The Rusty Merry-Go-Round

My name is Eli, and I’ve spent all sixteen years of my life in the dusty outskirts of Terral, Oklahoma. Most folks think a kid like me has no business talking about things that go bump in the night, but I’ve seen what I’ve seen. Our little town has one of those old, forgotten playgrounds tucked behind the abandoned Methodist church, and the rumors about it are as thick as the summer heat. They say a girl named Susie died on the merry-go-round back in the ’70s, and ever since, her ghost has been seen spinning it at midnight, laughing in the dark. I’ve always been drawn to that kind of stuff, so I decided to test it out for myself. I’d been there at night a dozen times before, alone and with friends, and nothing ever happened. We’d kick up dust on the swings, try to summon her with silly rhymes, and go home bored. But last Thursday, something changed.

It was around 11:30 when my best friend, Marcus, and I hopped the rusted fence. The moon was hiding behind a bank of clouds, and the only light came from the flickering streetlamp at the corner. We made our way to the swings, our sneakers crunching on dead leaves, and I felt that familiar prickle of anticipation. We started swinging in silence, listening to the crickets and the distant hum of a truck on the highway. Then, Marcus stopped. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in so hard it hurt. ‘Eli, you hear that?’ I stopped, and sure enough, there was a faint creaking, like old wood straining, coming from the merry-go-round. It was a rhythmic sound, like something heavy was turning it. My heart started pounding, but I told myself it was just the wind. We got off the swings and walked closer, the creaking getting louder. The merry-go-round was slowly spinning, though there was no breeze strong enough to move it. And then I heard a child’s giggle, soft and high, coming from the center of it.

Marcus turned pale, his eyes wide. ‘We should go,’ he whispered, but I couldn’t move. I was frozen, watching the shadowy figure of a little girl sitting on one of the rusted horses. She was swinging her legs, her head tilted back, and she was laughing. It wasn’t a happy laugh—it was empty, hollow, like a recording played over and over. Marcus yanked my arm, and we ran. We didn’t stop until we were back at my house, breathless and sweating. I tried to convince myself it was a trick of the light, a figment of our imagination, but I knew better. I had to go back. I had to understand.

The next night, I went alone. I told myself it was to prove I wasn’t scared, but deep down, I was terrified. I brought a flashlight and a camera, hoping to capture evidence. The playground was still, the merry-go-round motionless. I walked up to it, the metal cold under my hand. I pushed it, and it spun with a haunting creak that echoed in the emptiness. I sat on one of the horses, and I waited. Minutes passed, then an hour. I was about to leave when I heard a soft humming, a lullaby that I vaguely recognized. It was coming from the center of the merry-go-round. I turned, and she was there, standing in the middle, her face obscured by stringy hair. She stopped humming and pointed at me. Her mouth opened, and she spoke, her voice like gravel scraping against metal. ‘You came back. You see me. Now you have to stay.’

I tried to run, but my legs were like lead. The merry-go-round began to spin on its own, faster and faster, until the world blurred around me. I felt my body being lifted, and when the spinning stopped, I was standing at the edge of the playground, facing the church. The sun was rising, but something was wrong. The sky was a sickly orange, and the air was thick and heavy. I checked my phone—it was 6:00 AM, but the date read the same. I walked home, but my house was gone. In its place was an empty lot overgrown with weeds. I wandered the streets, but they were unfamiliar, and no one would answer when I called. I finally spotted an old man sitting on a porch, rocking slowly. I asked him what year it was. He looked at me with rheumy eyes and said, ‘1974, son.’ Then he pointed a gnarled finger at the playground. ‘You seen Susie? She’s been looking for someone to play with for a long time.’

I’ve been stuck here ever since, in this ghost of a town, watching the days go by in a loop. I see my own house, intact, but I can’t enter. I see my family, but they can’t see me. I tried to write this note and leave it for them, but every time I get close to the edge of the playground, the merry-go-round starts spinning, and I feel that pull. I’m a prisoner here, and the worst part is, I can hear Susie’s laughter echoing all around me, and I know she’s never going to let me go. So if you’re reading this, and you think you’re brave, don’t come near this place. The rusty merry-go-round is real, and it will take you too.