Daddy by Frances Brindle

Daddy is a psychological supernatural horror story about a young widow struggling to rebuild her life after a devastating loss. While she tries to move forward, her young daughter insists that Daddy is still around, forcing her to question whether grief is playing tricks on the mind—or whether some bonds truly transcend death. A haunting tale of love, loss, and the lingering presence of those we cannot let go.

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Daddy 

After the wake, Nora carried Lily upstairs. David had always hoisted her over his
shoulder in a fireman’s lift. The bedtime story was his domain too: The Tiger
that Came to Tea, Where the Wild Things Are, The Gruffalo. When he was alive,
she heard him reading in a deep Gruffalo voice as she passed Lily’s door. Nora had
done her best to explain that David was dead, using the class hamster as a
reference. The animal had crossed the rainbow bridge during the holidays when Lily
(really Nora) was caring for it. Lily was inconsolable until David staged an elaborate
burial in the back garden to distract her.

His death was more abstract. He had fallen from a cliff on a birdwatching trip, and the coroner delivered a verdict of death by misadventure. Nora kept Lily away from the funeral judging it too distressing for a four-year-old.

Tonight, there was no bedtime story. Lily didn’t stir as Nora tucked her under the
duvet, and she too fell asleep immediately, only to wake with a start an hour later.
Her mouth was dry, and there was an ominous pain above her right eye, heralding
a migraine. Reluctantly, she swung her legs out of bed in search of painkillers.
She was half-way down the stairs when she heard a noise coming from Lily’s room.
It sounded like giggling.

‘Lily, are you OK, darling?’ She found Lily awake and clutching her pink toy rabbit.
‘Were you talking to Rabbit?’Lily shook her head.

‘Daddy was making me laugh.’

The grief counsellor had warned Nora something like this might happen and not to
be alarmed if it did. She perched on the edge of Lily’s bed.

‘Daddy isn’t here, sweetheart. Do you remember? I told you he was in heaven, like
Steve.’ Steve was the hamster.

‘But he was reading to me,’ Lily said firmly. ‘He always reads to me.’

‘That’s impossible, darling. Daddy can’t read anymore. Would you like me to read to
you instead? What about Where the Wild Things Are?

‘Daddy says you were mean to him.’

Nora’s breath caught in her throat. Why had he told her that? Why upset her when
she was too young to understand?
                                                                     ***
The next morning, she drove to David’s office, and his business partner, Will, let her
in.

‘How are you doing?’ He’d asked her the same thing at the funeral.

Nora shrugged. ‘OK. As well as can be expected.’

The office was smaller and shabbier than she remembered. The business had been
struggling for a while, and they’d recently downsized.

‘Tea?’

Will gestured towards the kettle, and she recognised David’s mug next to it. She’d
given it to him when things were going well. Her heart tightened as she read the
inscription - Living the Dream.

She shook her head. ‘No. I just came to collect his things.’

‘He said you’d kicked him out, a trial separation.’

Will’s voice was frosty. He blamed her, and he was right; she was a bitch. She’d
fallen out of love with David and embarked on an affair with Oliver. Will didn’t know
how difficult life was with David. How his relentless negativity and supine
acceptance of whatever fate threw at him had ground her down. Yes, he was a
good father, but partner not so much. Of course, she was sad he was gone, but it
also made things easier. With his life insurance and the proceeds from the sale of
the house, she and Oliver could buy a place in the country with a big garden for Lily
to play in. They might even get a dog. She had always wanted a dog.

‘Is that it?’ She pointed at the cardboard box on what had once been David’s desk.
She unpacked it once home and at the kitchen table. Inside was his laptop – password Lily4 - a framed photograph of the three of them at the beach, a bundle of pens held
together with an elastic band, half a dozen paper clips, and a calculator. She put
the laptop and the picture to one side and tipped the rest in the bin.
                                                                     ***
That night, she heard David’s voice. There was no mistaking it. It was deep and
Gruffalo-like and punctuated by the sound of Lily’s laughter. The hair rose on the
back of her neck as she pushed the door. Lily was sitting up in bed with the book
next to her. Nora replaced it in the bookcase.

‘Daddy was reading that.’ Lily said crossly.

Nora scooped her up. ‘Daddy can’t read. Daddy’s dead.’

In her bedroom, she read The Tiger Who Came to Tea until Lily fell asleep, but she
could still feel David’s presence. Like the ground elder strangling her roses, it was
impossible to get rid of him.
                                                                     ***
The house sold quickly to a couple in their thirties. The woman exclaimed over the
kitchen, which Nora had painted in tasteful shades of Dimity and Ammonite, while
the man searched for evidence of damp. Surprisingly, they paid the asking price.
David would have pointed out that the boiler needed replacing, and the shower
leaked, but Nora kept schtum.
                                                                     ***
On the drive to their new home, she waited until the fuel gauge had crossed the red
line before stopping. Lily was asleep, and the cat had finally given up mewling and
was glaring at her crossly from its carrier.

At the service station, she bought a coffee for herself and a cereal bar for Lily while
watching the car through the window. When she got back, Lily was awake.

‘We’ll be there in half an hour,’ Nora said. ‘Oliver told me there’s a swing in the back
garden, isn’t that exciting?’

She unwrapped the cereal bar and offered it to Lily, who made a face.

‘Daddy says you shouldn’t eat between meals.’

‘Well, Daddy isn’t here, is he?’ Nora snapped, then immediately felt guilty. It had
been a stressful day.

‘He is,’ Lily insisted. ‘He’s coming with us.’The temperature in the car seemed suddenly to drop, and the driver behind them honked impatiently. Nora was frozen in horror. She could smell David’s aftershave, and his aura permeated the air like damp fog, sad and accusatory.

Instead of going to the new house where Oliver was waiting, she abandoned the
car in a public car park and called Oliver to fetch them, saying there was a problem
with the steering.
                                                                     ***
She sold the car to a dealer the next day, but it wasn’t until several weeks later that
she returned from work to find a parcel on the doorstep. It was wrapped in brown
paper, and she waited until she was inside to open it. The Gruffalo. She recognised
the book immediately. A note from the dealer fluttered out.

We found this under the back seat when we valeted your car. Apologies for the
delay in returning it.

For a second, she was too shocked to move. Then, holding the book away from her
as if it might explode, she dashed to the door. A fine mist trailed from its pages and
coalesced into a cloud as she fumbled with the door handle.

‘No, no, you can’t do this.’ Nora batted frantically at the cloud. It wasn’t fair. All she
wanted was to move on with her life, to move on with their lives. ‘You complete and
utter bastard, David.’

The cloud hung in the air for a moment as if it was finding its bearings before
drifting purposefully across the parquet and up the stairs, finally vanishing into Lily’s
room.

                                                           💀💀💀

Frances lives in Oxfordshire, in England, with her husband, a Greek dog, and an American cat. After studying microbiology at university, she moved into marketing and was once responsible for sending an animatronic kangaroo down a ski jump in New Zealand for a beer campaign. She was shortlisted for the H. G. Wells short story prize, and her stories have been published in several magazines and anthologies. You can find more of Frances’s work on Substack -FranB @Talesattwilight.