Mum never wanted to leave
A few weeks ago we endured a crushing loss: my mothers sister, Helen, passed away. She left behind her fouryearold daughter, Milly. My husband Mark and I took Milly into our care. The moment the little girl learned her mother was gone, she shut herself away and refused to set foot outside the house. She even declined to move anywhere, so Mark and I packed up and moved into the flat where she and her mother had lived in Manchester.
We expected that after the burial Milly would agree to join us, but the flat soon became intolerable. At night the water turned on and off of its own accord, the lights flickered the same way, and the doors and floorboards creaked as if someone were sprinting from room to room. I tried blessing the place, but it made no difference.
One restless night, while Mark slept soundly, I heard a soft whisper drifting from Millys room. A cold dread settled over me, yet I didnt wake my husband. I flicked the light on, slipped to her door, and listened. All I could hear was my own childs voice.
I dont want to sleep, I want to play with Emily. Just a little longer, then Ill lie down, she murmured.
I opened the door. Milly sat huddled in a corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll, eyes wide with fear. She peered at me as if I were an intruder.
Milly, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Me mum she whispered.
A shiver ran down my spine. I tucked her into bed, then curled up next to Mark and drifted off. For the next week Milly kept on chatting with someone invisible. I dismissed it as stressshed lost her mother, after all, and a child can easily imagine a voice. The flat, however, kept testing my patience.
One afternoon I was preparing lunch and called Milly to the table several times, but she screamed that she didnt want to eat. Shed never been a hearty eater, and her mother had been, to put it mildly, impatient; when Milly refused, Helen would yank her to the table. By the tenth summons I heard a terrifying crash followed by sobbing. I bolted into her room and saw an impossible sight: a massive sliding wardrobe had toppled over, its edge grazing the bed but leaving a narrow gap to the floor. Milly stared at it, eyes wide, trembling. She spent the rest of the day in a fullblown hysteria.
That night the crying returned, the little voice begging forgiveness. I entered to soothe her; she leapt into my arms and clung tightly, eyes fixed on the same corner of the room as if someone stood there, her gaze terrified.
Whos there, Milly? I asked.
Mum she whispered.
Milly, tell your mum youre letting her go and that she should leave, I urged.
Mum doesnt want to go! she replied, voice shaking.
When the fortieth day after Helens death arrived, Mark and I walked to the churchyard, laid fresh daffodils on the grave, and handed out biscuits to the children who gathered to remember her. The air finally seemed to settle. We sold the flat, moved Milly into our own home, and for the first time in weeks, the house felt like a place where we could breathe.
