst for power, defied God and were banished from the Holy Kingdom. Forever banished, these demons, discarnate beings, have since roamed the Earth, seeking persons they may possess, in order to enjoy the use of a physical body, and to enjoy wreaking havoc in the family home.

Where happiness lies, demons feel pain. Where people are united, demons want to separate. Where people have faith, demons seek to disillusion, to shatter.

Melissa sank lower in the chair. With each word she read, she became more depressed. Useless, she thought, tired. Learning about these things won’t stop them.

Dejected and resigned, Melissa grabbed the book and stood up. She already started to walk away when she noticed a small slip of paper flutter to the floor. She stepped back, leaned over, and picked it up. It was a small, handwritten note. She recognized the handwriting as belonging to Grace Danvers. On it were four simple words, circled in red:

Try the Banishing Ritual?

Chapter Thirty

Melissa stepped out of the library, glad to be back out in the cold and the light, away from the yellowing, aging air of the empty and lifeless library.

She had slipped the small piece of paper that had fallen from the book—it must have been inside, tucked in one of the pages—inside her pocket, determined to find out what the banishing ritual was. She’d look it up online when she got home, but now, she had no time. She had to get home. Father Owen was due soon.

Walking along the busy pavement, Melissa nudged her way through the bustling crowds, eager to get home and to not be seen by any potential colleagues who would report seeing her when she should be home, sick.

She felt movement in her coat pocket, and she immediately pulled out her mobile phone. It blinked with a yellow light, warning her that she had an incoming call. She lifted it and saw it was Sharon.

“Hi, Sharon.”

“Melissa! Thank God you’re okay.”

“Yes, I’m all right,” Melissa said. Just about. Except that I have demons in my home.

“You know I worry about you, shit. It wouldn’t hurt you to call me every now and then, you know?”

“A lot has been happening, Sharon. I told you. Things are happening. I don’t mean to cut you out or anything. I just—”

“You just are. Cutting me out. I tried calling you at home when I heard you were off sick today. Is it Mark, again? He hit you again or something? I’ll get that prick. I’m so mad at you for staying with him. Enough is enough.”

Melissa listened to her friend ramble down the phone line, and was glad to be out of the main shopping area and onto the road toward her house. It was quieter, private. “I know, I know. I’m sorting it out, though.”

Sharon laughed in her ear. “Sorting it out? How exactly? Shit, Mel. You’ll end up dead. When you don’t turn up to work like that, it puts the shits up me!”

Melissa couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s crass, sassy, vulgar way of expressing herself. She’d always been that way, for as long as Melissa had known her. “Is everything okay with you?” she asked, trying to veer away from the subject. There was no point in getting further into what was happening with Mark and the house. She’d never believe Melissa. She felt sure of that much.

Sharon sighed. “It’s going very well with me and Jonathon. He turned out to be more than just a good time between the sheets.”

Melissa smiled again. How good it must be to be so free. To be in a world where everything was normal, real. Where demons didn’t wait, watching from shadows.

“I’m glad. You’ll have to introduce us sometime.”

Sharon snorted. “You mean you’ll actually grace me with your presence?”

Melissa walked faster as heavy clouds began loosening splatters of water from above. Melissa rolled her eyes. “One day you’ll be able to understand this, I promise. For now, I just need time. Time to sort things out.” She fidgeted in her coat pockets, searching for her front door keys, and stopped, frozen to the spot. The dark shadow was watching her from the lounge window of her house. Waiting.

Inside, all felt normal. After Melissa had said goodbye to Sharon, she had nervously entered the house, inching her way into the lounge and peering in.

Empty. Nothing. The nothingness, the absence of anything almost mocking her, because she knew the demon-thing was there, somewhere, in the small maze of her home.

She started to head toward the kitchen, her heart still fast and wild from the ugly sight, when the front door bell rang, echoing all through the house.

Melissa turned and answered the door. Relieved to have company, she stepped aside and let Father Owen enter.

* * * *

He was damp from the rain. His glasses fogged with condensation, and he wiped them with a gray handkerchief he’d produced from his coat pocket. He was wearing a long, black coat and a hat, which he took off as he followed Melissa into the kitchen.

Father Owen sat down at the kitchen table while Melissa made coffee. She switched on the kettle and pulled two mugs down from the cupboard.

“How have you been?” the priest asked, leaning on the table, his eyes resting on hers.

Melissa ran a hand through her dark hair and rolled her eyes. “You don’t want to know the answer to that.”

“I do,” Father Owen persisted. “I really do.”

Melissa waited for the kettle to boil, then poured out the drinks. She carried them over to the table, handing one to the priest, who took it and smiled a thank-you.

She sat down across from him, taking a sip. “I’ve learned quite a bit since I spoke to you last. I went to see Richard Danvers.”

Father Owen raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Grace’s husband?”

Melissa nodded. “He’s in a psychiatric ward.”

“I’m not surprised at all, after what he did to Grace.”

“It was this house. Like the things Grace said to you, remember? I know that even priests have to be careful about making assumptions about things like that, but I’m telling you here and now. There is something in this house. Like you said, a possession or something. A demon.”

The priest said nothing, watching Melissa intently and waiting for her to tell more.

She held the hot mug in her hand and stared down at the drink inside. She watched her reflection shift and glide across the surface of the drink. “I read some notes Grace wrote. I have the book upstairs, actually. She…knew it, too. She was abused by Richard, but she knew it was the demon or whatever it was in this house making him do it. I know it sounds crazy or whatever…It’s all true. Grace saw things here the way I have. Shadows, things moving, and I found out more.” Melissa paused, looking up at the priest and hesitating. She was unsure whether to go on, unable to read the priest’s thoughts and feelings about what she was saying.

“Go on,” Father Owen pressed at last.

“There was a case back in 1989. A man called Sebastian Harping lived here, in this house. He murdered six women over the period of six months, and on the sixth day of December he used their blood and organs in some sort of satanic ritual to invite a demon into the house.”

The priest had paled, his eyes darkening. “I’ve heard of the case. The papers called it the ‘Case of the Beast’. I didn’t realize it was here.”

“It was. Whatever that…that demon is, whatever reason Harping had for bringing it here, I don’t know. I do know it’s still here, and it’s ruining my marriage.” Melissa laughed, suddenly. “Ruining my life, actually. I can barely think straight, anymore.”

Father Owen lifted his eyes, looking around the room. “These things happen. There are more things in this world than you or I could ever imagine.”

“So, do you believe me?” Melissa pressed.

The priest smiled but didn’t answer. “Is your husband here?”

“At work.”

“Does he know I’m here?”

Melissa shook her head. “No, he wouldn’t let that happen. I know he wouldn’t. Father, do you sense anything? Feel anything here?”

He chuckled. “I’m a priest, not a psychic, Melissa. I know demons exist, and even if I could sense anything, a demon is going to hide from someone like me. Not because I am great, but because the One I represent is great.”

Melissa nodded.

“Do you want me to go around and bless the house? Melissa, I fear that after the things you’ve experienced here, I’m in way over my head. I feel that if there is a case here, and we can document it, then we might be able to get permission for an exorcism. That might be the route to take.”

“I’m not sure I need the house blessing,” Melissa said, leaning forward. She took the last mouthful of her drink and looked into his eyes. “Grace wrote something. I don’t know if it will work or what it even is, but she seemed to think that something called ‘the banishing ritual’ might work.”

Father Owens’s face fell, and his skin went ashen under the kitchen light. His eyes widened. “Where did you hear about that?” he asked.

“I told you. It was something Grace wrote. Why? What is it?”

“What it is, dear,” the priest said, his eyes hardening, “is the worst thing you could do. The banishing ritual is just about the worst thing anybody could do to another.”

Melissa felt a surge of resentment. “I need your help, and if this banishing thing will work, I will try it.”

“Are you prepared to pay the price? The price is very dear. I don’t think I should even tell you. You are obviously in a great deal of distress. You’re not thinking straight as it is, and I—”

“I need help! For God’s sake! I will try anything. Just tell me!” Melissa saw the priest flinch as she snapped at him, and she felt a pang of guilt. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go off like that. Please, tell me. I need to know. It might be my only option.”

“What about an exorcism? I told you, if we can build a case for that—”

“No time!” Melissa retorted. She felt a thread of anger rise within her, and she tried desperately to swallow it. Annoying the priest would do nothing. “There’s no time. Do you know how bad things are getting? The things Mark does to me…you wouldn’t believe it. I can’t wait. I will end up dead, I swear.”

Father Owen turned and stared out of the kitchen window. Rain still fell heavily, smacking noisily against the glass. The wind rattled against the house, battling against the walls and foundations of the building. “The banishing ritual is an old one. Goes back many years. There is a reason people don’t use it much. It means taking your suffering and passing it onto somebody else, and that is something I personally wouldn’t want to do. Each thing we do, it has consequences—both here and in the afterlife.”

“I know.” Melissa nodded, understanding what he was saying was true, but also knowing that she was desperate enough to try anything.

“The banishing ritual involves making a pact with the demon.”

Melissa shuddered against the words, feeling an icy shiver travel the length of her spine. “A pact?”

The priest nodded. “The demon wants a host. Somebody to control, to inhabit, in order to cause whatever pain and chaos it can cause. It is intelligent and can be bargained with. It wants you and your husband here to cause you both pain and to separate you. Therefore, it won’t let you go just like that. The only way it will let go is if you make a deal to bring it a new host. It‘s like a sacrifice of sorts. A demonic form of the sacrifice that Christ himself made for us on the cross.”

“A host? You mean bring it someone else to…possess?”

Father Owen nodded. “That’s the essence of the banishing ritual. You are banishing it from your life, from your husband, but it will only let that happen on the condition that you bring someone else into the home for it to carry on its...existence of evil. Demons love that. They love seeing the evil they can force upon mankind….the things people will do! People will do almost anything to save themselves and the people they love. Exactly the kind of desperation a demon would feed off of.”

Melissa felt numb. It all seemed so…implausible, ridiculous. “I don’t see how I could…I mean…what would happen if I moved away? With Mark?”

“Melissa, its hold on Mark is so strong, I doubt it would let him leave. I think...” Father Owen faltered, his eyes lowering to the floor. “I think it would rather have Mark dead than let him go. Demons will do anything, believe me. The power supply, so to speak, seems to be this house, where Sebastian Harping first summoned it from the bowels of Hell. It made its home here. I think you’d have to get Mark out and bring a new host here—where the demon first came into this world. That’s the only way I can see it working. Grace once looked into the history of this house... sometimes people who tried to pack up and leave have been hurt or even died, Melissa. It won’t let people go - not easily.” The priest’s voice trailed into uncomfortable silence, then he said, “I think it would break Mark’s mind, make him lose his sanity or...as I said, possibly kill him, rather than let him walk out that door. The demon will not want to lose, Melissa. It will remain here, keeping Mark with him...unless...”

“Unless I pass it to somebody else. Bring them here, into the home, you mean.”

“Exactly. Somebody you know, somebody you care about.”

Melissa looked up, widening her eyes. “Someone I care about? Why does it have to be that way? Are you serious?”

The priest leaned forward, placing one cold hand onto Melissa’s arm. “As I said earlier, evil enjoys evil. It does what it can to make you do things you never thought you‘d do...It delights in hurting people. In chaos. In tearing lives apart. I’ve read cases before, where people have done the Banishing ritual...in most cases it works, but it’s a cost no one can afford to pay. You are in effect handing over this living hell to somebody you care about.”

Melissa fell quiet, trying to steady the swirling thoughts in her mind. “I just don‘t know!”

Father Owen shook his head in disbelief. “I told you all of this, but I shouldn’t have, should I? Please tell me you’re not suggesting you’d really go through with that?”

“What choice do I have?” she looked up, her eyes pleading.

“Let God be the judge, then,” Father Owen said, shaking his head. He looked dejected, frustrated.

“Yes, let Him be the judge! Look where I am. The hell I am in. I didn’t deserve this. Mark doesn’t, either. You’re not married, Father. You don’t know. I love Mark with all my heart. He has been my best friend...Since my parents died, I’ve had no one, really...” her voice trailed off, and she wiped at tears. “I’m sorry, but yes. I will do what I have to do.”

“You already said Mark won’t move. You’d need him out to bring the new host in.”

“I have to try. Mark’s life could be in danger. His life—our marriage—is in my hands.”

The priest took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “The choice is yours.”

“What is the ritual?” Melissa asked, desperate to know all she needed to know.

“What?”

“The thing I need to actually do? If I get Mark away and everything, and I manage to find somebody to take this place, what do I actually need to do? What is the ritual?”

Father Owen stood up and began buttoning up his coat. “You have to light six candles. You have to do it alone. Six candles. Call upon the demon. Just summon it. State your deal, what you want, and then you have to spill your blood, one drop on each of the six candles. Six is the Evil One’s number, as you know. You must let each candle burn down to the wick, don’t blow them out, because the candles are the symbol of the deal. On the table, place a piece of paper with the name of the person it can have. Or a photo. Sometimes, a photo can be more powerful. Once the candles are out, the deal is done, and the demon will wait for its next host.”

“It’s that easy?” Melissa said, standing up and following the priest into the hallway.

He paused by the front door and turned back to her. “I never said it was easy, did I? People have been more frightened by things they see and hear in that ritual than they were in the demonic haunting itself, Melissa. I say to you now, if you do this, may God be on your side, because you are paying a very high price.”

“For my marriage,” Melissa gasped, blinking away tears and fear suddenly filling her bones and blood.

“Even Grace obviously couldn’t go through with this,” Father Owen said, stepping outside. Rain pelted in heavy sheets across the air, and he put his hat on, waving goodbye as he went.

Melissa watched him go, then closed the front door behind him.

She knew what she had to do. Wouldn’t Mark do it for her?

She ran to find her mobile phone. She had to speak to Josh.

Chapter Thirty-One

Melissa sat quietly on the sofa, the mobile phone lying in her lap. She suddenly didn’t know what to do. It seemed to her, as she stared at the phone, that she didn’t have much choice.

The banishing ritual might stop the hell she was living through, might stop her husband from getting…worse, if that was possible.

Something had to change. It had to end.

Melissa lifted the phone, punched in Josh’s number, and waited for him to answer. After four rings, he did.

“Hello?”

“Josh, it’s me.”

“Hi, Melissa. I was going to call you, today. How are you?”

“Long story,” she said, unable to bring herself to say anything about what she had learned, about what she was about to do. She didn’t have the energy. Besides, Josh would laugh at her. Banishing rituals? Possession? He’d already shown that he was more than skeptical about it all, and she couldn’t hear that right now.

“I’m calling, because I need to see you, tonight.”

“You do?” he asked.

“Yes, are you free?”

“For a drink? For you, anytime,” he said with a breezy laugh.

Melissa fell silent. “Don’t. Please, I’m being serious. I need your help. Just be at my place at seven tonight. Don’t drink, because I’ll need you to drive.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just promise you’ll be there. Do as I say, and I swear I’ll owe you my life.” She meant it.

Josh sighed. “I can’t say no to that. I’ll be there.”

Melissa thanked him and disconnected the call.

Now, she needed to head into town, again and find some sleeping tablets.

* * * *

The plan sounded perfect in her head, but doing it would be, could be, something else entirely. She knew that.

Mark would get home around six. Melissa would give him a drink of something—and in it, she would add sleeping pills. A safe amount, but enough to wipe him out. She knew what the limit should be. There had been helpful things she had come to learn while working at the ICU.

Mark would be out like a light.

Then, Josh—if there was any part of him capable of helping her out with this—would drive Mark to the nearest hotel and reserve a room for him, put him to bed, and leave him there to sleep it off. Mark wouldn’t know anything.

Meanwhile, Melissa would have time to do the banishing ritual.

The problem was the pact itself—the person to be offered to the demon instead of Mark. His replacement. Somebody she could have move in—even if just for a short while. It wouldn’t have to take long…hadn’t it only take a few weeks before Mark changed? The temper tantrums. Arguments. Then, the raised fists.

The phone rang. It was Sharon.

Melissa picked up the call, and then, all her answers came at once.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Why do you sound so happy?”

Sharon’s good mood radiated down the line. “Jonathon!” she said, her voice light, happy.

“What about him?” Melissa tried to remain calm, despite the storm raging in her head. She paced her lounge, the phone pressed to her ear.

“I really think he could be the one.”

Melissa smiled to herself. “Didn’t you say that about the last…two?”

Sharon sighed. “Yeah, well. Third time lucky, right?”

“I’m glad it’s going so well for you. I didn’t think it was anything, you know, serious.”

“Neither did I, but he said those three magic words this morning, when I phoned him on my break.”

“He told you he loved you?”

Sharon burst into laughter, again, and Melissa couldn’t help but warm to the sound of her friend’s obvious happiness.

“I’m so glad for you. Really. You deserve it.”

Then, the idea came. The thought came. Unbidden. Almost forbidden, at first, but it settled itself into her mind, and Melissa spoke the thought aloud without thinking it further. “While we’re on the subject of you and Jonathon,” she said, her voice low and hesitant, “how long are two going to keep staying over at each other’s homes like lovesick teenagers? If it really is that serious, then maybe you should think about finding a place together.”

Sharon paused. Silence down the line for a moment, then; “I don’t know. We haven’t really spoken much about it, but—”

“Much?” Interrupted Melissa, trying to find a way to her opportunity. “He has mentioned it, then?”

Sharon laughed. “Well, yeah he has but nothing definite. He just mentioned it in passing, and—”

“Why don’t you grab the bull by the horns and bring it up to him?” Melissa said, more forcefully than she intended. Desperation spurred her on, and at the same time, a feeling of nausea swept over her. The betrayal of every word she was speaking stabbing at her conscience like knives. What am I becoming? How did I get here? She turned, looked over at the photograph of Mark, and felt a fresh wave of resolve. Wasn’t this what she had to do? Right now, wasn’t this a case of saving the man she loved?

“I could do that, but there’s no rush,” Sharon said, breaking into Melissa’s thoughts.

“My advice to you is don’t sit on this. Look what happened to the last two. I want this to work out for you. You can’t be afraid of commitment.”

Sharon sighed heavily. “What is this? How did we even get onto the topic of moving in together?”

Melissa reigned her thoughts and her words back, trying to remain calm and to dress her desperation in shrouds of casualness. “I just…Mark and I have been talking,” she lied, “and we decided that after all we’ve been through recently, we just want a new start. We’re talking about moving, and quickly. We just want to do it as quickly as possible.”

“Mark wants to move, and so do you? Wasn’t that place the so-called house of your dreams?” Sharon retorted. Melissa picked up on the change in her friend’s tone. Was she sensing something wasn’t quite as it seemed?

Melissa forced a laugh. “Yeah, well, a lot has happened between us, and I think we’re making amends. I just want to draw a line underneath it and start afresh, you know? So we’re looking for a quick move.”

“Selling?” Sharon asked.

“Renting the place out. Somebody can stay there…look after the place. You were the first person I thought of, actually. I thought things were going so well with you and Jonathon, now—”

“I’m not sure. It’s a nice idea, but—”

“It’d be cheap. It could be on a temporary basis, until you decide if you want to stay. If you want to stay, then I can lease it to you for as long as…well, whatever. If you decide you don’t want to stay, I suppose Mark and I could sell it or whatever…”

Sharon was silent at the other end. Her silence felt like an ocean of eternity.

Finally, Sharon broke the silence. “It is a nice place, I suppose. Are you sure this is definitely happening? There‘s no point in even considering this if you‘ll change your minds by tomorrow—”

“Mark said he wants to. We want out any day now. We are letting the place furnished, too. Surely it’s better than your little one bedroom flat. I’ll match the price you’re paying on your flat,” Melissa ranted, desperate to convince her friend. What’s gotten into me? Melissa thought of her friend on the other end of the phone, remembering how she’d been there for her, a good friend. Could she do this to Sharon? The more worrying thought persisted, ugly and ruthless in its truth: What would happen if she didn’t take this chance, if she didn’t ask Sharon to do this? How long did Mark have left before he lashed out and did…something more than what he’d already done. Melissa tried to mold the idea into something more manageable, but it was the undeniable truth. Mark could kill her. He could kill himself if this went on. How far can a demon take him? Can the road go on much further?

Sharon sighed. “You’re seriously letting me have a two bedroom house with a garden and garage for $450 a month?”

“Sure. Only because we want to get this done quickly. By the time we’d advertise it, pay agents fees, and everything else, it will take ages—and a lot of money. Mark can’t be bothered with all that. Besides, it’s only a temporary thing, right?”

Sharon chuckled. “Shit. I don’t know. I’d have to talk to Jonathon about it. I mean, it’s a good offer and everything. It’s just I never exactly planned on this. Do you know what I mean? You kind of dumped it on me, Mel!”

Melissa grimaced, stunned and unsure of what to say. The women were silent for a moment, then Sharon said, “Look, I’ll take it, if you’re sure. Even if Jonathon doesn’t come with me, I can still afford it. That’s if you’re sure you will accept $450 a month.”

Can it work without Jonathon? Melissa didn’t know. The thought jutted in her mind, awkward and immobile. Would the demon touch Sharon if it couldn’t get Jonathon? “I’m sure he’d want to though, right?” Melissa pressed.

“It would be lovely,” Sharon admitted. “Why don’t you give me an hour. I’m going to his place after work, and I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Okay, but please get back to me as soon as you know. It’s kind of important. If you don‘t want it, I need to find someone else.”

“Thanks, Mel,” Sharon said, and Melissa could feel her smile travel down the phone. “You’re a good friend, offering me the place first. Especially a house like that. You could easily get $600 a month for a house like that.”

“What are friends for?” Melissa said, her face stony, flat, and lifeless.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Melissa was in the bedroom, staring at her reflection. Naked, she let her eyes roam every inch of her body, every mark and blemish on her skin, and winced at the sight.

The ugliness. The bones that jutted out. A hideous reminder of the last few months. With every day that she was losing Mark, she was also losing herself. Dying a little, each day.

That’s why I have to do what I have to do. After she hung up the phone, she vomited in the toilet, barely reaching the bathroom in time before her stomach lurched violently contracting. Eventually, her body had succumbed, and she ended up on her knees, her head tilted forward, bringing up nothing but liquid and bile.

It was what she had done—to Sharon—and what she was about to do that had made her sick. Sick with guilt, and she knew it.

Father Owens’s words rang in her mind, like an omen. A warning. A price to pay for what she was doing, and she knew it was true. Melissa knew what she was doing was wrong, but one look at Mark, one more night of being hurt, punched, kicked, humiliated, raped…she couldn’t take it. If her memory didn’t carry the man she loved so strongly, she couldn’t have done any of it. Mark lived there, and she saw the good soul he was—the man he was—and wanted him back. She knew then and there she would have done anything.

What lived in the house, the rooms that caged something so dark, so malevolent, had pushed her to this. Melissa tried to balance out the act. Settle the bill in her mind. The banishing ritual was the only real answer she had found. It was her only chance at getting back the normal, happy life that she craved. Getting her love back.

The phone rang, cracking in the silence. Melissa ran to the phone. “Hi, Sharon?”

A laugh down the line confirmed what she needed to know. Without having to ask, Melissa simply said, “When are you moving in?”

Sharon shrieked and shouted, “Any day you want! Jonathon says he’ll come with!”

It felt wrong—disgusting, even—but it had to be this way. Wouldn’t anyone else do the same for the one they love?

She promised to call Sharon tomorrow, then hung up. There was nothing to do now but wait until Mark returned.

Then, the banishing would begin.

* * * *

She pulled on a black sweater and jeans, brushed through her hair, went downstairs, and sat in the lounge.

Waiting, waiting.

Waiting.

The clock on the fireplace ticked slowly, each second agonizingly slow. Time had reached a plateau and begrudgingly moved forward in tiny, infinitesimal steps.

When she heard the van pull up outside, she leapt to her feet, ran to the front door, and opened it, stepping aside so Mark could enter.

She smiled at him—at the hope she now had—and moved forward to kiss him as he entered, but he raised his hand and pushed her away. His eyes were shadowy and black and his body hunched forward, as if he was carrying the weight of the world.

Melissa shut the door behind him and followed him into the kitchen. “How was your day?” she asked, watching as he poured himself a glass of water from the tap.

“Fine.” His voice was low, almost a growl.

“Things will be okay, you know?” she said.

He turned to her, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve and smirked.

“What’s funny?” she asked, suddenly scared of the look passing over him.

“Nothing.”

He threw the glass in the sink and turned back to her. “Actually, you are,” he rasped.

“What?” Shit. Not now. Melissa took a step back and leaned against the kitchen doorframe.

“You’re funny!” he repeated. “Your funny little life with your funny little shit-fucking job, and your funny little body that even an animal wouldn’t want to fuck—”

“Stop it!” Melissa shrieked, surprised at the power in her own voice.

Mark, silent for a moment, smirked again. Something dark slivered beneath his eyes, and she saw it for what it was; the thing living beneath him, enjoying its taunts, its wicked, ugly ways. “Stop it,” she repeated, but now her voice was barely a whisper.

Mark walked slowly over to her, his eyes steadying on hers. When he was standing in front of her, he leaned forward so that his mouth was to her ear and whispered, “I want to fuck you, tonight.”

Melissa almost gagged at the smell emanating from her husband. It was a deep, musky, dirty, decomposing odor that seemed to seep from his body, from his every pore. She tried to back away, but he leaned forward and grabbed her by the wrist. “If you don’t,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper of air, “you will die, and I will do it. I will enjoy it. I will love it. I will love seeing you breathe your last breath, and—”

“You want to do me?” she exploded, her face reddened with anger, with a rage she didn’t know she was capable of feeling. “Me? Funny, little me? I thought even an animal didn’t want to fuck me? What does that make you?” she roared.

Mark’s face rippled, as if something shifted beneath his skin, and he lifted his hand to her face and punched her hard. She felt her lip split, the skin torn open, in the same place he had hurt her before. She reached up, touched her face, and when she looked at her fingertips, she saw that they were covered in thick, red blood.

Mark smiled, broadly. “Blood, more blood….more of it,” he said, his voice flat and monotone, and he turned, leaving the kitchen. The only sounds around her were the ticking of the clock and the drops of crimson liquid as they fell from her broken lips.

* * * *

She didn’t know if he would take it, but it was the only chance she had. Melissa pulled the wine down from the cupboard and poured a glass of Rosé into the tall wineglass. It came from a set he bought when they went to Italy last year.

She filled the glass, and lifting the packet of sleeping tablets from her jean pocket, she began crushing the tablets beneath one of the coffee mugs. They crunched and splintered, until they were eventually ground down into a fine, dusty powder. Then, Melissa poured the contents into his drink.

She lifted the drink and went over to the lounge, where she knew Mark had been sitting since he had gotten home from work. He was still in his work clothes, his dead, unseeing eyes staring at the blank TV screen.

A trance, she thought. Again.

“Here,” she said, walking over to him slowly, cautiously. She was scared that he might break out of his thoughts, turn on her, and attack her.

He didn’t move, didn’t look up, but simply—like a mechanical robot—lifted his arm and took the drink.

“For you,” she said, forcing a smile. “Your favorite.”

Mark, his face frozen in an unreadable mask, tilted the glass forward and began drinking. “Go,” he whispered, without looking at her.

“That’s fine,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

Nothing to do but wait. Again.

Wait.

By the time the doorbell rang, cracking the silence into shards like broken glass, Melissa was in the lounge, watching Mark. He looked gone. Dissolved into somewhere...not there. After drinking the wine with the sleeping pills, it hadn’t taken him long to go…and he had simply shut his eyes, slumped over, and remained there, lifeless like a dead body.

She ran to the front door and was relieved to see Josh standing there. Still wearing his suit from work, he looked smart—a symbolism of someone together, normal. She wanted that, then, and felt a new wave of desperation that the banishing would work. No matter the cost. She was past weighing the cost. It all felt like something she had to do.

She smiled weakly. “Come in. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“What’s going on, Melissa?” Josh stepped inside, his shoulders and hair wet from the falling rain outside, and looked her up and down. “You’re still not eating, are you? You look…”

“Yes, I look a mess. I am a mess. I know. I need your help, and I need it quick. I have no idea how long this will work. The tablets won’t last all night, and I don’t have much time before—”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Melissa shut the front door and stood in front of Josh in the hallway. Her arms were folded defensively across her chest. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. “I need your help. Mark is in there. He is asleep, because I gave him some sleeping pills,” Melissa said.

She saw the look of disbelief slide across Josh’s face.

“You’re serious? You’ve knocked him out?”

Melissa nodded. “All I need you to do is take him in my car or yours, and take him somewhere. Anywhere. A hotel. Your place. Whatever. I don’t care where. I’ll pay the fee and everything, but I need you to take him with you. He is vulnerable in this house.”

Josh remained expressionless. “You need help.”

“Yes, yes I do! Not the kind you think, though. I am onto something here, I am. I need you to do as I ask.”

“You’re crazy,” Josh said, turning to the front door to leave.

Melissa pulled his arm, stopped him. “Please! Please!” she shrieked, her voice hard and sharp. “Please, Josh. I can’t move him on my own. If you care about me like you said you did, if you have feelings for me like you said you did…you’ll help.”

“Do you realize the kind of trouble I could get into? What are you asking me to do? Kidnapping? Move a man you knocked out with God-knows-what drugs, leave him in a hotel room…are you serious? He could call the police on me!”

“No! He’s out of it. Probably will be for hours. When he wakes, you’ll be long gone. I’ll say I did it. It was all me, if it comes to it. It won’t, though. Trust me!”

Josh watched her, looking into her eyes. “He hit you again, today. Didn’t he?”

Melissa reached for her lip, looked down, and saw fresh blood on her fingers. She nodded silently.

“Call the police.” His voice was strong, demanding.

“No.”

“I will, then.”

“We’ve been here before,” she shouted. “I need you to just take him. There’s a hotel called the Drowned Inn, just up the road. That’ll do. All you need to do is book a room for him, say he’s had a bit too much to drink, and leave him there.”

“If I don’t?”

“I’ll find someone else. Or I’ll have to do it on my own. It’s not like I haven’t been on my own in this hell.” Melissa felt fresh tears rise to the surface of her eyes, and she dabbed them. “I need your help. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t need to, Josh. You know that.”

“So, you want me to take him in my car?”

Melissa nodded. “Strap him in. Go into reception yourself, book a room under Mark’s name or mine—whatever. If anyone see’s him, he’s drunk. Simple as that. Nobody has to know anything. Leave him sleeping in your fucking car by your own house if you need to, Josh, but please get him out of here.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“If I’m going to do something highly crazy, unethical, and illegal, I want to know why.”

“If you don’t, I will end up dead. I can’t cope for much longer. I will die, Josh. It happened before with Grace, and it will happen with me. There’s only so much I can take—only so much anyone can take. You don’t have to believe me, but please. Be a friend. If you really care, do this for me. Please. If I’m wrong, then I promise I’ll call the police, myself. Just help me at least try!”

Melissa let the tears fall as she watched Josh walk into the lounge.

Within ten minutes, he had left. Mark was strapped into the back seat behind him, heading for the hotel.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Alone now. Except, she knew that she wasn’t. She could feel it somewhere, somehow, charging the air around her, sliding against her skin, insinuating itself around her thoughts.

She couldn’t tell, or know with any certainty, but Melissa knew that she had angered the demon. The thing. That when Mark was away, or asleep, the demon resented it, didn’t like it, was enraged by its host’s incapacity. By his absence.

She had drawn all of the curtains in the lounge so that the room was dark. On the coffee table—she had thrown off all of the magazines and books that had begun to pile up on there recently—she had placed six candles in the center, in a small circle.

“This better work!” Melissa rasped as she reached for the lighter in her pocket and began lighting each candle. “Six candles for you,” she spat into the room, her voice dissolving into the thick darkness around her. “Six candles. That’s what I need, isn’t it?” she said, her voice shaking—a thin, rattling sound. She saw how her hand trembled as she reached for each candle, pressing the flame to each wick.

“When I do this,” she said, her eyes fixed to the table in front of her, “you will make this deal with me. Okay? I know you hear me. I know you’re here. You have done enough. You have been ruining Mark. Ruining me. Our marriage. Enough,” she cried, as she sat back, staring at the ring of fire glowing in the dark room. “It’s enough. You’d had your fun with us,” she said. “You have done all you can with us, and I won’t let you. I do not permit you to do it to us anymore. This banishing ritual, whatever it is, it’s going to mark the end of this, okay?”

Melissa sat back, watching as the glow of tiny flames sent waves of moving shadows across the room, and she suddenly felt a crushing sense of fear. She was alone with it, now. This was it. The realization hit her like a flood, and she felt sick with the truth of it.

“You hear me?” she called out. “Do you? I will do this banishing, because I’ve had enough. You’ve fucked with me and my husband enough. I will have a replacement for you. That’s my side of the bargain, do you hear? I will have two people here within the next two days. That’s my promise. Sharon and Jonathon. Sharon…my friend…” Melissa fell silent and began sobbing. “I can’t even call her that anymore...” She doesn’t deserve this, Melissa thought. I know that, but I have to.

Somewhere from beyond the shadows, Melissa heard movement, and a small laugh bounced across the room, sending the hairs on her arms rigid with icy fear. It was listening, then, she knew. It’s here, it’s enjoying.

“Hear me? You have Sharon and Jonathon. That’s how you will be banished from Mark. That is the deal. You give me back my husband, and you have them.”

Again, laughter, and Melissa felt something touch her shoulder, like cold, damp fingers. She flinched and turned but saw nothing against the blanket of black shadows that she was surrounded by.

“I was told I had to write it,” she said, her voice shaking, her body trembling. “So here.” She lifted the piece of paper she had written earlier; in big, black letters she had written the names Sharon and Jonathon. She placed it into the circle of fire and reached for the kitchen knife she had placed on the sofa. When she found the cold, sharp knife, she lifted it and raised her hands.

“My blood,” she called out. “...to seal this pact!”

With one hand outstretched, Melissa pushed the edge of the knife to her arm and pressed it into her flesh. She could see, even through the blackness of the room, the thick, red liquid as it dribbled between the broken crack of skin.

She lifted her arm carefully over each flame, letting a drop of blood fall on each. With every drop that fell, Melissa felt the room turn colder, icier, until she was sure that if she could see, her breath would fog the air around her.

The flames, each baptized with her own blood, continued to flicker and glow, and she watched, desperate to see each candle melt to the wick. Only then, as Father Owen had told her, would she be free from the demon.

Suddenly, a loud noise from the kitchen broke into the quiet of the house, and Melissa jolted to her feet and ran to the room.

She stood there, after all she had seen, still unbelieving. Drawers opened and closed, banging with such force, that she felt the vibrations on the ground beneath her feet. Cupboard doors flew open only to swing shut, the chairs surrounding the kitchen table suddenly tipped over onto their sides one by one. The noise was a cacophony of ugly sounds. Melissa pressed her hands to her ears, shying away from the meaningless violence unfolding.

She looked through the shadowy, darkened room and saw, at the kitchen window, the face of a woman. Grace. Her face was pressed to the glass, her eyes wide. The dead woman shook her head, and Melissa read the look. I couldn’t have done the banishing. How could you?

Melissa started to move across to the window. When she felt two stony, cold hands clutch her from behind and pull her backward toward the lounge. She tried to twist free, to break away, but the force was too strong, too powerful. Melissa shrieked and tried to turn to see; but nobody was there. The invisible force, the entity, grabbed at her, clawed at her, pulled at her hair, her skin, scratching against her body. She felt sharp scratches along her arms, her neck, her face. Wincing in pain she fitfully struggled beneath the intruder.

Melissa reached the lounge and felt a weight press against her. She crumbled to the floor beneath the force, trying to call for help, but she was unable to find the air, the energy to do it. To do anything.

Bad smells, ugly, rotting smells filled her nostrils. Her arms were caked in clotting blood.

Stop it, stop it, stop it. You have Sharon, now, and Jonathon. Please. Stop it.

Like a whirlwind spinning through the lounge, pictures flew from the shelves, books spun across the room, slamming into the walls with violent thuds. They spun across the floor, their pages fluttering as if they were being flipped by unseen hands. The sofa shook and the pictures on the walls swung back and forth, hanging at odd angles, many upside down.

Melissa, still pinned to the floor by unseen hands, watched, wide-eyed as the scene unfolded before her.

“I am the one...” A deep, booming voice crackled into the chaos of the room. The voice seemed to emanate from all around her; from below her, above her, from far away and close by, like it was carried on the air she breathed. “Bring me the two you named, or Mark remains mine,” the voice croaked.

She felt her heart hammer, thudding wildly, certain that it would burst and kill her instantly. The cold, almost damp being that pressed against her wormed against her skin, and she felt it— no, heard it—laugh as it slivered against her face, legs, and stomach.

She tried to wrestle free, but the force was too much, too powerful.

Melissa tried to breathe and felt a crushing against her chest. “Stop! You have Sharon and Jonathon!” she shouted.

Suddenly, the room, the violent spasms of the house, shuddered to a stand-still.

All was quiet. All was still. Motionless.

The cold, damp, earth-smelling entity seemed far off, somehow.

Melissa sat up and stumbled over to the light switch. She found it and slapped it on. Bright light flooded the room around her. She looked around, surveying the damage.

The house was a wreck. Broken. Damaged. Ugly. A shell of itself...a symbol of how she felt.

She shuddered, then looked down at her body. Her clothes were torn, and her skin was red with blood and bright purple where bruises showed against her skin. There were long, deep gashes along her arms and legs, small open wounds seeping small pools of blood.

So much blood.

She turned to the candles, still alight—somehow—on the coffee table and saw they had almost burned down.

Almost.

Melissa sat there on the floor of her lounge, curled up like a baby, and waited for the last flame to flicker and die.

Epilogue

Two Months Later

Melissa held the phone to her ears, waiting. Mark cuddled up behind her, pressed his face into her neck, and kissed her tenderly as she waited to make the call.

Finally, Sharon picked up.

“Hi! How is everything?” Melissa asked, nudging Mark, motioning for him to stop messing around as she tried to talk. He playfully nudged her back and fell back onto the bed, waiting for her to finish.

“I’m good,” Sharon answered at last, her voice flat.

“Are you sure?” Melissa pressed.

“Yeah, of course. I’m happy with the house.”

“What about you?” Melissa said. “You okay?”

“I am. It’s Jonathon, though.”

Melissa felt her heart turn to ice. “What about him?”

“I just don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s not been himself over the last few weeks...”

Melissa didn’t know what to say. She turned to Mark and knew. The deal was done.