The Red Umbrella

The rain was coming down in sheets, drumming a frantic rhythm on the tin roofs of the shanties that lined the narrow alley. It was the last night of the year, and my friends and I had gathered at Jun’s place to watch the New Year’s countdown show on his small, crackling television. The power flickered every few minutes, casting long shadows that danced on the walls, but we were too engrossed in the music and laughter to care. Jun’s cousin, a quiet girl named Mira, had come to visit from the province, and she sat in the corner, sharing a blanket with my friend’s sister, both of them giggling at the screen.

When the show ended around two in the morning, the rain had turned into a relentless downpour, but we had no choice but to walk Mira home. Her house was only a few blocks away, but the streets were treacherous, flooded in places and slick with mud. We splashed through puddles, our umbrellas useless against the wind that whipped the rain horizontally. Mira’s house was a small, peeling structure at the end of a dead-end street, with a single flickering porch light. She hurried to the door, turned, and gave us a quick wave before slipping inside. The door clicked shut, and the porch light went out.

We stood there, shivering, not wanting to trudge back through the rain. ‘Let’s wait for a tricycle,’ I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. ‘There’s gotta be one passing by soon.’ We huddled under the eaves of the neighboring house, trying to stay dry. The street was silent, save for the patter of rain and the occasional distant rumble of thunder. And then, as if from nowhere, a woman appeared directly in front of Mira’s house, where the light had just gone out.

She was maybe forty-five, with dark hair plastered to her face, and she wore a red dress that seemed to absorb the little light that leaked from the shuttered windows. In her hand, she held a red umbrella, the kind you only see in old movies, though she didn’t seem to need it—she stood perfectly still in the rain, as if she were the only thing that existed. I blinked, and she was still there, staring at us. Her face was impassive, but her eyes seemed to pierce through the gloom. She raised both hands, palms up, as if beckoning us closer.

My breath caught in my throat. Something was wrong, profoundly wrong. I glanced at Jun, who had gone pale as chalk. His lips were moving, forming words I couldn’t hear. I grabbed his arm. ‘Who is that?’ I asked, my voice shaking. Jun shook his head, his eyes wide. ‘I’ve never seen her,’ he whispered. ‘I know everyone on this street, and she’s not one of them.’ And then, just as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone—not turned away, not walked off, but vanished, like a light being switched off. The rain continued to fall, but the spot where she stood was dry, as if the rain itself was afraid to touch it.

We all turned to run, but our legs seemed frozen. The fear hit us like a physical force, making our hearts pound in our ears. I broke the spell first, grabbing Jun’s sleeve and yanking him toward the main road. ‘Run!’ I shouted, and we bolted, not caring about the puddles or the mud. We didn’t stop until we reached Jun’s house, bursting through the door and slamming it shut, leaning against it as we gasped for air. Jun’s sister screamed from her room, and his mother came out, alarmed. We told her what we saw, but she just shook her head and told us we were hallucinating from exhaustion. But I knew what I saw, and so did Jun.

The next day, the sun came out, and the streets dried quickly. But when I walked past Mira’s house, I noticed something on the ground by the gate. A red umbrella, lying there, as if it had been dropped. I picked it up, and it was bone dry, despite the rain that had soaked everything the night before. I looked up at Mira’s window, and she was standing there, watching me. She gave a small, sad smile, and then she pulled the curtain closed. I shoved the umbrella into a garbage bin and walked away, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had seen something I wasn’t supposed to, and that the woman in red was not done with us yet.

That was last December. Now, every time it rains, I avoid that street, and I never look at red umbrellas. But sometimes, at the edge of my vision, I see the faint outline of a woman in red, standing under a flickering streetlight, her arms outstretched, waiting for someone to come home.