Another Original Pre-Halloween Tale: "The Porch Swing"

 The Porch Swing

©2024 by Brian James Lane

It was an early, cool October evening. I shivered as I knew the first frost of the year would soon kiss the crisp autumn night its greeting. I could feel the change in the air. The leaves had begun their dance of crimson and gold, swirling around the entryway steps blown by a gathering breeze. The pumpkin on my porch glowed warmly; its toothy grin flickered in the soft light of the setting sun as if grinning towards the coming nightfall.

I had just settled into my old weathered porch swing. It creaked with a contented sigh when I eased into it. I was about to open my notebook to scribble down a few more lines of my latest story when I saw tiny, hesitant ghost on the sidewalk near my mailbox. Or at least a youngster wearing the nearest approximation of a ghostly veil they could find. I certainly did not expect such an early trick-or-treater.

This was still a time when the young were safe to walk the streets at night, so I was not so shocked to see that the child was not accompanied by an adult. My front door never locked in such a place. It was a good neighborhood where people were kind and crime had not yet spilled over from the distant metropolis.

I beckoned to the figure shrouded in a ghostly sheet with holes cut out for eyes to come forth. The child looked over at me and cocked their head to the side, slightly. There was a hint of that bravery only the very young possess.

“Well, hello there,” I said, “I wasn’t expecting visitors so soon. I see you’ve come prepared with the right attire, though, so how can I refuse?”

A high-pitched, fervent reply filtered out from beneath the sheet. “I know it’s early, but I wanted to be the first to hear the scary stories.”

I chuckled, for it wasn’t often that an author had the pleasure of hosting such an eager little listener. “Why, you’re just in time. I was about to sit on this very porch swing write down such nightmares.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the ghost clambered up onto the swing beside me. I scooted over a bit to give the child room, though they barely needed it. Up close, the youngster was so tiny.

“We begin our stories knowing that words have power. Once a scary story is born on an October night such as this, it remains in the air and continues to haunt for many seasons to come.”

“And the first to hear it gives it life,” added the child.

I smiled broadly. The neighborhood children knew of such legend. I was only so happy to propagate such myth.

As we settled into the swing, I began with a story about the old oak tree at the edge of town. The gnarled lifeless thing had seen more than its share of strange happenings. It was an object of marvel, inspiring it as both landmark and one of solemn reverence. I spoke of a time when the tree was still alive. The falling October leaves spoke in whispers. It revealed secrets buried deep within the soil. The ghost listened intently. The child’s eyes widened appreciatively as they reflected the glow of the candle in the pumpkin.

Next, I wove a tale of the wandering lantern that drifted through the midnight mist. It guided lost souls to a forgotten graveyard, long since lost to the ravages of time and progress. The little ghost squirmed with delight. I could see the spark of imagination dancing behind their eyes.

More stories followed. I told of vampires, werewolves, ghouls, of monsters, and even of distant galaxies. The porch swing creaked and rocked as we travelled through the tales. The night had come. The breeze carried the scent of autumn leaves and distant fireplaces fending off the cold.

Soon, the tales extinguished like smoldering ash in a dying fire. Stars began to peek through the velvet curtain of night. I drew quiet to signal the end. The child sighed softly. The reluctance to leave was palpable.

“Surely, your parents might grow worried. It’s time to go back,” I urged.

“Yeah, I guess so. My mom visits, sometimes,” whispered the youngster.

I frowned, realizing the child’s mother and father were no longer together. I tried to soothe the tiny one. “I see. She must love you very much. How often does she visit?”

“She makes it into town whenever she can to visit my grave. More around this time of year, for that’s when I left,” admitted the child.

A chill ran down my spine, but I quickly recovered. After all, it wasn’t the first time I had met the supernatural. I smiled.

The ghost hopped off the porch swing, sending it rocking back and forth. It turned and nodded in gratitude. I waved a heartfelt farewell.

It began to walk away. I called out, “You are welcome to come back again. Any time you like. There are always more stories to tell.”

“Thank you. Next year, I’ll come back,” it replied.

It left then behind a trail of shimmering moonlight and the sweet, fleeting echo of childhood wonder. It disappeared before it hit the perimeter of light cast by my sole Jack-o’-lantern. I sighed, wondering how long since the child had died.

I settled back into the swing, feeling the familiar gentle squeak beneath me. The autumn night spoke the assurance of more stories yet unborn. I knew that as long as the porch swing creaked and the pumpkins glowed, the magic of storytelling would never truly end.

I closed my eyes to let the night envelop me. The crickets chirped very slowly. Soon, their song would be gone entirely. I heard the breeze carry leaves to the neighbors where I would not have to rake them and I grinned mischievously. I inhaled the wonderful seasonal aroma, inspired by my ghostly visitor and the onset of another delightful Halloween season.