The loss had been great, and it still haunts me when I think back. My mothers sister, Eleanor, passed away not long ago. She left behind only her fouryearold daughter, Poppy. My husband Thomas and I took responsibility for the little girl. The moment Poppy learned that her mother was gone, she withdrew into herself and refused to leave the house. She also insisted on staying where she had lived with her mother, so Thomas and I moved into the flat in Manchester where they had lived. We expected that after the funeral she would agree to come live with us, but the flat soon became unbearable. At night the water would turn on and off of its own accord, the lights would flicker, and the doors and floorboards creaked as if someone were running from room to room. I tried to bless the place, but it made no difference.
One sleepless night, while Thomas was already deep in his sleep, I heard a whisper coming from Poppys room. A cold dread settled over me, yet I did not wake my husband. I turned on the light softly, went to the door and listened. All I could hear was my own childs voice.
I dont want to sleep, I want to play with Kate, she said, referring to her doll. Just a little longer and then Ill lie down.
I opened the door. Poppy was huddled in a corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll, eyes wide with fear. She peered at me as though I were a stranger.
Poppy, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mother, she replied.
A shiver ran down my spine. I tucked her into bed and curled up beside Thomas, eventually drifting off. For the next week Poppy kept on speaking to someone invisible, and I dismissed it as stressafter all, she had lost her mother and might be talking to herself. The flat, however, continued to test my patience.
One afternoon, while I was preparing lunch, I called Poppy several times to eat, but she shouted that she didnt want any. She had never been eager for food, making it hard to coax her to the table. Her mother had been, to put it mildly, impatient, and when Poppy refused a bite, she would drag her by the arm to sit down. After what must have been my tenth summons, a terrible crash and a sob broke through the kitchen.
I ran to the bedroom and found an impossible scene: a massive sliding wardrobe had toppled over onto the little girl. Fortunately it hadnt crushed herone edge brushed the bed, leaving a narrow gap to the floor. Poppy shrank back in terror and spent the rest of the day in a hysterical state. That night I again heard her crying, begging for forgiveness. I entered to comfort her; she clutched me tightly, eyes fixed on the same corner of the room, as though someone stood there, her fear palpable.
Poppy, whos there? I asked.
Mother she whispered.
Sweetheart, tell your mother youre letting her go and that she should leave, I urged.
Mother wont go! she replied, voice trembling.
When the fortieth day after the death arrived, Thomas and I went to the grave, laid flowers, and gave sweets to the other children so they might remember the departed. After the ceremony a calm settled over us. We sold the flat, took Poppy back to our home, and began to rebuild our lives, forever carrying the memory of that strange, aching time.
