My aunt passed away not long ago, leaving behind her fouryearold daughter, Poppy. She had no husband, so my wife and I took her in. As soon as the girl learned that her mother was gone, she shut herself away and refused to leave the house at all. She also rejected the idea of moving somewhere else, so my wife and I moved into the flat where my aunt had lived with her. We hoped that after the funeral she would agree to move in with us, but staying in that flat became unbearable. At night the water would start and stop on its own, the lights flickered, and the doors and floors creaked as if someone was constantly running from room to room. I tried to bless the place, but it made no difference.
One night I was still awake while my wife slept soundly. I heard a whisper coming from Poppys room. A chill ran down my spine, but I didnt wake my wife. I switched on the light quietly, went to her door and listened. All I could hear was my little girls voice.
I dont want to sleep, I want to play with Lucy, she said, just a bit longer and then Ill lie down.
I opened the door and found her huddled in a corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll and staring at me with frightened eyes, as if I were a threat.
Poppy, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mom she whispered.
A shiver ran up my back. I tucked her into bed, then curled up next to my wife and soon drifted off. Over the next week the girl kept having conversations with someone, but I dismissed it as stressthe loss of a mother can make a child talk to herself. The flat continued to test my patience.
One afternoon, while I was preparing dinner, I called Poppy to the table several times, but she shouted that she didnt want to eat. 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 force. On what must have been the tenth time I asked her to eat, a terrible crashing sound and a sob echoed through the flat. I rushed into her room and saw a scene I could hardly explain: a massive wardrobe had tipped over onto the child. Thankfully it didnt crush her; it landed on its edge, leaving a narrow gap between it and the floor. Poppy was terrified and spent the rest of the day in a fullblown hysteria.
That same night I heard her crying again, begging for forgiveness. I went in to soothe her; she clambered onto my lap and held me tightly, her gaze fixed on a corner of the room as though someone stood there, her eyes wide with fear.
Poppy, whos there? I asked.
Mom she whispered.
Sweetheart, tell your mum youre letting her go and that she should leave, I said gently.
Mom doesnt want to go! she sobbed.
When the fortieth day after the funeral arrived, my wife and I visited the grave, laid flowers, and handed out sweets to the other children so they could remember her. The atmosphere finally settled. We sold the flat, brought Poppy back to our own home, and began to rebuild our lives together.
