Free The Banishing by Fiona Dodwell Page A

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