The Banishing

By
Fiona Dodwell

Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

www.damnationbooks.com

The Banishing
by Fiona Dodwell

Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-351-5

Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-352-2

Cover art by: Dawné Dominique
Edited by: Andrea Heacock-Reyes

Copyright 2011 Fiona Dodwell

Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
1st North American and UK Print Rights

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to my parents, Roger and Patricia, for their support. And to Matthew, for his love and encouragement.

Chapter One

Melissa Sanderson watched as the small pool of thick, dark blood spread across the white, tiled floor. She wondered—not for the first time—if she should end it all. If she should end everything. She leaned forward on her hands and knees, and began scrubbing at the blood with the damp cloth she found behind the bathroom sink.

She already locked the bathroom door in case he returned—which he often did—so that she could keep him away. Keep him out. The cloth smeared the blood into an arc around her, like an inverted rainbow of red. She tried to ignore the urge to vomit as she wrung the wet cloth over the sink and watched the blood trickle down the drain.

Her stomach tightened as she leaned forward, heaving over the toilet bowl. Nothing came up. Her stomach was empty, since she hadn’t eaten since the night before. She gagged, her stomach lurching and contracting in angry spasms.

There was a sharp knock at the bathroom door, and she wrestled herself slowly to her feet. Unsteady and shaking, she leaned back against the sink and waited.

“Hurry up in there. I need to get ready for work.” His voice was as hard as iron, unmovable. She wanted to open the door and hit him—hurt him—but that idea was laughable. She wasn’t capable of that, no matter what he did to her or how he treated her.

“I’ll be out in five minutes. I’ve just got to get cleaned up.”

She heard the footsteps of her husband dissolve down the hallway and back into their bedroom. How has it come to this? she asked herself. She turned around, stared into the large mirror on the wall beside her, and she recoiled at the face staring back at her from inside the glass world. It was barely recognizable. Her bottom lip was bruised, swollen, and split from where he had just hit her. A thick line of congealed blood clung to the bottom of her mouth, drying and clotting. She knew he was getting out of control. Her eyes scanned the face in front of her. He was never this bad, and she realized he would normally only hurt her in places that she could hide beneath clothes. This, however, was an ugly masterpiece he created for the world to see. What would she say to her friends and coworkers?

She dabbed at the cut on her lips and winced in pain. It stung badly.

Her hair—long, wavy, and dark—hung limply around her face, clinging to her damp skin. It was the eyes that worried her, though. Her eyes. They looked dead, lifeless, and hopeless. Brown pools of nothingness that looked empty and drained. The plug having been pulled long ago.

She looked at the floor and knew he’d be back in a moment. She had to clean up. Melissa snapped out of her internal fear and confusion and quickly wiped the cloth over the last remaining drops of blood on the floor. So much blood from just one cut, she thought. She wiped over the sink and then turned on the cold tap. Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water onto her face. “Damn it!” Her face contorted as the cut on her face met the cold liquid, and she took a deep breath. She reached for a towel and pressed it to her face.

Turning back to the mirror, she saw that the swelling had gone down slightly, but her lip was still throbbing, wide with blood beneath the surface.

Footsteps. Another knock. “I need to get in there, Melissa.” He sounded calmer now, like the old Mark Sanderson. The one she had married. The one she used to know. The person he had been for the five years of their relationship. She threw the red, bloodied cloth back behind the sink and stepped quietly over to the bathroom door. She unlocked it slowly and pulled it open.

Mark was standing there, wrapped in his bathrobe—the one she had bought him for his birthday—a towel in his hand and a shaving razor in the other. He smiled weakly as she stepped outside, passing him. “I won’t be long. We can have breakfast together before work.”

Melissa nodded and headed to the bedroom. She wanted to get dressed.

“Make mine eggs on toast,” he called behind her, his voice full of life and enthusiasm. It was as if the morning that had just happened never did.

Chapter Two

Melissa rinsed their breakfast plates and cups and left them on the kitchen sideboard to drain. She didn’t have time to dry or put them away, though it did occur to her that if Mark got home before her that night, he wouldn’t be happy about it. Lately, Mark had wanted things to be done a certain way, and if they weren’t done that way, he would make sure she knew he was unhappy about it.

They have to wait, she thought, glancing at the clock. It was nearly 8:30 AM, and she had to be at the hospital in half an hour. Mark had already left the house, which she was thankful for.

It took her almost ten minutes to cover her face in makeup. Melissa wanted to laugh when she stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She looked like a clown, but it was better than showing up to work looking battered and bruised. She caked her face in a layer of foundation and blotted some extra cream around her lips, trying desperately to lessen the angry, swelled bottom lip that protruded. It makes me look like a petulant child, she thought, regarding herself. She ran a layer of cherry lip gloss over her lip and sucked in air sharply as she felt the sting of it against the cut.

Melissa ran the brush through her hair and tied it back into a simple ponytail. After pulling on her work uniform—a pair of black trousers and a white shirt—she left. She was only starting her day, but she felt weakened and tired by the world already.

It was raining hard. The water fell in heavy, sharp drops against the roof of her car, drumming persistently. Fluid nails tapped the ground beneath. She pulled out of the driveway, switched the local radio station on, and pulled out onto the main road.

The car slid into the road, lost in the traffic like an ant in a forest. Each one like the next, moving forward, moving somewhere.

Melissa checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. A mess, she thought limply.

The rain seemed to be bearing down harder, now. Melissa hunched forward in the driver’s seat, trying to concentrate on the road ahead of her as it dissolved into a blur beyond the glass.

She knew she could walk to work in less than fifteen minutes, but since October arrived—bringing with it the darkened skies and wet mornings—Melissa had started driving to work.

She didn’t mind her job. In fact, Melissa was glad to have it. It was an escape from home—a refuge, in a way. She worked there as a nurse in the Intensive Care Unit. Every day, she would watch people come in unconscious, bruised, and battered. Some could not even take a breath without the aid of a machine. It was sad, but it was like looking into a mirror, she thought. Every time she stepped through the front door at home, it was like entering a limbo, where each breath was uncertain, each step possibly her last. At least that’s how it felt, she conceded.

The staff at Saint Peter’s Hospital was good. Tight. Having worked just under a year there, Melissa had made some good friends. Not close friends. Not people she would share the intimate details of her life with, but at least they were good people to work with. People she could laugh with and share lunch with. The only exception to that rule was her close friend—her best friend—Sharon Harp. Melissa had met Sharon on her induction, her first day on the ward, and she was assigned to work alongside Sharon during those first few days while learning the job and the routine. Since then, they had remained close, often meeting up for meals out or to catch a movie.

Mark had started to make it clear that he didn’t like Melissa having friends. As a result, Melissa had started avoiding seeing Sharon socially over the last few weeks. What Sharon thought about that— if she thought anything at all—was anyone’s guess, but Melissa felt, with a stab of guilt, that she’d rather have her friend angry at her than provoke Mark.

As she neared the hospital, weaving her way through the morning traffic, Melissa heard her mobile phone buzzing in her handbag. With one hand planted firmly on the wheel, she reached to the passenger seat where her handbag lay open and pulled out the phone. Its screen flashed on and off, illuminating the darkened morning. “Mark calling”, it said in black letters. She instantly felt a wave of fear twist itself into her stomach, around her body. Like a snake coiling a tree, it felt alive with a mind of its own.

She left it ringing as she pulled into the parking lot. It didn’t take her long to secure a space, and as she slid the car back into the empty slot, she took a deep breath, pulled her keys out of the ignition, and answered the phone.

“Hi,” he said, his voice flat and quiet. In the background, Melissa could hear the muffled voices of colleagues at the courier service where he’d worked since they met. Conway Deliveries.

“Hello.”

“Where are you?” he asked, and Melissa could tell he had stepped into the office. The noise around him was dulled now, muffled. “Are you at work, yet?”

Melissa stared ahead, watching as the rain flowed in tiny rivers along the car window. “I’m about to go in, Mark. I’m actually late, so I better—”

“Don’t.” His voice was quiet, controlled, but he spoke sharply and with determination.

“What do you mean? I have to. I can’t not show up, now. I was due in five minutes ago.”

Mark took a deep breath, sighing. “Melissa, I’m sorry about this morning. I shouldn’t have. I know that. I’m sorry, but if you turn up to work like that…people will talk. They’ll ask questions.”

“I’ll say I fell down the stairs or something.”

Mark laughed. “Do you think they will believe that?”

I don’t care, she thought inwardly. Maybe they should finally know what you’ve been doing. Maybe then it can all end. “They won’t even ask. I don’t care if they believe me,” she answered. Melissa could feel a warmth rising from underneath, her skin flushing red. She would annoy him if she continued pushing him, but from the safety and distance of her car, she felt defiant, stronger almost.

“I care! Jesus, Melissa. Listen to me. I said I was sorry. Please, turn the car back around, drive home, call work, and say you’re ill or something.”

It was spoken like an order. Who are you? Melissa wondered, feeling the warmth of her tears as they travelled down her cheeks. I don’t know you, anymore. You’re a stranger to me. You’re not Mark.

“People will talk more if I start avoiding work. That’s a sure way to get people’s attention. Best thing for me to do is to go in and carry on as normal.”

She could hear how exasperated he was becoming by the guttural tone of his voice across the phone. “Fuck it. Okay, fine. Go in if you have to,” he finally snapped. “But you damn well better make sure people believe you, Melissa. You have to.”

Melissa said yes and disconnected the call.

* * * *

Stepping into the ICU ward, Melissa felt the sideways glances and questioning looks fall on her as she began preparing for her day’s work. Looks that said they were wondering and that they noticed. They noticed every blotch and cut on her face and lip. It was to be expected. She would have reacted the same if one of the other girls turned up one morning looking like that.

The silence of the ICU ward was thick, almost tangible. Nurses seemed to speak only in tiny whispers, machines beeped rhythmically behind the scenes, and the unsung heroes were breathing life into unmoving bodies. The ward was small—only the critically ill were brought to intensive care, so beds were kept to a minimum. There were a total of eight beds, and Melissa noted, as she made her way to the main nurse’s desk, that only half of them were full. They must have lost the young woman they’d brought in last night—her bed was empty.

“Oh, you’re here. I was wondering whether I’d have to find somebody to cover your shift.” It was the nurse in charge, Rachel Harrow. From behind the desk, she looked up, her pen poised over a patient’s file. Papers were strewn over the desk and empty coffee cups littered the edges. Her voice seemed taut, as if it could snap; to Rachel, the manager always sounded really close to losing her temper. It was obvious she was annoyed at her late arrival.

“I’m so sorry. I got caught in traffic, and then I couldn’t find a parking space. It’s been a bit of a nightmare morning and—”

“Was there an accident?”

Melissa instinctively put a hand to her lip, then withdrew it. “No, not at all. I’m fine. How’s everything been on the ward?”

Rachel—one of the longest running members of qualified staff on ICU and probably one of the least popular on the team—raised an eyebrow. “I’d get that checked out if I were you. It looks nasty.”

Melissa felt her heart lurch and took a deep breath. “Really, I’m fine. I had a fall. How are things here?”

Rachel sighed. “Well, we lost Anne Holmes last night. Family informed. We have a new admission, name of—” Rachel paused, looked down at a sheet of paper in front of her, and scanned it, “name of Peter Lock. Age fifty-nine.”

“What’s he in for?”

“Car accident. Head-on collision. Most likely won’t pull through. The doctor will be here again in a moment to check on him.”

“What would you like me to do?” Melissa asked.

“Take his BP and vital signs. Then, wash him down.”

“He needs a bath?”

“He’s caked in blood, Melissa. His family is travelling down from Wales to see him, and they can’t see him like that.”

Melissa nodded and headed for bed three. Her heart sank when she saw him lying there. During her time there, she had seen awful things—things most people would never see in their entire life—but she never got used to it the way other staff promised she would. She just couldn’t, and in a way, didn’t want to. Who wants death to be normal, she thought, staring down at him. Who wants blood and illness and comas to be everyday life?

“You won’t get much done staring at him,” said a voice from behind.

Melissa turned around. It was her friend, Sharon. She smiled then winced. Her lip felt cracked, torn. Sharon’s smile dropped when she saw the cut.

Sharon quietly pulled the curtain around the patient shut, then said in barely a whisper, “What the hell happened to you?”

Melissa suddenly wished she’d listened to Mark. Was it going to be like this all day? All week? “Nothing,” she said. Pathetic and defenseless, she found no other words.

“Nothing? Oh right. Yeah, that’s nothing.”

Melissa wanted to hug her friend in that moment, seeing the concern in her eyes and wanting more of it, needing more of it. Nobody knew what she’d been going though since Mark had started….turning on her. The secret was curled and sleeping inside her mind, invisible to everyone. Until now.

“I’m okay, really. I just fell this morning when I was taking the bins out.”

Sharon reached out and rubbed her hand along her friend’s arm. “Mel, seriously. You don’t look good. I don’t even mean the bruise, but everything…you’ve not been right, lately. Something is wrong. I’m not stupid.”

“I appreciate your concern, but really, don’t worry. I’m good. I‘m all right,” she said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. “Now, are you going to help me bathe this patient?”

Sharon sighed, folding her arms across her chest. Her long, blonde hair was tied back into a bun, revealing her beautiful, youthful face. Her eyes look alive, like mine once did, Melissa thought, staring at her with a strange longing, an uncomfortable sense of envy.

“Is it Mark? It is, isn’t it? He’s been hitting you.”

Each word hit her like a brick against her chest. Her heart thudded wildly, and she felt a rise of panic. “Stop it,” Melissa said, turning away and lowering the bed sheet on top of the patient. “I need to get on with this.”

“That bastard. You need to get out, Mel. Please, listen to me. If he did this to you—”

“If he did this to me, Sharon, I’d have been out already. Trust me.”

“You don’t have to be ashamed. Millions of women go through this. Loads of women find it hard to leave their partners, but—”

“Shut up!” Melissa hissed. “Please!”

Sharon took a step forward. “I care about you. Don’t push me away.”

“Let’s meet up at lunch time, okay? We’ll talk, then. Not here, not now.”

Sharon smiled—satisfied—and nodded.

Chapter Three

It was still raining. The sky above them was a dome of gray, clouds swollen with water hovering above them with the promise of more to come. Sharon had managed to arrange her lunch break at the same time as Melissa, but the canteen had been busy—too busy for them to talk properly—so they were standing outside, taking shelter by a cluster of trees that were situated behind the main hospital building.

She hadn’t planned what to say. All morning, while cleaning patients, taking blood pressures and changing bedding, she had been devoured by two thoughts that were constantly battling for her attention. The first had been Mark. What to do about him and worrying about what he might do next. The second thought was what she was going to tell Sharon. She wanted to tell her but was frightened of what telling her might mean, and for that, she felt weak and stupid.

Melissa had been with Mark for five years. They had started dating when she was 20. Now, she was 25—the age where she had expected to be happily settled into married life or perhaps planning the family they’d spoken of—but instead, she was tied up in this nightmare, and she didn’t know where to turn, what to do.

“What happened? I want to know, because something is just not right with you. You’ve been like this for ages.” Sharon pulled out a lighter from her pocket and flicked it open. The flame sprung to life, and she lifted it to her face, lighting the cigarette that hung between her lips. She inhaled and released a small puff of gray smoke. It hung momentarily in the air, and then dissolved to nothing.

“Been like what?”

“A fucking zombie, that’s what. You’ve stopped coming out with me. You’ve been totally distracted at work. Now this? Jesus, Mel. You look awful.”

Melissa leaned back against the tree, enjoying the feel of the cold air against her skin. “You’re right. I’ve not been myself for weeks. Well, probably months.”

“Why?”

“Mark.”

Sharon’s eyes widened. Two twin spheres of blue that seemed to darken at hearing her friend’s words. “I knew it. He’s been hitting you!” Sharon motioned toward the cut on Melissa’s lip and fell silent, stunned.

“For five years, he was the perfect man, perfect husband. He never laid a finger on me.”

“Until now.”

Melissa felt a tidal wave of relief as she began to loosen up, began to feel the weight of the truth fall from her. It was the first time she had admitted it to anybody, and despite her anxiety about where it might lead, what letting go of it all might mean, she felt good. “Until a few months ago. I think it started when we moved into the new house.”

“You’ve been there—what? A year now?”

Melissa looked over at her friend, nodding hesitantly.

“He’s been hitting you the whole time?”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “Keep it down. I don’t want people hearing.” Melissa fell silent as a group of nurses passed them, clustered together in a tight group, talking and laughing. After they disappeared around the corner of the building, Melissa finally said, “No, he hasn’t been hitting me the whole time, but he started changing around that time. At first, I thought it might just be the stress of moving. You know, it was a struggle, financially…” Melissa paused, thinking back to the time—a time when things were normal, good, even perfect. “It all just changed.”

Sharon dropped her cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with her foot. “How do you mean?”

“Well, it went from him just being kind of moody and snapping at me now and then, to getting really angry over stupid things. Then, he got all funny about me spending time with you, like he didn’t want me having friends.”

“Sounds like the guy is a nut.”

“Then, the last couple of months he started…you know, pushing me a bit. At first, just a slap across the face—”

“Just? There is no just about it, Mel. What he’s doing to you is—”

Melissa raised her hand in an attempt to stop Sharon. “Yes, I know. Don’t you think I know? Anything you say, I’ve already thought it.”

“So, he started hitting you?”

“Yeah. A few weeks ago, but today was the worst.”

Sharon leaned in close, putting her arm around Melissa’s shoulders. “Babe, you need to get out. You know that? If he can do this to you—the woman he is supposed to love—then he’s dangerous. Out of control.”

“That’s what I’m scared of.”

“You should be!”

“Thanks,” Melissa said. “That makes me feel great.”

“Seriously, he’s dangerous. Leave him. Even if you end up staying at my place. Or a hotel or something.”

“You know, I’ve actually thought about leaving him,” she confessed, motioning for them to walk back to the hospital. It was almost 1:00 PM, signaling the end of their break, and Melissa knew she couldn’t risk being late. Again. Her ward manager was already pissed off about her late arrival that morning.

“I feel a ‘but’ coming on,” she said, linking arms with Melissa as they walked.

“There is a ‘but’. Of course there is. I’ve known him for years. We were best friends. So close. Closer to me than anybody has ever been. As crazy as it sounds, after what I’ve just told you, I love him. What if there is something wrong, and I can get him help? What if things can get back to the way they once were?”

Sharon sighed and shook her head. “That’s a lot of ‘ifs’ and a hell of a lot of bruises while you’re waiting for your answer.”

Melissa knew she was right, but something kept her back, stopped her from moving on.

* * * *

The rest of the shift passed uneventfully. Sharon had practically pleaded with her to not go home and to leave Mark, but despite her own fear and wanting to do everything she knew she should, she left for home with the promise of phoning Sharon if anything happened that night.

It was almost dark when she left the hospital and stepped into the parking lot. The rain had eased off, dissolving resignedly into a light drizzle. Pulling out of the almost empty parking lot, Melissa wondered what the night ahead held for her. Which Mark will be there waiting for me? The real one, or the other one—the one I don’t know? She felt nervous and tried to fend off the feeling by turning up the radio. A song she didn’t recognize filled the car and the air around her, and she hummed along, trying to force some life—some energy—into her.

The roads were busy. Rush hour. Melissa followed the trail of cars ahead, moving slowly. By the time she reached home, she felt the beginning of a headache twinge along her scalp. She pulled into the driveway and switched off the radio, staring up at the house. It looked gloomy in the dying light. The house. What Mark had always wanted for them, for their life together. Thinking of those long hours that Mark had put in, the way he would be out of the door first thing in the morning and would sometimes not get back home before she would already be in bed, Melissa wondered whether the house had been worth it at all. They had rented a small flat for the first few years of their relationship. One bedroom, tiny. It was nothing more than one large room plus a bathroom. Melissa had taken to calling it “the box”, but she had liked it, had enjoyed their time there. It had been the space where their relationship had grown from a tiny flower into a full, passionate blossom.

That flat they had both lived in held wonderful memories for her. The night Mark had gotten down on one knee and proposed to her was the strongest—almost too perfect—one.

Mark was the first one to suggest moving, though. They hadn’t even discussed it. It wasn’t something Melissa thought was in the cards. Happy at the place they were, content for the first time in years since her parents’ deaths several years before, she admitted to herself—she didn’t want any more upheaval. Anymore change. She had simply wanted to be mellow in the bubble she and Mark had built around themselves, cocooned in a happiness that she never dreamt possible.

She remembered him coming home from work one night. It was late, and Melissa had already changed into her pajamas when Mark sauntered into the room, a huge grin on his face and a newspaper in his hand. He ran into the lounge and tossed the paper into her lap. “Page fifty,” he had simply said.

Melissa leafed through the pages until she came to the small ad Mark had circled in blue ink. A house. Two bedrooms. A large garden. Garage.

“It’s perfect for us,” he had said to her, watching as she read over the estate agent’s description. “Don’t you think we deserve our own home? Our own home, Melissa! Think about it.”

Thinking back on it now, on the way things had slowly crept toward this bleak reality in which she now lived, Melissa wished she’d said “no” straightaway. Yet even then, before she knew what she knows now, and before she knew Mark would change the way he had, she had felt strong reservations about the move. About the house. There were two main reasons: the first being financial. Melissa’s wages were meager, and although Mark earned a considerable amount as a courier, there were quiet periods. Dry periods, when he could easily go for days without being assigned any jobs. Taking out a mortgage felt like a huge step.

She remembered Mark’s face when she had expressed her concerns and knew how much the concept of buying their own place must have meant to him. His face dropped, his eyes lost their warm sparkle, and he looked defeated.

So she had, for his sake more than anything, agreed to take a look at the property the next day.

Mark was right—it was a beautiful, little home. Nothing spectacular or grand about it, but she didn’t need that, didn’t want that—and more importantly, could not afford that. It was basic, in truth. Two small bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a large (huge was probably closer to the truth) lounge, and a kitchen that had been newly remodeled. The place had obviously been redecorated by the current owners. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air bitterly, and the thick, wooden doors to each room were shiny and sleek, elegant.

Melissa liked it. Mark loved it. They left the property after the estate agent locked up—she had seemed bored of showing them around the house and had waited outside, chain smoking—with the promise that they would be in contact that same day.

Mark promised he’d work more hours. Melissa agreed to do some extra shifts at the hospital. It was going to be worth it, she now remembered Mark saying.

If only they had both known the future that lay ahead of them.

Melissa snapped out of her thoughts, blinking away the shadows of memories. How long had she been sitting there, staring? Grabbing her bag and coat from the passenger seat, Melissa stepped out and ran to her porch to protect her from the rain.

The front door opened instantly, and she looked up and saw Mark, smiling warmly and holding a glass of wine in his hand. “You’re just in time,” he said, standing aside and letting Melissa pass into the house. “I’ve been cooking dinner.”

So you’re the real Mark, are you? She wanted to ask, glancing at him nervously. She shrugged herself out of her jacket, threw her bag and keys onto the coat rack, and followed behind him into the kitchen.

It smelled delicious. There were pots on the cooker, bubbling with heat, a basket of bread on the dining table, and a large bottle of Rosé wine in the center. Mark went over to the cooker, stirred something inside one of the pans, and turned to her. “Want a drink?”

Melissa stood there in the doorway, feeling slightly stunned. After the morning they had and after the way he had turned on her, she could hardly believe this was the same person. “Oh…yes. I’ll have a wine, I suppose.”

Mark smiled at her, his eyes warm and bright. “Why don’t you sit down and enjoy your drink? I’ll serve dinner.”

Melissa forced a smile, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the dining table. She poured herself some wine and took a sip. “What’s all this for?” she asked, watching him as he poured food onto plates.

“It’s only dinner. I thought I’d give you a break from the kitchen for once.” His voice seemed so normal, so casual, that she started to wonder if she’d imagined his rage that morning. She pressed a finger to her lips and sucked in air as a throbbing pain pulsed through them. She hadn’t imagined it; the man standing in front of her was really capable of that and possibly more.

“So how was work? Did you make it in on time?” Mark placed two plates down on the table and sat down opposite his wife.

“Vegetable curry. It looks gorgeous. Thank you.”

“Enjoy it while it’s hot.” Mark lifted his fork and began eating. “So…your day?”

Melissa lowered her eyes, afraid to look into his. Afraid to meet his gaze and afraid of what she might read beneath the surface. “It was quiet on the ward. Half of the beds were empty, so I didn’t have much to do.”

“Was Sharon there?” he asked, taking a sip of wine.

“Sharon? Why? Yes, she was there. She’s normally on day shifts like me.” Melissa caught a look on his face, a change pass over him. Worry? Fear? “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Did she say anything? About your face.”

Melissa hesitated. If he knew Sharon knew the truth, he would explode. “She asked what happened, and I said I fell down this morning.”

Marks eyes narrowed, fixed onto hers. “Did she believe you?”

Melissa wanted to get away. Wanted to have a bath, to be alone. She wasn’t hungry, and she wasn’t a good liar. She took a deep breath, reached for the bottle of wine and topped off her glass. “Of course she believed me, Mark. She asked me, I answered, and it was left at that.”

Mark pushed his plate aside and reached his hands across the table, taking Melissa’s hands in his. His touch was warm, comforting, at odds with his recent behavior. She looked up and smiled, but it wasn’t forced. In that moment, it felt real, almost genuine. “I am sorry,” he said.

“You already apologized.”

He fell silent, but his hand still remained over hers. She watched him, watched how his eyes filled with tears and knew then that she couldn’t just walk out. Somehow seeing him there, looking frightened and upset, meant that there was light at the end of the tunnel and meant that there was hope for them as a couple. If he got help.

“What happened this morning scared me, Mark. You frightened me. I think there is something wrong, badly wrong, because this isn’t you. You…” her voice trailed off, and she felt suddenly aware that all it would take was one word that he didn’t like the sound of, and he could explode.

“What? Go on,” he said, looking up at her, tears sliding down his rough, tired cheeks.

“You need help, because how you’re acting isn’t normal.”

Mark pushed his chair back, stood up, and went around to the other side of the table. He got down on his knees, stared up at her, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I am sorry. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why I’ve been like this, but I will sort it out. I will sort it out, because I don’t want to lose you.” He leaned in for another kiss, then pulled back, his eyes resting on the large cut on her lips. “My God…”

Melissa pulled his face forward with her hands and leaned in so that their faces were inches apart. She was seeing—for the first time in weeks—the man she loved, the man she married. “I want us to survive this,” she said.

“We will,” he replied, with a certainty she was surprised to hear.

Chapter Four

After dinner, while Mark was in the lounge watching some television, Melissa slipped upstairs to have a quick shower. The hot water pelted against her skin, warming her, waking her. She felt confused, torn between her despair over Mark’s abuse and her love for him. She remembered the way she had, in the past, heard stories of women who stood by abusive men and how she thought them to be gullible, weak, and stupid. Yet here she was, reluctant to leave the man who was hurting her. One moment, he was the sweetest, mildest man, the next, red with rage. Who was he and what was happening? Should I leave?, she asked herself, as she lathered soap onto her skin. Or is there hope?, she wondered, smiling at the way he had knelt before her, desperate to make up for his actions.

He seemed genuinely sorry, but they always did, didn’t they? Men who abused. They were clever like that, knowing when to pull back.

Melissa switched off the shower and stepped out. She caught sight of the cloth she had used to clean up that morning, bunched up behind the sink. It was smeared in red—covered in drops of her blood—and the sight sickened her.

She quickly dried herself off and pulled on her white, silk pajamas. Leaving her hair wrapped tightly in a towel, she unlocked the bathroom door and went down the hallway. She was about to go into her bedroom, when she heard something from downstairs, and she paused, hesitating there to listen.

It was Mark, and he was talking. She hadn’t heard the phone ring, but maybe she missed it in the shower. She leaned quietly over the banister, trying to hear more from below. It wasn’t that he was talking, she realized, but the way he was talking. His voice sounded like a whimper, like a frightened child.

Melissa tip-toed barefoot down the carpeted staircase and stopped just outside the lounge doorway. From there, she could see nothing except for the muted TV.

The door was half-way open, and from behind it she stood, silently listening.

Mark was talking, but his voice seemed small, weak, and wounded. It reminded her of the way her brother had spoken as a child after being told off by their parents.

“I know I have to,” he was saying, his voice shaky and nervous. “I will do it. I’ll get it done.”

Melissa pressed her ear to the door, wanting to hear everything.

“Not a lot of time, I know, but I will do it. I promise.” Mark fell silent, then after a few moments, he added, “There was a lot of blood. I thought you would like that.” He sounded pleased with himself suddenly.

Melissa felt sick. Is he talking about what he did to me this morning?, she wondered.

“I know what you want. I know. You don’t need to tell me, again. You already told me, and you’ll get it, okay?”

Melissa suddenly had enough of listening. She wanted to know what was going on. She pushed open the door and barged into the lounge. It took her only a moment to realize the phone was still in its cradle; Mark hadn’t been on the phone at all.

Chapter Five

“I think he may be sick,” Melissa whispered into the phone.

“That’s all the more reason to get away from him,” Sharon replied. “I’m sorry. It might not be easy for you, but you need to get out of there. If he is having some sort of mental breakdown, then you don’t know what he’s thinking or what he’ll do next. Do you really want to wait and find out?”

Melissa tucked her legs beneath her on the bed. Mark was still downstairs, watching TV. He denied everything when she questioned him, saying she must have been hearing things. After that, she grabbed her mobile phone and called Sharon. She didn’t know what else to do; what she heard in the lounge had unnerved her.

“If you had a husband, and he was sick, you’d just walk out on him?”

Sharon laughed. It sounded cold, insensitive to Melissa, and she suddenly regretted making the call. “I would have been gone a long time ago. Seriously. I know you probably think I’m being a bitch, but the guy is hitting you, and now he is having conversations with himself. The words ‘get out’ and ‘now’ come to mind.”

“Mark might need me. He might need help, Sharon.”

“Can I ask you something?” Sharon asked tentatively.

“Sure.”

Sharon sighed. “I just don’t get it, Melissa. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve been strong, self-assured. Staying with an abusive husband? That just isn’t you. Why would you stay?”

Melissa, feeling swallowed by darkness at the question, tried to find an answer, something that sounded right, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I know you’ve had a hard time of it. Losing your parents in that car crash. That was only a few years go, Mel...and you never see your brother. You probably felt vulnerable, alone, and Mark seemed like a release from that at the time. Am I right?

Breaking into the silence of her thoughts, Melissa suddenly heard a creak on the staircase. “He’s coming upstairs. I’ve got to go. Speak to you at work tomorrow.” Sharon started to say something, but Melissa slammed the phone down onto the bedside table and lay down, trying to look relaxed and natural.

He paused in the doorway, his face like a mask—frozen, fixed, and unreadable. “Who was that?”

Melissa looked away from him, pretending to yawn. “Huh?”

“You were talking to somebody.” It was said like an accusation, sounding like a threat. Melissa tried to remain calm. He had obviously heard her speaking. What worried her was how much he had heard.

“It was just Sharon, that’s all.”

Mark stepped into the room, then perched onto the edge of the bed, staring down at Melissa. The bird and his prey, Melissa thought, then felt guilty for thinking it. If there was something wrong with him, then it wasn’t his fault. People had…problems, breakdowns, all the time.

“Yes, but they don’t hit their wives,” Melissa imagined Sharon saying.

“What did Sharon want?” he asked coolly. Melissa noticed that the relaxed charm of earlier had disappeared. She wanted to sit up and back away a bit, but wondered if that would annoy him more.

“You know what she’s like. She’s complaining that I’ve not been out with her in a long time. You know we used to go out for lunch a lot. We used to go for a drink after work nearly every day. She misses it, I suppose.”

“So what did you tell her?” Mark asked.

Melissa shrugged. “What can I tell her? You never want me to do it anymore, and lately you’ve—” she stopped, suddenly remembering the pool of blood on the bathroom floor and shrunk within herself.

As if reading her mind, Mark leaned forward, running his hand across her cheek. “Hey, I told you I was sorry about this morning. You should go out with Sharon, all right?”

Melissa was surprised. “I thought you didn’t like it.”

Mark smiled, but it seemed forced, unnatural. “What harm can it do?” He stood up, picked up a paperback novel he had been reading from the bedside table, and started to leave when Melissa stopped him. “You’re sure? It’d be nice to go out for a meal this Friday.”

Mark paused, his back to her, and said quietly, “I said it’s fine. Go ahead. You should go. We don’t want her asking questions, do we? Let’s make it all look normal.”

Melissa said nothing, but laid back, her head pressed into the soft pillow. Somehow, the memory came to her, walking into her mind out of nowhere, like a deep fog finally parting to reveal something behind its deep thickness. It was him, as he had been then, when they first met. Mark.

Melissa remembered it with colorful vividness; she did not have to think hard at all to remember the day they met. The day that marked something big for her, something that set her apart from the woman she used to be. That is how she saw it—always had—that she had become the woman she wanted to be when she started dating Mark. She had finally found a sense of fullness, whereas before, she had seen herself to be as thin and transparent as tracing paper. She knew how it sounded. At one point, she would not even admit to herself that she felt that way, knowing that the very idea of somebody making her complete made her sound weak, a nobody.

She had argued that mentality away. Shouldn’t that be how somebody made you feel?, she surmised. Shouldn’t meeting the person you love make you finally feel whole, complete?

Melissa winced at the thoughts but knew them to be true. True for her. Even if others around her denied it—other women thinking they had to feel strong, complete, already the self-made mini heroes of their own lives, in need of nobody or nothing—Melissa guessed deep down that everybody wanted somebody. People needed other people. Humans were made that way.

Didn’t she, on some level, believe in the concept of soul mates? Somebody out there that was perfect for another? Had she not always thought that person was Mark?

The day they met, she had been relaxing in a coffee shop in London. She remembered it was a warm day—no, a hot day. The city heat had been unbearable. Feeling sickened by the thick heat, Melissa had almost cancelled her day out shopping, half dreading the idea of coasting along the busy walkways and ducking in and out of changing rooms.

She decided to go. She’d had the day booked for months. It was supposed to be a treat; she had kept all of the money she had been given from her family and friends for her birthday, intending to revitalize a dying wardrobe. Instead, the day had tired her out, almost wearing her down before she’d stepped out of the underground station.

Around midday, worn out from trying on clothes that she never purchased, Melissa had wound her way over to Clovers—a small café just off of North Oxford Street. Dehydrated and desperately hungry, she waited in the long line by the checkout, wanting nothing but to sit down and relax.

After a few minutes—although, at the time she knew it had felt like hours—she had placed her order (a cola and chicken salad…even those details did not elude her), and with her tray in hand, she turned to find a table, when she slipped on something wet on the floor and fell forward, her drink and lunch spilling across the floor.

Everyone fell silent. All eyes darted across the café toward her. Her skin immediately flushed a bright, beetroot red, and Melissa almost had to stop tears of exhaustion and embarrassment from seeping out of her.

She remembered a waitress nearby sighing and muttering something under her breath about “idiot customers”. Melissa was about to turn on her and give her a piece of her mind when, out of nowhere—at least it felt that way—a man stepped up beside her, reached down, and began helping her collect the mess that was her lunch.

Mark.

Tall, dark, and handsome. A famous cliché, but that was Mark all over. He dripped sexiness, Melissa thought at the time. She had smiled, self-conscious and eager to make a quick escape, but over those mere moments, as the two knelt side by side, mopping up the spilled drink with napkins and piling salad back onto her plate, Melissa found herself looking over at him, unable—even if she wanted—to take her eyes from him.

“Do you always do this when you’re eating out, or should we order in tonight?”

Melissa felt her skin turn red again. She laughed. The chat-up line sounded well used and favored, like a worn paperback read many times. She knew she couldn’t have been the first recipient, but she could not help but smile.

Melissa knew she wasn’t perfect looking, but she wasn’t bad, either. She had never had much trouble getting dates in high school, and she had had several short-lived relationships over the last few years. Men had been interested, but most of the time she had not reciprocated, especially when one seemed a little cocky, ripe with chat-up lines. In that moment, though, she found she didn’t care about all of that. She felt good about him, whoever he was. The warm smile, the way he had rushed over to help her…all of that certainly helped, but there was more than that to it, she knew.

Something in his eyes. She felt a chemical spark when he looked into hers. A connection.

She didn’t spend longer than three seconds finding the words to answer him. “I could do with a pizza, if you want to go halves,” she had said, playfully smiling at him.

That had been that. Simple and quick and uncomplicated, the two of them had joined souls. The pizza, as it turned out, wasn’t in either of their homes, but in a small, Italian restaurant that Mark said was his favorite.

Despite her nervousness, the words flowed, their mood melted, and it all felt so perfect and right. Nothing was hard about it. Melissa thought back to other dates she had been on over the years. Some she considered had gone very well, but none like this; this felt different.

Adult. Mature. Real.

They had been a couple ever since.

Mark had been so at ease back then. At the time, he seemed so carefree, flirtatious, and warm. The sex had been something out of this world, she recalled.

That was Mark. Funny. Always ready with a witty remark. Sexy without even knowing it. He had stolen her heart, and Melissa knew the day she met him, she felt complete. Whole.

She didn’t want to lose that. He was still there, still with her now. The real him was buried behind the troubles they now faced.

She wasn’t ready to let go of that. She knew with a steady resolve that she would do anything to save her marriage. Anything to save Mark. Closing her eyes, Melissa fell into a steady sleep, the memories stirring beneath her eyelids as she travelled into her dreams.

* * * *

Something, movement, snapped her out of her sleep, and she opened her eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness around her. It was the middle of the night. The bedside alarm clock blinked its red glow beside her, and it told her it was almost 3:00 AM.

Something had woken her, pulled her from the deep sleep she had fallen into, but she didn’t know what. Movement again, from the hallway outside the room. Melissa sat up in bed and looked over at Mark. He appeared to be asleep; his breathing was deep and steady, his back rising and falling with each nocturnal breath.

Something shuffled outside the door. Melissa strained her ears, listened closely, but she couldn’t discern what it was. Slightly nervous but now suddenly wide awake, Melissa peeled back the duvet carefully and lifted her legs over the side of the large bed, until her bare feet met the floor.

She stood up and inched slowly to the bedroom door. She pressed her ear to it, listening. Yes, there is something, she thought, wondering whether to wake Mark. What if someone had broken in? Something about the sound stopped her. It didn’t sound like robbers salvaging through her belongings; it sounded light, careful, deliberate. Had a cat managed to get in, scratching at the door?

Melissa realized she had been holding her breath, and she released it. She reached for the door handle and twisted it, pulling it open. It squeaked into the night, echoing through the room, and she turned to Mark to see if it had woken him. He seemed undisturbed, lost in his dream.

Stepping into the hallway, into the darkness and shadows, Melissa pushed away thoughts of night-intruders and robbers. It was stupid; they had an alarm, which was set each night. It would have been blaring by now, barking its siren into the night. It wasn’t that they had much to steal, although the property was nice—a large, two bedroom home with a large lawn, conservatory, and a lounge to die for, according to Mark—but the charm and look of the home probably told people passing by that it might contain plenty of valuables. In truth, other than an expensive sound system and a 50” widescreen television, there was nothing of significant value at all.

Melissa closed the bedroom door behind her and started descending the stairs. She paused, half-way down, listening. More noise from downstairs. It sounded like someone walking…no, shuffling along the carpet. It scared her. Was there somebody there?

“Hello? I will call the police. My husband is upstairs.” Her voice sounded small, gulped up into the dark silence around her. If anybody had been there, they wouldn’t have felt frightened by her. Not sounding like that.

She continued down the stairs, more loudly, trying to display a feeling of confidence. She fumbled for the light switch and snapped it on. Light flooded the hallway. Nobody was there.

Melissa walked toward the lounge, feeling more reassured. She started to push open the door, when she heard another noise from within. Shit. She took a deep breath and pushed it open.

The room was a blanket of pitch black, but her heart thudded wildly—too fast—when she saw the outline of a figure standing in the corner of the room.

Chapter Six

Melissa let out a wild, guttural scream and flipped on the light switch. She looked about her, frantically scanning the room in front of her, but the tall, shadowy figure had disappeared, as if it melted away by her very presence.

Mark came pounding down the stairs, tying the strings of his robe together. His eyes were wide, scared. “What the hell is going on?” he cried, breaking into a run toward her. “What’s happening?”

Melissa turned from Mark back to the lounge, staring, a hand against her chest. “There was somebody here.”

Mark reached her, peering into the lounge. The empty lounge. “What? There’s nobody here.”

His tone angered her—so controlled, enlightened. You didn’t see what I saw, she thought, as she crept quietly into the room. She checked behind the door, behind the sofa, then turned back to Mark. “I saw somebody. I’m not lying. I swear. Somebody tall was standing right in there in the room, as if…”

“As if what?” Mark asked, padding into the room and plopping himself onto the sofa.

“As if he was waiting.”

“He?”

Melissa sighed. “Yes, he.”

“So, you saw this person? You know it was a man?” he asked, as if he was an investigator, trying to pry the facts from her.

Melissa left the lounge and headed into the kitchen. She turned the light on there and peered around the room, cautious, nervous.

“If he left the lounge, you’d have seen him pass you,” Mark commented, trailing behind her.

Melissa leaned back against the kitchen workbench, rubbing her eyes. “Shit, Mark. Somebody was here.”

“Somebody broke in, you mean? Come on. You’re not making sense!”

Melissa dropped her hands from her eyes and looked over at Mark. She knew he was strong, knew what he was capable of, but she felt so annoyed at him in that moment, she wanted to slap him. “What’s not to understand? I was sleeping, I heard some noise, so I came downstairs, went into the lounge, and saw somebody. Trust me, somebody was here.”

Mark plugged in the kettle and switched it on. It whirred to life, bringing the water to bubbles as he spoke. “So where is he? If he was in the lounge, there’s no way out for him. Not without you or I seeing him, anyway.”

“So you keep saying. I don’t know. Why do you think I am so freaked out? That’s the whole point, isn’t it? That somebody was here, and now he isn’t…”

“You’re saying he disappeared, then. Into thin air. Do you know how that sounds?”

Melissa ran a hand through her hair, suddenly feeling tired and wanting to be on her own. What she had seen frightened her—badly—and she knew Mark wasn’t taking her seriously.

“You were tired, probably still half-asleep,” Mark said, throwing a spoonful of coffee into his mug and pouring in the water. Steam rose from it, and the fragrance of coffee filled the kitchen. A smell she usually found beautiful made her feel suddenly nauseous. “Do you want one?” he asked, looking over at her.

Melissa shook her head no. “I’m going back to bed,” she said, turning to leave the kitchen. “I need some sleep.”

She didn’t say it to him and never would, but that night, she lay awake as the hours passed, unable to get any sleep. To even shut her eyes, after seeing the figure in her lounge, seemed a frightening thing to do.

* * * *

When she awoke the next morning, Mark was still sleeping soundly beside her. He was wearing nothing except a pair of briefs. The duvet was strewn across his body, knotted and messy from a long night of tossing and turning. She knew she needed to get up for work, but she remained there for a moment, just staring at him. Her husband. The man she loved.

She thought about last night, the way she had overheard him talking to himself. The figure she saw in the lounge. The thoughts came out from the shadows of her tired mind and stirred something in her; nervous, tense energy. They were just more things to worry her, upset her. She knew she had seen somebody in the room. Yes, it had been dark, but she trusted her eyes. Melissa knew she wasn’t somebody to leap to conclusions, to latch onto weird, fantastical ideas, but what she saw was real. That scared her more than anything. To feel like her home had been invaded was one thing…but whoever it was…whatever it was had literally disappeared before her eyes. What that meant, she didn’t even want to know. Even Mark had looked at her like she was insane.

Maybe I am going mad, she thought, propping herself up and looking over at Mark. He stirred slightly, moaned something under his breath, and then fell silent. Watching him there made her miss him deeply, and she realized that for months now, he had been distancing himself from her. She had been losing him piece by piece, inch by inch. It had been a gradual thing, but it was happening, and she felt powerless to altar the path he was on. It wasn’t just the way he had been recently, with his temper. The way he had struck out at her—although that had dented something in their marriage, destroyed her trust in him, and she wondered if something like that could be repaired—but it was also the way he seemed to be far away.

So distant.

The other side of the world.

Most of the time, unless he was answering her questions or forced to talk about something, he would clam up, appearing lost in his thoughts. Sometimes, she would talk to him and feel as if she had been interrupting something that was going on for him beneath the surface.

He seemed quiet, withdrawn, and irritable. The hitting was a new thing but it had to stop, because she was not going to become a statistic, and she refused to become victim. She might love him, but she couldn’t let it carry on. Something had to change and soon, or the dents he was driving into their relationship would become permanent scars that no marriage counselor could heal. Permanent damage. So far, he had physically hit her twice. Before that, he had just been irritable, angry, and quick to work himself up into a frenzy. Sometimes, things get too broken, and the pieces can’t be glued together, again. Melissa knew that if Mark carried on, or if he became worse, their lives would shatter before her eyes, and she would walk away. She would have to.

They weren’t there. They weren’t at that point, yet. Melissa felt hope. Since moving into the new home—it had been a year, but she still referred to it as the “new” home—Mark had changed. Melissa seriously considered that maybe stress was at the heart of his problems. She knew what stress could do to a person. Mood swings. Depression. Heart problems. Some people even became suicidal. She could count on her hands and feet the number of times somebody had come into ICU, because they had attempted suicide as a result of stress at home or work. Mark had been stressed, and he did have a lot going on. They worked so hard to save up the deposit for the house. Mark worked full-time as courier, and he had been taking on more and more jobs. Sometimes, he would be on the road for 15 hours a day. It was too much, and she saw the way it had drained him.

That was a year ago, but Mark was still putting in long hours. He always spoke of wanting a better life for the both of them, wanting to decorate the house, to create “their little slice of heaven”, as he had once put it. Sometimes, Melissa would tell him to take things easy, and more than once he said, “I need to work. Your wages aren’t nearly enough to get us on track.” He hadn’t meant anything by it, but it had felt like a punch in the stomach when he said it. Melissa loved nursing, and although she was poorly paid, she enjoyed it. Melissa didn’t want to give up a job she enjoyed in favor of money. That’s just the way she was. Money had never driven her; it was just one of life’s necessary evils. Mark had always been more financially motivated, and Melissa was just happy paying the mortgage and bills and saving up for a cheap holiday every year. That just wasn’t enough for him.

Long hours on the road surely couldn’t be good for his health, Melissa contemplated. She imagined being stuck behind the wheel, driving on busy roads from one place to the next, sometimes without taking a single break.

There had to be more to it than that, she surmised. He was a courier before they met; he had been relaxed then, had never raised a hand to her. If he had, she was sure she wouldn’t have gone through with marrying him. She would have walked out like any sensible woman, but things were different. They had a relationship, a marriage. They had built a life together—a life that, up until recently, had been everything she wanted. That was hard to give up on, hard to walk away from.

Whatever the issue was, Melissa felt a quiet certainty that there was something causing it—something real, tangible—and that by standing by him, she could help him through it, help him to get back to the man she married and loved, and help him get back to being himself.

She reached out and ran her hand along his arm, feeling the warm skin beneath hers and sighed. I will help him, she thought, leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek. She would try. She at least owed him that much.

* * * *

After quickly getting dressed and eating breakfast, Melissa left for work, leaving Mark sleeping upstairs. He hadn’t been called in for a delivery yet, and she thought she should let him sleep.

Outside, the air was bitter cold, and the ground twinkled under a coating of ice. She drove to the hospital in silence and realized when she pulled into the parking lot that she had been on auto-pilot the whole way there, as if her mind had taken an absence. It was most likely due to tiredness, but it always scared Melissa when she snapped out of moments like that, realizing that mentally she had been far away, inaccessible to the world around her.

She parked and headed to the ICU.

Sharon was the first person she saw as she entered the ward. “Are you free after work?” Melissa asked, approaching her at the nurse’s station.

Sharon smiled. “You mean he’s letting you off the leash?”

Melissa sighed, ignoring the remark. “Do you want to go out for a drink after work?”

Sharon nodded. “Okay, sure.”

Melissa smiled and arranged to meet Sharon after her shift was over. She went over to the Patient Board to see who was under her care that day, and her heart sank when she saw that the name of the man who had been admitted yesterday had been wiped off, leaving a trail of faded green ink from the board marker. So many die, she thought, grabbing a pair of gloves from a box. Too many die.

Her patient’s name was Mrs. Elsie Down. She looked frail, as if she would crumble under the slightest pressure. Her skin looked gray, thin, and taut, stretched over bones that jutted from beneath. Melissa had been assigned to take care of her personal hygiene that morning, and her heart sank when she looked down at the woman; she was barely breathing, her body littered with tubes and wires that seemed to lead to nowhere. Melissa had checked over her file that morning and read that she had had a serious stroke.

The woman, who according to the file was turning 62 in four days time, groaned every now and then, her eyes twitching and her mouth turning downward, as if something bad was happening beneath the veil of sleep.

God only knew what nightmare she might be trapped in. Surely that’s what it must be, Melissa thought, staring down at her—a nightmare. To be held prisoner by your own thoughts, your own mind, unable to do anything.

Pure hell.

She was unconscious, alive only in her mind.

Melissa pulled the nursing trolley closer to the side of the bed and soaked a white, flannel washcloth in the hot, soapy water she had poured into the bowl a moment ago. She began wiping the woman’s face and felt a sadness briefly as she wondered what kind of life this woman had had on the outside—who she had loved, what she had done, and where she had been. Those kinds of questions always haunted her when she worked with patients. Other nurses had told her that Melissa’s concern and emotional involvement would pass; if it was true, it didn’t feel that way, yet.

Melissa leaned forward, wiping down the woman’s arms and hands with the damp cloth.

The woman’s eyes suddenly snapped open, and one hand reached out, like a gnarled, misshapen claw, grasping at her arm.

Melissa stumbled backward, dropping the cloth to the floor. It hit the tiles with a wet plop.

“Mrs. Down, I thought you—”

The old woman clenched her hand tightly over Melissa’s, and she smiled, revealing a set of yellow, decaying teeth.

“He will kill you,” she rasped, gasping for breath. “Do you want to die? Do you? Do you want to die?”

Melissa pushed aside the nursing trolley and ran. As she disappeared down the corridor, she could have sworn she heard the old woman cackling, laughing at the fear she had invoked.

Chapter Seven

The bar was crowded. Even though it was a little after 5:00 PM—a time that Melissa guessed would have been quiet—many people filled the stools by the bar, clustered around the tables that lined the walls and chatting together in small groups.

The smell of cigarettes hung heavily in the air around them. Puffs of gray lingered above people’s heads as they lit up for another smoke. Most of the customers were dressed smartly, obviously coming straight from work for a drink to unwind, to forget the day as each drink melted into their bloodstreams. Relaxing, letting go. An urban ritual of cleansing from their hectic lives.

Melissa wove her way through the crowded bar, following behind Sharon as she hunted for a free table. She had spotted one at the far end, a little further away from the others. They quickly went over and sat down before anyone else could grab it. Sharon handed Melissa her glass of vodka and cola—Melissa had promised to have just the one, because she would be driving home—and took a big mouthful of her own drink, a gin and tonic.

“So what happened today?” Sharon asked, raising her voice so Melissa could hear above the noise of chatter around them. “You nearly knocked old Harrow over running down the ward like that. She didn’t look pleased.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. Rachel Harrow always looked pissed off about something, she thought. Managers always did. “Nothing. I just felt sick, and I needed to get to the toilet.”

Melissa wanted to change the subject. The old woman scared the hell out of her. Grabbing her like that, and the words she said…Melissa couldn’t deny the way it felt, as if she had known, had understood what was going on between Melissa and Mark…but how could she know that? Mrs. Down was an old woman that Melissa had never set eyes on before.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Sharon said, leaning forward and propping her elbows on the table.

“What is it with you? Every time I see you, you’re full of questions. Can’t we just enjoy our drinks?”

Sharon sighed, tucked her almost platinum blonde hair behind her ears, and pushed strands away from her face. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all. Is that such a bad thing? Shit, the way you ran through the ward, Mel. It looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

Melissa took a sip of her drink. “It was the old woman, that’s all.”

“Elsie Down? The stroke?”

Melissa nodded. “Yeah. I was washing her down, and suddenly she just…I don’t know. She grabbed me, and I wasn’t expecting it. Then, she started saying that I was going to die.”

Melissa stared down at her drink. She didn’t want to know what Sharon thought, didn’t want to read judgment behind her eyes. She already knew Sharon thought she was weak for not leaving Mark, and now she was being rattled by an old pensioner. She suddenly felt like a freak—damaged and strange, somehow.

Sharon was silent for a moment, then said, “I don’t get it...”

Melissa drained her glass and pushed it aside. “I should go. I’m tired.”

Sharon reached over, placing her hand over Melissa’s. “She was never conscious the whole time since her admission.”

“What are you saying?” Melissa knew exactly what she was saying. That it couldn’t have happened, and she must have been mistaken.

Sharon shrugged. “It’s weird.”

“You don’t believe me. I get it,” Melissa said, rubbing her eyes. She felt tired, worn out after lying awake all night.

“I don‘t know what to think, to be honest.”

Melissa laughed. “Well, it happened. The old woman took a lunge for me. That’s why I reacted the way I did. That’s the end of it.”

“What she said—do you think it meant anything?”

Melissa shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Mark.”

“He wouldn’t kill me! For Christ’s sake, Sharon! What are you saying? That this old woman is psychic? That she knows something we don’t? I’ve got an open mind, but that’s taking it a bit too far.” She said the words, but beneath them, she had felt frightened. A sense of foreboding overwhelmed her. It had been too much of a coincidence, but she felt wary of letting Sharon know that. She had already been doubted by Mark about what she had seen in the lounge the night before. It felt ugly to be disbelieved, and she didn’t want to get into a situation like that here.

“You misunderstand me,” Sharon said, leaning forward. “I…Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think that maybe on some subconscious level, you’re frightened of Mark and this is somehow your mind’s way of trying to get you to act on what’s been happening?”

“In other words, you think I imagined what she said,” Melissa retorted. Here we go. Doubted again.

“Look, you’re going through some serious shit at the moment, and that’s got to be messing with your head. It has to be. You’d have to be superhuman for it not to be.”

“I know. Things aren’t exactly easy, but I know when a woman wakes up and talks to me. I’m not crazy.”

“I know.” Sharon seemed defeated as she sank back into the chair and tapped her fingers on the table.

“I’m sorry,” Melissa said, feeling slightly guilty at the way she had spoken to Sharon. Sharon was a good friend to her; strong, supportive, and a good ally at work. She wanted to help her—what Melissa was perceiving as annoying questions was simply Sharon’s way of trying to help out, of trying to get answers. “I just know what I saw and what I heard. It scared me, and I think if one of our patients said that to you, then you’d feel the same.”

Sharon nodded. “Do you want another drink?” she asked.

Melissa shook her head. “I need a clear head for driving,” she reminded her. “Are you okay, Sharon? I am sorry I’ve pissed you off…”

“I’m just worried. For you.”

“Don’t be. I’ll worry about me.”

“I can’t help it.”

Melissa smiled. “You can take Elsie tomorrow though, yeah? I think it’d be helpful if you took her on as your patient.”

Sharon’s eyes fell to the floor, and she winced.

“Sharon?”

“I won’t need to take her on as a patient, but neither will you.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s dead,” Sharon said flatly, her eyes still averted from her friend’s gaze.

“Dead? Shit. When?”

“That’s the thing,” Sharon said, her voice low and hesitant, “She died earlier today. When you went to clean her, she’d already…”

Melissa felt sick, knowing what was coming next. “She was dead when I was cleaning her?”

Sharon nodded. “Nobody told you, but I don’t know how that got missed. The porters hadn‘t collected her for the morgue, yet. I guess no one had gotten around to wrapping the body and—”

“But…that’s stupid. It’s not possible. She woke up. I saw her breathing.”

Sharon paused, then looked into her friend’s eyes at last. Melissa saw worry in them, concern. “That’s why what you said didn’t make sense,” she said. “When Elsie grabbed you, told you that you would die or whatever, she had already been dead for fifteen minutes.”

Chapter Eight

Am I going crazy? Those four words kept travelling in a loop inside her mind, ingraining themselves so strongly into her thoughts that Melissa couldn’t avoid facing them. Maybe I am going crazy.

Except, she knew that she wasn’t. She knew she was the same person she always had been—it was everything else, everyone else around her that was changing, making impossible things possible. If there was one thing she trusted, it was herself.

Maybe Sharon had been mistaken, she reasoned as she opened her car door and sank into the driver’s seat. Elsie might have died, but it must have been afterward. It had to have been afterward. Please God, let it have been afterward.

She inserted her keys into the ignition and noticed for the first time that her hands were shaking. “Shit.” She pulled the car door shut, rested her hands on the steering wheel, and took a deep breath. “Get your head together, Melissa,” she scolded herself, “Keep it together.”

She had to get home. She needed a bath to wash the day away.

Melissa pulled out and switched on the radio. She didn’t want to be left to her thoughts. Not now.

The roads were clearer than she expected; a lot of the rush hour traffic had dissipated, and only a few cars passed alongside her as she drove. By the time she pulled up outside her house, it was getting dark. Splatters of rain spat against the car windows, hammering heavily as if the fluid were made of stone.

She stepped out of the car and ran to the front door, wincing as the rain plummeted in heavy plumes against her clothes and through to her skin. She opened the door and threw off her coat once she was inside. She dropped her bag and keys onto the bottom stairs as she passed through the hall into the kitchen. It was empty. She backed into the hallway and through to the lounge; it too was empty. The television was on but muted. Mark had to be home, she thought. She was home later than normal, she knew, but he would have called if he was going to be on a late delivery or pickup at work.

Late nights were not unusual for Mark—he earned more working late, accepting jobs the other guys didn‘t want—but he always told her. He wouldn’t have left the TV on all day, either.

“Mark?” she called from the bottom of the stairs. She felt cold, damp to the skin, and she wanted to get out of her clothes and into something warm.

Melissa stepped over her bag and climbed the stairs. “Mark?”

No reply.

Maybe he had arrived home, had a call from the office to make a delivery, and had left again in a hurry. Except that was all wrong. She could see his work clothes sprawled across the bed in a messy heap.

She stepped into the bedroom and lifted the clothes off the bed. She threw them onto the floor, annoyed at his sloppiness and his laziness, which had become more apparent over the last few months. She heard something behind her and twisted around.

It was Mark. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, watching her.

“Pick them up,” he said, staring at her.

“What?” Melissa said, startled by his sudden appearance. Had he been hiding? Waiting for her to come up and find him? Why hadn’t he answered when she called out for him?

“My clothes that you just threw on the floor. Pick them up, again. Is that how you treat my things?”

Melissa felt sick. Not like this. Not again. She could not handle Mark this way….not now.

She hesitated for a moment, her mind trying to think up ways to break the weird atmosphere between them, to break the tension in Mark’s eyes. He looked infuriated.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, and realized how stupid that sounded. Something was wrong—with him. Lately, something always was.

He remained there, by the doorway, his fists clenched into tight balls. His eyes narrowed, and his skin flushed red. Melissa watched him and thought he looked ugly that way. Mark was a good-looking man. He had never been short of female attention. He was charming, and he had a warm smile. Beautiful eyes. The way he was now, it was as if something disfiguring in him from beneath had swum to the surface. She felt scared. Every muscle inside her body ached with tension.

“You don’t treat my things with respect,” he said, his voice quiet and controlled. “You don’t treat me with respect.”

Melissa remained there, by the bed, frozen to the spot. Her skin felt itchy from the wet clothes that clung to her. Every now and then, a drop of rain fell from her hair, ran down her chest, and down her neck. “I do respect you, Mark. What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

He stepped into the room, closer to her. His fists still remained at his side. “You called Sharon last night, didn’t you?” he said.

Melissa felt empty, void. She didn’t know what to think or say, so she said nothing.

Mark stepped forward, again. She could smell wine on his breath. “Last night, when I heard you on the phone, you told me Sharon called you. I checked your mobile phone.” Mark looked down, fished in his pockets, and produced Melissa’s mobile phone.

“How did you get that?” she asked.

Mark ignored her question. He held up the mobile phone in his hand as if it was an award, a trophy. “I checked your dialed numbers. You phoned her up. That bitch.”

Melissa felt sick. She felt the drink she had in the bar rise in her throat. It tasted acidic, bitter. “I…just got mixed up. It doesn’t matter, does it? I just phoned for a chat, and then she asked about us going for a drink. What difference does this really make?”

“That’s why you’re home late, is it?” Mark snarled, throwing the mobile phone onto the floor. It hit the carpet with a dull thud.

Melissa took a step back, nodding. “Yeah, we just went out for a drink. Just one. Then, I came back. It doesn’t matter, does it?” she asked a second time, trying to sound casual, trying to make light of whatever darkness had covered the room between them. “It isn’t a bad thing that I called her. Is it? You said I could go out with her!”

Mark laughed; it sounded dark and menacing. “What’s bad,” he said, now only inches away from her, “is that you lied to me. You lied to me and made things up. I can’t trust you.”

Melissa forced a smile. “You can trust me, I swear. It’s only Sharon, Mark. You know Sharon.”

“I don’t like people lying to me. Why would you do that? That’s the real issue here. Why lie about something little like that?”

Melissa was about to answer, when she realized Mark didn’t want one. He leaned in close to her, running a hand though her hair. “Make it up to me,” he said, his voice hard and emotionless.

“How?” her voice was weak, shaky, and she hated herself for allowing herself to seem so defenseless, so under his power. She felt like a frightened child under his cruel eyes. She wanted to push him away—to kick him, whack him, tell him to get out—when all she said was “How?”

Mark kissed her gently on the cheek. “You know how,” he said, and pressed against her. Melissa could feel the bulge from his pants and knew what he wanted. She felt sick when she realized that this would be better than getting hit. Sex would be better than another split lip.

She lowered herself onto her knees, and with shaking hands, began to unzip Mark’s jeans. She pulled them down to the floor, and he stepped out of them. His penis poked beneath the material of his briefs. She lowered them and began to take him into her mouth when she suddenly felt a huge blow to the back of her head.

Numb for a moment, she felt her head explode with pain. Tiny dots of light floated in front of her eyes. She realized after a moment of feeling stunned that he had punched her. She fell backwards and raised her hand to her face. She felt for blood, but there was none.

“You’re a bitch,” he spat at her, his voice loud. She didn’t recognize his voice; it was a deep, booming rasp.

He reached down and pulled her onto the bed, his face contorted into a mask of rage. “I don’t like bitches who lie, bitches who don’t respect my things!”

Melissa tried to hold back tears. “Please, Mark. Don’t hurt me.”

It was as if he never heard her. He crawled onto the bed beside her and tugged at the damp clothes she was wearing until they came off, and then he threw them onto the floor.

“Please, Mark. My head…you’ve hurt me.” Melissa winced as another wave of pain crashed against her skull.

Mark, ignoring her, yanked at her bra and pulled it off, all the while laughing—the most insane, unsettling, frightening part of it all, Melissa thought—as he threw them to the side. She was completely naked, now.

Mark, covering her mouth with his hand, thrust himself inside her, deep and hard. Melissa thought about how it smelled of vanilla soap, normally her favorite smell.

“Mark, you’re hurting me,” she tried to say, but the words came out all wrong, muffled and lost beneath the weight of his hand.

His body, pressing her down and pinning her against the bed, felt like a weight she could not bear. He thrust inside her, hard and fast, his other hand pulling at her hair. It hurt and made her wince.

“You have some fucking making up to do,” he rasped in her ear as he violently, and with force, hammered himself inside her.

Melissa closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pain as he raped her with such force that she felt sharp pains searing inside her with each unforgiving, ferocious movement.

Her head still throbbed from where he whacked her. Throbbing, hammering behind her skull.

“A lot of making up to do,” he whispered, pulling himself off of her.

He stood up and looked over at her with an air of disgust. “Go and wash yourself,” he said. “Then, you can cook me something to eat.”

Chapter Nine

After locking herself in the bathroom—this room lately seemed to be her only refuge from the craziness that had taken over her life—Melissa climbed into the bath. The hot, soapy water felt good as it covered her body that now felt bruised, achy, and sore. She leaned her head against the back of the bathtub and closed her eyes.

The pain was still there. Everywhere. The right side of her head still throbbed violently in protest where Mark had whacked her. Down below, where he had viciously entered and raped her, she felt sore. Never before, until today, had she ever felt violated by Mark. Hurt, yes, but never violated. Right now, she felt a desperate hate for the man, a hate she had not realized she had been capable of feeling. Before stepping into the tub, she had seen drops of blood between her legs, trickling down her thighs. The sight had made her gag, but no vomit came. Only the sour bile rose in her throat from the drink she had earlier in the evening.

From what she could hear, Mark was downstairs watching TV. It was something he increasingly did in the evenings, now. That was something else Melissa had noticed that had changed in him; whenever Mark returned from work, he used to keep the TV off, preferring to play a CD in the background while he relaxed in the lounge with her, chatting about the day over a glass of wine. They would talk about the business—about anything—but it had been nice. She had enjoyed the attention, the way he had—even after years together—seemed focused on her, eager to hear her talk, and to share their thoughts and feelings. That had died months ago with the onset of Mark’s temper and violence.

Now, after work, he limply sat in front of the TV set, totally lost in whatever crap he was watching, and it was crap. All of it. Lately, though, he seemed to now enjoy that more than talking to her. He would stare at the screen with an empty, absent gaze, and Melissa often wondered if he was even watching the show; he seemed so far away.

Melissa ran her hand along the right side of her head. There. She could feel it, now. A lump was beginning to form underneath the hairline. “He was smarter this time,” she said to herself. “Nobody will be able to see this one.” She pressed at the lump and then jerked in pain. It felt like she had been hammered, and yet Mark’s own hands had done the job.

Reaching for the washcloth, Melissa lathered some soap onto it and began wiping down her body, rubbing the soap along her arms, breasts, stomach, and legs. She deliberately avoided in between her legs, as if touching there would somehow make things worse. She dropped the washcloth onto the side, and without knowing it was even on its way, began sobbing heavily.

She covered her face with her hands, trying to stifle the sound of her crying out of fear of Mark hearing her and wanting to punish her for doing even that.

Her whole body trembled, sending small waves across the bath water as she sobbed. She realized this had been building up for some time, that from trying so hard to be strong, logical, and hopeful, she had denied herself the chance to mourn the things that had happened, had not allowed herself to lick her wounds, or to let go and feel what she needed to feel.

Behind even that, what upset her most was the love she still felt for Mark. The way she missed him. How she needed him back to being the man he was when they met.

If he couldn’t be who he was—if that person didn’t exist anymore—then, she would have to leave. She couldn’t live like this much longer. Sharon was right—she deserved better than this, was stronger than this.

Melissa took a deep breath, wiped away the tears, and splashed her face with the warm bathwater. She had to get out and get on with things, at least for now. Downstairs, she could still hear the loud blaring of the TV. At least he was occupied with that rather than being up here moaning, cajoling her.

Melissa stepped out of the bath and grabbed the bath towel. She quickly ran it up and down her body, dried herself off, then pulled on a plain sweater and jeans.

Her hair still damp, she wrapped a towel over her head and winced in pain as it tightened against the lump. It was going to hurt for days, she knew.

She quietly opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. She listened for a moment. The TV was still on.

Melissa took a deep breath, and unsteady at first on her feet, she began descending the stairs. I have to just get through this, somehow, she thought. Even just tonight. Nothing can be done right now, she knew. You could call the police and get the hell out of there. She imagined Sharon scolding her, and her friend would be right. Maybe that was what she needed to do, but not yet. Not now and not like this. Although she admitted her hope of helping Mark change—or at least get help—somehow seemed distant and barely alive, it still lived on there, somewhere, soaked in memories of how happy they’d been up until recently.

She reached the downstairs hallway and stopped in front of the lounge, peering through the doorway.

Mark was standing by the window, his back to her. He was facing the glass, staring outside. Rain spat against the window like the sound of tiny fists against glass. The TV was blaring the evening news loudly, but behind that, Melissa could hear a voice—Marks voice, mumbling.

She went in, picked up the TV remote and muted the sound. Mark didn’t turn, didn’t move, didn’t say anything.

Melissa turned to him. She felt nervous. Unsure. “Mark?”

He didn’t move, didn’t respond. She could hear his voice, low and barely a whisper, as if he was talking to himself. “Mark?” she said louder this time, taking a step closer.

He was frozen, as if he was made of stone. His back still to her, he continued mumbling, but Melissa couldn’t hear what he was saying. She stepped closer to him, slowly, hesitantly. “Mark?”

She was beside him, now. She looked up at his face. The way he stared at the glass, his eyes seemed dead, flat, and unseeing. His face looked blank, like an empty page. Melissa couldn’t read anything there.

“Mark, are you okay?” I’m worried about him after what he did tonight? Disgusted with herself but still unable to walk away, Melissa remained beside him.

He still didn’t respond, but he whispered, his face pressed to the glass.

Inching closer now, despite the nerves in her warning her to back away, she strained her ears to listen.

Standing there, her body close to his, she could hear the words that tumbled out of his mouth. Like broken fragments of glass, they felt sharp as she realized what he was saying.

“Blood, I want more blood. Blood…I want more blood. I want more blood. Give me more blood. Give. Me. Your. Blood. I’ll drain your blood, Melissa.”

Melissa backed away, frightened of the being in front of her and wondering if she knew this monster at all.

Chapter Ten

He was younger that she expected. Melissa expected psychiatrists to be old men with gray hair and glasses. Stuffy men that lived alone with piles of literature, distant from the outside world. The man in front of her was nothing like that.

After what had happened the night before with Mark—the way he had slipped into that trance—she had decided right then and there, during her lunch break on shift, she’d try and catch the hospital’s main psychiatrist, Dr. Josh Howell. She had called him in the morning after tracking down his number, asking if he had a spare ten minutes during his lunch break. He agreed, asking Melissa to come see him in his office at one that afternoon.

His office was on the second floor of the main hospital, the first of a long line of offices she had no reason to visit before. There was a strong smell of bleach along the corridor. It was pungent, almost stinging her eyes. As she passed by, she noted the nameplates on the doors. This was the main area for the psychologists, psychiatrists, and counselors employed by the hospital. Although many of those professionals worked in other wards—such as the mental health unit, the A & E department, and in the community—they were based here, at the rear of the second floor.

Dr. Josh Howell’s office was bright, colorful, and charming, which surprised her. There were no dull rows of books behind him, no gray sofa lining the wall. Instead, there was a huge window bleeding in bright light from the sun outside, two large plants looming in two corners behind the desk—giving the room life—and the walls were painted a light orange color. It all seemed at odds with what she had come to expect in a psychiatrist’s office.

What had shocked her more though, as she knocked, entered, and took a seat opposite the man, was how youthful and energetic he looked. Melissa guessed he must have been newly qualified, but she didn’t say anything as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She placed her handbag on the floor beside her feet and smiled. “Thanks for seeing me.”

Dr. Howell smiled, too, and it seemed to be sincere to her, warm. His eyes were bright blue, a stark contrast to his thick, black hair. A light carpet of stubble ran the length of his cheeks down to his chin, and he leaned forward on the desk, seeming eager to hear what she had to say. “No problem at all. I usually stay here on my lunch break, anyway,” he said. “I’m like a sad school kid, locking myself away with a packed lunch and avoiding the big kids.”

Melissa laughed. “The big kids? Who are they?”

He laughed breezily. “The more senior of the psych department,” he said. “They are a bloody bore to eat with at lunch. I prefer to stay here.”

“I don’t blame you,” Melissa said. She felt nervous being there. More than that, she felt like she was betraying Mark, somehow. She was there to talk about him, about his change in behavior, and the things he was doing. If he knew, he’d never forgive her. If he knew, she would be hurt, badly.

Melissa fiddled nervously with her wedding band, which was something she did went she felt on edge. The psychiatrist narrowed his eyes on her, then said, “You look like you are worried.”

Melissa forced a smile, but she knew it was a weakened effort, anything but real. She felt conscious of herself, of every move and smile, of every word. These mental health professionals were trained to read something into everything. She wasn’t sure she liked that. “I am worried,” she said at last. “That’s why I need to talk to you. I appreciate this, Doctor.”

He waved his arm, “No, call me Josh. Please.”

Melissa met his eyes and nodded. “Josh, I need to get your opinion on something, but it’s…delicate. What I mean is, I work here, and if what I said got out, then I…basically, it would not only be embarrassing, but people could potentially get hurt.” I could get hurt.

Josh smiled. “Listen. I wouldn’t tell a soul. What you tell me in this office, it’s private. I’m a professional, Melissa, but on top of that, I’m a decent person, and this will go no further than these four walls, unless you request differently.”

Melissa sighed. She still felt nervous, but better now than when she first arrived. She stared at the window, watching as the sun sent shadows scattering across the lawn outside, feeling the warm rays penetrate the office, sending heat across her skin. Lately, there had been nothing but rain, but today was turning into a beautiful day.

“It’s my husband,” she said at last, desperate to say what she needed to say, wanting to get it out of the way. “He has changed a lot over the past year, but it’s becoming more extreme as time goes on. I’m worried about him.”

Josh nodded. Sitting back in his chair, he folded his hands in his lap. He looked relaxed, open, even interested. “How so?”

“We moved into our house about a year ago. It was then that things changed, but it was nothing major at first. Initially, he just started becoming stressed, agitated, and frustrated at silly things.”

“And now?”

“Now, he has more of a temper. Small things set him off. He gets angry really quickly. It’s not like him at all. He used to be so laid back, placid, a gentle soul.”

“How long have you known him?”

Melissa paused, thinking back. “Just under six years, now.”

“No sign of a temper before?” Josh asked.

Melissa shook her head no. “Not at all. He was the most easy-going person you could imagine. Now, he’s on edge all of the time.”

Josh leaned forward again, nodding. “Nothing in particular seems to get his temper going?”

“No. It could be anything.” Actually, it seems to be me. Anything I do.

Josh fell silent, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. “There’s more?”

It felt like an accusation. Melissa felt her heart thud. It felt heavy in her chest, like a trapped bird in a cage, beating to get out. She knew then that she couldn’t mention the violence. It just didn’t feel right to tell a stranger this. Despite his promise to keep everything confidential, she wondered if he would abide by that if he knew her husband had beat her, raped her. Didn’t Josh, as a professional, have a duty of care? Maybe he did, but right now she wasn’t his patient. Confused, Melissa decided she would not venture in that direction.

“The thing that has bothered me the most,” Melissa said, still fiddling with her silver wedding band, “is that he has been sort of…talking to himself.”

Josh raised his eyebrows. “I assume this is something new?”

Melissa nodded. “Yeah, and it’s not normal. I mean, I have gone into a room before, and he’ll be talking to himself, but lately he seems mentally far away, like I couldn’t get his attention even if I hit him. He seems distant.”

“What sorts of things does he talk about, to himself?”

Melissa swallowed hard. Didn’t know what to say. “Weird things. It kind of freaks me out. Weird things like he can actually hear a voice, like he is responding. The other day, he said ‘yes’ in agreement to something, then said he would do as he was told, and it really just spooked me.”

Josh nodded, smiling that warm, reassuring smile. “Can I ask, Melissa, if there is any history of mental illness in your husband’s family?”

Melissa shook her head “no”. “He has no siblings, but his parents are healthy, together people. They’ve never had that kind of illness. Not sure about his grandparents, but his parents are definitely the full ticket.”

Josh laughed. “Not many of us are the full ticket. Sometimes, I wonder about my own sanity.” He was trying to lighten the mood. Despite the warm sun pouring in through the large, double windows, a dark cloud seemed to have shifted across the room, darkening the atmosphere.

Melissa inched forward on the chair. “Josh, what can it be? Can you tell me that? I’m worried about him. It’s just not him, not like him at all. Do you have any idea what it could be or how I could help him? I’m scared of losing him.”

Josh walked around to the front of his desk, leaned against it, and placed his hand on Melissa’s shoulder. “I want to help you, okay? I have to be totally honest with you. I need to see a patient myself, treat a patient, get to know him or her, see what they say, examine them, and do some tests. With just your say-so, I can hardly give a proper diagnosis. It would be unprofessional of me to do so. What I can do is this: meet up with you, because I think you could do with some support. As a friend, not as a psychiatrist.”

Melissa looked up at him. A friend? She had met him only fifteen minutes ago. She didn’t know how to respond. Was he saying it because he knew he was helpless to do anything else to help her and felt bad? Or did he care?

“What else?” she asked, feeling bad about ignoring his first remark.

“The only thing I can suggest to you is to keep a diary of the things you see, the things you notice. Everything about your husband’s behavior that concerns you.”

“Why?”

Josh tapped his pen against the wooden desk. “It will help to record what’s happening in case things do get worse. It will give any professional he might end up seeing something to go on.”

Melissa stood up, grabbing her handbag. She felt disappointed, and yet she couldn’t understand why—what had she expected this stranger to achieve?

“You’re going?” he asked, standing and following her to the door.

Melissa paused. “I probably shouldn’t have come,” she said.

“Keep a diary,” he repeated. “What harm can it do?”

“He’ll never seek help,” Melissa replied, her voice low and defeated.

“You never know. If things get too bad, Melissa, it might not be his choice. Do you understand what I’m saying? Come back to see me,” he said, reaching out again, taking hold of her by the arm. “I’m worried about you. Living with this is obviously taking its toll. I can tell just from looking at you. I don’t need a qualification to see that. You need support, too. Like I said a moment ago, Melissa, it might get to the point where your partner has to get help, whether he wants it or not.”

“What? You mean lock him up on a psychiatric ward?”

Josh shrugged. “I don’t know. I can‘t possibly answer that, but when someone is ill, they need help of some sort.”

“It isn’t that bad,” she lied, opening the door and turning to leave.

“It could be many things,” Josh said, pulling her back, “an anxiety disorder of some sort, possibly. Without seeing him myself, I can’t give you any answers. I really am sorry I can‘t tell you more.”

Melissa nodded and smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “Like I said, he’ll never accept help. I don’t even think he realizes there is a problem.”

Chapter Eleven

Keep a diary. Get some support. Those weren’t answers. Not answers that could help. She didn’t blame Josh, though. She knew that he could do little without seeing Mark himself. She knew that no serious professional would offer a diagnosis based on the comments of a distraught wife. Even if he were capable of doing so, what would that achieve? Mark seemed totally unaware of his behavior. The other day, when she had asked him who he had been talking to in the lounge, he seemed genuinely surprised and had strenuously denied it.

She had been stupid seeking a savior, a way out of this mess through a door she couldn’t step through. That door was locked, unless she could convince Mark that he needed the help.

That was when the idea hit her. Maybe it was a stupid idea, and more than likely it would not work, but it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try. Mark had purchased a video recorder last year to use for holidays and special occasions. In truth, the thing had been a waste of money; they had only used it twice. What if, Melissa thought, weighing the idea in her mind, she filmed Mark when he was in one of those…trances. It was bound to happen again, she surmised. Would he believe her, then? Would he see how he was acting and then agree to seek help?

It was a long shot. There was a chance she might not see him act that way, again, but Melissa had the uncomfortable feeling that what she had seen the other night was just the beginning of something new.

Melissa went up to the bedroom and quickly changed out of her work clothes. Mark had not returned yet from work. She was glad of his absence, fearing—irrationally, she knew—that he would read the guilt in her eyes and know she had been doing something behind his back. It wouldn’t even matter to him that she had done so in order to get help. He would just see it as a betrayal and strike out at her. There was no rationality behind his thinking, lately. All that seemed to exist was a temper waiting to explode at any given moment. Like a bomb ticking. She didn’t want to be near him when he exploded—or be the one to set him off. That’s how she felt.

Melissa dropped her work uniform into the hamper by the door and opened her wardrobe. She pulled out a cream-colored sweater and a pair of loose-fitting jeans and put them on. She walked over to the mirror and sighed. She looked so pale, so tired. Dark circles tainted the skin beneath her eyes. She looked drawn, almost gaunt. She hadn’t had much of an appetite the last few weeks, and she had noticed her clothes had become slightly baggy.

It was everything that was happening, she thought, her face inches away from the mirror. She watched herself, as if seeing her face for the first time, and she felt like a stranger was looking back at her from behind the glass. The woman staring back at her seemed like a mere shadow, a ghost.

The shit that had happened with Mark. What he had done to her in bed, yesterday. The figure in the lounge the other night. The meeting with Josh Howell. It was all an untidy, problematic mess, and she hated how powerless she felt, how unable she actually was to change a single thing.

Melissa enjoyed feeling strong, independent. Now, she felt like a weak child, just waiting to see what happened next. The whole thing scared her more than she had ever imagined anything could.

She dropped her eyes from her reflection and made her way down the stairs. She padded into the lounge, drew the curtains against the darkening sky outside, and flipped on the small lamp. It illuminated the room, sending bright light into the far corners of the shadowy lounge.

She went into the kitchen, and there she saw the note. It was sticking to the fridge door, hanging behind one of their many magnets. She went over and picked it up:

Got called to another job. I’ll probably be home after midnight, so don’t worry about staying up. I’ll be thinking of you.

Mark. X

I’ll be thinking of you. The words that might seem romantic, now seemed laced with malice. Almost like a threat. She wadded up the note and threw it into the trash bin. Then, she smiled. A wave of relief washed over her that she would not have to see him. She would be able to spend a night alone, a normal night. A night where she wouldn’t be wondering whether he would turn on her, full of rage. A night where she wouldn’t overhear him talking to a voice that wasn’t really there.

Melissa went over to the phone and ordered herself a small, plain, cheese pizza and a bottle of pure orange juice. The guy on the line said her order would be delivered within the hour.

With nothing else to do, Melissa went into the lounge. She sprawled out, lying back across the three-seated leather sofa. She switched on the TV, where the main evening news was covering a story about the rape of a teenage girl by a gang of youths, and lay her head back against one of the cushions.

Within seconds, she felt her eyes droop. They felt heavy, as if dipped in cement. She gave in, deciding that a quick nap wouldn’t hurt. She closed her eyes, the TV playing quietly in the background.

“In other news,” the female news reader said, her voice official and authoritative, “a young, married woman has been killed by her husband. The victim, as yet unnamed by the police, was stabbed 17 times by her husband in their Northamptonshire home. Locals say the couple seemed happy, playing an active part in the local community. This is what might happen to you, Melissa Sanderson, if you‘re not careful. You might die, too,” the voice rasped.

Melissa’s eyes snapped open, and she felt her stomach freeze. She stared across the room at the TV set, propping herself up on her elbows. The newsreader was smiling, her eyes staring at the camera, but her mouth was drawn down into a contorted, menacing grin. “Now, we’ll hand it over to the local news,” she said, and the camera switched to the live, local studio.

Melissa grabbed the remote control and turned the TV off. This might happen to you, too, Melissa Sanderson. She sat there in the dim light of the lounge and curled her legs beneath her, bringing her knees to her chin.

When the front doorbell rang 20 minutes later, Melissa decided she wasn’t hungry and left the delivered pizza in the fridge for Mark. He might be hungry when he got home, she thought.

* * * *

Melissa sat up in bed. The curtains were drawn tightly. The main light and two small lamps were switched on, scattering any shadows that might have arrived with the darkness of night.

She couldn’t handle being in darkness. Not now. In an effort to forget the disfigured face of the newsreader she had seen on the TV earlier, Melissa tried to keep her thoughts busy. Frightened of any conclusions she might reach if she allowed herself to get lost in her mind, she tried rationalizing things. She tried to believe that the newsreader had simply been an overlap of a dream as she woke. It could be true. It might have been that way. Even if it was, just thinking of that face staring at her from the screen sent fear likes waves of electricity through her body.

The small, video recorder lay heavily in her lap. She wanted to check if it was still working. She had blank film and batteries in it, just in case she had the chance to film Mark. It could work. If she caught Mark talking to himself—about dark things like blood—she could try and capture it somehow and show him. It could be just the thing to open his eyes.

Even as she sat there, propped up by pillows and fidgeting with the camcorder, Melissa knew that her faith in helping Mark might be wasted, even hopeless. He might not change. He could, God forbid, become worse.

Somehow, she believed that if she could help Mark, she could stop the weird things that had been happening to her. The dead woman grabbing her at the ICU. The newsreader. The figure in the lounge. Somehow, it was all connected.

Her rational mind argued against any of those things being real, but she had seen it all happen before her eyes. Did she believe in ghosts? Could people behind a TV screen read out messages directed at her? Did dead patients suddenly wake up and grab nursing staff? Melissa sighed, rubbing her forehead. Question after question, and she couldn’t answer any of it.

She thought back to when she was a child. Melissa’s mother used to take her to church every Sunday. The smell of burning candles, of polish on wood, and incense were so strong in her memory, she could almost smell the scents there with her in the bedroom. Every single Sunday without fail, Melissa would dress up in what her Mum called her “Sunday best”, and she sat down, hands folded neatly in her lap, listening to the priest talk about things that intrigued her. Sin. Judgment. Life after death. Satan. The priest’s sermons about the never-ending war between good and evil. She believed in it all, then. As a child, she soaked every word up like a sponge to water. Her faith was innocent, accepting.

What about now? Melissa wondered if she could believe in anything. Her Mum and Dad had died years ago, and with it, Melissa’s faith in God. So did her faith in a lot of things. It had all wilted away into oblivion. Like leaves falling from an autumnal tree…it had dried up. Her faith had been fleeting, something she barely grasped long ago, before she was old enough to understand anything. Open-minded? Yes. A believer? No.

Unless she was going crazy, unless she was willing to accept that she could not trust her own eyes and ears, Melissa knew that something was happening to her. Something not normal. What it was, she had yet to find out, but she would. As she turned on the camcorder and watched it whir to life, she decided she would.

* * * *

She felt warm tears slide down her cheeks as she watched. It was like seeing a memory come alive, and it haunted her. At first she didn’t want to watch, because it almost felt like it was taunting her, but she could not bring herself to switch the camcorder off.

The small screen attached to the recorder was playing the bright, vivid images of Melissa with Mark the day they were handed the keys to the house they now lived in. It was the day that the paperwork was finalized, signed, sealed, and paid for. The home she was in now, but it looked like another world.

Melissa had been the one filming. She remembered it now with a clarity so sharp, it was as if it had happened yesterday. Unused to using the camcorder, the picture was blurry at times. The screen filled with shaky, unsteady images as she followed Mark around the home, enjoying the ecstasy of a life and a new beginning. The video was short—only eight minutes long—of Melissa and Mark exploring the empty house they had bought.

There was a thrill between them—a spark of excitement that had been so strong that Melissa smiled as she watched the moment unfold before her on camera. That had been a happy time, a good time. She realized, watching it there with her head leaning back against her pillow, that it was probably amongst the last few days of normality. Before Mark had changed.

Seeing him there before her, she realized how much he had changed. Following Mark on camera, Melissa had filmed him rummaging through empty drawers, running up the stairs, running his hand along surfaces and inspecting their new property. The thing that struck her more than anything was his happiness. How good he looked and how alive he seemed. The man she now shared a bed with felt more like a ghost than a man. Hollow, empty, and remote. It was as if he would melt and dissolve if she reached out to him.

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

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

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

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

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

Good times they’d had. A good marriage.

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

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

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

Chapter Twelve

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

That inhuman thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melissa went to the kitchen and dialed his mobile number.

Mark picked up almost instantly. “Hi Mel.”

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

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

“You’re still working?”

Mark paused, and she could tell he was in between a mouthful of food.

“Yes, I’m working. What the fuck do you think I’m doing? I took a late job last night. One of the guys called me and said he had a delivery he needed doing, and it was pretty urgent. So, I just slept in the car. Was easier, that’s all.”

Melissa swallowed, trying to let her anger pass. He should have called, let her know this before. “You slept in the car in the middle of October?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t so bad. It meant I could hit the road at five this morning. Been pretty quiet on the roads, actually.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Wales.”

“Shit, Mark. That’ll take forever.”

“About five hours there, five back, give or take. Depends on traffic, really. Money was too good to say ‘no’. It was urgent, and none of the other lads wanted to work on a Saturday morning.”

No, they would want to be home with their wives. Who they don’t beat. That was what she wanted to say, but instead she simply said, “So, you’re going to be back when?”

“Maybe about four or five o’ clock. I’ll have to make a couple of stops. Can’t do the drive straight.”

“All right.”

“You okay?” he asked. She could hear more clattering and something smashing in the background. The café sounded like a headache.

“Yes. I’m okay.”

“You sound weird.”

“Something weird happened again last night,” she said, and she instantly felt mad at herself. What am I doing, she thought? He thought I had imagined it the first time. The words came from her lips without her mind wanting them to. “Like the man I saw in our lounge. I saw a woman in the kitchen.”

Mark laughed. “She good at doing dishes?”

“Stop it,” Melissa snapped, pissed off at him, and pissed off at herself for expecting anything more. “I did, Mark. I saw a woman, and she looked awful. It scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Yeah? Where is she now?” he asked, taking a loud slurp of his coffee.

“She disappeared. Like the man I saw.”

“Mel, I’ve heard enough. You were probably still half-asleep.”

“In the kitchen?” she retorted. She was relieved they were having this conversation across the phone; she didn’t want to piss him off when he was capable of snapping, of hurting her and losing his temper.

“Maybe you were sleepwalking, again. You used to do that, didn’t you?”

Melissa blinked back tears of frustration. “No, Mark. I haven’t done that for years. I know the difference between being awake and asleep. I did see her.”

“So you’re seeing ghosts, now? Jesus Christ.”

“Well I don’t know. I know how it sounds, but—”

“But nothing,” Mark snapped, his voice like lightening down the phone. Sharp and powerful. “I’m fucking tired and working all the hours God sends, and all you want to talk about is ghosts. Do you know how that fucking sounds?”

Melissa snapped. “Do you know how you fucking sound? How you’ve sounded for the past few months with your shouting and your awful temper and…” Her voice trailed off into silence.

Mark cleared his throat. “I told you the other night. I’m sorry,” he said.

Melissa couldn’t believe her ears. “You said sorry. Then last night, you forced me to—”

“Forced? A married couple having sex? God forbid!”

Melissa hung up the phone and felt a knot of dread thread itself along her stomach. She pushed him. Too far. What sort of mood would he be in when he got home? What would he do to her, now? She had to be careful with him, as much as that infuriated her.

As she placed the phone in its cradle, the phone began ringing. Startled at the shrill noise in the silence of the kitchen, she grabbed it and answered.

“Hi, is this Melissa Sanderson?”

“Yes. Who’s speaking?”

“It’s Josh. Josh Howell from the hospital. Please forgive me for calling you at home. Ah…can you talk for a minute?”

Melissa, surprised and intrigued at his call, said, “Yes,” then waited to hear what he had to say.

Josh apologized again for calling her at home. “I know it’s unprofessional of me to get your number from work. I spoke to your friend Sharon, and she gave me your number.”

“Okay, I don’t mind.”

“I just wanted to know if perhaps you were…free to meet today? For coffee and a chat.”

Melissa hesitated, not knowing what to say. Josh seemed like a nice guy, easy to talk to, but why did he want to see her? More than that, what would Mark do if he found out she was meeting a good-looking young man for coffee? It could be more trouble than it was worth. “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly.

“I’m sorry. Let me be honest. I couldn’t stop thinking of you the other day when you left. I was worried.”

“Well, I’m okay,” she lied.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

Josh broke through the awkward atmosphere. “One coffee. At my office. I’ll bring pastries over from the canteen.”

“Oh, you’re working today?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I am. I’ll be at my office all day. I assume you’re not?”

Melissa laughed. “No way. It’s my day off. I suppose a coffee would be nice.”

“You’d be brightening up my lunch break,” he said, his warmth reaching her over the phone.

Melissa smiled to herself. He was a good guy. One of the good ones.

“I’ll come over at noon,” she said finally.

“You don’t mind coming over to the hospital? Only by the time I’d drive over to meet you somewhere else...It’d just be easier.”

“That’s fine, don’t worry.” Melissa hung up after saying goodbye and went upstairs to wash and dress. Before she left at midday, she didn’t see or think of ghosts.

Chapter Thirteen

Outside, it was cold and wet. Melissa chose to wear a pair of black trousers and a tight, red top—one of her favorites. All through the week, she forced herself into ill-fitting white, crisp, clerical shirts and ugly, black trousers. It was the uniform all of the nursing staff had to wear, and she hated it.

During the weekend, at least she could make an effort; although, she hadn’t felt like making an effort for Mark in a long time. He had put an end to that.

Melissa wanted to walk down to the hospital, hoping to get some much needed fresh air, but it was far too cold. Rain fell in sleek, thin patters against the pavement and dampened her hair as she jumped into the car. She wouldn’t walk in this weather.

She was surprised the roads were busy, considering it was the weekend. Despite the traffic, she thought about Josh Howell. He had sounded genuinely concerned for her over the phone, and it was good of him to take the time to call her, to see if she was all right. Melissa liked how that felt, knowing that somebody cared, that somebody was worried. Sharon was a good friend, but her insistence that Melissa should simply pack up and leave Mark was not what she wanted to hear, or do. Not yet, anyway. Maybe in time, but not yet, she thought to herself.

She parked the car as close to the main entrance of the hospital as she could get without having to pay. People milled around the entrance, some with their heads down and their faces taut, full of worry—probably relatives of patients who were desperately ill. Others stood, huddled in corners, smoking. Smoking was not allowed on the property, but people still insisted on using the main entrance as a smoking corner.

Melissa walked past, quickly sprinting through the small clusters of people and trying to get in from the rain.

She headed through the reception area. The smell of coffee and baked cakes wafted through the air around her from the small café. It made her hungry. She hoped Josh had picked something up. She took the flight of steps to the second floor and followed the signs that pointed to the Psychology and Psychiatric Unit.

When she reached Josh’s office, she knocked once, and immediately she heard him from inside telling her to come in.

She opened the door. For some reason, she felt a little nervous. She didn’t know why, just that the feeling was there, setting her slightly on edge.

“Hello! Thanks for coming over,” Josh said. He stood from behind his desk, walked over to her, and kissed her on the cheek. It was unexpected. The greeting felt too familiar, too intimate. After all, she had only met him once. It made her flush, and she smiled sheepishly, dropping her handbag and her damp coat onto the back of the chair.

His eyes narrowed on her, and he smiled, motioning for her to sit down on the sofa that lined the back wall of his office.

Melissa went over and sat down, suddenly unsure of what to say. Suddenly unsure of why she had come. Josh was being his warm, charming self, and within moments she relaxed.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but I think the café downstairs sells the best chocolate brownies. I got two of them a few minutes ago. Still warm from the oven,” he said, carrying a cardboard tray with the two brown cakes nestled on top amidst napkins.

He leaned forward, and Melissa picked up one of the cakes. He placed his on the floor and went back to the desk to fetch the two large beakers off of his desk. “Two coffees,” he said, handing her one of them. Melissa took one, smiled, and thanked him, placing it carefully on the floor. Hot steam rose from the paper cup, and it smelled delicious to her.

Josh finally sat down beside her, leaned back into the cushions that were propped behind, and bit into his cake. “Trust me, you can’t beat them.” Chocolate crumbs fell from the cake onto his blue shirt, and he blushed, patting them away with his free hand. “You’ll have to excuse me. There is no elegant way to eat these.”

Melissa laughed and took a bite of her own. Rain tapped against the glass, and the sky overhead was still a bleak blanket of gray, making the office that had seemed bright and welcoming on her previous visit now appear gloomy, depressing.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, turning to him.

Josh nodded, throwing the last piece of cake into his mouth and reaching for his drink. “Go ahead.”

Melissa set her cake onto the napkin before placing it on the floor. Again, her appetite disappeared; she didn‘t feel like eating. Even if she looked like she needed to eat. “Why did you really call me here? I can’t believe that I made so much of an impression on you that you just had to see me, again.”

Josh raised his eyebrows. “You underestimate yourself,” he replied. He took a sip of coffee, and for a moment, his features were blurred by the steam rising from the drink.

“Seriously,” Melissa said, her eyes fixed on Josh.

He hesitated, seeming to be searching for the right answer. Melissa said nothing, waiting for his response.

“You seemed on edge,” he said at last. “Like you were carrying the weight of the world. You looked so…” his voice melted away, and he fell into silence.

“I looked so what?” Melissa pressed.

Josh ran his hand over his chin, the skin uneven and darkened with stubble. “It might sound bad, but you just looked so vulnerable, so lost. I see a lot of people in all sorts of situations—you do in my line of work—but there was just something about you,” he said. His pale skin seemed to redden, and Melissa wondered if he was embarrassed. It made her feel self-conscious, suddenly.

“Something about me,” she repeated. Her words fell into the veil of silence that had settled between them.

Josh nodded, taking another sip of his drink. “I just thought about you after you left and realized I didn’t want to leave it at that. You looked like you needed help.”

I do. Desperately, she thought. My husband has turned into a monster, and I’m seeing ghosts. What would a qualified psychiatrist make of that?

“What’re you smiling at?” he asked.

Melissa realized the thought had turned her expression into a half-smile. She shook it away. “I’m all right. You don’t need to worry.”

“Have you spoken to your husband yet?”

“About?”

“Him needing help. If his change in temperament and his mood swings are getting worse or out of control, he needs help. You know that.”

Melissa shrugged. “We’ll work through it. I’m going to help him.”

“You’re frightened of confronting him, though.” Josh pressed. His youthful, warm features made her feel wary of opening up, made her feel like he was too fresh out of school to understand any of the things she was going through with Mark. She felt herself contract, slink away within herself, suddenly not wanting to take the subject further.

“Melissa, will you confront him?” Josh repeated. He was leaning forward now, closer to her.

She shrugged.

“Or are you frightened to?” Josh asked. “In case he tries anything like that, again.”

Melissa looked up at Josh, and he pointed to the healing cut on her lips, where Mark had struck her. She had almost forgotten about it. The pain on the side of her head had been the worse injury, making the split lip seem like a walk in the park. She instinctively placed a hand to the cut. “I don’t want to get into this,” she said, turning away from his direct gaze.

She walked over to the large, office window and pressed her face against the cool glass. The rain had eased, but the sky didn’t look healthy. It looked like it was promising more bad weather. “I shouldn’t have come to you. It wasn’t fair to Mark. Or you. You don’t know Mark, so you could never have helped. I was just…I suppose, the day I came to you, I was desperate. Desperate enough to cling to the idea that someone could give me an explanation…that somebody could tell me why things like this happen. Why good people turn bad.”

Josh didn’t move. He remained on the sofa, but she could feel his eyes on her. She felt like she was on show, under a microscope. She hated that feeling.

“Good people don’t normally turn bad without a reason, Melissa. Your husband needs help. I made a promise to you that day we met that I would keep everything confidential, but I need to know you’re going to do something. I can’t stand the thought that you’re going to go home to that man day after day, and that he’s doing God-knows-what to you.” His voice was firm, tainted with anger, and Melissa instinctively knew his anger was directed at Mark. For what he had done.

She turned to him, folding her arms across her chest. She forced a smile. “It’s sweet that you care.”

Josh held her gaze for a moment, but then looked away. “You’d have to be cold-hearted not to. Nobody deserves to be hit. Can I ask you, has he done more? Was that just one of many?”

Melissa paused, not knowing how to answer. She barely knew this man, and he wanted to know it all, to know everything. It felt both reassuring and frightening all at once. If Mark knew she was there—with another man, talking about him—he would blow up. “He has a temper problem, like I said,” she reiterated.

“That means it’s not the first. I presume it won’t be the last. You need to get help.” The sudden conviction in Josh’s voice startled her.

“Help how?” Melissa rasped. Josh made it sound so logical, sensible, easy. He was forgetting about the fact that it was her life. Her husband. Her happy marriage. Her security.

Josh lifted himself from the sofa and went over to her. He stood in front of her, reached out, and tilted her head up so that she was looking into his eyes. “What about the police? They would organize a mental health assessment, see if he is ill, and see what sort of help he needs. Melissa, he can’t carry on like this.”

She felt tears form in her tired eyes but forced them away. “I’m scared,” she said finally, shaking her head.

“I know.”

“I need more time. If it carries on, I will get help. I promise, but just not yet.”

“Are you going to wait for him to hurt you, again?”

Melissa said nothing.

Josh took a step closer to her, reached out, and pulled her toward him. It was only a hug, a simple cuddle, but it was the safest Melissa felt in a long, long time.

Chapter Fourteen

She promised to stay in touch with Josh. She couldn’t understand why he cared so much, why he seemed so worried, but she trusted that it was genuine, and she couldn’t help but respond to that. There weren’t too many people in the world who would care in that way. It impressed her, in a sense. She had left with the agreement that if things got much worse, she would call him. He had given her his work and mobile numbers. Josh also made her promise that if she felt she was in serious danger, she would call the police. Immediately.

If it came to it.

What Mark subjected her to over the last few months was more than enough already, but Melissa felt on some deep, instinctual level that there was more to the change she was seeing in him.

What it was, she didn’t know. Not yet. She knew she was not going to give up on getting some answers, because Mark meant too much to her to just let things go.

Melissa was on her way home, weaving her way on the roads. Her hands were clutching the wheel so tightly, her knuckles were pure white. She felt angry. The feeling was almost new to her, alien. Melissa had always been somebody who people thought of as calm, collected, somebody had even once called her shy. Although, she wasn’t shy. She just wasn’t interested or good at making menial, small talk with people she barely knew or cared about. She didn’t feel comfortable with the feelings she was experiencing, now.

She was pissed off. More than she ever felt before. It felt like she was pissed off at everyone.

Josh was trying to be kind and helpful, but all he did was insist she call the police. Sharon was much the same: scrape Mark off, get out.

Didn’t they understand that her marriage meant something to her?

Then, there was Mark. The one who caused all of this shit to begin with. Her thoughts churned inside her mind, and she felt her body tense. She took a deep breath and tried to quell the frustrations within herself.

The truth was, Melissa knew, the sensible thing would be to get out. To just walk away. Plenty of women did that. Plenty of women walked out on their men for a lot less than what she was going through—men who turned into uncaring slobs. Men who didn’t make the effort, anymore. Men who had affairs. This was heavier, scarier than any of those things, yet she still felt something urging her to stay with Mark, to try and sort it out. To help him.

Was it denial, or was there a real reason to stay?

The thought occurred to her that she was becoming one of those women—the kind you saw on talk shows. Battered women who looked like victims. They wore scars across their skin and sold their excuses of why they couldn’t walk away from their marriage.

Is this what I’ve become? Melissa thought.

Is Mark any different from any other man who hit their partner? Or was she just hoping Mark has a good reason, a good excuse. Melissa didn’t want to have to face the realization that she had fallen in love with a monster.

Her Mum had said something once, and it was coming to the surface of her mind as she drove. Something she said just before Melissa’s wedding day. “Be as sure as you can be, because the man you marry today won’t be the man you’re married to in ten years.” It sounded like an ominous warning, and Melissa had brushed it off at the time, dismissing it as one of her Mum’s subtle digs. She had never liked Mark much. From the day they met, which was about five weeks after they started dating, her Mum had taken an instant dislike to Mark.

Melissa never understood it. Mark was the perfect gentleman. He brought wine with him to dinner at her parents’ home, charmed her mother with compliments about how he now understood where Melissa had gotten her good looks. Compliments. Safe, witty jokes. Things that Melissa thought any parent would be impressed with, but not her Mum. After meeting Mark a few times—she had reserved saying anything at all about Mark until Melissa pushed her into it—she had finally given Melissa her honest appraisal.

“He is too nice.” Melissa remembered falling into fits of laughter, saying that her Mum was the only woman in the world who would dismiss a man her daughter was in love with on the grounds that he was “too nice”.

Her Mum’s face had grown serious, despite the hilarity Melissa had fallen into, and said, “So, you love him, then?”

Melissa told her she did. Mark was a good man—good to be around—and they loved each other.

Her Mum had simply nodded, told her she hoped that Melissa was making the right choice, and returned to washing the dishes.

That had been that. Her mother hadn’t said a bad word about Mark, but the truth had passed between them that day. Her Mum wanted more for Melissa. The man you marry today won’t be the man you’re married to in ten years. The words now burned themselves into her mind and stubbornly remained there. The words were probably nothing more than a parent who was always dissatisfied with who their daughter brought home. Weren’t parents supposed to be like that?

It had come true, though, Melissa thought.

She pulled the car into the driveway and switched off the engine. It scared her to realize she had been completely lost in thought during the entire drive home. She had been locked in her head, imprisoned.

She sat there, her eyes staring at the house, as the car settled into silence.

Not even ten years, Melissa thought with a pang of sadness. Five years of marriage, and I don’t recognize him, already.

The phone in her jacket pocket beeped and vibrated against her thigh. She reached in and pulled it out. It blinked at her, the small screen a bright, luminous yellow.

ONE MESSAGE RECEIVED

Melissa flicked through to the phone inbox. It was Sharon.

“Hi, it’s me. How are things? That guy from the psych department asked for your number. Hope you don’t mind, but I gave it to him. Isn‘t bad on the eye, is he? Call me today. X”

Melissa threw the phone back into her bag, grabbed her keys, and went inside the house. It was just after one, so Mark wouldn’t be home for at least two or three hours. She would at least try to enjoy what time she had on her own before he returned. Some cold pizza from the take away, maybe a glass of wine. Give Sharon a call. For a while, she would try and suspend the shadow that was darkening her life, and act as if everything was normal.

Even if it was an act, it was better than falling apart, disintegrating. She had to hold things together.

* * * *

“What the fuck is this about?”

Melissa’s eyes snapped open, and disorientated from being jolted so suddenly awake from the deep sleep she had fallen into, she felt momentarily stunned. Unable to speak.

Mark loomed over her as she lay across the sofa, and she sat up, rubbed her heavy eyes, and pulled hair away that clung to her sweaty face. He was standing over her, his shadow moving across her face, and she knew at once that he was heaving with anger. Mad.

Her mind raced. Her body clenched, frozen, as if bracing for something. “What’s wrong?” she asked. She wondered if he was still pissed off about their phone call. She knew she shouldn’t have pushed it by mentioning what he had done the other night.

He didn’t move, but simply stood there, staring down at her. “I’ve been working since yesterday. I am tired.”

“I know,” Melissa said, looking up at him. “You should get some rest. Maybe I could run you a bath, and—”

“Fuck the bath,” he spat, his face reddening.

“Mark, what’s wrong?” She was suddenly frightened by what she saw in his face. When he was angry like this, she barely recognized him. His eyes darkened, and his skin flushed into an angry red. He was somebody else. Completely. He looks like somebody else entirely, Melissa thought, trying to hold back the tidal wave of panic rising fast within her.

“What’s wrong?” he repeated, and then laughed. It was a menacing laugh. Whatever was funny was purely his own joke. “I’ve been working. Working for you. For us. This house.” He motioned with his hand to the room around them. “This fucking house. The house you wanted.”

Melissa shook her head. “The house we wanted. You wanted it, too.”

Mark carried on, as if her words never reached his ears. “This is what I come home to.” He moved aside, pointed his hand across the room.

The empty pizza box was on the ground, open, tomato ketchup smeared across the inside. A bottle of wine—she wanted to treat herself to a nice afternoon, so she’d had two glasses with her lunch—sat on the table next to her empty glass. The magazine she’d been reading was on the floor, left open at the page she was on. “This fucking mess. And you,” he said, turning back to her, his voice rasping with hatred, “are lying down, sleeping in the middle of the day. I married a fucking slob!”

In some weird, almost out-of-body moment, Melissa felt herself snap. Something came loose inside. A voice in her head warned her to stop, but it was too late. She lifted herself from the sofa, stood up—her body stiff—and looked Mark in the eye. “I had lunch over a magazine and a glass of wine, and you call me a slob? You’re out of your fucking mind, Mark! You need help! Seriously, you need help. You can’t keep doing this to me. I won’t let you, not anymore. I want to help you, but I have my limits.” I will leave. I will go. Her thoughts, which Melissa didn’t entirely trust, pierced her mind. A voice inside egged her on, imploring her to get away. To just go.

Mark said nothing. He stood there, his eyes fixed on hers. He communicated far more than any words could convey. Melissa almost winced as she saw the look of pure rage stir beneath the surface of the glassy eyes staring at her. She felt terrified then and regretted saying anything. What she had done was nothing more than throw another log into an already burning fire.

“I need help?” he said at last, inching closer to her.

Melissa could smell coffee on his breath...and cigarettes. Since when had he started smoking, she thought? She said nothing, thinking that saying nothing would be better than digging herself further into his fury.

“I take care of you. I work hard. I bring in money. You bring shit to this house. You do nothing. You don’t clean. You don’t cook, anymore. You’re useless. When was the last time we had sex? You’re not even good for that, anymore.”

Melissa’s face crumpled, and she felt tears slide along her face. No, she thought, this wasn’t good. This would make it worse. She couldn’t stop the tears from coming.

“We never fuck,” he continued, his body looming over her. His tall, broad frame blocked her way from getting out of the room.

“We don’t fuck,” Melissa snarled, her mouth turning downward into a grimace. “You just rape me. Isn’t that how it goes, now?”

Mark’s face tensed, and his jaw clenched. “Rape?”

Melissa nodded, swallowing hard. She felt sick.

“You call what happened the other night rape, do you?”

“What would you call it?” she said, suddenly remembering Josh’s words. Call the police if it gets bad. I can’t do anything, she thought, stuck between Mark and the sofa. I’m in his hands now, she thought bitterly. She had no power to do anything; not yet, anyway.

“What happened the other night was simply what I was owed. You were giving me what I deserved, because you lied to me. Remember that? You had to make things up to me. That’s the way I see it.”

Melissa swiped angrily at her tears, annoyed at how stupid they made her look. Mark was already enjoying his power over her. Her tears only served to reinforce his idea that she was under his control. Even if she was, it wasn’t something she enjoyed advertising.

This is Mark, she thought, staring into eyes she no longer recognized. This is the man I love, the man I’m married to. He is still in there, somewhere. She took a deep breath, then said, “Mark, you know something is very wrong here, don’t you?”

You need to tell him, Josh had said. Confront him.

Mark smirked, a half-smile on his face. His once beautiful, handsome face was contorted by the rage that lurked beneath his skin. “Yeah, I know something is wrong. My bitch of a wife is making my life difficult, yet again.”

Deep breath, Melissa thought. Stay calm. Keep going. Just like Josh said: confront him. “Do you realize how much you’ve changed?” she continued. “That since we moved here, things have been getting progressively worse? You’ve just been getting angrier and angrier. That’s not you, Mark.”

“I’m too tired for this,” Mark sighed, turning away.

Melissa was shocked. She’d expected him to shout, to swear. More than anything, she was waiting for him to lash out, but to turn away, as if the truth of her words had hit something inside of him—that felt too good to be true. Suddenly, feeling as if she was onto something, she quickly followed him into the kitchen. “Mark, listen, please. You know what I’m saying is true, don’t you? Don’t you remember how happy we were when we got together, and how happy we were to move into this house? Why isn’t it like that, now? Something’s gone wrong.”

Mark seemed to be ignoring her now. He padded over to the fridge, peering in. He rifled through the shelves, looking for something to eat. He reached for something, then turned, slamming the door, a beer in his hand. He pulled back the lid and gulped from the can. Melissa stood in the kitchen, watching as his throat bobbed, the cool liquid slipping down his throat.

His unresponsiveness agitated her. Outside, rain pelted angrily against the windows, noisy in the quiet of the room.

“Please talk to me, Mark. Please. I’m scared of losing you. You’re already so far away.”

Mark set the can of beer onto the kitchen sideboard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re talking bollocks, Mel. I’m going upstairs for a bath. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

“You’ve been hitting me. Hurting me. That’s not you!” She crossed the room to where he stood, feeling braver now, stronger. “Can’t we just try and get some help? I know we can sort this out, together.”

“You mean a counselor?” Mark snarled.

“A counselor. A psychiatrist. Somebody. Anybody! I don’t care who…but why not?”

“I don’t need to talk to anybody. I’m going upstairs.”

He started to walk away, but in her desperation, in her determination to make him see, Melissa pulled at his arm, almost falling as she stumbled after him.

Mark spun around, jerking her hand off of him. “Get the hell away from me. You’re the fucking crazy one around here. I need to see a shrink? What about you? You’re the one seeing fucking ghosts. You’re out of your head. I married a wacko.”

Melissa shook her head, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “I think you know you need help. That‘s why you’re upset, isn‘t it?”

Something changed in Mark. The room suddenly seemed alive with electricity, something sparked to life…as if Mark’s feelings were becoming one with the air between them. The room seemed to pulse with darkness, and shadows suddenly appeared out of nowhere, dressing the air around them. He pushed Melissa with a hard, forceful shove, and she fell back against the kitchen cabinet, hurting her back against the stub of a drawer knob. Mark, his face twisted, his eyes like empty black holes, nudged her aside and slid open the drawer, pulling out a large knife. It glinted in his hands.

“What are you doing?” Melissa shouted, surprised at her own voice. She barely recognized the panic and despair coming from within her.

Mark said nothing as he pressed Melissa against the wall. He was smiling. Pleased. His body felt hot, and he smelled of sweat. He lifted the knife to her milky throat and pressed it to her skin. She felt the tiny prick of the blade against her neck and winced, trying to wriggle free of his grasp.

“I wouldn’t move too much if I were you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I wouldn’t want this knife to slip, not while you’re in such a compromising position.”

Melissa thought she was going to be sick. Her stomach contracted, the pizza she ate for lunch rising like acidic bile from her stomach, and she gagged.

“If you get sick, you’re cleaning it up,” he snarled, his face so close to hers that their lips were brushing against each other.

“Let me go,” she said, her voice shaky and unsteady. He’s going to kill me, she kept thinking. This is it. He is going to kill me.

Melissa shut her eyes, clamping them tightly. She was afraid to look into Mark’s face, afraid to see what he was going to do.

She felt the cold blade travel lower, across her neck, down past her breasts, then press along her stomach and lower abdomen. Here, Mark hesitated, then pressed the blade slightly into her skin. She didn’t know whether he had punctured the skin, but she felt a stinging sensation where the knife was poised. “Please,” she whimpered.

She suddenly felt her bladder go, her liquid spreading with warmth between her legs.

Mark pulled back, and she finally opened her eyes. He was staring at the dark patch between her legs. “For fuck’s sake, you’re a mess,” he said, looking her up and down. “You’ve pissed yourself. Only babies piss themselves, Mel. Get upstairs and clean yourself. You’re disgusting.”

Relieved that he had placed the knife back into the kitchen sink, Melissa turned and rushed upstairs to the bedroom. She didn’t stop to turn back, even when she heard Mark talking to something she couldn’t see in the kitchen where he was still standing.

Chapter Fifteen

She wasn’t hurt, not badly. A tiny dot of blood, just above her abdomen, had spread across her skin and made it look worse than it actually was. In truth, it was a small cut, but it was enough for her to know that Mark was beyond help. Or that she was beyond being able to help him. He had gone too far this time. For one terrifying second back there in the kitchen, Melissa was sure he was going to stab her. It could have been enough to end her life.

What was the darkness about? When Mark changed, the room seemed to change with him, as if something in the house was reinforcing his mood, his behavior.

Enough was enough. She had to get out, for her own safety. What had just passed between them was a massive wake-up call; Mark was out of control. She wiped at the blood with a tissue, smearing the congealing liquid across her stomach. She dabbed it away, wincing at the sting. The cut was not deep, not enough that she’d have to get medical help. She decided to clean it and just cover it with a dressing from the first aid kit later.

She patted the broken skin dry with the bath towel, her hands shaking, then lowered her top. She then turned to her jeans. The damp patch had spread, and it had already begun to dry.

The smell of her own piss sickened and embarrassed her. She’d heard of people losing control of their bowels in frightening situations but never thought she might have it happen to her, especially from the man she married.

There it was. It happened, and Mark called her disgusting because of it.

The bastard.

She tugged at the zipper of the jeans and let them fall to the floor. She stepped out of them and threw them into the hamper. With hands that were still unsteady, she stepped out of her knickers and threw them there, too.

Suddenly, Melissa fell to the floor, and curled there on her hands and knees, sobbing. Guttural, heaving cries of pain and heartbreak tore through her body, and she could barely catch her breath.

Mark might hear, her thoughts kept scolding her. He might come up and do more, do worse, but the inner voice that warned her was not enough to reign in the swell of emotion rising inside of her.

It came out. Floods of tears fell from her eyes, her stomach heaving with every sob. She tried to take a deep breath, which she was finding difficult, but the emotions were puncturing every effort she made to calm herself.

Curled there naked on the floor, Melissa knew she couldn’t cope, anymore. The very idea that her marriage might be dead—might have actually expired that very night with the piercing of her skin—was too painful to comprehend, and she tried to avoid delving further into the thought. She needed to get up, to get her head straight.

Had to get through the night.

Tomorrow, she would pack her things and get out.

Just go. Leave him.

Somehow.

Melissa wiped away her tears, pulled herself to her knees, and took a deep breath. Slowly, she stood up and headed for the bedroom, where she pulled on a fresh pair of knickers and her pink pajamas.

From downstairs came the faint sound of the TV from the lounge, and she could hear Mark chuckling at something he must’ve found amusing on the show he was watching.

Her face started to crumple again with emotion, but she denied herself more tears, shaking the feelings away.

Just get through tonight. Phone Sharon tomorrow. Maybe I can stay at her place while I sort things out. The voice from within spoke with such clarity and confidence, she barely recognized the thoughts as her own, but she knew it was her mind, guiding her, even at a time when she felt too frightened to do anything. Instinctually, she knew. The voice inside was pure biology, pure drive to survive. Nature’s instinct.

With Mark downstairs, Melissa snapped off the bedroom light and pulled herself under the bed covers. She couldn’t go back down there. She simply couldn’t face him. Just get through tonight, the thought pressed. Survive.

She sunk into the warm fullness of the bed and pulled the cover up to her chin. She could still feel her body shaking from Mark’s attack, from his threats, and she closed her eyes, taking deep, steady breaths and trying to mentally calm herself. After a few moments, the shaking subsided.

She turned onto her side. Rain still tapped gently at the glass, the sound a comforting rhythm. She wished, in that moment, that she was out there, alone in the dark, in the rain, free of the chains she felt surrounded by.

Even being alone would be better than this, she thought.

Melissa’s eyes snapped open into the darkness of the bedroom. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust, then turned to Mark’s side of the bed.

He wasn’t there; it was empty. She reached over with her hand and wiped a hand across the sheet, and it felt cold. He hadn’t come to bed, yet.

How long have I been sleeping? she wondered.

She lifted herself up and turned the digital clock toward her. It was just after 3:00 AM. Where was Mark?

She had considered staying awake, waiting until she was sure Mark was asleep, and then leaving the house in the middle of the night. Just going, without even packing some clothes. She hadn’t really made any definite plans other than that she wanted to get out. Sharon would help her, she knew that much. If Melissa turned up on her doorstep, even now in the middle of the night, Sharon would open her door and show her to the spare bedroom without any question. She had promised as much before.

Melissa knew she’d fallen asleep, and the half-baked plan had sunken away as she fell into a dreamless sleep.

Now, she was wide awake, and Mark wasn’t there.

He was probably downstairs, still watching some cheap, late night TV show, or more than likely, he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Something, a sense of unease crept over her. She strained her ears as she sat in the darkness of the bedroom, rain still splattering angrily against the windows beyond the thick, velvet curtains. She tried to hear movement, noise from downstairs.

Not knowing what Mark was doing was making her feel uneasy.

He was not just somebody to be wary of, now. He was somebody she was frightened of. Somebody who posed a real threat to her.

The man you marry today won’t be the man you’re married to in ten years. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, and Melissa pulled back the duvet and stepped onto the thick, bedroom carpet. She grabbed her pink dressing gown and threw it over herself, trying to banish the goosebumps that began travelling along the length of her arms and back.

From cold. From fear.

Melissa stood by the bedroom door and pulled it open, then looked out into the hallway. She waited there, pensively, hesitantly, unsure of whether she should just creep back to bed and ignore Mark’s absence or go down to see what he was doing.

Somehow, illogical though it seemed to her, not knowing where he was meant she would not be able to switch off. She imagined him creeping around the house, waiting until he thought she was fully asleep, and then launching into his next assault. It was stupid. Probably unlikely, but in that very moment, Melissa didn’t think Mark was beyond doing something that stupid. Something nasty. Planned. Calculated. She couldn’t credit him with being a better man than that; not right now.

She tip-toed into the hallway and paused, again. Waited, listening. She could hear clearly, now; Mark was downstairs—she wasn’t sure whether he was in the lounge or kitchen—but he was definitely down there and definitely awake.

He was talking, again.

Talking to who?

Melissa suddenly felt wide awake. Her heart lurched into violent action.

She remembered the other day, when she had walked into the lounge to find Mark in that trance-like state, talking about blood. The memory made her shudder and recall the figures she had been seeing.

Ghosts?

Melissa shook her head, rubbing her hand along her forehead.

Back to bed? Or go down there and see what he’s doing?

She suddenly remembered the camcorder she had taken out of the cupboard earlier that day and her plan to try to record any of Mark’s increasingly weird behavior. Obviously, his violent outbursts would be for her eyes alone, but the weird trances, the speeches…if she could capture that, then maybe she could show Josh. It might give him more of an idea of what was happening to Mark. It might be a waste of time, but even if it was, she had nothing to lose. Not now. All she could do was try.

Melissa inched her way along the black, shadowy hallway and back into the bedroom. Without switching on the light, she went to her side of the bed, fumbling around until her hand found the thick, metallic block that was the camcorder.

She grabbed it and stood up. She pressed the power button, and the light came on, the screen next to it blinking to life.

“Going to make you see what you’re doing,” she whispered to herself in the darkness. If Mark truly was in denial about the…person he had become, then maybe watching himself on camera like that might bring him back to reality.

She went quickly to the hallway and toward the stairs. She wanted to be quick. Her heart still hammered persistently, drumming its warning that her body wanted to get out of the situation she was heading into.

Danger. Her body warned. Get away.

She crept down the stairs, and was oddly relieved to hear Mark’s deep, solemn voice from below. She saw that the lounge light was on, the yellow light spilling out into the hallway. A shadow moved, meaning Mark was walking, was up and about.

Melissa crept down to the downstairs hallway and stood there silently. She checked that the camcorder was on standby, ready to record if Mark did anything...out of the ordinary.

She smiled at the stupidity of the thought; was anything that Mark did lately ordinary? He had moments of calm, moments where she saw the old Mark shining through, but increasingly he was completely irrational. He’d become somebody she barely recognized.

She moved as quietly as she could, aware that if Mark saw her watching him, he would probably explode and hurt her more than she cared to imagine. She inched along the wall until she was at the mouth of the lounge and looked in. Her body hidden, only her face peered into the room.

Mark was sitting on the sofa. Frozen, like a statue. He was sitting forward. Rigid. His hands on his knees. His legs were awkward sticks in front of him, like logs of useless wood. His face, turned upright, stared out into the lounge. It was his eyes that scared her, though. From where Melissa stood, she could see they were dead eyes. Unseeing.

Melissa carefully lifted the camcorder and pressed the “record” button. Noiselessly, the small hand-held camera began capturing the scene in the room.

She waited, the camera tilted toward Mark as he sat there, his body stiff, frigid. Suddenly, she remembered the figure that had been travelling across the room, spilling its shadow across the light in the downstairs hallway.

Mark wasn’t moving at all. Who had it been? Or had he only just this moment began sitting this way? The thought seemed unlikely to her somehow; Mark had the look of someone who had been rooted to the spot for hours. Even his chest barely rose with the shallow breaths he was taking. He wasn’t even aware of her presence, watching him from the edge of the doorway. He was out of his mind. Not sharing the time and space Melissa now existed in.

Unease, anxiety replaced the fear she felt moments ago.

Had she imagined the shadow? Had Mark been pacing only moments ago? Why had he stopped talking?

Melissa waited, desperate to capture some kind of evidence. Evidence to back up her own beliefs about something being desperately wrong with him, or proof for a doctor if she decided to call one. She didn’t know, but she wanted to do it. Felt it was a good idea.

She waited.

The camera—still recording—focused in on Mark, and she saw movement.

Mark was nodding his head, as if in agreement. As if he was hearing something that she wasn’t. She shivered.

Still staring ahead, Mark parted his lips and began to speak.

Melissa wanted to get closer, to hear, but scared of being seen, she remained fixed where she was. Instead, she panned in closer to Mark with the camera.

Double-checking that it was recording, she waited and watched.

“I know it’s a good thing. I know that,” Mark said, his voice very quiet, and the words stumbling out in a broken, detached language. His eyes still stared ahead, vacant. “I know it is. I’m doing it, aren’t I? You wanted more blood, didn’t you, and you got it. You must have seen, you must have seen it. Of course, there will be more. You and I will see to that.”

The scalp beneath Melissa’s hair prickled as if icy fingers were running through her hair. She shivered. He is talking about me. Blood again.

She felt unsteady but tried to settle the camera back on Mark.

“Dead. Dead.” The two words pierced the air like daggers, and Melissa wanted to turn and run, to get away. What the hell was he hearing? Who the hell was he hearing?

“Not much time? Why? Why does it have to be so soon?” Mark, who hadn’t moved an inch since she began filming, still stared ahead to the center of the lounge, his eyes unblinking. “I told you I’d do it, didn’t I? Are you saying I don’t keep my word? I keep my fucking word.” Despite the angry tint to the words, Mark’s voice remained flat, low, monotone.

Melissa took a deep breath. She had to show this to Josh tomorrow. Was Mark psychotic, now? Would he end up in a psychiatric ward? She clenched her hands so tightly that they hurt against the camera she held.

“I know you want more and for it to really hurt. I know you like it. You like suffering, don’t you? Aren’t I doing enough?” Mark’s face screwed into a tight mask, and he seemed to her to be close to tears. His voice seemed more animated now, pleading.

Melissa resisted the urge to run to Mark. She flipped the camera shut, and as quietly as she could, ran up the stairs. She was frightened Mark was…back to normal…that he would snap out of whatever mindset he was locked into and see her there, watching.

She reached the bedroom, shrugged off her robe and placed it at the end of the bed where she had left it earlier. She slid beneath the duvet and pulled it over her body.

After a few moments, when she realized Mark was not coming upstairs, that he was—for all she knew—still talking to whoever it was he was hearing, she lifted the camcorder and switched it on.

She rewound the tape to the beginning and searched for the place where she had begun filming in the lounge. The image of Mark sitting rigidly on the sofa suddenly filled the camera, and she pressed “play”.

The image that slid into view from the edge of the lounge made her scream. Moments later, she heard the footsteps of Mark running upstairs toward her.

Chapter Sixteen

When Mark left the bedroom, assured that Melissa had simply woken from a nightmare, she scrambled under the foot of the bed and grabbed the camera, again. She switched it back on and watched.

She narrowed her eyes onto it and felt sickened at the sight of what she was seeing. She was seeing it; she hadn’t imagined it.

There, in the center of the lounge, walking up and down, was the blurry, smudged dark figure of a man. She hadn’t seen anybody there with her own eyes, and she knew that Mark had been alone.

The shadow of a man was there. Moving. Caught on camera. The being who was contacting Mark. Changing him.

So, Mark wasn’t crazy? Mark is really hearing this...thing? Melissa felt cold with shock. She knew that things had been happening in the house, and she had seen the figure of a man in the lounge herself a few nights ago.

Then, there had been the woman in her kitchen, covered in blood.

Melissa knew, instinctively, that whatever had gotten hold of Mark, whatever thing, whatever being, that black shadow really was, had something to do with the change in her husband.

It had to be. It had to be that way. As crazy as the thoughts even felt in her head, Melissa knew on some level that there was truth in that realization. Surely the truth was there in front of her own eyes, now. On camera, she had proof. Confirmation.

Was Mark even aware of what the…thing…was doing to him? What was it telling him to do? Who was it?

A million questions flooded her mind and sent sparks of fear through her blood. She had been jolted into a reality that, until recently, she was sure never existed.

What was going on? Mark had changed, but she had been seeing things, too. Something was happening in their home. Suddenly, thoughts flared into life. Hadn’t things started to go bad when they moved there, a year back? Into the house. Wasn’t that when things had become really awful?

Something inside the house.

What could she do? What do you do about shadows in your living room and ghosts in your kitchen? Melissa bolted upright in the bed, frightened and confused. What did any of this mean? Who do you go to when your husband is having conversations with people who aren’t really there? Or at least shouldn’t be there?

Melissa felt helpless. Mental illness would have been easier to deal with than this. Or was she ill, too? She sighed, staring down at the camera.

The black, smudged figure moved, flitting about the room. It moved like it was gliding across the floor, in fast, pressing movements.

No, she wasn’t mad. This was real.

Melissa switched off the camera, pushing it beneath the bed and lowering herself under the sheets.

She had more questions than answers, now. Her mind felt like a vacuum, and she was frightened of what that vacuum might be filled with if she learned more of what was going on under the roof of her home.

After an hour, she fell into a light, dreamless sleep. Outside, the rain slowed down and the only noise was the voice of Mark, still talking steadily to the unknown entity in the room below. Even in sleep, she was scared of what Mark might be planning, colluding with, and she awoke several times with a jolt, expecting to see him standing over her, beside the bed.

* * * *

To show Mark or not? To show Josh? Sharon? Who?

Melissa poured herself a cup of coffee, heaped in lots of sugar and cream, and took it with her into the lounge. Mark was still upstairs, sleeping. She had heard him last night creeping up the stairs and climbing into the bed beside her.

She hadn’t opened her eyes, but she had felt him from across the bed. He was freezing cold, as if he had been standing outside in the rain for hours. He wasn’t even close to her, having nudged himself onto his side of the bed. He was facing the window, but still she felt the cold seep from his skin and permeate the air between them. Melissa had shivered, trying to pull herself further away from him, feeling the rise of goosebumps on her skin from the sudden change in temperature. It had kept her awake for a long time.

It had been close to 4:00 AM when Mark had gone to bed. He was still upstairs now, in a deep slumber. When Melissa had crept out of bed to go downstairs, she had peered over and watched him. His sleep seemed deep, untroubled, his breathing steady and slow. She imagined he wouldn’t be awake for a long time; he must be exhausted.

Melissa placed her mug of coffee on the table and pulled back the curtains. It was an ugly Sunday morning. The streets were slick with rain, and the sky above was an uncompromising promise of more bad weather to come. She sighed, sat back on the sofa, curled her legs beneath her, and took a mouthful of coffee. It tasted good. She opted not to eat anything for breakfast, as her appetite was still a distant memory. She never seemed to feel hungry, anymore. She looked down at her clothes, at the unflattering way her pajamas hung from her increasingly skinny frame; her body seemed lost under the folds of material.

Most women would envy her weight loss. To her, it was just a reminder of how everything in her life was crumbling. The once solid system of her life, now degenerating and falling apart.

She flipped open the small screen to the camcorder and stared at the footage she had captured. Her skin crawled as she saw the black shadow sliding across the room, Mark’s dead, lifeless eyes staring ahead, responding to it. It. The thing. Responding to whatever it was communicating: thoughts, ideas into his head.

Things about suffering. About blood.

Melissa lifted it closer to her face and watched it. There was nothing she could see of the figure at all. It was simply like a smudge of black, tall and dark. No features could be discerned, just vast, dark emptiness. She snapped it shut and stared at the room around her.

This was where it had been. Here. In their lounge. In their home.

She stared around at the normal things, symbols of her once ordinary life. The clutter of magazines and newspapers in the paper rack. Books and films stacked messily on the shelving unit. Photos of Mark and her on top of the fireplace. Pictures of them on holiday in Tenerife. A picture of their wedding day, Mark standing tall, his face upright and proud, his arm around her. Melissa smiling and happy, a princess on her big day.

She barely recognized the couple in the photograph anymore. Those photos seemed to be from another time, another dimension.

Melissa suddenly felt a longing for Mark, for the man she knew back then on their wedding day. The strong man. The man who cracked inappropriate jokes when he was nervous. The man who used to rub her feet when she returned from work after a hard day. The man who used to get pissed off when she picked up shifts at the hospital on a weekend, because it meant that they wouldn’t have much time together. The man who adored her. She pined for that, hungered to have him back in a way that scared her.

Things had changed, though.

Here in the lounge, Mark was seeing things. Melissa knew that, now. Seeing things like she was.

Melissa tip-toed upstairs, pulled on a pair of jeans and a black sweater, tied her long, dark—and messy hair, she noted, embarrassed that she hadn’t been taking care of herself—into a ponytail, and while being careful to not wake Mark, grabbed her car keys and decided she needed to get out. Do something. Anything.

* * * *

“Did you know the people who lived here before us?” She was standing at the porch of her next door neighbor, leaning in to take cover from the rain, which had begun pouring heavily from the blackening sky above.

Melissa didn’t know her next door neighbor. She had only seen her occasionally and nodded an occasional hello from across the driveway. She was an elderly woman, in her late sixties, Melissa guessed. Her hair was a short crop of gray, and her eyes were magnified beneath thick glasses. She was thin, frail-looking, her arms folded defensively across her chest.

“I would invite you in,” the woman said, her eyes fixed firmly on Melissa. She seemed to be cautious, wary of the woman who had landed on her doorstep. “My husband isn’t feeling too well—it’s the flu. I wouldn’t want you to catch anything,” she said, pulling the door behind her. She stepped out onto the porch, seemingly oblivious to the pelting rain and icy air of the November morning, and forced a smile.

Even with a smile, Melissa thought, the woman looked stern. Abrupt.

“That’s okay. I don’t need to come in. I only want a minute of your time.”

The woman nodded. “I’m Mrs. Donnelly,” she said.

Melissa smiled. “I’m from next door—number 46. Melissa Sanderson.”

The woman nodded, again. “I know.”

The prize for friendliest neighbor goes to— “All I really wanted to ask you was…well, I just wanted to know if you knew the people who lived here before us?”

The woman was silent for a moment. Finally, she said, “You purchased the house, didn’t you? Didn’t you meet Richard Danvers when you were sorting out the paperwork?”

Melissa shook her head. Frustrated at the way the woman was doing anything but answering her question. “It was all done through the estate agents. We never actually met anybody.”

Mrs. Donnelly nodded again, her lips upturned slightly, and Melissa wondered if that was the old woman’s idea of a warm smile. “Melissa, I barely knew the couple who lived there. I’m sorry.”

She swallowed hard. Felt disappointed. “I see.” She had the feeling the woman wouldn’t help even if she could. “Not to worry. Sorry for troubling you.”

Melissa turned to leave when the woman called behind her. “Why?”

“Why what?”

Mrs. Donnelly, her arms still tugged tightly across her chest, took a step forward. “Why do you want to know about who lived there before?”

What do I say to that? I’m seeing ghosts. I think my home may be haunted, and my husband is hearing voices telling him to do God-knows-what— “I just had a couple of questions, that’s all. Nothing important.”

“They made noises, too,” the woman said, her voice low, as if she were frightened of anybody hearing what she had to say.

Melissa froze. She stepped back beneath the porch. Her hair was already damp, dripping globules of water down her face and neck. “Noises?”

“Late at night, but sometimes in the day, too. I heard them. Everybody must’ve heard them, they were so loud.”

Melissa‘s mind raced. “What noises?”

“A whole lot of screaming and shouting, that’s what,” Mrs. Donnelly said, her voice taut, riddled with anger. “Used to keep me and my husband up at all hours. Her screaming and crying. I tell you, some nights she’d just about give me nightmares.”

The couple there before us. He hit her, too? The thought hit her with full force, and she felt suddenly sure that whatever was happening to Mark and her, it had happened before. It was the house. It had to be.

“What was happening?” Melissa pressed.

“Well, I don’t know.”

Melissa wanted to shake the woman, force her to speak. Why is she clamming up, now? She pressed further, annoyed. “Please. Anything you could tell me, I’d appreciate it, Mrs. Donnelly.”

The woman shrugged. “Well, of course I never saw anything, myself. I kept to myself. I didn’t want anything to do with it, but that couple…they were trouble. I heard him, the way he shouted…and her screams. He was doing terrible things to that poor girl,” she said, shaking her head. “Terrible things. I never heard such awful sounds.”

Melissa felt her stomach churn, felt light-headed. What the hell am I dealing with, she thought? “He...hit her?”

Mrs. Donnelly retreated back to her front door and stepped back inside. “I need to get back to my husband. He is really sick, Melissa.”

“Do you know what happened?” she pressed.

The old woman hesitated, her hand against the door. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t want to know. They just left one night. Disappeared. House went up for sale, then you appeared.”

“Thank you so much for your time,” Melissa said, forcing a smile.

The woman nodded. Her lips upturned into that half-smile again. “She was always over at Saint Peters, you know. I saw her there, sometimes.”

“Saint Peters?”

“That Catholic church at the end of the high street. She was always there, every Sunday without fail. The priest there might be able to give you some help.”

Melissa thanked her once again and climbed into the car.

Chapter Seventeen

She discovered that Mass was still going on in the church. The parking lot was full, and some vehicles were even nudged against the slim pavements, blocking the walkway.

Did this many people still believe? Have faith?

Her own faith seemed like a distant memory, something lost, unfathomable. Melissa wondered, as she sat there in her car, watching the front doors of Saint Peters Catholic Church, how people sustained such a strong belief in God. Did they share the same world that she did? Did they also see the suffering, the damage, the awful things that happened and wonder why—if their God was real—He didn’t intervene? Or at the least, didn’t they question whether He cared at all?

She realized, with a fleeting feeling of bewilderment, that she would have to push all of her previous beliefs and feelings aside. She had to admit she knew nothing, if everything she was finding out was true. If the things happening in her home were real.

This meant anything was possible, surely? Even God?

Melissa shut off the engine and watched, waiting. It was almost 10:00 AM, and she hoped that Mass would be finishing anytime now. She hoped the priest would have time to see her. Whether he could help her at all was another thing entirely, but she had to try.

Mark was hopefully still in bed, sleeping. Maybe she could get back home before he even got up, so she wouldn’t have to try to find an explanation for what she’d been up to. That would be fun, she thought. Mark was under some kind of spell, it seemed to her. Did he really even know that he was falling under some sort of trance…that he was hearing that shadow talking to him? Did he know?

Melissa tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. She was beginning to feel impatient. What if Mass went on until 11:00 AM? She sighed. Didn’t some of those Catholic services go on for hours? She decided then that she’d give herself another 15 minutes. If nobody came out by then, she’d drive by in the afternoon or after work tomorrow.

Melissa jumped as a shrill ring filled the car. Her mobile phone. What if it’s Mark wanting to know where I am? She reached over to the passenger seat and fumbled inside her coat pocket for the phone. She was relieved when she saw it was Sharon calling and not Mark.

“Hello Sharon,” Melissa said, turning back to the church. She didn’t want to miss the priest coming out—if he did come out at all; the weather was still bad. Cold and wet. Damp and gray. Depressing.

“Well, thanks for returning my call! Didn’t you get my text?”

Sharon. Annoyed.

Melissa had totally forgotten her text from yesterday, asking her to call her back. She’d had so much going on that Sharon hadn’t even entered her thoughts, she realized with a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry I didn‘t call. Really.”

“You could’ve at least sent a text, even if you didn’t have the time to phone.” Didn’t have the time. For me, your friend. The dig Sharon was making was not missed on Melissa. She squirmed in her seat, unsure of what to say. Should she tell her what had been happening? What she had seen on the camera last night?

“I know you’re pissed off. I am sorry. Forgive me. I should’ve called.”

Sharon sighed. “Yeah well, it doesn‘t matter, now. I was just worried, that’s all. With everything that’s been going on with you…I worry about you. I worry that you’re not safe, and when I don’t hear from you—”

“You think something bad has happened. I understand. I should have thought.” Melissa’s eyes stayed fixed on the doors of the church. They remained shut. Nobody had emerged from inside, yet.

“I don’t even like to call you on the landline, because I don’t want to cause any shit between you and Mark.”

“I know. Sorry, Sharon. I’m all right, though.” Well, I‘m alive. Surviving. “How’re you? Did you have a good weekend?”

Sharon laughed. “Jonathon stayed over Saturday night. Let’s just say any night with Jonathon is a good night.”

Melissa laughed. “I’m not going to ask you for the sordid details,” she said.

“I sometimes think I might be onto a winner with him,” Sharon admitted. Melissa knew this was a big admission on her friend’s part; Sharon had spent the last few years of her life fleeting from one man to the next, scared of commitment. Scared of being hurt, she simply cut them off. Jonathon, although she had only been seeing him for a few months, was turning into something more for Sharon. Melissa could see it, could tell.

“Shall we book the church for a summer wedding?” Melissa chided.

Sharon laughed again. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Yeah, well,” Melissa said, her face falling serious, “I wouldn’t wish marriage upon anybody, and I’m certainly not in a position to dole out relationship advice.”

Sharon fell silent for a moment, then said, “Has anything else happened?”

Melissa didn’t know what to say. Sharon had always come across as a sensible, no-nonsense woman. Rational. What would she make of it all if Melissa brought up the things she’d been seeing? More than likely, Sharon would call a psychologist and have her locked up. Or would she? Maybe she was underestimating Sharon. Shouldn’t she be seeing her as an ally? Sharon had been her only friend since moving into the house with Mark and starting the job at the hospital.

“You still there?” Sharon pressed.

“Uh...yeah. I don’t want to get into it here. All I’m going to say is that things haven’t exactly improved, if you get my meaning.”

“Shit. Melissa!”

“Mark’s been…well, you know how it goes.”

“Are you saying he hit you, again?”

That’s not all. Melissa thought about the night he had forced himself onto her and felt a sickening knot tie itself in her stomach. She would never forget that night, no matter what. He had torn something inside her. Broken her heart that night. It was more painful than any punch he could have delivered.

I can’t forget the knife, either. The way he had laughed at me pissing myself that way. She tried to expel the memory; it seemed like a horrific nightmare she wanted to desperately wake from. “Sharon, I think there may be more to what’s going on. That’s all I want to say for now. Please understand. Maybe we can have a chat during lunch tomorrow at work or something. Just know that I’m all right at the moment. I’m going to sort things out.”

Sharon groaned. “Do you know how many people out there suffer when they should be getting help?”

Women’s shelters? Housing for battered women? Is that what it’s come to? Melissa thought, not knowing what to say.

Sharon finally broke the silence. “I’m here for you. That’s all I want you to know, okay?”

“Yes, I do know. Thank you. Is everything all right at your end? Jonathon aside, I mean.”

Sharon laughed. A cheeky, almost childish giggle. “I want to know why that gorgeous Josh Howell wanted your phone number. What’s the gossip?”

Melissa smiled. “He just called to ask if I wanted to meet him for coffee.”

Sharon gasped. “Seriously? Where?”

“Don’t get too excited. It was at his office. Just a quick chat.”

“Well, why? He hasn’t asked for my number or anyone else’s. Why yours?”

“Probably because I was the one who approached him about what’s been happening with Mark. I wanted a professional opinion, and he offered to see me.” It was the truth, but Melissa felt her skin flush red. She was annoyed, and she didn’t even know why she felt that way about it.

“Well, you’re a lucky girl. He’s a gorgeous man and probably rich, too,” Sharon ranted. “Damn. I wouldn’t mind sharing a hot Americano with him.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “Then, ask him out yourself. Anyway…believe me, I am not lucky.”

Sharon hesitated, then said, “Yeah I’m sorry. I know you’re going through a hard time.”

Melissa saw the two double-doors of the church open wide, and the priest, followed by a jostling congregation, spilled out into the parking lot. The tall, elderly looking priest began shaking hands and seeing off people as they strode toward their cars.

“Sharon, I really have to go. I’ll talk to you at work tomorrow, okay?”

Sharon said goodbye and hung up.

“Let’s see what this guy knows,” Melissa said to herself, stepping out into the rain.

The smell of polished wood, burning candles, and incense immediately drove her back to a place in her childhood. Memories of Sunday mornings, her Mum dragging her along to the morning Mass, and her small, interested eyes soaking in the ceremony.

The mystery. The fear. How she had once believed that somewhere above, God loved her like a father loved his child, and her once sincere trust that each and every prayer she uttered was heard.

It all came back, flooding her mind in fitful waves as she stepped inside the empty church.

She walked along the empty aisle, her eyes drawn toward the huge crucifix that hung high above the altar at the front. The figure of Jesus Christ, nails driven through his hands and feet, dots of blood along his thin, sinewy body, moved her. An image of love. Of sacrifice. Of good defeating evil. That’s what it was all about here, she thought, her eyes riveted to the figure. Whether she believed in any of it or not—right now, she wasn’t sure of what to believe anymore, since everything was a possibility—that’s what Jesus symbolized.

Wasn’t that how she felt about her marriage to Mark? Didn’t she believe that, as inexplicable as it was, something evil was changing him, altering him, and that she would do anything—sacrifice anything—to stop it, to win him back…to inject some hope into their lives and get back to things as they should be. As they once were.

Defeat something evil.

“I’m sorry I took so long. A lot of my parishioners love to stay and chat after Mass. They enjoy it. When you get to an old age, you’re glad of the company.”

Melissa spun around and saw the priest standing behind her, his gray eyes fixed on her, and his face brightened with a warm, welcoming smile. He looked to be in his late sixties. His hair was thin, white with age. He wore glasses that were perched on the end of his nose. He was wearing a black garment, and the iconic white collar poked out at the top—symbolizing his dedication to the church he was married to.

“I’m Father Owen,” he said, reaching out to her.

Melissa smiled and shook his hand. His grip was firm, strong for such an elderly-looking man. “I’m Melissa. Thanks for your time,” she said.

Father Owen motioned toward one of the wooden benches, and Melissa stepped over and sat down. The priest stumbled after her, sitting beside her. He stared straight ahead at the altar, as if looking anywhere else would be disrespectful.

“What brings you here, Melissa?”

She sat, her back pressed against the hard, wooden bench, and she wondered what to say. What to ask. She had come here to ask if the priest had heard of the Danvers who had lived at her house before she moved in with Mark.

Somehow, it felt suddenly possible; that faith might help. Or that talking to somebody who believed in miracles might be able to help deliver one to her.

“I’m in trouble,” she said at last. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed in the air around them.

The priest nodded, his eyes still fixed on the cross. “A lot of people turn to God when things get bad. He wants us to. Do you believe in God?”

Melissa looked over at him. “Do you want the answer I think you like hearing or the real answer?”

“Real.”

“I don’t know. I used to. Then, I didn’t.”

“Now?”

Melissa shrugged. “Not sure. Some things have been happening to me, some really…let’s just say weird things…unbelievable things.”

“Such as?” the priest asked. His hands, thin and wrinkled, were clasped in his lap.

Melissa sighed. “A lot of things have made me question everything. Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You won’t think I’m crazy?”

Father Owen chuckled. “I like to think I have an open mind. I believe in God. That Jesus died to pay for my sins. I believe the Holy Spirit talks to me. Melissa, many would think I am crazy, but I know what I believe to be true.”

Melissa smiled. Father Owen seemed like a good, solid man and somebody she could trust. His faith was so steady—unwavering—it made her ashamed that she had been able to dismiss her own so easily when she was growing up.

Her parents’ deaths had laid any faith she once possessed to rest.