Cry of a Swing

He left her sitting on the porch swing and descended the springy wooden steps into the evening's swirling mist. Behind him, the metronome motion of the swing caused the chain to squeal on the eye-bolts screwed into the ceiling beams. He turned up his coat collar against the sound. If he hadn't just left the porch he would have sworn a wounded animal was stalking him.

The mist separated him from the house long before he reached the end of the winding walk. Ordinarily the house would still be visible from where he stood; even at night, for with all of the lamp posts placed around the manicured lawn there was no such thing as darkness here.

This night was no different. Darkness was held at bay but the mist had clamped a damp hand over those two-dozen lights so that he saw only a wall of steel gray illuminated from within.

The cycle of the metallic squeal slowed until stopped as a single last cry. The following silence lasted only seconds before it was broken by the thud of booted feet on nearly rotted steps. The very same steps he had descended moments earlier. He quickened his pace. His follower would know the woman's death had been by his hand.