Lera

We recently experienced a great loss: my mother's sister died. She had no husband, but she left behind a four-year-old daughter, Lera. My husband and I took on her care. As soon as the child learned of her mother's death, she withdrew into herself and never left the house. She also refused to move anywhere, so my husband and I moved into the apartment where she and my mother lived. We thought she would agree to move in with us after the funeral, but living in that apartment became simply unbearable. The water would turn on and off by itself at night, and the lights did the same. The doors and floors creaked, as if someone was constantly running from room to room. I tried to bless the apartment, but it was no use.

One night, as usual, I couldn't sleep, and my husband had long since gone to bed. I heard whispering coming from Lera's room. For some reason, I felt really creepy, but I didn't wake him. I quietly turned on the light, walked up to her door, and listened to what was going on. All I heard was my little girl's voice:

"I don't want to sleep, I want to play with Katya (that's her doll). I'll play a little longer and then go to bed."

I opened the door. The little girl was sitting in the corner behind the closet, hugging her doll and looking at me fearfully. She peered around the corner with such caution, as if I were her enemy.

"Lerochka, who were you talking to just now?" I asked.

"With my mom..."

A shiver ran down my spine. I put her to bed and snuggled up to my husband and dozed off too. For the next week, the little girl kept talking to someone. I stopped paying attention, blaming it on stress—a child has lost his mother; you can't just talk to yourself. The apartment continued to test my patience.

 One afternoon, while I was preparing dinner, I called Lera to eat several times, but she screamed that she didn't want to. She never showed any interest in food, so it was difficult to get her to eat. Her mother was, to put it mildly, impatient, and when Lera refused to eat, she would force her to the table. Then, when I had called Lera to dinner for what must have been the tenth time, I heard a terrible crash and crying. I immediately ran into the room and saw a completely inexplicable scene. A huge wardrobe had fallen on the child. Luckily, it hadn't pinned her to the floor; instead, one edge had rested against the bed, leaving a corner between it and the floor. Lera was terrified and hysterical for the rest of the day. That night, I again heard her crying and begging for forgiveness. I went in to calm her down, and she climbed into my arms and hugged me tightly. She kept looking at the same corner, as if someone was standing there. And she looked very frightened.

"Lera, who's there?" I asked.

"Mom..." she whispered quietly.

"Lerochka, tell Mom you're letting her go and for her to go away."

"Mom doesn't want to go!"

When the fortieth day after her death arrived, Lera and I went to the grave, laid flowers, and gave gifts to the children to remember the deceased. Everything became calm. We sold the apartment and brought the girl home with us.