The Scent of Rain on a Sunday

My grandmother’s house always smelled of lavender and old paper. I spent my summers there, and the attic was my sanctuary, a dusty haven filled with forgotten photographs and yellowed novels. It was the first Sunday of June, and I was curled up in the worn armchair, lost in a dog-eared copy of ‘The Haunting of Hill House,’ when I heard it.

‘Emberly, Emberly, Emberly.’

The voice was soft, almost musical, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. It came from the direction of the staircase leading down to the second floor. I froze, the book slipping from my fingers. My grandmother was in the garden, I knew, trimming her roses. She was the only other person in the house. I called out, ‘Grandma?’ but there was no reply. The house felt still, heavy with silence.

Then, a giggle. Not from the stairs, but right behind me. A child’s titter, high and thin, like the tinkle of a broken piano key. At the same moment, the air turned cold, and I felt a presence—something tall and frigid hovering just over my right shoulder, as if it were looking down at the pages of my book. I didn’t dare turn. I bolted.

I flew down the stairs, my heart hammering, and burst into the kitchen. My grandmother looked up from her teapot, startled. ‘Child, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ I tried to explain, but she just chuckled and said, ‘It’s just the old house settling, or perhaps the wind through the cracks.’ But there was no wind that day, and I knew what I had heard.

I retreated to my room on the third floor, which my grandmother rarely used. I slammed the door and turned on my portable radio, cranking it up to a crackling rock station. I pulled the covers over my head and forced my eyes shut, staring into the blackness behind my lids. The last thing I saw was a sliver of light from the hallway seeping under the door.

When I woke, the room was bright with morning, and the clock showed 10:15 AM. The radio had gone static. I avoided the attic for the rest of the week, but I couldn’t shake that feeling of being watched. On my last day, I decided to confront it. I crept up the attic stairs, my hand on the rail, and paused at the top. The armchair was empty, but on the seat lay a small, tarnished locket. It hadn’t been there before. I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a faded photograph of a little girl, her eyes wide, and inscribed on the back in spidery handwriting: ‘I play only when it rains.’

Just then, I heard a distant rumble of thunder, and the first drops of rain began to tap against the attic window. The air grew cold again, and I felt that presence drawing near, whispered my name, ‘Emberly, Emberly, Emberly,’ but this time it wasn’t a question—it was a welcome. I dropped the locket and ran, but as I dashed down the stairs, I could have sworn I heard the patter of bare feet following, and the scent of lavender clung to my clothes for hours afterward. I never returned to that house, but sometimes, late at night, I still smell lavender and taste the metallic tang of fear, and I hear that little girl’s laugh, and I know she’s still playing, waiting for the next one to come up and join her game.