The Two in the Rain

The old farmhouse had stood for generations, a stoic guardian over the marsh that sprawled like a wound in the earth. The birch and pine trees that had once marched to the water’s edge had slowly been swallowed by the bog, their skeletal remains jutting from the murk like accusing fingers. It was there, in that place of deep silence, that I spent my Sundays with my grandfather, a man of few words and many secrets, his hands stained with the oil of a trade that had been ours for too long.

That evening, the rain fell in a slow, persistent drizzle, beading on the windows and blurring the world beyond. My grandfather sat in his worn leather armchair, the fire casting flickering shadows across his face as he worked on a small clockwork bird, its brass wings glinting in the amber light. I was on the couch, a takeaway container balanced on my knees, the taste of cold chips and curry sauce a familiar comfort. The only sounds were the hiss of the fire, the ticking of the clock, and the occasional coo of a pigeon from the rafters. The security camera above the dormant television showed only the empty lane, a grey ribbon cutting through the green.

I took a sip of lukewarm tea and glanced at the screen, and the tea turned to acid in my throat. Two figures stood at the edge of the camera’s view, their long trench coats slick with rain, their faces obscured by the low brims of their hats. They moved with an unnatural stillness, as if they were not walking but being carried by the wind. I blinked, and they were closer, almost at the gate. I set down the container, my heart beginning a slow, heavy thrum. ‘There’s customers outside,’ I said, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. ‘I’ll go see who it is.’ My grandfather looked up, his eyes narrowing. ‘Where?’ he asked, his voice a low rumble. ‘They just passed the camera,’ I said, already rising.

The porch light cast a weak pool of yellow on the gravel. I stepped out, the cold air biting at my cheeks. The rain was heavier now, drumming on the tin roof of the garage. I walked to the end of the lane, past the old tractor, past the sheds with their yawning doors, past the field where the grass grew tall and wild. No one. The lane stretched empty to the main road, and the forest beyond was a wall of shadow. I called out, but my voice was swallowed by the rain. A shiver ran down my spine, and I hurried back inside.

‘No one there,’ I said, shaking water from my hair. My grandfather had not moved, his eyes fixed on the camera. He pointed a gnarled finger. On the screen, the two figures stood at the gate, perfectly still, their heads tilted as if listening. My blood went cold. ‘They’re still there,’ he said. I turned, but the yard was empty. When I looked back at the screen, they were gone.

That night, I could not sleep. The wind howled around the house, and the old timbers groaned as if in pain. I listened to the rain, expecting to hear the crunch of footsteps on gravel, but there was only silence. In the morning, I found my grandfather in the garage, his face grey. He did not speak, but he pointed to the workbench. There, on the oil-stained wood, lay two rusted crowbars, arranged in the shape of a cross, and beneath them, a scrap of paper with a single word: ‘THEY KNOW.’

I laughed, a brittle sound. ‘It’s a prank,’ I said. But my grandfather shook his head. ‘They’ve come back,’ he whispered. ‘After all these years.’ He told me then, in a voice rough with age, of the family that had owned this land before us, who had built their house on the very spot where ours now stood. They had been bog people, he said, who made their living from the peat, and they had vanished one winter, leaving only their tools and their cattle. No one knew what had happened, but the land had never forgotten. And sometimes, when the rain came, they returned.

I wanted to dismiss it as the rambling of an old man, but I could not shake the image of those two figures, so still, so patient. Over the next days, I began to notice things. The pigeons that had always nested in the rafters were gone. The sparrows had fled. Even the swans that had once glided across the lake had disappeared, as if the water itself had turned against them. The lake, which had always been deep and dark, seemed to have grown a new stillness, a heaviness that made the air around it thick.

On the third night, I woke to a sound. It was not the wind, or the creaking of the house. It was a grinding, a slow, rhythmic scraping, coming from the direction of the lake. I rose and went to the window, and there, in the pale moonlight, I saw them. The two figures stood at the water’s edge, their trench coats billowing in a wind that did not touch the trees. They were not men. They were things of clay and peat, their faces smooth and blank, their hands elongated, reaching toward the water. They began to move, not walking, but gliding, as if the bog had given them birth and was calling them home.

I stumbled back, my heart pounding. I rushed to my grandfather’s room, but he was not there. His bed was empty, the covers thrown back. A trail of muddy footprints led down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, toward the garage. I followed, my bare feet cold on the stone. The garage was dark, the air thick with the smell of oil and rust. And there, in the centre of the floor, my grandfather stood, staring at the far wall, where the crowbars still lay. He turned to me, and his eyes were black, like the bog. ‘They want the key,’ he said. ‘The key to the old well, where the taxes were hidden. It’s been passed down for generations. It’s under the hearthstone.’

I did not understand. But I knew that I had to act. I ran back to the house, oblivious to the rain that had begun to fall again, and I tore at the hearthstone, my fingers bleeding, until I found a small iron key, black with age. When I returned to the garage, the two figures were standing behind my grandfather, their hands on his shoulders, their heads tilted in that same unnerving way. I held up the key, and they turned their featureless faces toward me. In that moment, I understood. They were not here for the key. They were here for my grandfather. They had been here for years, waiting for the right moment, and the moment had come.

I screamed, a raw, primal sound, and I threw the key at them. It clattered to the floor, and they did not move. Instead, they began to dissolve, their bodies turning to black mud, which seeped into the cracks of the concrete. And when they were gone, my grandfather collapsed, his face pale, his breath shallow. I called for an ambulance, but by the time they arrived, he was dead. The doctors said it was a heart attack, but I knew better. I had seen what the bog had made.

I left that place, sold the farmhouse to a developer who would drain the land and build new houses. But I never forgot. And sometimes, in the rain, I see two figures standing at the edge of my vision, waiting. They do not come for me, not yet. But they are always there, at the edge of the bog, in the corner of my eye. And I know that one day, when the rain falls and the wind howls, they will come for me too.