The Date on the Label

I had spent the better part of a humid July afternoon ripping my old CDs onto a USB drive, preparing for a week in the Algarve with my cousin and her husband. The sun bleached the living room of my aunt’s cottage, turning the air thick and syrupy, and I was already dreaming of the ocean. But as I stared at the tracklist for a 90s pop compilation, something pricked at my attention. The song I remembered as ‘Rain on Sunday’ was listed as ‘Rain on Saturday’.

I dismissed it as a misprint, a quirk of the album’s packaging. But when I transferred the files to my phone, the same alteration appeared in the digital library. And when I synced it to my earbuds, the title stubbornly read ‘Saturday’. I shrugged it off, chalking it up to some obscure alternate version, and then packed my bag, the anomaly already fading.

That night, I stayed at my aunt’s cottage with my cousin Lily and her husband Marcus. They were supposed to join me in Portugal the next day. The cottage was old, with creaky floorboards and a lingering smell of woodsmoke, even in summer. I slept in Lily’s childhood bedroom, the walls still covered in faded posters of boy bands and a cracked plastic star that glowed faintly in the dark.

I couldn’t sleep. The heat was oppressive, and the house was too quiet. I fiddled with my phone, scrolling through my music library, and again noticed that the song ‘Rain on Saturday’ stood out, its title now a glaring aberration. I had never heard of the song being titled any other way. I knew it was ‘Sunday’—I could hum the chorus, ‘Wash away the sorrow on a Sunday morning.’ But the label insisted otherwise.

A faint scratching sound came from the hallway. I froze, my thumb hovering over the play button. The sound was rhythmic, like a nail dragging across wallpaper. I rationalized it as a mouse, but a chill travelled down my spine. I pressed play, hoping the music would drown out the noise and my racing thoughts.

The opening chords were familiar, but the vocals were wrong. The singer’s voice was slurred, dragging each word, and the lyrics had changed. ‘Wash away the sorrow on a Saturday night.’ I yanked out the earbuds, my heart pounding. The scratching grew louder, more insistent, as if it were responding to the music. I turned off the phone entirely and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, until exhaustion claimed me.

The next morning, I confronted Lily over toast. ‘Did you ever notice the song ‘Rain on Sunday’ is labeled ‘Rain on Saturday’ on my CD?’ I asked. She gave me a blank look. ‘I don’t know it,’ she said. ‘But maybe you’re misremembering.’ I let it go, telling myself it was a mistake, but the unease lingered.

Our flight was delayed, and we spent the night at a dull airport hotel. I had my phone in my bag, and again, without thinking, I scrolled to the song. It was still there, ‘Rain on Saturday.’ I put in my earbuds, curious, and pressed play. This time, the music was distorted, as if played underwater, and the lyrics were now a warning: ‘Don’t you forget, the day you should have remembered is the day you’ll never forget.’ A sharp buzz filled my ears, and I tore the buds out, gasping.

Marcus looked at me from across the room. ‘You okay?’ I nodded, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the song was changing because of me, because of something in this house, because of the strange connection I had unwittingly forged.

That night, in the hotel, I had a dream. I was standing in a record store, and all the albums had my face on the covers, and every tracklist had ‘Rain on Saturday’ as the title track. A whispered voice said, ‘You tried to change it, but it’s always been this way.’ I woke up sweating, the clock showing 3:33 AM.

The next day, we finally landed in Portugal. The sun was blinding, the sea a brilliant blue. It should have been paradise, but I couldn’t shake the dread. I played the song one more time, on a whim, as we drove to our villa. The title now read ‘Rain on Sunday’—the correct one. A wave of relief washed over me. My mind had been playing tricks after all.

We settled into the villa, with its whitewashed walls and a pool that shimmered under the sun. I took a swim, and as I floated, I felt serene. But when I came inside and glanced at my phone, the song title had changed again, now displaying ‘Rain on Tomorrow.’ I blinked, and it changed to ‘Rain on Yesterday.’ I dropped the phone as if it were scalding.

The rest of the trip was a blur of anxiety. Every time I looked at my music library, that one track seemed to mock me, its title shifting with each passing hour. I avoided playing it, but I couldn’t delete it. It was as if it had become a part of my reality.

On the last night, I lay awake in the villa, the sound of crickets filling the air. I decided to confront the song in a final act of defiance. I put in my earbuds and pressed play, determined to hear it all the way through. The music was slow, mournful, and the lyrics had become a narrative: ‘You thought you could escape, but every day is the same. You’ll never know the day because it was taken from you.’

And then, in the chorus, I heard my own voice singing, ‘Rain on Saturday, the day you were born.’ I ripped the buds out and vomited onto the floor.

The next morning, I checked my phone. The song title was ‘Rain on Sunday’ again, normal, as if it had always been that way. But I knew better. I had been given a glimpse of something wrong, something that defied explanation. To this day, I have never played that song again. I tell myself it was a glitch, a hallucination, a bad dream. But sometimes, in the quiet hours, I wonder: what if the label was always there, hiding in plain sight, waiting for me to notice it? And what if I was the only one who could see it, because I was the only one who should have known better?