The Ghost in the Porch Swing

The summer Marta died, the air in our small town of Cedar Hollow seemed to hold its breath. She had been a quiet soul, always with a worn paperback in her hands, her fingers tracing the words as if she could feel the story. Our houses stood side by side, separated by a narrow strip of overgrown grass and the creaking porch swing that she loved. Marta would sit there for hours, the swing swaying gently, the pages of her books rustling like whispered secrets.

The day she passed, a heavy silence fell over both homes. Her mother, Tía Rosa, and my mother, Elena, had tended to her through the long, painful months as her heart slowly gave out. After the funeral, we tried to resume our lives, but the emptiness was palpable. The porch swing remained still, its chains rusted with disuse.

Three nights after the burial, I was jolted awake by a sound I couldn’t place. It was a soft, rhythmic creaking, like the swing moving back and forth. I lay in bed, my heart pounding, listening. Then came the unmistakable sound of pages turning, delicate and precise, as if someone were reading under the moonlight. I crept to the window and peered out. The swing was gently swaying, but no one was there. A chill ran down my spine.

The next morning, I mentioned it to my mother, who looked at me with wide eyes. She had heard it too, she said, and so had Tía Rosa. We decided to stay together that night, huddled in the living room, waiting. The creaking started again at midnight, followed by the soft flutter of pages. Tía Rosa whispered, ‘It’s her. She’s reading.’

We grew bolder. On the fourth night, we sat on the porch, the swing empty beside us. The air grew cold, and the pages of a book on the swing began to turn on their own. We watched, frozen, as the spine creaked and the pages flipped as if guided by invisible fingers. Tía Rosa reached out, her hand trembling, and placed it on the swing. It stopped. A moment later, a faint whisper brushed past my ear, a voice I recognized as Marta’s, saying, ‘One more chapter.’

Then the swing stopped, and the night fell silent. The next day, we found an old, dog-eared copy of ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ on the swing, open to a page where Marta had underlined a passage: ‘I wait for death, but I am not in a hurry.’ We never heard the creaking or the pages again, but sometimes, in the quiet of the evening, I swear I can still see the swing swaying gently, as if Marta is still there, lost in her story.