The Mirror in the Rain

I’ve never been able to explain it properly, not even to myself. The words get tangled, like a knot of wet rope. But the memory is sharp, as if scratched onto glass. It happened seven years ago, give or take, when we lived in that old house on Cedar Lane, in the damp heart of Portland. I was twelve, my sister Mira was ten, and we had a small circle of friends who thought we were clever, dabbling in things we didn’t understand. We had a little book, bound in cracked leather, that Mira found in the attic. It was filled with scribbled incantations, and we’d perform little rituals in the backyard, mostly for fun, but sometimes I felt a cold breath on my neck even when no one was there.

That night, the rain was relentless, a steady drum on the roof. I was in the downstairs bathroom, the one with the clawfoot tub and the cracked mirror. I had just stepped into the shower, the water hot and steaming, when I saw her—a small, dark figure standing just beyond the glass door. I thought it was Mira, come to bother me. I slid the door open, a rush of cold air hitting my wet skin, and there was nothing. The bathroom was empty, the door still locked from the inside. A shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the chill. I called out, but only the rain answered. I dried off quickly, my heart pounding, and found my parents in the living room. I asked if anyone had come down. My mom looked up from her book, puzzled. ‘We’ve been here the whole time, sweetie. No one went down.’ My dad frowned. ‘Maybe you left the door unlocked and someone walked in?’ But I knew what I’d seen. The door was locked. I checked it twice.

The next morning, I told Mira about it, half-expecting her to laugh. Instead, her face went pale. ‘I saw her too,’ she whispered. ‘Last night, when I was brushing my teeth, I saw a girl in the mirror, standing behind me, but when I turned around, no one was there. She had long, wet hair, and her eyes were… empty.’ We didn’t tell our parents. We thought it was just a coincidence, or maybe our imagination. But the visions didn’t stop. They started to follow us—a fleeting shape at the edge of the hallway, a whisper that sounded like our names, a cold spot in the corner of our room. It was always in the rain. Every time it poured, the presence felt stronger, closer.

One evening, a month later, the rain came down in sheets, flooding the gutters. I was in my room, reading, when I heard a faint tapping on my window. I looked up, and there she was—a girl, no older than me, pressed against the glass. Her skin was pale and slick, her hair plastered to her face, and her mouth moved silently, forming words I couldn’t hear. She pointed at the back of the house, toward the garden, and then she vanished. I felt a pull, an irresistible urge to go outside. I grabbed my coat and slipped out the back door, into the rain. The garden was a swampy mess, and I walked to the old stone well that had been there since before we moved in. The well was covered with a rotted wooden lid, but now it was ajar. I peered inside, and the darkness looked back. I heard a splash, and then a song—a lullaby, sung in a high, thin voice, rising from the depths. It was the same song my mother used to sing to me when I was little. I fell to my knees, sobbing, as the rain mixed with my tears.

Mira found me there, drenched and shaking. She helped me inside, and we huddled in my room, trying to warm up. ‘It’s the girl from the book,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘She’s not a ghost. She’s something else. And she wants us to let her in.’ We dug out the old book, and there was a passage we had never read, underlined in faded ink. It spoke of a spirit that lingers by water, that feeds on fear and sorrow, and that can be released if someone offers to take its place. That’s when we realized: the girl was a trapped soul, and we had accidentally opened a door. And now, she was trying to pull one of us in.

We tried to burn the book, but the flames turned blue and the book wouldn’t catch. We tried to throw it in the river, but it floated back to the doorstep. The rain became our constant companion, and the girl became bolder. She would appear in mirrors, in puddles, in the corner of our eyes. She would whisper things that only we could hear, promises of peace if we just came to her. We stopped sleeping. We stopped talking. Our parents grew worried, but we couldn’t explain. The fear was a weight in our chests, and every rainstorm felt like a countdown.

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to the bathroom, and there she was, standing in the mirror, not a reflection but a separate image. Her lips moved, and I heard her voice in my head, clear as a bell. ‘You opened the way. You must close it. Or you will take my place.’ I saw the ritual in my mind, a circle of salt, a candle, and a phrase I had never spoken before. I gathered the items, my hands shaking. I went to the well, in the pouring rain, and drew the circle. I lit the candle, and the flame flickered but held. I spoke the words, and the water in the well began to churn. The girl appeared in front of me, her wet hair clinging to her face, her eyes wide. She reached out a hand, and I took it. For a moment, I felt a cold that pierced my bones, and then she was gone. The rain stopped. The well was silent. I stood there, alone, drenched, but the weight was lifted.

We never told our parents the full story. We moved away a year later, to a dry town far from the coast. But sometimes, when a storm rolls in and the rain starts to fall, I think I see her reflection in a window, watching me, and I wonder if she’s truly gone or if she’s waiting for the next storm to come. I still have the book. I keep it in a locked box, under my bed. Sometimes, I hear a faint lullaby, and I have to remind myself that the song is in my head. But I know the truth. We opened a door, and once opened, it can never be fully closed. And the girl in the rain—she’s still out there, waiting for another chance.