My mother-inlaw had just died, leaving behind her fouryearold daughter, Poppy. My husband James and I took Poppy into our care. The moment the little girl learned that her mother was gone, she shut herself away and stopped leaving the house. She also refused to move anywhere else, so James and I moved into the flat where she and her mother had lived. We hoped that after the funeral she would agree to stay with us, but the house soon became unbearable. At night the water would turn on and off by itself, the lights flickered, doors creaked and the floorboards groaned as if someone was constantly running from room to room. I tried to bless the place, but nothing changed.
One night I lay awake while James slept soundly. I heard a faint whisper coming from Poppys bedroom. A chill ran down my spine, yet I didnt wake my husband. I switched on a dim light, slipped to the door and listened. All I could hear was my little girls voice.
I dont want to go to sleep, I want to play with Katie, she said, referring to her favourite doll. Just a little longer and then Ill lie down.
I opened the door. Poppy was huddled in the corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll and staring at me with terror, as if I were a stranger.
Poppy, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mum, she whispered.
A shiver ran down my back. I tucked her into bed, curled up next to James and drifted off. For the rest of the week she kept on talking to someone, but I dismissed it as griefinduced stress after all, she had just lost her mother. The flat continued to test my patience.
One afternoon while I was preparing lunch, I called Poppy to the table several times. She screamed that she didnt want to eat. She had never been a keen eater, so coaxing her was always a struggle. Her late mother had been, to put it mildly, impatient, and would have dragged her to the table by force. As I called her for what felt like the tenth time, a horrendous crash and a sob cut through the kitchen. I rushed to the bedroom and saw an impossible sight: a massive sliding wardrobe had toppled onto the room. It missed Poppy by a hair, its edge grazing the bed and leaving a narrow gap between the cabinet and the floor. She screamed, her eyes wide with terror, and remained hysterical for the rest of the day.
That night I heard her crying again, begging for forgiveness. I went in to comfort her; she climbed onto my lap and clung to me, eyes fixed on the same corner of the room as if someone stood there, trembling with fear.
Poppy, whos there? I asked.
Mum she breathed softly.
Sweetheart, tell your mum you can let her go and that she should leave, I said.
She doesnt want to go, she replied, voice shaking.
When the fortieth day after the funeral arrived, James and I visited the cemetery, laid flowers on the grave, and handed out sweets to the children who came to remember her. The ritual brought a strange calm. We sold the flat and moved Poppy into our home.
Through the sorrow and the strange happenings, I learned that grief can make a house feel haunted, but the real spectres are the unspoken words and the love we keep locked inside. By giving Poppy space to say goodbye, we allowed both her and ourselves to heal, proving that the most powerful exorcism is compassion and the courage to let go.
