The Meridian Swing

I was eight, and the summer solstice had baked the blacktop of Oak Hollow Elementary into a sticky tar that grabbed at my sneakers. The bell had rung for afternoon recess, and the entire school poured out onto the playground like ants from a kicked mound. My best friend, Danny, was already sprinting toward the swings, but I was drawn to the old merry-go-round at the edge of the field. It was a rusted iron disc with wooden slats, and the older kids had a game where they’d spin it as fast as they could and then jump on, clinging to the handles as the world blurred around them.

I was waiting for a space when I felt a sudden chill on the back of my neck, even though the sun was blazing. I turned, and there was a woman standing beside me. She wore a yellow sundress that looked too crisp for the playground dust, and her hair was a deep auburn, pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her eyes were the color of storm clouds, and she smiled down at me with too many teeth. ‘You like to spin?’ she asked, her voice like honey over gravel. I nodded, not wanting to be rude. She placed a hand on my shoulder, and her fingers were ice cold even through my shirt.

She guided me onto the merry-go-round, which was empty now. The chains clanked as I sat on a wooden slat, my legs dangling. She started to push, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The world became a smear of color, and I heard her laughing—a sound that was almost a cackle. I clung to the center pole, my knuckles white. ‘Let go,’ she whispered, her voice right next to my ear, even though she was standing far away. ‘Let go and fly.’ But I was too scared. I closed my eyes and felt the wind rip at my hair.

When I opened them, the playground was gone. I was lying in a patch of tall grass, and the sky was a bruised purple, even though it had been noon. The merry-go-round was behind me, but it was old and broken, half-sunk into the earth. The woman was gone. I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering. In the distance, I saw a cluster of houses, but they were wrong—roofs sagging, windows dark, and the streetlights were flickering like dying candles.

I ran toward the houses, calling for my mom, for anyone. But as I ran, I noticed something strange: the grass beneath my feet was covered in small, white flowers that seemed to glow faintly. I stopped, and I realized the flowers were growing in a path that led away from the merry-go-round, toward a line of trees. A voice from behind me said, ‘Don’t follow the flowers.’ I spun around, and there was the woman again, but now her dress was torn and her hair was matted, and her eyes were completely black. ‘You’re in the between,’ she said. ‘The space between moments.’ She pointed at the trees. ‘The only way out is through the gray gate.’

I saw a gate made of twisted iron, wrapped in what looked like dead vines, standing alone in the field. It was the color of old bones, and it creaked open and shut in a wind that wasn’t there. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘But when you go through, you must not look back, no matter what you hear.’ I didn’t trust her, but I had no other choice. I walked toward the gate, and as I got closer, I heard sounds from behind me—my mother’s voice calling, Danny’s laughter, the noise of the playground. The woman’s voice came again, now soft and kind: ‘Turn around, sweetheart. It’s all just a game.’

I nearly turned, but something in my gut told me not to. I stepped through the gate, and the world lurched. I was back on the merry-go-round, which was spinning to a stop. The sun was high, and the playground was full of kids again. The woman was gone. I stumbled off, dizzy, and Danny ran up to me. ‘Where’d you go?’ he asked. ‘You were gone for like five minutes.’ I looked at him, and he was blurry, like I was seeing him through water. ‘I was on the merry-go-round,’ I said, but my voice sounded far away.

At home, I told my mom what happened, but she said it was just a sun-stroke, a funny turn. But as I grew older, I never forgot the gray gate. And now, at thirty-five, I’ve started to see it everywhere—in the reflection of a shop window, at the edge of a parking lot, even in my dreams. The woman appears too, but now she’s always on the other side of the gate, and she’s always pointing at something. I know that one day, I’ll have to go back through, and this time, I’ll be the one on the other side, waiting for some child to take my place.

I haven’t told anyone, but when I drive past the old playground, which is now a vacant lot, I see that the merry-go-round is still there, rusted but somehow moving, and there’s a child sitting on it, alone, spinning in the heat. I never stop. I never look back. But I know that child is me, and I’m the one who pushed her off.