Recently we suffered a heavy loss: my wife’s aunt passed away. She had never married, but left behind her fouryearold daughter, Poppy. My wife, Emma, and I took on the responsibility of looking after her. As soon as the little girl learned that her mother was gone, she shut herself in and stopped leaving the house altogether. She also refused to move anywhere, so Emma and I moved into the flat where she had been living with her mother. We thought that after the funeral she would agree to come live with us, but staying in that flat became unbearable. At night the water would turn on and off by itself, the lights did the same, and the doors and floors creaked as if someone kept sprinting from room to room. I tried to bless the place, but it made no difference.
One night I couldnt sleep while Emma was already sound asleep, and I heard a whisper drifting from Poppys bedroom. A cold dread washed over me, but I didnt wake my wife. I quietly switched on the light, slipped to her door, and listened. All I could hear was my little girls voice.
I dont want to go to sleep, I want to play with Kitty, she said, referring to her doll. Just a little longer and then Ill lie down.
I opened the door and found her huddled in a corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll and looking at me with frightened eyes, as though I were a stranger.
Poppy, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mom, she whispered.
A shiver ran down my spine. I tucked her into bed, snuggled up next to Emma, and soon drifted off. Over the next week Poppy would constantly talk to someone invisible. I brushed it off as stress she had lost her mother, after all, and a child can imagine all sorts of things. The flat kept testing my patience.
One afternoon, while I was preparing lunch, I called Poppy several times to eat, but she screamed that she didnt want any. She had never been keen on food, so coaxing her was a struggle. Her mother had been, to put it mildly, impatient, and would have dragged her to the table. By the tenth time I was urging her to sit down, a terrible crash and a wail ripped through the flat. I raced to the bedroom and saw an impossible scene: a massive sliding wardrobe had toppled onto the little girl. Luckily it didnt crush her; it hit the edge of the bed and left a narrow gap between itself and the floor. Poppy was terrified and spent the rest of the day in a fullblown hysteria.
That same night I heard her sobbing and begging for forgiveness. I went in to comfort her; she clambered into my arms and held on tightly, eyes fixed on the same corner of the room as if someone were standing there, her face pale with fear.
Poppy, whos there? I asked.
Mom she whispered.
Tell your mum you can let her go and that she should leave.
Mom doesnt want to go!
When the fortieth day after her death arrived, Emma and I went to the cemetery, laid flowers on the grave, and handed out sweets to the other children so they could remember the woman who had passed. After that the house finally felt quiet. We sold the flat and brought Poppy to live with us in our own home, where we could finally start to heal.
