Rain, something I dread because as it falls it does not just bring wetness and that musty rainy smell along with it. It brings something even more sinister along. The Rain People.
It started years ago, on a night much like this one. The storm clouds gathered, dark and heavy, blotting out the moon and stars. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a chill wind blew through the streets, carrying with it the promise of a downpour. I watched from my window, the first drops splattering against the glass, creating tiny rivers that raced towards the sill.
At first, it seemed like any other rainstorm. The streets grew slick and shiny, the gutters gurgled as they struggled to keep up with the deluge, and the trees bowed under the weight of the water. But then, as the rain intensified, I noticed them.
They appeared at the edges of my vision, at first mere flickers in the downpour, but soon unmistakable. Tall, gaunt figures, their bodies made of water, their faces featureless and ever-shifting. They moved silently, blending with the sheets of rain, barely distinguishable from the storm itself.
I rubbed my eyes, convinced I was seeing things. But when I looked again, they were still there, moving with purpose, drawn towards the lights of the houses. Towards me.
Panic set in. I closed the curtains and backed away, my heart pounding in my chest. The Rain People were not a figment of my imagination. They were real, and they were coming.
I tried to tell myself it was a trick of the light, an illusion caused by the heavy rain. But deep down, I knew better. My grandmother had told me stories when I was a child, tales of spirits that came with the rain, seeking out the warmth and life that they had been denied in death. I had laughed them off then, but now her words echoed in my mind with terrifying clarity.
The Rain People came closer, their forms shifting and merging with the rain, almost invisible. I could hear their whispers now, a soft, sibilant murmur that sent shivers down my spine. They spoke of longing, of anger, of a deep, unending hunger.
I ran to the kitchen, frantically searching for something, anything, that could keep them out. My hands shook as I grabbed salt from the cupboard, spilling more than I poured. My grandmother had said that salt could ward off spirits. It was a thin hope, but it was all I had.
I poured a line of salt along the windowsills and doorways, my movements frantic and clumsy. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, as if they knew what I was doing and were trying to stop me. I glanced out the window and saw them, just inches away, their watery hands reaching out, their faces twisted in expressions of agony and rage.
The last window sealed, I backed away, praying that the salt would hold. The Rain People pressed against the glass, their forms distorting, their mouths opening in silent screams. They could not enter, but they did not leave. They stayed, watching, waiting.
The storm raged on through the night, the rain pounding against the house like a thousand drums. I huddled in the corner of my room, unable to sleep, unable to look away. The Rain People never left, their eyes—if they had eyes—fixed on me.
As dawn broke, the rain finally began to subside. The figures outside wavered and then, one by one, melted away into the receding storm. By the time the sun rose, they were gone, leaving only puddles and a deep sense of unease.
I had survived the night, but I knew the Rain People would return. Every time the storm clouds gathered, I would see them, feel their presence, hear their whispers. The rain was no longer just rain; it was a harbinger of fear, a reminder that some stories are true, and some nightmares never end.
So now, when the first drops begin to fall, I prepare. I seal my home with salt, I turn off the lights, and I wait. Because the Rain People are out there, and they are always looking for a way in.