Days of Rain

by Ray Wallace

  His mind drifted off to the omnipresent sound of the rain. He didn't sleep, though. Almost, but not quite. When was the last time he’d slept? It had been too long by far. Longer than he cared to remember.

  He thought about Brenda, the day they got married. It had been a warm, spring afternoon. Not a cloud in the sky. He thought about the picture of the man on the television, how happy he had seemed, tried to recall what that felt like. Happiness. But here was something else that eluded him. Too much time had passed. All of those long, lonely hours since the night of the party, the night he had driven home when he knew damn well he shouldn't have...

  We need to get going soon, said the voice in his head, the one that had brought him to this place, that seemed to be so much a part of him now. We can't risk staying in one spot for too long, not out in the open like this.

  It was right, of course. The voice was always right.

  He drove north for a while, wondered how far he'd have to go to finally be free of the storm.

  Too far, said the voice. You'll never make it.

  Every time he drove in any one direction long enough, the voice was there, telling him to turn around. And every time, he listened.

  As the gray day faded toward true darkness, he kept driving, wondering all the while if the rain would ever end.

  Will any of this ever end?

  The cops found him just after nightfall, chased him over wet, gleaming asphalt toward no particular destination. The voice urged him onward, ever onward until the roadblock came into view. There was no chance of him stopping. He couldn’t stop now even if he wanted to. He had murdered people. Several of them. His landlord among them. The rest a collection of random strangers. The voice had told him to do it and he’d done it. He’d killed before, after all. And once you've destroyed the only thing in your life that matters, the rest of it seems to come pretty easy. The voice had told him he would feel better if he spread the hurt around, the pain and the endless misery. Trust me, it had said. And, apparently, it had been right because he was laughing now, laughing so hard tears were running down his face.

  He kept on laughing right up until the end, until the bullets punched into the car, through the windshield, through his chest and his neck, his head and his heart. By the time he plowed into the roadblock, he was already dead.

  And through it all and into the night, the rain continued to fall.

  Monday, July 11th

  Pastor McHenry felt safe inside the church. It had become his haven, seemed to be the only place that could diffuse the shadows of their power. He was spending an increasing amount of time there, returning after everyone else had gone home, after he had made a show of locking all the doors and walking across the yard to the house where he lived. Once there, he would peek through the blinds hanging over the front window, waiting for every last car to pull out of the church’s parking lot. Then he would go outside once again, head for the holy building’s rear entrance, wanting to make sure no one could see what he was up to. Because if anyone did… They might think he was crazy, that maybe he’d lost touch with reality during those four days immersed within the stygian depths of his subconscious mind. And God knew he didn’t want that. Having his sanity called into question could lead to him being relieved of his duties with the church. Banishment. And then his haven would be lost.

  The only times he left were when he had to make something to eat or change his clothes or take a shower. And these tasks he performed as quickly as possible, knowing the shadows could sense his vulnerability the moment he stepped beyond the church’s walls. And he never left the church at night. That’s when the shadows knew the full extent of their power. After all, the night was nothing more than a vast shadow cast by the Earth upon all the creatures living and scurrying and suffering upon its surface. Throughout history, men had done what they could to fight back this all consuming shadow. They had used fire and, eventually, invented artificial lighting. But these puny lights made shadows of their own that took strength from the surrounding darkness. They lavished in it. And once the flickering flame or the glowing bulb was extinguished, they would join forces with the much greater magnificence of the Earth’s shadow. And their power would grow.

  At least, that’s the way it seemed to Pastor McHenry as he peered through the blinds over his living room window, waiting for the last of the cars to drive away. There’d been a bake sale at the church this evening from six until nine o’clock. Several dozen of the town’s women—and more than a few of the men—had been happy to show off their cake, cookie, and bread-making skills in an effort to raise money for the local elementary school where the rain had caused part of the roof to collapse. Thankfully, there were no injuries to students or faculty as the minor calamity had taken place after school hours. A number of textbooks had been destroyed, however, along with several computers and a stockpile of arts and crafts supplies.

  Pastor McHenry fidgeted as a pair of cars sat idling next to one another in the parking lot, windows partially open despite the rain, their drivers apparently conversing.

  “Come on...”

  He’d turned off the lights in the house so that no one could see his silhouette from outside. While standing there in the darkness, a nervous energy had stolen over him. And now he could feel himself breaking out in a light sweat. The headlights of one of the cars were aimed in his direction. He couldn’t help but think about the way the light came through the blinds, casting shadows across the room behind him. In his mind’s eye he could see a distorted, man-shaped section of blackness expanding across the wall, pooling down onto the floor before elongating once again, reaching for him...

  Finally, both vehicles pulled away. He recalled how grateful he’d been upon returning to the church after his stay in the hospital, the feeling of solace that had washed over him the moment he walked inside the hallowed building for the first time after his release. And he longed to experience that feeling one again.

  As the cars drove off, he let out a long breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Then he went to the front door and opened it, stepped onto the porch and listened to the steady patter of the rain on the roof above him. An umbrella stood leaning against the wall next to him but he couldn’t bring himself to use it, couldn’t imagine standing within the shadow it would make in the moonlight. And so he hurried through the rain to the church where, once inside, he fell to his knees and thanked the Lord for providing this place where the shadows were devoid of any power.

  Tuesday, July 12th

  She'd been staying at a downtown hotel since the day Henry came walking down the stairs and into the kitchen. At the time, she thought he meant to kill her but he'd been in a surprisingly cordial mood, said he just wanted to talk to her. But she hadn’t wanted to talk. She wanted him to leave her alone, to stop haunting her.

  "You're dead, Henry. You know that, don't you?"

  A look of confusion flickered across his face and then he'd smiled and told her that of course he knew he was dead, that he didn't need some uppity bitch to remind him of it. He moved toward her then but she’d already grabbed her purse and her keys, had made her way toward the garage door.

  "Get over here, God damn it,” he’d shouted, “and take what you've got coming!"

  Instead, she’d opened the door and hurried through it, sat shaking inside the SUV a few moments later, watching him as he stood in the doorway, venting his rage, apparently incapable of entering the garage. And for that she was grateful. When she’d gotten her nerves under control, she drove away from the house and found a hotel downtown. And there she had stayed ever since, waiting for the rain to stop, for the storm to end.

  But as the days went by, she began to suspect her waiting might be in vain.

  Every morning after breakfast, she'd grab an umbrella and head outside, hoping at some point she'd see nothing but clear blue skies above her. But every day, it was always the same: a veil of gray clouds all but obscuring the dull, glowing disc of the sun. She would sigh, knowing
she wouldn’t be able to return home, telling herself that tomorrow would be the day, that the sun would come out just like the old song said it would. And Henry would return to… Well, wherever he’d been since he’d stepped off that chair with the noose around his neck. Then she could go home and resume the life she had known, the one that had been so rudely interrupted by the return of her dearly departed husband.

  She spent the day reading and watching TV, tried not to get too upset when the weatherman on the local news said there was more rain in the forecast. After eating dinner at the restaurant across the street, she went back to her room and read some more.

  Night fell.

  Her room was located on the hotel's first floor. When she looked up from the page she was reading, she saw Henry standing there, smiling, looking in through the window at her. She feared he'd make his way into the hotel, start pounding on the door to her room, demanding she let him in. Or maybe he'd just walk through the wall. He was a ghost, after all, despite the fact that he looked remarkably alive these days. But he did neither of these things. Instead, after a few long moments, he waved and wandered off.

  She didn't see him again that night. But she had a feeling it would only be a matter of time before he paid her another visit.

  The next morning, she drove to a local appliance store where she bought a gas can, stopped and filled it up at a gas station on her way home. At the house, she parked in the driveway and went in through the front door.

  "Henry?" she called from the living room.

  No reply.

  She gathered some of the belongings that really mattered to her—albums filled with old pictures mostly, along with several irreplaceable knick knacks she'd collected over the years—and brought them out to the SUV. When she came back in, she had the gas can with her, wasted no time in emptying its contents on the floor of the living room, the kitchen, and the base of the staircase. She pulled a lighter from a drawer in the kitchen, grabbed a piece of junk mail from the countertop next to the stove before making her way over to the front door of the house.

  "What are you doing, my dear?"

  She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, turned to see her late husband standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  "What am I doing?" she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I'm setting you free, Henry."

  With that, she went outside, spilling gasoline as she made her way across the porch. Henry approached the open doorway, shrieking and cursing at her all the while. But he came no further. Did he lack the strength to leave the house during daylight hours? Annette had no idea nor did she really care. All that mattered was that, for whatever reason, he seemed incapable of reaching her.

  Placing the can at her feet, she used the lighter to set fire to the envelope then let it fall to the spot where the gleaming trail of gasoline ended. In practically no time at all, the flames spread throughout the house’s bottom floor before moving upstairs where she could see them dancing beyond the windows there from her vantage point near the driveway. And as she got in the car and started the engine, she was certain she could see poor Henry up there too, looking down at her. Then she pulled onto the street and without so much as a backward glance, drove away from that place, never to return.

  Wednesday, July 13th

  At eleven-thirty in the evening, Renee’s eyes snapped open. Heart racing, she sat up and gazed wildly about the darkened room, unsure of where she was, a name echoing endlessly through her mind:

  "Emily."

  Throwing aside the covers, she hopped out of bed, reality seeping into her consciousness as she crossed the room, tearing to shreds the dreamworld from which she had just awakened, a lone certainty compelling her to move as she stepped into the hallway beyond:

  My little girl is in danger.

  Entering her daughter's room, she flicked the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light. At the sight of the empty bed, dread settled like a heavy stone into the pit of her stomach.

  "Emily?"

  In a panic, she went to the closet, threw the door open and checked inside, having no real idea why her daughter might be in there, feeling the need to look anyway.

  Empty.

  After checking under the bed with similar results, she went down the hallway to search the bathroom before heading out to the kitchen then into the living room, activating lights as she went, calling out: "Where are you, baby? Where are you?"

  Had someone broken into the house and snatched her daughter while she lay sleeping?

  No! Impossible, she told herself. The alarm would have sounded. The security company would have called.

  At the house's front entrance, she found something she didn't expect to see: the chair from Emily's room, the one she used while sitting at her desk, reading or working on one of her stories. Or, more recently, one of her drawings.

  Why is it out here?

  Then it dawned on her:

  The chair had been positioned so that someone of Emily's height could reach the keypad used to control the house's alarm system. But she had never told Emily the alarm code, had made it abundantly clear that her daughter should never leave the house without permission. Renee in no way wanted to make it seem as though she was imprisoning her daughter but with it being a new neighborhood and all, and with the ocean so near, she didn't see the harm in erring on the side of over-protectiveness. Because if anything were to happen...

  Some of the dreams she’d been having came rushing back to her. Rushing, yes, like the waves that seemed to fill her nightmares. And she thought of the drawings Emily had created, their depictions of the black ocean, the monstrosity lurking beneath the surface.

  It came as no real surprise to find the sliding glass door at the back of the house unlocked. Dressed in nothing but the T-shirt and shorts she had worn to bed, Renee hurried barefoot through the grass toward the fence at the bottom of the yard, the light rain falling from the gray-black sky gently stinging the exposed skin of her legs, arms, and face along the way. The gate stood open in silent invitation to the wet sands and the black expanse of the ocean rolling away before her, further than the eye could possibly see.

  "Emily!"

  She ran toward the water, more than willing to enter its murky depths if she had to, if that's what it took to get her daughter back. Fortunately, it did not come to that.

  "Emily?"

  Her daughter stood on the shoreline wearing the long shirt she liked to sleep in, the waves rushing in to cover her feet before slowly drifting back out again. For a terrifying moment, Renee thought she saw long, snake-like tentacles wriggling out of the water, reaching for her little girl, ready to drag her away. But it was only a trick of the light—or lack thereof—endowing her surroundings with properties they did not possess.

  She went to her daughter and knelt down next to her, wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. She knew she should be angry, furious, actually, but all she felt right then was a nearly overpowering sense of relief.

  "You gave me a terrible fright, honey."

  Emily turned to look at her, wide eyes reflecting the ambient lighting.

  "I'm sorry, Mommy. But I had to..."

  "You had to what?"

  A shrug. "I just had to."

  She handed the ring of keys she had used to unlock the gate to her mother. On the way back to the house, Renee asked her daughter how she had known the alarm code.

  Another shrug. "I just knew."

  As they neared the fence, Renee thought she saw figures in the distance along the beach, staring out toward the horizon. Another trick of the light? She couldn't be sure but she didn't think so.

  Inside the house, she reset the alarm and changed the code even though she wasn't sure how much good it would do. Afterward, she got Emily changed into some dry clothing before putting on something different herself. Then she told her daughter they’d be sleeping together for the rest of the night.

  As they lay in bed, Renee said, “I never want you to do anything like t
hat again. Ever. You hear me?"

  "Yes, Mommy," Emily told her. "I really am sorry."

  “Okay then. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “I love you, baby.”

  “I love you too.”

  A short while later, mother and daughter drifted off to sleep.

  Thursday, July 14th

  The call had come in at a little past eight in the evening. Too early for people to normally be this drunk and disorderly. But ever since the storm had rolled in, the more unpredictable the behavior of Hidden Bay's good citizens had become. And the longer it stuck around, the worse it got.

  Officer Greene had been called in as backup. A fight had broken out over at Dirty Larry's. Not all that rare of an occurrence, to be sure. But, again, not normally this early in the night. And not normally on a Thursday either. By the time he'd arrived, the officers on the scene had pretty much established control over the proceedings.

  "Just a couple of good ol' boys blowing off some steam," he was informed when he walked into the place, took in the sight of the broken table, the smashed bottles on the floor, the two inebriated combatants nursing their wounds. They were back to being friends again, neither wanting to press charges against the other. But they were arrested anyway, led out to one of the patrol cars after they'd been read their rights and it was ascertained that none of their injuries would prove to be life threatening.

  Officer Greene left the scene around 9:30, decided to stop in at Mom's Cafe just down the street, try to squeeze in some dinner before another call came in. With the way things had been going lately, however, he figured there was a pretty good chance his meal would be interrupted by some new emergency. Hopefully nothing along the lines of what that lunatic Keith Warnick had put everyone through. He'd take another suicide case any day over that craziness.

  "Hey, Phil," said Janet, one of the café’s waitresses as he claimed his usual seat at the end of the long counter close to the kitchen. "What'll we have tonight?"