The Swing Under the Snow Moon

In the winter of 1994, I was a senior at Millbrook High, a small town nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians. My part-time job was custodial work at St. Martha’s, a defunct convent turned community center, and the adjacent recreation hall, a prefab metal box that smelled of floor wax and old sweat. The convent was a three-story Victorian with peeling paint and a bell tower that hadn’t rung in decades. Surrounding it were several ancient maples, their bare branches clawing at the sky. One tree, a massive silver maple, stood at the edge of the gravel lot, and from one of its limbs hung a rope and plank swing, probably left over from when the nuns taught children in the 1950s.

It was a bitterly cold Sunday night, the kind where the air bites your lungs and the stars look like chips of ice. My girlfriend, Rosalind, her sister, June, and June’s friend, Marisol, were with me. We’d been driving around with nothing to do, listening to a mix tape of Nirvana and Soundgarden, when Marisol suggested we go to the rec hall to shoot hoops. I had a key. We pulled into the empty lot, the only illumination a flickering streetlight that cast long, dancing shadows. The rec hall sat on a slight rise, and just beyond it, the slope fell away to the maple grove, where the swing hung motionless in the still air.

As we got out of the car, I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, like being watched. I chalked it up to the cold, but Rosalind noticed me hesitate. ‘You okay?’ she asked, her breath pluming. I nodded and led them to the door. I fumbled with the lock, my fingers numb, and finally pushed it open. The interior was dark, smelling of dust and rubber. I hit the light switch, but the fluorescents buzzed and sputtered before dying, leaving us in near darkness. ‘Great,’ June muttered. ‘We’re not playing in the dark.’ ‘There’s a flashlight in the utility closet,’ I said, and went to get it.

I found the flashlight and swept the beam around the gym. The court was empty, the hoops bare. We decided to shoot around anyway, using the dim light from the streetlight that filtered through the high windows. It was quiet, too quiet, and the only sounds were the dribbles and squeaks of our shoes. After a while, Marisol said she needed the bathroom. I pointed her to the restrooms at the far end. She left, and we kept playing. A few minutes later, we heard a faint creaking sound from outside. ‘That’s just the swing,’ Rosalind said, trying to sound casual. ‘The wind must have picked up.’ But there was no wind. The air was dead still.

Then we heard a thud, like something heavy hitting the ground. Then another. Then a soft giggle, high and childish. June and Rosalind froze, and I felt a cold knot in my stomach. ‘It’s just some kids messing around,’ I said, but my voice was shaky. I went to the window that faced the grove. The swing was moving, gently swaying back and forth, as if someone had just jumped off. And there, at the base of the tree, stood a small figure in a white dress, looking up at me. It had no face—just a smooth, pale oval. I stumbled back, knocking over a chair. ‘We need to leave,’ I whispered. ‘Now.’

We hurried to the door, but it was jammed shut. I pushed, I pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. Then the lights flickered on, harsh and bright, and we saw that the gym was no longer empty. The court was filled with children, all in white, circling us, their heads bowed, their feet not touching the ground. Their whispers filled the air like dry leaves. And the tallest one, a girl with long black hair, looked up and smiled with too many teeth. She pointed to the window, where the swing hung still, and I saw that on the plank was carved a single name: ‘Lucy.’

I don’t remember how we got out. I only remember running into the freezing night, piling into the car, and peeling out of the lot, gravel spitting against the metal. We drove in silence until we reached the main road, and then Marisol, pale as death, whispered, ‘I saw her in the bathroom. She was hanging from the mirror.’

We never spoke of it again. But a week later, I went back to clean, and I found the swing had been taken down, the rope cut clean. On the ground beneath the tree was a small wooden cross, and carved into it was the same name: Lucy. I asked around town, and an old woman told me that in 1962, a girl named Lucy had died on that swing, a tragic accident with the rope. They said she’d been playing with her sister, and the rope had broken, and she’d landed on her neck. But the old woman’s eyes told a different story.

Now, whenever I pass that maple tree, I see the swing again, even though it’s gone. And on the coldest, stillest nights, I hear the creak of the rope, and the soft giggle of a child who isn’t there. And I never, ever leave my window open at night, because I know she’s watching, waiting for another child to come and play.