The Banishing

by Fiona Dodwell

  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 undere
stimating 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.

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

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

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

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

  “You do believe, then?”

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

  “The devil?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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