You walk past that park in your neighborhood every day now. See those two empty swing frames. Don't you ever think, wouldn't sitting down and swinging a few times take the edge off? Take my advice.
Don't.
Lin Mo first noticed the swing on his third night of overtime.
The community park sat between Building 6, where he rented, and Building 7. Small. A loop of cobblestone path circling a patch of grass, and in the corner, two chain swings.
Most of the red paint had peeled off, exposing the dark rust underneath. The chains were thick, solid-looking. He'd lived here nearly a year, out early and back late, and the square-dancing old folks, the shrieking kids, the birdsong in the mornings—none of it had anything to do with him.
He only knew the swings existed. He'd never once thought of sitting on one.
That night, a little after eleven, he came out of the office. The last subway had just left. The taxi queue had fifty-some people ahead of him. He walked two stops, then unlocked a shared bike and rode the rest of the way home.
Through the gate. The streetlights were dim, the neighborhood so quiet it didn't feel real—even the insects in the grass had gone silent. He pushed the bike across the park path and caught sight of the two swings in the distance.
The one on the right was moving. Not much. Rocking back and forth, the chain making a faint, rhythmic *creak—creak*. Like someone had just jumped off and it hadn't stopped swaying yet.
Lin Mo didn't give it a thought. He didn't even slow down. A swing swaying by itself—nothing strange about that. Wind. He locked the bike by his entrance, went upstairs, showered, lay down, closed his eyes.
His head was still turning over what Old Zhang had said at the project meeting that day. The gist: if the proposal didn't pass this round, forget this quarter's performance bonus.
He rolled over and heard it through the window, faint: *creak—creak.* He'd lived here almost a year and never once noticed the swings' sound could reach the seventh floor.
Or was the wind just really strong tonight? He couldn't be bothered to get up and close the window. He pulled the blanket over his head. The sound stayed outside, muffled. He was asleep soon enough.
The next night, a little earlier. Tonight he'd brought his laptop home to revise the proposal there. His eyes were sore. He stood up and went to the balcony for a smoke. Sixth floor, and the balcony faced straight toward the park. He lit the cigarette, took a drag, and glanced down.
There it was again. The swing on the right. The arc looked a little bigger than yesterday. *Creak—creak.* The chain glinting cold in the moonlight.
Wind? Lin Mo took another drag, thinking. These past two days the air had been heavy and still. What wind? Maybe some kid playing, out this late?
He tilted his head and watched for a few seconds. The swing kept swaying, steady, unhurried. The seat was empty. Just the chains and that red board gliding back and forth in the dark.
Maybe the bearing was loose. Momentum. He gave himself an explanation, put out the cigarette, and went back to the proposal. Around one in the morning he saved and shut down, went to the bathroom, and passing the balcony, looked again.
Still swinging. Hard to judge things at night. He rubbed his eyes. The swing was definitely still moving, keeping roughly the same arc, the same rhythm. *Creak—creak.* Like a metronome putting him to sleep.
On the third night Lin Mo didn't work overtime. His proposal had been submitted, waiting for feedback—which only made the hollowness worse. He showered at ten and lay in bed scrolling short videos.
Funny ones. Pets. People arguing. Nothing stuck. His head buzzed. The way the boss had looked at him in today's meeting. The half-smile at the corner of Old Zhang's mouth. He threw the phone aside, sat up, and walked to the balcony. Ten-thirty.
The swing was moving.
This time Lin Mo saw it clearly. The one on the right. Its arc was noticeably bigger than the past two nights—when it rose, the seat nearly came level with the crossbar; when it dropped, the chains went taut with a *clack*.
But the wind? Not a breath on the balcony. The leaves of the locust tree below hung dead still, like a fake tree. His heart gave a jolt. Then he told himself he was being ridiculous. Probably somebody's kid, eight or nine, sneaking out to play once the adults were asleep.
He opened his mouth, meaning to shout "who's down there." He swallowed it. If there really was a kid, and he scared him and he fell—whose fault was that.
He went back in, lay down, closed his eyes. *Creak—creak* drifted up from below, muffled by the glass. Eleven. Twelve. He tossed and turned.
The proposal in his head and the rhythm of the swing twisted together, and he couldn't tell which annoyed him more. Past one in the morning he'd had enough. He sat up abruptly, slipped into his slippers, and headed out.
He'd go down and look. He couldn't say if it was irritation or curiosity, or just needing something—anything—to break the endless loop of project milestones in his head.
The elevator had been broken a while. Property management hadn't fixed it. He took the stairs, six flights, the motion-activated lights blinking on and off behind him, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. At the first floor he pushed open the entrance door. Night air hit his face, carrying the smell of grass and dirt. He crossed the path and stopped in front of the two swings.
The right one was still swinging. The arc had shrunk a lot, like it was really about to stop—rocking only three or four paces now.
Lin Mo stood two steps away and stared for about half a minute. The chain went *creak—creak*. The seat drifted toward him, slow, and away, slow. He watched for a long time. Nothing. No wind. No one. No cat, no dog. Just a chain swing swinging by itself in the middle of the night.
He started to turn back. But his feet felt glued down. Staring at the empty seat, a thought surfaced in his head.
How long had it been since he'd swung on a swing? The one in his mother's old neighborhood. Iron chains. At the highest point of the arc you felt like you'd fly clean off.
Once he'd swung too hard and flipped off backward, knees hitting the sand pit, grit grinding into his skin while his mother cursed him out and cleaned the wound. He'd been eight.
He took a step forward. Another. The seat swung right in front of him. He reached out and caught the chain. The swing stopped. The iron was cold, trembling faintly in his grip.
He hesitated. Then he turned and sat down. The seat was harder than he'd imagined, digging into him. Toes touching the ground, he gave a gentle push back. The swing moved. *Creak—creak.* The sound came from overhead now, exactly like he'd heard it from a distance.
He pushed again, and again. The arc grew. Wind rushed past his ears. For one moment he closed his eyes and felt like he really could rise level with the sky. Nothing to think about. The proposal. The boss. Old Zhang. Rent. Just the swinging.
He swung for two or three minutes. Maybe five. His legs ached. He planted his feet, scuffing the grass, and the swing slowed, swaying twice at the end before coming to a full stop.
He stood up. The chains swayed lightly behind him. He wiped the rust flakes off his hands, turned, and took two steps back.
Then he heard it behind him. *Creak—creak.*
He stopped. Turned around.
The swing was moving again. Small arc, about the same as before he'd sat down. He stood three or four meters off to the side, at an angle where he could see the back of the seat. Empty. The chains dragging themselves back and forth.
Lin Mo frowned. He didn't know what to say. Forget it. Nuts. He turned toward his entrance. He'd walked maybe five or six steps, nearly at the bend in the path, when he stopped. Against his better judgment, he looked back again.
That look stood every hair on the back of his neck on end.
The swing was still moving. But someone was sitting on the seat. No—you couldn't call it sitting. The "person" looked like a child of five or six, slumped against the swing at a wrong angle, his whole body hanging wrong.
One arm draped over the left chain. Head lolled toward the right shoulder. Both legs dangling, toes dragging the ground. Wearing red. A red, dark red, like fabric soaked through with something and left to dry.
Face turned this way, but the features were unreadable. Too far. The streetlight didn't reach that corner. Just a blur of pale.
The "child" was facing him. Like he was waiting for Lin Mo to leave. To give up the spot. Once he walked far enough, he could finally swing the swing properly.
Lin Mo's throat seized. He tried to shout, but his vocal cords were stopped with cotton. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn't move, knees gone to jelly.
The swing swayed twice. The "child's" body lolled forward and back with it, arms and legs hanging limp, like every bone had been pulled out and he was just draped inside that red shell of clothes.
Then the swing stopped. The "child" didn't move. Just sat crooked, facing him, in the dark.
Lin Mo didn't know how he'd gotten upstairs. When he came to himself, he was sitting on the floor of his living room, back against the sofa. One slipper missing. The other still on his foot.
His heart was slamming against his ribs. He fumbled for the phone on the coffee table and lit the screen. 0:47. He stared at the numbers for a long time, slowly got up, and walked to the balcony.
He didn't dare look down. He gripped the railing, fingers cold. He took a deep breath and leaned his head out.
The park was empty. Both swings were still. The right one—its seat hung quietly beneath the crossbar, chains straight. Nothing.
The next day was Friday. Lin Mo took a half day off and didn't go in. He lay in bed until noon, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what had happened last night.
He thought and thought and couldn't. The more he tried, the more he told himself he must be under too much stress lately. Hallucinating. But it had felt too real. The cold of the chains. The hardness of the seat. And the detonation at the back of his neck when he'd turned and seen that blotch of dark red.
He sat up, head heavy, and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. It went down and his stomach turned. He decided to come home early tonight and take a different route, away from the park.
Friday night he didn't work late. He reached the neighborhood at eight, deliberately entering from the south gate and walking the asphalt road around the outside back to Building 6—the whole way, the park was two buildings and a green belt away.
Upstairs. Locked the door. Pulled the curtains. He turned on the TV, cranked the volume, and put on a mindless comedy.
Ten. Eleven. People laughing on the screen. He curled on the sofa with a cushion, ears pricked for any sound outside. *Creak—creak?* Seemed like no. Or maybe yes, buried under the TV. He turned the volume up two more notches.
Midnight. He turned off the TV and went to the bathroom. Passing the living room window—the curtains were drawn, but one gap hadn't closed all the way. He walked over, pinched the curtain edge, and hesitated for about three seconds. He couldn't resist. He pulled it open a crack and looked out.
The park lay diagonally below. The two swings, motionless. The right one hung quiet. He let out a breath. He was about to let go of the curtain when the corner of his eye caught something crouched on the grass beside the swings. Dark red. He pressed his eye to the gap in the curtain.
It was the "child." Crouched on the grass beside the swing frame, face buried between his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, a small bundle. That dark red outfit, in the moonlight, looked like dried blood. He didn't move. Just crouched there. Like he knew Lin Mo was peeking.
Lin Mo yanked the curtain shut and stumbled back two steps. His back hit the wall with a muffled thud. His heartbeat filled his ears. He stood there a long moment, then crept back and lifted the curtain's edge with trembling fingers.
The grass was empty.
Saturday. Lin Mo didn't leave the house all day. He ordered two takeout meals, both left in plastic bags by the door, eaten at noon. In the afternoon he called his mother and talked about hometown news for half an hour. When he hung up he felt a little steadier.
At seven in the evening, when it was just getting dark, the doorbell rang. He hadn't ordered anything. He looked through the peephole. It was Grandpa Zhou from across the hall. They'd exchanged hellos when Lin Mo moved in. The old man was retired, took a walk downstairs every day, fed the stray cats.
"Xiao Lin," the old man called through the door, "your package. It's been sitting by the door two days. I brought it over."
Lin Mo opened the door. The old man handed him a flat cardboard box. He took it, fingers cold. The old man looked at him, seemed about to say something, then held back.
"Thanks, Uncle Zhou." Lin Mo forced a smile.
The old man nodded, turned, took two steps, and stopped. He tilted his head and lowered his voice: "Xiao Lin, at night... don't go to that park."
Lin Mo's grip on the box tightened. "Mm?"
The old man didn't look at him. His eyes drifted toward the stairwell. "That swing." Just those two words. Then he waved a hand and shuffled back in his slippers. His security door shut with a *click*.
Lin Mo stood where he was, the edge of the box digging into his palm. He stared at the brown-yellow security door across the hall for a long time.
Sunday night Lin Mo went out. He felt like he was going to go stir-crazy. A little past seven, before it was fully dark, he decided to walk to the convenience store outside the neighborhood for some things.
Main road. Not past the park. He changed his shoes, went downstairs, the motion-activated lights lighting his way out of the building. Outside he headed south. Passing the row of trash bins under Building 7, two stray cats jumped out and startled him. He quickened his step.
He walked along the outer edge of the park, separated by a green belt seven or eight meters wide, deliberately not looking that way. The corner of his eye still caught it. The two swings standing still in the dusk. Empty. He lowered his head and hurried.
At the convenience store he bought instant noodles, sausages, and two bottles of beer. At the register, the girl was chatting with her coworker. She said an old woman had gone missing in the neighborhood last night. Her family searched all night and couldn't find her. They finally found her lying on the park lawn.
Nothing serious—just a fall. Couldn't get back up on her own. She'd been taking her evening walk, they said, maybe tripped over something. The girl said: "That old lady was usually in good shape. A fall out of nowhere. People really don't last once they're old."
Her coworker picked it up: "Heard she tripped over a swing." The girl laughed. "A swing can trip you? That thing doesn't have legs."
Lin Mo carried his plastic bag out, the handles cutting into his fingers. Tripped over the swing. He stepped out of the store. The light was fading. The streetlights weren't all on yet. Warm yellow squares lit up window by window in the residential buildings along the street.
He stood at the curb. His phone rang. A coworker, asking whether he'd seen the feedback on the proposal—the boss wanted a review meeting tomorrow. He grunted a few times and hung up.
Walking home, he took an even wider detour. The road on the north side of the complex, seven or eight extra minutes. Darkness had settled completely. The streetlights came on, stretching his shadow, shrinking it. He counted his own steps. Somewhere past two hundred, he stopped.
He was standing at the end of the road between Building 6 and Building 7. To his left, his entrance. To his right, across two holly bushes, the entrance to the park.
He turned his head a fraction and looked. The park was dim. The streetlight reached only the outer rim of the path. The grass and the swings in the corner were sunk in shadow. Just barely, he could make out—the swing on the right seemed to be moving.
A very, very small arc. Almost invisible. *Creak—creak.* The sound carried over on the night wind.
Lin Mo looked away, pushed open the entrance door, and went up. At home he set the plastic bag on the kitchen counter and didn't turn on the light. He walked to the living room window and lifted the curtain with a finger. The park was black.
He couldn't see anything. He turned to let the curtain fall when he heard a sound from below. Faint. A child's voice. Like laughing. Like crying. Muffled, indistinct. Coming from that direction. The park's direction.
He stood in the dark living room, hand still on the curtain. In the plastic bag, a beer bottle clinked.
Monday, Lin Mo went to work. Leaving the house that morning, he didn't dare look over there. On the crowded subway he gripped the overhead handle, swaying with the carriage, the old man's words and that child's voice cycling endlessly through his head.
At the office he sat down and opened his computer. The feedback email was sitting in his inbox. The boss had approved it—with a pile of revision notes. He stared at the red text on the screen, unable to take in a single word.
Xiao Liu at the next desk leaned over: "Mo-ge, how was your weekend? Those are some dark circles." He tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't sleep well." Xiao Liu said: "Doesn't your complex have a park? Go down and take a walk. Get some air."
Lin Mo's mouse hand paused. "No," he said. His voice came out dry. Xiao Liu gave him a strange look and didn't ask again.
The day blurred past. Off work at six, Lin Mo stayed to revise the proposal. He didn't leave until past nine. The subway was emptier. He leaned against the door, watching his reflection in the glass. Chapped lips, sunken eyes. Like a ghost. He cursed himself in his head.
He reached the neighborhood at nearly ten. Dark long since. He swiped in through the gate and, without meaning to, slowed down. The south gate was closest to the park. He reached the fork—left was the main road back to Building 6, right passed along the edge of the park. He paused. Then turned right.
Not on purpose. He told himself. Just a look. It's daytime, not night. But at ten o'clock, was that day or night? He stopped beside the row of holly bushes at the park's edge.
The two swings under the moonlight. Still. The right one quiet, seat hanging. He stared for a few seconds. All around, silence. Not even the insects.
As he turned, the corner of his eye caught something on the ground. Under the swing frame, in the grass right beneath the seat. A small patch of dark red. He thought it was a fallen leaf and bent to look.
It was clothes. A child's small clothes. A dark red little jacket, folded neatly, placed on the grass under the swing. Like someone had set it there on purpose.
Lin Mo straightened and stepped back. That jacket brought him back to the "child" slumped on the swing that night. That exact dark red. No difference.
He turned and walked fast, steps urgent, leather soles slapping the concrete. He was nearly at his entrance door when he heard it behind him. *Creak—creak.* He didn't look back.
Lin Mo didn't sleep that night. He lay in bed, tossing, not drifting off until near four. In the dream he was on the swing again, soaring higher and higher, high enough to see the roofs of the whole building complex.
Then the swing stopped, sudden. He looked down. The child in red was sitting on his lap. The face turned toward him. No features. Just a sheet of pale. Lin Mo woke with a jolt. Gray-white light leaked through the curtain gap. Morning.
Tuesday, at work. Lin Mo ran into Old Zhang in the break room making tea. He poured himself a glass of water and tried to leave. Old Zhang stopped him: "Xiao Lin, I looked at your revisions from yesterday. A couple spots need another pass."
Lin Mo nodded. "You haven't been yourself these past few days," Old Zhang said, taking a sip of tea, unhurried. "Young man, stress is one thing, but your health comes first."
Lin Mo said he was fine. Old Zhang set down his cup, leaned in, and dropped his voice: "I heard from Xiao Liu that your neighborhood park is haunted? Don't believe that nonsense. It's just old folks' gossip."
Lin Mo crushed the paper cup in his hand. "Haunted?"
Old Zhang waved a hand: "Just the swing, that's all. They say it moves by itself at night. I don't believe in that stuff. You're a grown man, what are you afraid of. But come to think of it..." He paused. "My nephew used to live around your way. Said a kid had an accident in that park a couple years back. I don't know the details. Something about falling off a swing, hitting the back of his head. Didn't make it. That's where all the talk comes from."
Old Zhang left with his teacup. Lin Mo stood in the break room. The water in his cup had gone cold.
That night, past nine, Lin Mo went back to the park. He couldn't have said why himself. He stood at the edge of the path, looking at the two swings.
The right one hung quiet. The dark red little jacket on the grass was gone—swept away by property management, or picked up by someone. Hard to say.
The grass under the swing frame had a darker patch than the area around it. He stepped closer, crouched, and looked. The grass looked pressed down by something, flattened into the shape of someone sitting.
Small. About a child's size. The blades carried a dark brownish stain, dried now, rough to the touch.
He stood up and stepped back to the path. The swing's chains glinted cold in the moonlight. Dust layered the seat. He thought of what Old Zhang had said.
Fell off. Hit the back of his head. Didn't make it. He stared at that dark outline in the grass, imagining a child in red flipping off the swing. Grit grinding into skin. Like when he was eight.
Footsteps behind him. Lin Mo spun around. It was the woman from the next building who walked her corgi, coming along the path. The corgi trotted over to the swing frame and sniffed that patch of grass, nostrils flaring. Then suddenly its tail tucked and it shrank back, whimpering low.
The woman tugged the leash. "What's with you. Come on, let's go." The corgi wouldn't move, all four paws planted, growling softly at the swing frame.
The woman looked embarrassed. "This dog's been acting up these two days. Keeps barking over there." She dragged it away. The corgi looked back every few steps, whining.
Lin Mo stood alone. The swing frame cast two long thin shadows across the grass. He took a step forward. The chains gave a tiny, barely-there *creak*.
He didn't sit. He just reached out and closed his hand around the right chain. Cold. A faint tremor in his palm. He stood there holding the chain a while, then let go.
He turned and headed for his entrance. About ten steps on, it came from behind: *creak—creak.* He didn't stop. Five more steps. *Creak—creak.* The arc seemed bigger.
He kept walking. As the entrance door swung shut behind him, before it fully closed, he heard a voice. Thin, drifting from that direction. Like a child crying. Like a child laughing.
The next day Lin Mo took annual leave. He called the agency and said he wanted to break the lease—when the month was up he wouldn't renew. The agent made vague noises of agreement and said sure, just move out before it's due.
He hung up and sat on the sofa. On the coffee table sat the uneaten instant noodles and the two bottles of beer. He picked up his phone, scrolled, found a single room in a nearby complex, and booked a viewing for the afternoon.
After the viewing, it was getting dark when he got back. He came in through the north gate and made a long loop to Building 6. Going upstairs, Grandpa Zhou from across the hall was coming out to take out the trash. He gave Lin Mo a look.
"Xiao Lin, you look awful. Everything okay?" Lin Mo shook his head. The old man took two steps, stopped, and let out a long sigh: "That swing... there was a child who fell off it once."
He paused. "The child was wearing... a little red jacket. His mother bought it for him. New clothes for New Year's." Then the old man went downstairs, slippers slapping the steps.
Lin Mo stood in the stairwell. The motion-activated light went out. In the dark he gripped the doorknob, nails biting into his palm.
That night he packed. There wasn't much to pack. He'd only been in this city a year; his belongings fit in two suitcases. He crouched on the floor folding clothes, and from outside the window came the *creak—creak*, faint, coming and going. He zipped the suitcases shut, stood up, and walked to the window.
He didn't draw the curtain. He looked down. Moonlight was bright over the park; both swings clear as day. The right one was swinging. A huge arc, bigger than any before—when the seat rose to its highest it nearly struck the crossbar, chains groaning tight. But the seat was empty.
At least it looked empty at first glance. He squinted, adjusting focus.
The "child" was sitting on the seat. That dark red outfit like a clot of shadow in the moonlight. Face turned toward him.
This time he saw it clearly. A small face, pale, bloodless. Where the eyes should be, two black holes. The mouth stretched upward at the corners, showing a few white teeth. Smiling. Smiling at him. One hand raised, waving slowly.
Lin Mo stood where he was and met those two black-hole eyes for about two seconds. Then he reached out and pulled the curtain shut.
The next morning at dawn, Lin Mo carried his two suitcases downstairs. The sky was fully light, the neighborhood silent except for a cleaner sweeping fallen leaves.
He left through the north gate and hailed a cab. As it pulled onto the main road, he looked in the rearview mirror at the complex growing smaller behind him. Between the buildings, the two little gray peaks of the swing frames.
He looked away, leaned back, and closed his eyes. In his ears, faint, the *creak—creak* came again. He opened his eyes and stared at the trees racing backward past the window. His fingers rubbed at the denim over his knee, without thinking.
Ten minutes into the ride, his phone rang. A WeChat message from an unknown number. He opened it. A photo. It showed the neighborhood park, shot from an angle like it was taken beside the swing frame.
Two swings. The right one swinging empty, a small arc. And at the bottom of the photo, a message: "Your swing—I finished swinging it for you. Come play next time."
Lin Mo stared at the line for a long time. The sunlight outside the cab window was bright, warming one side of his face. He locked the screen and turned the phone face-down on his knee.
The driver glanced at him in the rearview. "Where to, young man?"
Lin Mo opened his mouth. "...Front of the subway station is fine."
The cab pulled over. He got out with his suitcase and stood in the morning rush. Pedestrians hurried past him, none giving him a second look. He walked toward the subway entrance, suitcase trailing, stopped a few steps in.
He looked back down the road he'd come. The morning sun lit everything up clear and sharp. Cars flowed past. Breakfast stalls steamed white on the curb. Everything as normal as normal could be.
He turned and went into the station.
Only after that day did Lin Mo never swing again. Not just swings. Slides, seesaws, carousels—all the childhood things that could lift him up, fly him up, briefly carry him off the ground—he stopped touching all of them.
Passing any park, he kept his head down and walked fast. Hearing the distant *creak* of chains from far off, he'd take the long way around.
No one knew why. He didn't fully know himself. Only that sometimes, waking in the middle of the night, he'd hear a small, wavering voice. Close to his ear, and far away at the same time.
"Brother... your swing."
"I finished swinging it for you."
Then the silence would settle back down. Onto the floor of his new rented apartment. Into his days of overtime starting over. Into his gaze when he occasionally looked out the window. Outside there was no swing. Just row after row of apartment buildings, and the gray sky between them.
But he always felt that somewhere, in some unseen corner, there was an old chain swing, swinging by itself in the wind.
Not much of an arc.
Like it was waiting for someone.