3 months ago my husband and I made the decision to sell our small city property and move out to the country with our two sons. We’d lived in the same 2 bedroom apartment since we married, and now with another baby on the way we knew it was time to upgrade. Neither of our parents could offer us a lot of financial aid and houses in our local area were far too expensive for us, so when one of my friends suggested we look further out I was receptive to the idea.
At first we started looking just outside of the suburbs, but it wasn’t much better there. After a few weeks of trying, my husband found a listing online for a 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom property on Dovecott Road. It was quite far out into the country, but we both work from home so there was really no need to commute. It seemed too good to be true. It was an old two-storey wooden house surrounded by a small forest property. Usually we wouldn’t have taken a second look at something a luxurious as this, but when we saw the price tag we couldn’t believe how cheap it really was.
A few days later we were able to arrange a viewing. We left our kids with my mother and started the 2 hour drive. The first thing I noticed when we arrived at the property was a single tire swing hanging off a large oak tree in the front yard. It was pretty dirty and tattered, and clung to the tree with a sturdy rope. It made me feel strange in a way that I can’t really explain, except to say I felt like someone had been there just moments before we arrived.
I brushed it off and we entered the house. It was a fairly standard viewing. The estate agent took us through and answered all our questions politely, if with a slightly nervous disposition. As we finished the tour, she informed us that the owner was looking for a private sale instead of an auction, and was willing to make an offer. It struck me as weird that the owner was willing to give a place like this up like that, but at the time the offer seemed to good to refuse. We settled the sale without ever meeting the owner, and 2 weeks later we had moved in.
The first few days passed without incident. My husband and I spent our nights unpacking boxes while the boys slept soundly together on a mattress in the lounge room. In the beginning I was worried about how the boys would take the move, but once they saw the property I think they got excited. They loved exploring the forest and having freedom to run around. And they especially loved the tree in the front yard. I’d see them spend hours climbing through the branches and playing games around the trunk. And… swinging on that damn tire swing.
One night, about 3 weeks after we moved in, I went into the yard to fetch them for dinner. I called out, but got no response. As I got closer I saw that my youngest had his head through the dirty old tire while his brother stood with his arms crossed and annoyed expression. I told him to get his head out of it because it was muddy, but he just swung around and laughed.
“I look like the man now mommy!” He said.
I looked at my oldest and could see he shared my concern. I ushered them back into the house, telling myself it was just typical 5-year-old imagination. Still, he seemed a little old to be having imaginary friends.
It started with glimpses of something dangling beside the swing out of the corner of my eye. Every time I turn to get a closer look it would be gone. My husband thought the stress of the move was making me paranoid, but I knew better. Every now and then I’d catch myself staring at the tire swing. I’d hear it swinging from the living room and turn to stare at it, only to see it completely still. Then I’d go back inside and try not to think about it.
It wasn’t until a week later that I heard the scream.
My eldest son was screaming as loud as I’ve ever heard him. He was standing in front of the kitchen window, his eyes wide open and mouth wide open. His hands were covering his ears and he was shaking uncontrollably. I ran over to him and pulled him close to me, pulling down his hands and peering into his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, but he didn’t reply. Instead he screamed again and clawed at his own forehead with his nails. “You alright? What happened?”
He shook his head and continued to scream. I heard a giggle from behind me and turn to see my other child with a big smile on his face. His eyes were also wide and staring straight ahead.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him towards me. At first he just smiled, but then the smile faded and his mouth opened wide. Blood began to pour from his lips as he made a high pitched squeal. I watched helplessly as his body convulsed and blood poured out of his mouth, filling the grass below. His eyes rolled back into his head as he fell forward and landed in a heap. I cradled him in my arms while I dialed 911. Then I heard a low moan coming from the swing.
I looked up slowly and was faced with a sight I still see every time I close my eyes.
A man was hanging by his neck on the tree. The skin on his face was darkening and seemed to be melting. His body was contorted as though being wrung out like a wet rag. He hung there silently, gasping for air as his face gained a bright purple hue. The veins inside of his eyes burst, staining his piercing gaze a deep crimson. He opened his mouth and let out an ear splitting screech.
When I woke I was lying on the floor surrounded by my husband and children. There was no sign of blood, and the boys seemed to be fine. My husband told me I had collapsed and the children had found me lying here. He said they tried to wake me up, but I was unresponsive.
I was taken to hospital where the doctor informed me that there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me, but this kind of thing could happen for any number of reasons. I was told to keep a close eye on my health for a while.
I still saw the body in the corner of my sight. I still heard the heavy rope swinging. I knew what I saw was more than a hallucination. So, I did some research. Apparently the house we lived in had been bought and sold 8 times before us. No occupant had lived here for longer than a year with the exception of the first man to own the house, Victor Weldon. Victor died at the age of 79 after a long battle with schizophrenia. He had… hung himself from the tree in the front yard and wasn’t discovered until his cleaner found him, 5 weeks later.
I don’t think I can stay here anymore.