27 October 2025
Today I have to put down what has happened over the past few weeks, hoping that the act of writing will keep me from losing my mind completely. My wife, Eleanor, and I have been looking after Lily Whitmore ever since her mother, Margaret Whitmore, died unexpectedly. Margaret had no husband, and Lily was only four when the funeral took place. As soon as the news reached her, the little girl shut herself away, refusing to leave the house at all. She also flatout refused to move, so Eleanor and I packed up and moved into the flat on Brixton Road where Margaret and Lily had lived.
We assumed that after the burial Lily would agree to come live with us, but the moment we set foot in that flat the atmosphere became unbearable. At night the water would turn on and off by itself, the lights flickered, doors creaked and floorboards groaned as if someone were pacing from room to room. I tried sprinkling holy water and saying a prayer, but nothing changed.
One sleepless night, while Eleanor was sound asleep, I heard a soft whisper coming from Lilys bedroom. A cold dread settled over me, yet I didnt wake my wife. I switched on the bedside lamp and slipped to the door, listening. The only voice I could hear was my daughters.
I dont want to go to sleep, I want to play with Kitty, she said, just a little longer and then Ill lie down.
When I opened the door she was curled up in the corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll and eyeing me as if I were a stranger.
Lily, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mother, she whispered.
A shiver ran down my spine. I tucked her into bed, then nestled close to Eleanor and drifted off myself. Over the next week Lily kept on chatting to someone unseen. I told myself it was just griefinduced stress a child who has lost her mother might imagine shes still there. The flat, however, kept testing my patience.
One afternoon while I was preparing tea, I called Lily to the kitchen several times. She shouted that she didnt want to eat. She has always been a picky eater, and Margaret had been lets say, rather impatient, often hauling Lily to the table by force. On what must have been my tenth plea, a deafening crash echoed through the flat, followed by Lilys sobbing. I rushed to her room and found a massive wardrobe that had toppled over, its door slamming against the bedside. It hadnt crushed her, but the narrow gap it left between the floor and the door gave her a terrifying glimpse of something she could not explain. She spent the rest of the day in hysteria.
That evening I heard her crying again, pleading for forgiveness. I went in to comfort her; she leapt into my arms and clung tightly, eyes fixed on a corner of the room as if someone were standing there, terror written across her face.
Lily, whos there? I asked.
Mum she whispered.
Tell Mum youre letting her go, that she should leave, I urged.
Mum doesnt want to leave! she replied, voice shaking.
On the fortieth day after Margarets death we went to the cemetery, laid fresh roses on the grave, and gave sweets to the local children as a modest offering. The atmosphere seemed to settle, and the flats eerie noises faded. We sold the flat, moved Lily into our home, and tried to rebuild a semblance of normal life.
Looking back, I realise that grief can make a house feel haunted, but the real spectres are the unresolved feelings we keep locked inside. By confronting them openly, we free both the living and the dead. The lesson Ill carry forward is simple: never let sorrow dictate silence; speak, listen, and let the past rest.
