The Rain-Soaked Ride

It was a humid Tuesday night, and I was eight months pregnant with our first child, Leo. My partner, Sam, and I had just left the last open curry house in the old town, our stomachs heavy with spicy coconut broth. The sky had been threatening all evening, and as we stepped into the car, the first fat drops began to splatter on the windscreen.

We lived on the outskirts of a small coastal village, a fifteen-minute drive along a narrow road that hugged the cliffs. Sam drove as he always did, one hand on the wheel, the other on the gearstick, humming along to a tune on the radio. I rolled down my window a crack, letting the cool air slip in, but the rain quickly became insistent, so I wound it up again.

We’d just passed the old lighthouse when I felt it: a gentle, almost tender rub on my right shoulder. It wasn’t a pat or a nudge, but a slow, deliberate stroke, as if a mother’s hand was soothing a child. I turned to Sam, expecting him to be looking at me, his hand reaching over, but he was staring straight ahead, his fingers drumming on the door panel.

‘Sam, did you just touch me?’ I asked, my voice trembling. Sam glanced over, a puzzled look on his face. ‘No, I was changing gears. Why?’

I swallowed hard, feeling a cold sweat prickling my neck. ‘I felt something. A hand on my shoulder. It was soft, motherly.’ The words tumbled out before I could stop them. ‘It felt like someone was in the back seat!’

Sam’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. ‘Don’t say that. You’re just tired, the baby, the food.’ He tried to laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He checked the rearview mirror, then the back seat. Nothing.

I turned around, half expecting to see a figure hunched in the shadows, but the seat was empty. The rain was now hammering the roof, a steady drumbeat that filled the car. I rubbed my shoulder where the touch had been, trying to convince myself it was a stray breeze from the vents.

A few minutes later, we came to a sharp bend in the road. Sam was forced to slow down, and as he did, the car’s headlights swept across a figure standing at the edge of the cliff. It was a woman, drenched to the bone, with long dark hair plastered to her face. She was holding something to her chest, wrapped in a blanket. She didn’t move, just stared at the car as we passed.

‘Did you see that?’ I whispered, my heart pounding. Sam nodded, his voice tight. ‘Probably a local taking a shortcut. But in this weather?’ He accelerated, leaving her behind.

I looked back, and for a split second, I could have sworn I saw her raise a hand, waving. Not in a frantic way, but slowly, deliberately, as if beckoning. I turned back, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

We reached the village and pulled into the narrow lane where my in-laws’ house sat. The rain had eased to a drizzle. Sam parked and turned off the engine. We sat there in silence, the only sound the patter on the roof. Then, from the back seat, we heard a soft coo, like a baby’s murmur.

We both froze. Sam slowly turned, his face pale in the dim streetlight. The back seat was empty, but on the cushion lay a single, wet leaf, shaped like a hand, its fingers splayed. Neither of us had brought any foliage into the car.

I grabbed Sam’s arm. ‘We need to go inside. Now.’ We scrambled out, leaving the car unlocked, and rushed up the path. As Sam fumbled with the key, I glanced back. The car was as we left it, but I could have sworn I saw the outline of a woman sitting in the back seat, her head tilted, watching us. Then the streetlight flickered, and she was gone.

Inside, we said nothing to his parents. But that night, as I lay in bed, I felt the touch again, on my shoulder. This time, I didn’t turn. I just whispered, ‘I know you’re there.’ And I felt a gentle pressure, as if someone was leaning close, and a whisper in my ear, too faint to make out, but it sounded like a name. Not mine, not Leo’s, but something softer, older.

I never told Sam, but I started leaving the car window open a crack at night, just in case. And sometimes, when the rain patters against the glass, I still feel that gentle, motherly hand on my shoulder, and I know she’s still riding with us, waiting for the right moment to take her seat.