The Empty Swing Set

The day we moved into the farmhouse on Cedar Hollow Road, the realtor made a point of mentioning the swing set in the backyard. ‘Been there since the eighties,’ she said with a tight smile, ‘the previous owners’ kids used it. Solid as a rock.’ I remember thinking it looked out of place against the fading red barn and the endless wheat fields, but my twins, Lily and Cole, were ecstatic. They were seven, and that rusted metal frame with its creaky chains was a promise of summer afternoons.

We’d bought the place from the estate of an old widow named Marjorie Benton, who’d lived there alone for decades. The house itself was a drafty Victorian, full of dark wood and floral wallpaper that smelled of dust and old lavender. I wasn’t a believer in ghosts, and neither was my husband, Mark. We were city folks looking for space, and the move was stressful enough without worrying about the creaks of an old house. But the very first night, Cole refused to go upstairs without me. ‘There’s a boy,’ he said, his eyes wide and earnest, ‘he says I can’t ride his swing.’ I told him it was just his imagination, that the swing was ours now, and tucked him in with a kiss. Lily, on the other hand, had no such complaints. She slept like a log, and I chalked Cole’s behavior up to new-place jitters.

But it didn’t stop. Every night, Cole would lie in his twin bed, staring at the closet door, whispering that ‘the boy’ was watching. He’d describe him in frustratingly vague terms: ‘He has a face but it’s not a face,’ or ‘He wears a hat that isn’t there.’ I tried everything – nightlights, keeping the closet door ajar, even letting him sleep with us a few times. Mark was patient, but I was exhausted. Finally, after a week of this, I decided to take my own advice and told Cole to write down every single thing he could remember about this ‘boy.’ I expected a classic imaginary friend: a name like ‘Tommy’ or a description of a scruffy kid in overalls.

What he gave me was a single sheet of paper, torn from his math homework, with shaky handwriting that spoke of tears and fear. It read: ‘His name is Jonah. He is 11. He has no shoes. He is wearing a yellow raincoat. It’s always wet. His hair is black. It is wet. He has no eyes. They are black holes. He told me to ask if the swing is ready for him. He says he can’t fly until it is.’ I read it aloud to Mark, and we both felt a chill, not from the words, but from the specificity. This was a child using a concept he shouldn’t have. Jonah wasn’t a name we’d ever mentioned. Yellow raincoat? Black holes for eyes? Mark tried to laugh it off, saying it was a nightmare woven from a scary movie, but I saw his hands tremble as he lit the fireplace.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I went to the window and looked out at the swing set, its two seats hanging motionless in the moonlight. And I saw it. A small, dark figure, sitting in the right-hand swing, slowly rocking back and forth, as if pushed by an invisible hand. It was too small to be an adult, and it was wearing something that glistened, like wet rubber. My breath caught. I blinked, and it was gone, but the swing was still swaying, as if it had just been let go. I ran to the children’s room, but they were both fast asleep, Cole’s face peaceful for the first time in days. I didn’t tell Mark. I didn’t want to seem insane.

The next morning, I called the realtor and asked about the previous owners. She hesitated before saying, ‘The Bentons had a boy, Jonah. He drowned in the pond out back back in ’79, not long after they put up that swing set. He was eleven. So sad.’ My blood ran cold. I hung up without a word. I looked out the kitchen window at the swing set, and I knew. Jonah was still waiting.

That afternoon, I did the only thing a mother could think of. I went outside, my heart pounding, and pushed the right-hand swing myself. It creaked as it rose, and for a moment, I felt a pressure, like a small hand brushing my fingers. I whispered, ‘It’s ready, Jonah. You can fly now.’ I don’t know what I expected – a thank you, a ghostly cry – but the swing just swayed, and then the wind picked up, rattling the chain links. When I went back inside, I found Cole sitting on the stairs, his face white. ‘He’s gone,’ he said softly, ‘but he left something.’ He held up a small, rusted sandal, the size of a child’s foot, but it was dry, as if it had never touched water.