The Empty Swing

My grandmother’s farmhouse sat at the edge of a dying town, surrounded by cornfields that whispered secrets in the wind. I inherited it after she passed, a place I hadn’t visited since childhood. The house smelled of old wood and dust, and the wind rattled the windows like a persistent visitor. I moved in with the intention of fixing it up, but the silence was oppressive.

On the third night, I woke to the sound of a child humming a lullaby I vaguely remembered. I followed the sound to the window overlooking the backyard, where an old wooden swing hung from the branch of a gnarled oak. The swing moved as if someone had just pushed off, but no one was there. I dismissed it as the wind, but the humming continued, soft and melodic, just at the edge of hearing.

The next day, I found an old photograph in a drawer: a girl with braided hair, wearing a faded yellow dress, sitting on that very swing. My grandmother had written on the back: ‘Elsie, 1909.’ I asked a neighbor about her, and he told me that Elsie had been my grandmother’s childhood friend, who disappeared one summer day. The town searched for weeks but never found her. The swing was her favorite spot, and after she vanished, my grandmother never let anyone touch it.

That night, I saw the girl. She stood at the foot of my bed, half-transparent, her eyes like dark pools. She pointed to the window, then to the swing, and mouthed one word: ‘Come.’ I followed her, drawn against my will. When we reached the swing, she pointed to the ground beneath it. I dug with my bare hands, dirt caked under my nails, until I hit something hard—a small wooden box. Inside was a child’s hair ribbon and a letter, yellowed with age.

The letter was from Elsie, written in a child’s hand. It said she was going to run away because her father beat her. She planned to hide in the cornfield until the coast was clear, then leave on the morning train. But she never made it. The last line read: ‘If I don’t come back, tell Clara (my grandmother) that I’m sorry.’

I felt a cold presence at my shoulder. When I turned, Elsie was there, but her expression had changed from sorrowful to something darker. Her mouth stretched into a smile that was too wide. ‘You found it,’ she said, her voice like dry leaves. ‘Now you know my secret. But you can’t tell anyone.’

I tried to speak, but my voice was gone. She reached out and touched my hand, and ice flooded my veins. ‘You’re going to stay with me now,’ she whispered. ‘Forever.’

I woke the next morning in my bed, exhausted, the ribbon and letter on my nightstand. I tried to call the police, but every time I picked up the phone, the line was dead, and I could hear that lullaby hum on the other end. The neighbors started avoiding me. They said I spoke in a child’s voice sometimes, especially at night.

Last week, I decided to leave. I packed my bags and headed for the car, but as I opened the door, I saw the swing swaying gently, and Elsie sitting on it, laughing. She waved at me. ‘Where are you going?’ she called out in a sing-song voice. ‘We’re just getting started.’

I’m writing this from the attic, where I’ve barricaded myself. The door is heavy, but I can hear her footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate. The humming is growing louder. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. If anyone finds this, please, dig up the old oak tree in the backyard. I think you’ll find more than just a ribbon. And for God’s sake, stay away from the swing.