The Scent of Rain and Lilies

I’ve lived in this house for three years, ever since my grandmother passed and left it to my mother and me. It’s a narrow, two-story Victorian on a cul-de-sac that dead-ends into a thicket of pine trees. The house has always had its quirks – the way the floorboards creak in the same spot in the hallway, the draft that makes the curtains breathe even when the windows are shut. But I’ve never felt truly afraid here. Not until the incident with the rain lilies.

Last Tuesday, my mom got home from her shift at the hospital around 7 p.m. She’s an ER nurse, so she’s used to strange smells and sounds. But when she stepped into the mudroom, she froze. Her scrubs were still stained with someone else’s blood, her face pale. She asked me, ‘Dana, did you buy those candles with the rain lily scent?’ I was in the living room, reading. I told her no, because I hadn’t. She said she could smell it – a sweet, heavy fragrance, like rain on concrete mixed with blooming lilies. It was strongest right by the coat rack. I didn’t smell a thing. I chalked it up to the stress of her job, the memory of a patient who smelled like that before they coded. I told her maybe she was imagining it. She shook her head and went upstairs to change. I forgot about it until the next morning.

I woke up at 6 a.m. to the sound of the front door opening. My mom had already left for her shift – she usually leaves at 5:30. I thought maybe she forgot something. I padded down the stairs in my bare feet, and the scent hit me like a wall. It was in the entire downstairs – that same perfume, cloying and sweet. It was so strong I could taste it, like I was chewing on a handful of petals. I coughed, my eyes watering. I searched the house – nothing. No candles, no incense, no air freshener. The scent was just there. Then, as suddenly as it came, it vanished. I stood in the hallway, my heart pounding. A draft ran through the house, but the windows were all shut.

That afternoon, I called my aunt, who is something of a folklore buff. She lives in Oregon and studies pioneer diaries. I told her about the smell. She got quiet. Then she asked me a question that made my blood run cold: ‘Does your house have a cellar? A crawlspace?’ I told her it had a small one, under the stairs. She said, ‘Check if the door is sealed. Check for any ventilation grates.’ I did. The door was a thin wooden panel, flush with the wall. I hadn’t opened it since we moved in. I pulled it open, and a puff of cold air rushed out, carrying the scent of damp earth and lilies. Inside, the crawlspace was dark, only about three feet high. I saw a metal grate on the far wall, clogged with cobwebs. There was something behind it – a small bundle, wrapped in oilcloth.

I didn’t go in. I closed the door and sat in the kitchen, shaking. My mom came home that evening, and I told her what I found. She said she’d never noticed the crawlspace. We decided to open the grate the next day, with gloves and flashlights. It was a Saturday, and we were both off work. We pulled out the bundle – it was a rusted metal box, about the size of a shoebox. Inside was a diary, leather-bound, with pages yellowed and fragile. The name on the inside cover was ‘Eleanor Vance, 1897.’ The entries were sporadic. She wrote about the house, her garden. She loved lilies. But in the last entry, dated October 12, 1897, she wrote: ‘They say the flowers bring her. I hope she is a gentle ghost. But the scent is so strong tonight, I can hardly breathe. If anyone reads this, do not bury me in the garden. She will come to the one she loves, and she will take their breath away.’

We looked up Eleanor Vance. She died in this house, in 1897, of a sudden illness – they called it ‘consumption of the lung.’ But the house records show she was buried in the garden, under a patch of wild lilies. My mother and I looked at each other. The scent had returned, faint but present, curling around us like a hand. I knew then that we had disturbed something. For the next week, we tried to ignore it. But at night, I would wake to the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs, and the smell of lilies would be so thick in my room that I’d gasp for air. My mom started sleeping with her door locked.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I went to the kitchen for water. The house was silent, but the scent was there, stronger than ever. I followed it. It led me to the front door. I opened it, and the moonlight spilled onto the porch. There, on the welcome mat, was a single white lily. I picked it up. It was cold as ice. And as I held it, I heard a woman’s voice, soft as a sigh, right by my ear: ‘You found my box. Thank you. Now I can rest.’ I turned, but no one was there. The scent vanished. My mother woke up the next morning, and said she slept better than she had in weeks. I kept the lily pressed in a book.

But I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t over. Sometimes, when I walk past the crawlspace, I feel eyes on me. And last night, I found a fresh lily on the porch again, even though I hadn’t placed one there. The diary is locked in a drawer, but I hear pages turning sometimes. I’m beginning to think that Eleanor isn’t the only one here. There’s something older in the ground beneath the lilies, and it’s waiting for the right moment to take my breath. For now, I keep the windows open, hoping the scent fades. But every night, it returns. And I know, deep down, that one morning I’ll wake up to find a lily on my pillow, and I won’t wake up at all.