It sat in the far corner of the old schoolyard, half-swallowed by weeds and shadow, the metal frame leaning at an odd angle as though it had grown tired of standing. The paint had long peeled away, leaving only pitted iron scarred with rust. The chains were brown and flaking, the wooden seat splintered from decades of weather.
Nobody knew how long it had been there, only that it was older than anyone in town, maybe older than the school itself. The kids called it the Widow’s Swing. They said a woman in black once sat there every day for months, waiting for her husband to return from the mines. When word came that he’d been crushed in a cave-in, she didn’t cry—she just kept swinging, staring into nothing, until one night she hanged herself from the very same chains.
After that, the stories began. Some swore they’d seen the swing moving at midnight, pumping higher and higher with no one on it. Others whispered that if you sat on it, you’d feel invisible hands pressing into your back, cold and eager, pushing you higher than you could ever go on your own. Higher, and higher… until you didn’t want to get off.
Jace never believed any of it. Ghost stories were for little kids, and at twelve, he was practically an adult. But his sister Emma, nine years old and still clinging to stuffed animals, had been talking about the Widow’s Swing nonstop since she overheard the older kids at school. She asked him if he thought it was real. He told her no. She asked him if he was scared of it. He told her no. She asked if he’d ever sat on it. He told her no, but only because he hadn’t bothered. Which was why, on that warm summer night, standing in the overgrown schoolyard with crickets screaming all around them, Jace grinned and said,
“I dare you to try it.”
Emma’s eyes went wide in the moonlight.
“At night?”
“What’s the point in trying it during the day? You’re supposed to go at midnight. That’s when the Widow comes out.”
She hugged herself.
“That’s dumb.”
“Then prove it,”
Jace teased. “Unless you’re scared.”
She was. He could tell. But she hated backing down from him even more. After a few long moments, she straightened her shoulders, tossed her hair back, and marched toward the swing. The weeds whispered around her ankles. The rusted chains groaned as she lowered herself onto the seat.
“Happy?”
She called back.
“Not yet,”
Jace said, smirking.
“You gotta swing.”
Emma put her feet to the dirt and kicked off. The creak of the chains echoed across the empty yard. At first, she was stiff, glancing around nervously between pumps, but as the arc grew higher, she began to laugh—sharp, breathless bursts that carried in the warm night air.
Jace watched from the edge of the playground, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t impressed at how high she was getting. Her hair streamed behind her, and the wooden seat groaned under her weight.
Then, all at once, the arc changed. She shot upward, too fast, like something had shoved her from behind. The chains rattled violently. Her laughter broke into a startled yelp.
“What the—”
Jace started, but before he could finish, the swing jerked forward again and so high he thought she’d flip over the bar. The rusted metal screamed, and with a sharp snap, one of the chains gave way. Emma flew sideways, hitting the ground hard before scrambling to her feet. She didn’t even look at Jace. Just bolted toward the tree line, her small form vanishing into the dark.
“Emma!”
Jace shouted, sprinting after her. Branches whipped at his arms and face as he plunged into the woods. He could hear her ahead, crashing through undergrowth, her breathing ragged.
“Emma, stop! It’s me!”
But she didn’t. She just kept running. And as he closed the gap, he realized with a cold twist in his stomach that she wasn’t running in a straight line. She was looping back, circling through the same patch of trees again and again, eyes wild and unfocused like she was chasing—or being chased by—something he couldn’t see. When he finally caught her by the arm, she shrieked and tried to pull away.
“It’s me! It’s Jace!”
he said, shaking her gently. Her chest heaved. She glanced around, then whispered,
“She’s here.”
“Who?”
“The Widow.”
Jace opened his mouth to tell her she was imagining it—but then he heard it too. The creak. Slow. Rhythmic. Coming from somewhere behind them. They turned together. Through a gap in the trees, they could see the swing. The broken chain dangled uselessly from one side, but the seat was moving—smooth and steady, back and forth, back and forth. There was no wind. Jace’s mouth went dry.
“Let’s go,”
He said, grabbing her hand. They ran until the swing was out of sight, until they burst onto the cracked pavement of the street, panting and sweating. They didn’t speak on the way home, and when they got there, they lied to their parents, saying they’d just gone for a walk.
That night, Jace dreamed of the Widow. She wore a long black dress that trailed in the dirt, her face hidden by a veil. Her hands were long and pale, fingers curled like claws as she pushed the swing. She never looked at him directly, but somehow he knew she was smiling beneath the veil. And every time the swing reached the peak of its arc, the chains stretched higher and higher into the dark until the seat disappeared completely.
The next morning, Jace woke with a dull ache in his lower back, like someone had been pressing down hard on him all night. Emma wouldn’t talk about what happened. She wouldn’t even look at him. Over the next week, he noticed small changes in her. She was quieter, paler, always glancing toward the window as if expecting someone to be standing there. At night, he heard her bed creak, like she was rocking back and forth. Once, he peeked into her room and saw her sitting upright in bed, moving gently as though she were swinging, her eyes half-lidded, lips curved in a faint smile. When he asked her about it the next day, she said she didn’t remember.
Two weeks after that night, the old schoolyard was demolished. The rusted play structures were torn down, the weeds burned, the land leveled for new development. Jace thought that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. The first night after the demolition, he woke to the creak. It was faint at first, almost like a house settling. But it grew louder, steadier, until he realized it was coming from right outside his window. He lay frozen, heart pounding. Slowly, he turned his head. Through the glass, he could see the swing—intact, whole, its chains unbroken. And someone was on it.
The figure moved back and forth in perfect rhythm, black dress swaying with each pass, face lost behind a dark veil. The seat seemed to rise higher than the window frame, and each time it passed, he caught a glimpse of pale hands gripping the chains. On the next swing forward, the seat was empty. He didn’t remember getting out of bed, but suddenly he was standing in the yard, the grass cold under his feet. The swing stood in front of him now, still swaying. From somewhere behind him came the sound of footsteps in the grass. Slow. Deliberate. A whisper brushed his ear.
“Your turn.”
The next morning, Emma was alone at breakfast. Their parents asked if she’d seen Jace, but she just shook her head and kept eating, eyes fixed on something far away. Behind the house, the swing creaked in the still air, moving in no wind.
