The Boy in the Rain

It was a Tuesday in late October, and the rain fell in sheets, turning the old granite headstones into dark, dripping monoliths. My mother and I sat in the car, the engine idling, the wipers on a slow, hypnotic sweep. We were parked in front of the columbarium wall where my grandmother’s ashes rested, a modern beehive of marble slots that felt both orderly and impersonal. Across the narrow asphalt road, an untamed stretch of forest loomed, a tangle of oaks and pines that the cemetery had never bothered to clear. Beyond that, the skeletal frame of a new mausoleum was rising, its concrete pillars reaching toward the gray sky like the ribs of some dead beast.

We usually got out and walked, but the rain was relentless, so we sat in the car, my mother staring absently at the wall, her fingers tracing the condensation on the window. I turned in my seat to look at the woods. The rain blurred the leaves, but through a gap between two large trunks, I saw him. A boy, maybe fifteen, with a black, almost mushroom-shaped haircut that sat on his head like a helmet. He wore a white shirt, soaked through, and his skin was so pale it seemed to glow against the dark trees. He was just standing there, motionless, his arms at his sides, his face tilted slightly as if he were listening to something.

I froze. My breath fogged the glass. I tried to make out his features, but the rain and distance made them indistinct. He didn’t seem to be sheltering from the storm; he was simply there, in the middle of the woods, with no path leading away. I nudged my mother. ‘Mom, look,’ I said, pointing. She turned, squinted, and shook her head. ‘I don’t see anything, honey,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s a trick of the light.’ But I kept my eyes fixed on him, and he kept his fixed on me.

A minute passed, maybe two. The rain intensified, drumming on the roof like a frantic heartbeat. And then, without a word, the boy raised his arm and pointed. Not at me, but at something behind my head. I turned to see what he was pointing at—just the gray wall of the columbarium, my grandmother’s niche, and the wet stone. When I looked back, he was gone. The spot where he stood was empty, only the dripping branches and the muddy earth.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe he had ducked behind a bush. Maybe he was a hallucination. But a cold, hard knot settled in my stomach. I told my mother we should go, and we did, heading to my aunt’s house. We didn’t speak of it, but I couldn’t shake the image of that boy, soaked through, pointing at something I couldn’t see.

The next week, I went back alone. The rain had stopped, and the sun was out, but the woods still felt wrong. I parked in the same spot and walked to the edge of the trees. The ground was soft, and my shoes sank into the wet leaves. I found the exact tree he had been standing under. There, carved into the bark, were words, crude and shallow, as if done with a knife or a stone: ‘I saw you too.’ My heart skipped. I looked around, expecting to see him, but the woods were still.

I later asked the cemetery groundskeeper if there had been any incidents in that area, any reports of a boy. He paused, wiped his brow, and said, ‘You mean the one in the white shirt? He’s been there for years. Not many people see him, but those that do say he points at the wall. Nobody knows why. Some say he’s waiting for his grandmother, who was buried here a long time ago, but her niche is sealed now, no one visits.’ He shrugged. ‘Just a ghost story, I guess.’

But I knew it was real. Every time I visit my grandmother, I find myself looking into the woods, and sometimes I catch a glimpse of white between the trees. He’s still pointing, still waiting. And I can’t help but wonder: who was he pointing at? Was it me? Or was it something about the construction site, the new mausoleum that was built over a patch of ground that used to be unplotter? Because I’ve heard that the mausoleum’s foundation cracked the week it was finished, and no one could explain it. And sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I feel a cold draft, as if something just walked past me, and I smell wet earth and pine. I never told my mother what the groundskeeper said, but I think she knows. She never looks at the woods, not once, whenever we visit. She just stares at the wall, and I wonder if she’s seeing a different kind of ghost.

One day, I’ll go into those woods. I’ll find that tree again, and I’ll carve my own message. Maybe he’ll answer. Maybe he’ll stop pointing. But I’m afraid of what he’ll say, because I’ve started to see him when it’s not raining, when I’m alone in my apartment, standing at the window. He’s always there, in the periphery, his arm raised, pointing at something behind me. And when I turn, I see nothing—just the empty room, the furniture, the walls. But I know it’s coming. Something is coming. And he’s trying to warn me.