My motherinlaws sister passed away not long ago, leaving behind her fouryearold daughter, Emily. She had no husband, so my wife, Sarah, and I took Emily into our care. The moment the little girl learned her mother was gone, she shut herself away and barely left the house. She also flatout refused to move anywhere, so Sarah and I packed up and moved into the flat where Emily had been living with her mother. We hoped that after the funeral shed agree to stay with us, but the very thought of staying in that flat became unbearable.
At night the water would turn on and off by itself, the lights would flicker, and the doors and floorboards creaked as if someone kept running from room to room. I tried to bless the place, but it made no difference.
One sleepless night, while Sarah was sound asleep, I heard a soft whisper drifting from Emilys room. A chill ran down my spine, yet I didnt wake my wife. I switched on the bedside lamp, slipped to the door and listened. All I could hear was my daughters tiny voice.
I dont want to sleep, I want to play with Daisy, she said, naming her favourite doll. Just a few more minutes and then Ill lie down.
I opened the door and found her huddled in the corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll and staring at me with frightened eyes, as if I were a threat.
Emily, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mommy she whispered.
A shiver ran through me. I tucked her into bed, curled up beside Sarah, and soon drifted off myself. Over the next week Emily kept on chatting with someone invisible. I told myself it was just stress a child whod lost her mother might imagine she was still there. The flat kept testing my patience.
One afternoon, while I was making lunch, I called Emily to eat several times, but she shouted that she wasnt hungry. Shed never been keen on food, so coaxing her was a battle. Her mother had been, to put it mildly, impatient, and when Emily refused a meal shed been dragged to the table. By the tenth call, a horrible crash echoed through the flat, followed by a wail. I rushed into the bedroom and saw an impossible sight: a huge sliding wardrobe had toppled over Emily. Thankfully it landed on its edge, leaving a narrow gap between it and the floor, so she wasnt crushed. She screamed, terrified, and spent the rest of the day in a fullblown fit.
That night I again heard her sobbing and begging for forgiveness. I went in to comfort her; she climbed onto my lap and clung tightly, eyes fixed on a single corner of the room as if someone stood there, her stare full of dread.
Emily, whos there? I asked.
Mommy she murmured.
Tell your mum youre letting her go and that she should leave, I coaxed.
Mommy doesnt want to go! she replied, voice shaking.
When the fortieth day after the death arrived, Sarah and I visited the grave, laid flowers, and gave sweets to the children who came to remember her. After that, the house seemed calmer. We sold the flat for about £150,000 and brought Emily home with us, finally putting the restless spirit to rest.
