Chapter 2: First Response

We got the call at midnight and rushed over in our cruiser.

The night air was brisk as we stepped out, breath fogging under the amber glow of the parking lot lights. I could see the swings, the old metal set that had outlived three generations of kids in this town, creaking rhythmically in the dark. My partner, Ramirez, flashed me a wary look. She checked her radio again, thumb hovering over the panic button just in case. The cruiser’s red-and-blue lights painted the jungle gym in ghostly colors. Both of us kept a hand near our belts—just in case.

The little girl was still swinging back and forth, and the elderly woman was silently pushing her from behind with surprising force.

Her lips moved, maybe counting, maybe praying—nobody could tell. Her frail hands gripped the swing’s metal chain, her posture hunched yet full of purpose. Each push was too strong, sending the girl’s limp form higher than any child should go. The contrast—the dead silence except for the creak, the force behind the push—made my skin crawl. Even Ramirez, who’d seen her share of odd calls, shivered and muttered a quiet "Jesus."

But there was no interaction between them—just the mechanical creak of the swing echoing through the empty playground under the streetlights.

It was the sort of scene you’d see in a nightmare: a perfectly ordinary moment twisted into something unrecognizable. The shadows seemed to stretch forever, swallowing up the corners of the playground as that steady creak went on and on, hypnotic and chilling.

What should have been a sweet, gentle scene felt chillingly eerie.

In the soft glow of the playground lights, what would’ve looked, in daylight, like a heartwarming family moment, instead felt wrong—utterly wrong. There was a kind of emptiness behind it, a sense that love had somehow gone horribly off the rails. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

"Ma'am, please stop and come talk to us."

My voice was firm, but the old woman stayed blank-faced, like she hadn’t heard a thing.

I put a little more authority into my tone, squaring my shoulders in the way we’re trained for. But her gaze was fixed somewhere far off—somewhere I couldn’t follow. I felt a chill, and even my partner hesitated before stepping closer, her flashlight beam trembling slightly on the old woman’s pale wrist.

Something was off. I stepped forward and grabbed the old woman's hand—it was a little cold.

Her skin was thin, almost papery, and I felt her pulse flutter against my fingers. She didn’t react—no surprise, no anger, just that same lost look. My partner and I exchanged a glance; this was beyond odd. I squeezed her hand gently, hoping to ground her in reality, but she just stared through me.

My partners took the chance to stop the swing. Only then did we see the little girl's face clearly.

Ramirez caught the chain with a gloved hand, bringing the swing to a slow, shuddering halt. In the harsh beam of my flashlight, the child’s face came into focus—a sight that knocked the air from my lungs. We’d seen death before, but not like this, not on a playground where echoes of laughter still clung to the air.

Her face was ashen, her features twisted in terror, like she'd just seen a ghost.

Her eyes were wide, staring at something only she could see. Her mouth was frozen open, the lips pulled back from her teeth in a silent scream. My partner quietly swore under her breath, and I felt a sudden wave of protectiveness—wishing, uselessly, that I could pull the little girl back from wherever she’d gone.

Her limbs were stiff, and she wasn't breathing anymore.

I checked for a pulse, but there was nothing. Rigor mortis had already set in. She looked so small on that swing, feet dangling above the mulch, as if she might wake up at any moment and start giggling again. I felt a sting behind my eyes.

Right then, the old woman beside us gave off an indescribable sense of strangeness.

It was as if her mind had snapped back into her body all at once—a sudden shift, like a radio tuning to a new station. Her eyes darted around, confusion giving way to panic. She trembled, her hand tightening in mine until her nails dug into my glove.

Like someone waking up from a nightmare, she suddenly started cursing and tried to yank her hand out of mine.

She jerked away, muttering under her breath, her voice trembling and raw. "Why are you all staring? Just let her play, for God’s sake!" She swore again, turning to glare at me with wild, frightened eyes. I let her go, stepping back, giving her space. Ramirez moved quietly around the other side, watching for any sudden movements.

"What are you doing? Why won't you let my granddaughter play on the swings?"

There was a plaintive edge to her voice, an almost childlike plea. Her hands fluttered helplessly at her sides, the anger quickly giving way to confusion. For a moment, she seemed to shrink into herself, clutching the swing chain as if it could anchor her to the present.

Then she muttered to herself, "It was just sunny—how did it get dark all of a sudden?" She looked around, squinting at the playground like she didn’t recognize it, her voice trembling: “Did someone turn out the lights?”

Her words hung in the air, surreal and heartbreakingly lost. The streetlights cast sharp shadows over her wrinkled face, highlighting the depth of her bewilderment. Ramirez shot me a look: What is going on here?

I couldn't help but wonder: It's the middle of the night—how could it have just been daylight?

I glanced at my watch, fighting the urge to shiver. The air was thick with questions—none of them with easy answers. I kept my voice low and gentle, trying not to frighten her further.

She saw the little girl lying motionless on the ground, panicked, and rushed over. She hugged the child's body, patted her cheeks, and called out:

The old woman stumbled, nearly tripping over her own feet as she reached the girl. She cradled her granddaughter’s lifeless form, rocking her gently as if she could coax her back awake. Her voice cracked with desperation.

"Maddie, did you fall asleep?"

Her fingers traced Madison’s hair, trying to smooth it back. She squeezed the girl’s small hand, searching for warmth that was no longer there. "Maddie, baby, you okay?"

"Maddie, wake up, don't scare Grandma."

There was a rising panic now, a note that made even the paramedics wince. She pressed her forehead to the girl’s, rocking and pleading, her voice catching on every word. "C’mon, Maddie, please. Grandma’s here. Wake up."

When the little girl didn't respond, she broke down in anguish.

A wail tore from her throat—raw, animal, the sound of someone being ripped open from the inside. Her knees hit the mulch, dust rising around her as she rocked back and forth, clutching Madison’s backpack to her chest. She clung to the child, sobbing, her body shaking with grief. It echoed through the empty playground, bouncing off the monkey bars and the empty slide.

"My granddaughter, how am I supposed to explain this to your dad?"

Her voice faded to a whisper, barely audible over her own sobs. She pressed her face to the girl’s hair, as if she could hide from the nightmare closing in around her. "How am I gonna tell your daddy, Maddie? Oh, sweet girl…"

My partners and I exchanged glances. This woman really did seem to be the little girl's grandmother.

Ramirez nodded, her jaw tight. The other officer, Johnson, looked away, biting his lip. Whatever strangeness had brought them here, it was clear the pain was real. I found myself aching for her, even as the questions kept stacking up.

The case was too bizarre. We brought her back to the station for further investigation.

There was no easy way to break her grief, so we moved slowly—blanketing her in a department jacket, helping her to her feet. As we led her to the cruiser, neighbors peeked from behind drawn curtains, the whole block holding its breath. The night felt endless as we drove back to the precinct, silent except for the low hum of the engine and the old woman’s quiet sobs in the back seat.