The Rain-Soaked Gate

My family’s summer trips to Sumatra were always long, sweltering affairs, but the village where my mother grew up felt like another world entirely. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and clove cigarettes, and the evenings were punctuated by the drone of insects and the distant call of prayer. I was eight that year, and my cousin, Rizky, was five. We were inseparable during those visits, exploring the narrow paths between the houses and splashing in the muddy ditches after a rain.

One particular night, a violent storm rolled in from the ocean. The sky split with lightning, and thunder rattled the tin roof of my aunt’s house. The power flickered and died, plunging us into darkness lit only by the occasional flash. Rizky and I were playing with our toy cars on the woven mat in the living room, but the sudden blackout sent us scrambling behind the heavy wooden sofa. We huddled together, giggling nervously, waiting for the grown-ups to light the kerosene lamps.

After what felt like an eternity, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold. From the back of the house, where the kitchen was, came the unmistakable creak of the old wooden door swinging open, followed by a deafening slam that seemed to shake the walls. The kitchen was detached from the main house, a separate hut connected by a covered walkway. The door was always latched from the inside to keep out the monkeys and stray dogs. My aunt was the last one in there, preparing dinner hours ago, and I knew she had gone to bed early with a fever.

The slam was too heavy for wind. It was deliberate. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the storm. Rizky clutched my arm, his small fingers digging in. ‘Who’s there?’ I whispered, but the only answer was the drumming of rain and the low rumble of thunder.

Slowly, I crept from behind the sofa, pressing my back against the wall. The hallway to the back door was pitch black, but I knew the way by heart. I thought I saw a figure standing in the doorway—a tall, thin shape that didn’t move like a person. It seemed to sway, as if caught in an invisible current. The lightning flashed, and I saw it clearly: a gaunt, pale woman with hollow eyes and hair soaked and plastered to her skull. She was wearing a torn, drenched kebaya, and she stared directly at me with an expression that was both pleading and hungry.

I screamed, and Rizky screamed too. My aunt rushed in, fumbling with a matches, lighting a candle. The flame revealed nothing unusual. The hallway was empty, the door still closed and latched. She scolded us for being silly and sent us back to bed, but I couldn’t shake the image. Lying on the mattress with Rizky curled beside me, I swore I heard a faint scratching at the window, and a soft, sibilant whisper in a language I didn’t understand.

In the days that followed, I tried to forget, but the image of the woman lingered. I asked my grandmother about her, describing what I had seen. The old woman’s face grew pale, and she whispered, ‘The rain woman. She comes for those who wander too close to the old well.’ She told me that many years ago, a girl had drowned in the well behind our house, and her spirit never left. She would appear during storms, searching for a companion to join her in the water.

They say a spirit can’t leave the place of its death. But the rain woman was not bound by such rules. She followed the water, and she had found me. Every storm after that, I would hear the gate to the well rattling, a metallic clanging that cut through the thunder. And when I looked through the window, I saw her standing there, her white dress glowing faintly in the dark, her mouth open in a silent wail.

On the last night of our visit, the storm was the worst yet. The wind howled like a living thing, and the power went out within minutes. I was alone in the bedroom while the grown-ups huddled in the kitchen, talking in hushed tones. A knock came at my door. Three slow, deliberate knocks. I froze. The handle turned, and the door creaked open, revealing the rain woman. She was closer now, her face inches from mine. Her breath smelled of stagnant water and decay. She reached out a cold, bony hand and touched my cheek. ‘Come with me,’ she whispered, her voice like the rustle of dead leaves. ‘The well is lonely.’

I screamed with all my might, and my father burst in, sweeping me up. He ran with me out of the house, into the rain, and the whole family piled into the car. We drove through the night, away from that place, as the storm raged and the rain came down in sheets. I looked back through the window and saw the rain woman standing at the gate, her arm raised in a farewell that was also a curse.

I haven’t returned to Sumatra since. But every time it rains, I hear that knocking. And sometimes, in the flashes of lightning, I see her face in the glass, waiting for me to come home.