13May2025
Today I found myself jotting down the events of the past weeks, the ones that have turned our quiet suburban life in Brighton into something unrecognisable. My wife, Eleanor, lost her sister Margaret last month. The widow left behind her fouryearold daughter, Poppy. With no other family to turn to, Eleanor and I took Poppy in.
The moment the little girl learned that her mother was gone, she shut herself away. She refused to leave the house, and even when we suggested moving elsewhere she flatout declined. So Eleanor and I moved into the flat Margaret had lived in with Poppy, hoping that after the funeral she might agree to stay with us. Instead, the flat grew oppressive. At night the water would turn on and off of its own accord, the lights flickered, doors creaked and the floorboards groaned as if someone were pacing from room to room. I tried blessing the place, but it made no difference.
One sleepless night, when Eleanor was already deep in dreamland, I heard a whisper from Poppys bedroom. A cold dread settled over me, yet I didnt rouse my wife. I switched on the bedside lamp, eased the door open and listened. Only my own childs voice floated back.
I dont want to sleep, I want to play with Rosie (thats my doll). Ill play a bit longer and then Ill lie down, she said.
I opened the door to find her huddled in a corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll and staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. She peered out as if I were a stranger.
Poppy, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mum, she whispered.
A shiver ran down my spine. I tucked her into bed, curled up beside Eleanor and soon slipped into a light doze. For the next week Poppy would often converse with someone unseen. I chalked it up to the stress of losing her mother; children in grief sometimes talk to their lost parents.
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 a hearty eater, and it was hard to coax her to finish a meal. Her mother had been, to put it mildly, impatient, and when Poppy refused food, Margaret would have dragged her to the table by the arm. By the tenth summons I finally heard a dreadful crash followed by sobbing. I dashed into the bedroom to find an enormous sliding wardrobe that had toppled over, its edge scraping the bed but leaving a narrow gap underneath. Poppy was trembling, eyes wide with terror, and she remained hysterical for the rest of the day.
That night I again heard her weeping, pleading for forgiveness. I entered to soothe her; she leapt into my arms and clung tightly, her gaze fixed on a particular corner of the room as if someone stood there, her face pale with fear.
Poppy, whos there? I asked.
Mum she whispered.
Tell her youre letting her go, that its time for her to leave, I urged.
Mum doesnt want to go! she cried.
On the fortieth day after Margarets death, Eleanor and I took Poppy to the cemetery, laid fresh lilies on the grave, and handed sweets to the other children gathered for the memorial. After that small ceremony, the house felt calmer. We sold the flat, moved back to our own flat in Hove, and Poppy now lives with us.
Looking back, I realise that grief can turn a home into a haunted place, not because of any spirit, but because the living carry the weight of loss in every creak and whisper. The lesson I carry forward is simple: when sorrow settles in, give it space to speak, but also let the light of ordinary life seep back in, for that balance is what eventually steadies the heart.
