Mum just wont go away
Wed just suffered a huge loss my mums sister had passed on. Shed never been married, but she left behind her fouryearold daughter, Betsy. James and I took Betsy under our wing. The moment the little thing learned her mother was gone, she shut herself up tighter than a clam and barely left the house. She also flatout refused to move anywhere, so James and I packed up and moved into the flat where theyd been living with mum. We assumed that after the funeral shed agree to come stay with us, but the flat quickly turned into a nightmare. At night the water would turn on and off by itself, the lights did the same, and the doors and floors creaked like someone was doing a midnight marathon between rooms. I tried blessing the place, but it was about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
One night I was lying awake as usual while James was sound asleep, and I heard a whisper drifting from Betsys room. It sent a shiver down my spine, but I didnt want to wake the husband. I flicked on the light, crept to her door and listened. All I could hear was my little girls voice.
I dont want to go to bed, I want to play with Lucy (my doll). Just a bit more and then Ill lie down, she said.
I opened the door and found her crouched in a corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll and staring at me like Id just announced an extra tax.
Betsy, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mom she whispered.
A flock of gooseflesh ran up my back. I tucked her into bed, curled up next to James and drifted off. Over the next week she kept having conversations with someone invisible and I chalked it up to stress after all, the kid had lost her mum, and a little imagination can be a handy coping device. The flat kept testing my patience.
One afternoon, while I was whipping up a Sunday roast, I called Betsy to the table several times, but she screamed that she didnt want to eat. Shed never been much of an eater, so getting her to the table was like trying to herd cats. Her mum had been, lets say, a bit impatient, and would have dragged her by the arm to a chair. By the tenth summons I heard a terrible crash and a wail. I bolted into her room and found the most baffling sight: a massive sliding wardrobe had toppled over, slamming into the corner of the room. Fortunately it hadnt crushed her; it merely brushed the bed and left a gap between itself and the floor. Betsy was petrified and spent the rest of the day in fullblown hysteria. That night she wailed again, begging for forgiveness. I went in to soothe her; she climbed onto my lap and clung tight, eyes glued to the same spot on the wall as if someone were standing there, her face white with fear.
Betsy, whos there? I asked.
Mum she breathed.
Sweetheart, tell mum youre letting her go and that she should leave, I coaxed.
Mum doesnt want to leave! she replied, whispering.
On the fortieth day after the funeral we went to the grave, laid some flowers, and handed out sweets to the local kids so they could remember her. The air finally felt a little lighter. We sold the flat, moved back to our own place and brought Betsy with us, hoping the new roof would keep the old ghosts at bay.
