The Empty Swing

Three blocks from my house sat the Millbrook Courts, a cluster of a hundred-odd apartments that buzzed with kids from dawn till dusk. In the summer of ’86, when I was nine, it was a kingdom of scraped knees and shouted games, the air thick with the crack of a bat and the squeal of sneakers on pavement. Among the regulars were the Vances, who lived in the top row—Tommy, who was six, and his sister Lena, who was twelve. They were our neighbors in age, if not in closeness, and we’d all play together in the field behind the laundry room, our parents waving from the stoops.

Just before the new school year, Tommy was killed in a car wreck that also left his father mangled. The news hit our block like a stone in a pond. I didn’t go to the service—my parents said it was for adults—but my older sister Dana went with them because she’d been friends with Lena. When they came back, Dana’s face was gray, and she said nothing, just went to her room. A week later, we saw Lena in the field, sitting on the rusty swing set that had been there for ages, her back to us, swaying slightly, not making a sound.

We tried to coax her into a game of tag, but she just stared at the ground. After a while, we left her alone, a lone figure in the dusk. The next day she was there again, and the day after. Some of the kids started to avoid the field, saying it felt strange, like the air was too still. My mother told me to give her space, that grief takes time. But there was something about the way she sat, perfectly still except for the gentle rocking, that made my stomach knot.

It was a week later, on a Saturday, that my friend Marcus and I dared to approach her. The day was hot and bright, but as we got closer, a chill crept over my skin. Lena’s head was bowed, her hair hiding her face, and she was humming a tune I didn’t recognize—a slow, off-key melody that made the hairs on my arms stand up. She didn’t seem to notice us until we were right in front of her, and then she lifted her head. Her eyes were not her own. They were filled with a murky, gray film, like a dead fish, and her smile was too wide, showing teeth that seemed too long.

‘Want to push me?’ she asked, her voice a dry croak. Marcus grabbed my arm, his face white. We ran, and behind us, the swing creaked in a rhythm that didn’t match the wind. That night, I lay in bed, hearing that creak over and over, and I knew it wasn’t my imagination when I saw Lena’s pale face at my window, her mouth moving without sound, her hands pressing against the glass as if to reach inside.

I told my parents, but they said it was a nightmare, that Lena was in mourning. But Dana knew. She came to my room, her face drawn, and whispered, ‘She’s not Lena. Not anymore. She left something in that car with Tommy. And she brought something back.’ I begged her to tell me more, but she just shook her head and left. I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, listening to the creak of the swing that I could swear was coming from my own backyard.

A few days later, I saw Lena at the edge of the field, beckoning to my little brother, Sam. My blood ran cold. I ran out, shouting his name, but he was already walking toward her, his eyes glazed. Lena reached out a hand, and I saw that her fingers were stained black, like she’d been digging in something. I grabbed Sam, pulling him back, and Lena’s grin widened. ‘He wants a friend,’ she said, pointing at the swing where Tommy used to sit. And for a split second, I saw a boy sitting there, his head twisted at a wrong angle, his eyes empty, and he waved.

We moved away from Millbrook before the leaves turned, but the empty swing stayed in my mind. Years later, I heard that Lena had been found in the field, frozen solid in the middle of a summer night, her hands wrapped around the chains of that swing, a smile on her face. They never found her brother’s body, all these years later. Sometimes, when I hear a swing creak in the wind, I think of that boy in the car, and I wait for the knock on the door that I hope never comes.