The Storm Swing

I never liked visiting Aunt Margo’s farm. The place felt wrong, like the air itself was holding its breath. My cousin, Felix, was the only good part about those trips. He was two years older, with a wild mop of red hair and a grin that said he knew secrets. We’d often escape the stuffy farmhouse and wander down to the old creek bed, but our favorite spot was the dead field beyond the silo. It wasn’t really a field anymore, just a patch of brambles and dead grass where a rusted swing set stood, its chains hanging limp.

One sweltering July afternoon, Felix and I were lying on our backs in that field, watching clouds drift by. Suddenly, a sound cut through the drone of cicadas: a child’s voice, high and sweet, singing a nonsense song about a caterpillar. I sat up, my heart thumping. The sound was coming from the direction of the swing set. But there was no one there. The swings were motionless, the chains rusty and still. I turned to Felix, who was also sitting up, his face pale. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked. He nodded slowly, his eyes wide. ‘Yeah. A little girl singing.’

We didn’t talk about it on the way back to the house. But after that day, we couldn’t stay away. Every time we went to that field, the singing would start. Sometimes it was just the song, but other times, we’d hear a panicked cry: ‘Help me! Please help me!’ And then the sky would seem to darken, despite the bright sun, and the sound of thunder would roll across the field, yet no clouds gathered. The swing set would start to sway violently, as if in a storm, its rusty chains creaking like old bones.

Felix and I started to investigate. We asked Aunt Margo about the field, but she’d just shake her head and say, ‘The old Harris place burned down there years ago. Ain’t nothing left but that swing set. Kids said it was haunted, but I never believed ’em.’ We dug through local records, but found nothing. So I came up with a theory. The girl had been swinging, singing, and then a freak storm came out of nowhere. She cried for help, but the lightning struck her before anyone could reach her. Now she’s stuck, forever swinging between the moment of joy and the moment of terror.

The strange thing was, the storms around her never seemed to affect us directly. They were just sounds, like a memory of a storm. But one day, I noticed that the grass under the swing set was always darker, even on dry days. And the swing set itself felt colder when we touched it. I dared to touch the chain, and I felt a jolt, like static electricity. I pulled my hand away, and the singing stopped abruptly. Then a thunderclap rang out, so loud I felt it in my chest, and the swing set started to spin, the chains twisting into a knot. Felix yelled for me to get back, and we ran.

When we looked back, the swing set was still, but it was facing a different direction than before. The singing had returned, but it was different now. It was broken, like a record skipping, and there was a new sound: a low, guttural growl, not human. We both realized the ghost wasn’t just a little girl anymore. Our fear had warped her, or maybe she was always something else. We haven’t been back to that field since, but I can still hear her sometimes, when the wind is right, singing her lullaby. And I know that if we ever go back, she might not ask for help anymore. She might just want company.