The Man in the Rain

Three years after we left that crumbling farmhouse, we found peace in a renovated Victorian on the edge of Maplewood. The place creaked like old bones but in a friendly way, and the only ghosts were the dust motes in the afternoon light. My grandmother, Rose, kept to her routine: dinner at six, crossword by the fire, and bed by ten. I, on the other hand, was a creature of the night, fueled by stale coffee and the glow of my laptop in the upstairs study.

The house was a labyrinth of right angles: you entered the foyer, veered right into the coat closet, right again into the dining room, and the kitchen sprawled beyond that, finally spilling into the sunken living room. To the left, the stairs climbed to a narrow hallway that housed the study, my grandmother’s bedroom, and the bathroom. The cats, Jasper and Mina, had claimed the upstairs as their kingdom, and they’d curl on my bed, ignoring my all-nighters.

One damp Tuesday, the air heavy with the promise of rain, I padded downstairs around midnight for a glass of water. The kitchen was a rectangle of tile and chrome, and as I filled my glass, I heard a hiss of static from the radio on the counter. It was an old model, perpetually set to a local AM station that died after midnight, so this wasn’t unusual. But the static seemed to pulse, as if trying to find a frequency that wasn’t there.

I shrugged it off, but on my way back, something made me pause at the entrance hall. The front door was solid oak, with a frosted glass panel that distorted the streetlamp’s glow. The rain had started, a soft patter against the windows. I was about to turn and head upstairs when I saw a silhouette through the glass—a tall figure, shoulders broad, standing perfectly still just outside.

My heart knocked against my ribs. We lived on a cul-de-sac, and no one had reason to be out in this weather. I flicked on the porch light, expecting to see a neighbor’s dog or a late-night jogger. But the silhouette remained, featureless, as if the rain itself had taken human shape. I didn’t open the door. I backed away slowly, my hand brushing the coats in the closet, and I swear I felt something shift behind me, like a breath on my neck.

I scrambled up the stairs, my bare feet slapping on the wood, and locked my study door. I tried to focus on my essay—something about Gothic architecture—but my ears were tuned to the house. Nothing. No creaks, no groans. The cats were silent, which was odd. Usually they’d be wrestling on the landing.

I must have fallen asleep at my desk, because I woke to a gray dawn. The rain had stopped. I unlocked the door and crept downstairs. The radio was silent, its dial set to pure static. I checked the front door: still locked, the chain heavy in place. But on the welcome mat, there was a puddle of water, perfectly circular, as if someone had stood there dripping. And on the frosted glass, where the silhouette had been, there was a smear—a handprint, but too large, with fingers too long.

I shook it off. The cats were meowing for breakfast. I fed them, and the day went by normally. But that night, at the same hour, the radio hissed again. And when I passed the entrance hall, I saw the silhouette again, but this time it had features—a gaunt face, sunken eyes, and a mouth stretched into a grin that seemed too wide.

I didn’t tell my grandmother. She was fragile after Grandpa’s passing, and I didn’t want to scare her. But the visits grew nightly. Each time, the figure got closer, or maybe it stayed the same distance but my perception shifted. I started leaving the porch light on, but it made no difference. The silhouette always stood there, unmoving, as if waiting for something.

One night, I got brave. I opened the door, just a crack, and whispered, ‘Who are you?’ The figure didn’t answer, but the rain seemed to intensify, and I felt a cold draft wrap around my ankles. I slammed the door shut, and as I did, I heard a sound that chilled my blood—a sound like a child’s laugh, but distorted, as if played backwards.

After that, I refused to go downstairs at night. I’d barricade my study door with a chair, and I’d put a pillow over my head to muffle the static that seemed to be coming from everywhere. But the figure found me anyway. It didn’t need the door to enter. It was there, in my study, standing by my desk, rain dripping from its clothes onto the hardwood floor. Its eyes were black voids, and it reached out a hand that was impossibly long.

I screamed, scrambling back, and tumbled down the stairs. My grandmother found me at the bottom, conscious but shaking. I told her everything, and she listened with a serene face, then said, ‘That’s just the man in the rain. He comes to those who don’t sleep. He doesn’t mean harm; he just watches.’ I didn’t believe her. But when I looked at her, her eyes were not her eyes—they were the same black voids as the figure’s.

‘Grandma?’ I whispered. She smiled, her mouth stretching too wide, and said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to see him for a long time, Erik. Now you can join us.’ The radio static filled the house, and the rain came down in sheets, pounding the windows. The figure stepped out from the hall, and my grandmother turned to it, and they merged into one.

I ran. I didn’t stop running until I was outside, the cold rain soaking me. I looked back at the house, and every window was lit, and in each one stood a figure, watching. The alarm went off at 6 AM, and I found myself in a neighbor’s garden, shivering. I never went back. The police found no one in the house, no sign of my grandmother, but they did find a wet print on the front door—a large hand, pressed from the inside.

Now I live in a new town, have a new life, but I don’t sleep. I can’t. Because every time I close my eyes, I see the man in the rain, standing at the edge of my bed, and I hear my grandmother’s voice, not as she was, but as she became, whispering, ‘Come join us, Erik. It’s your turn.’