Beneath the Rain

A Short Horror Story

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Rain fell incessantly and the gas lamps cast feeble glimmers against the murky shadows. The day dawned, drenched. Inside a weather-beaten house nestled on the outskirts of the labyrinthine alleys of the industrialised City of Violshire, a family began their day amidst the weight of the relentless downpour.

The father, Jacob, a stoic figure with weary eyes that mirrored the grey skies above, sat at the worn wooden table, his gaze fixed beyond the rain-spattered window. Outside, rainwater ran like a river through the narrow gutter in the middle of the cobbled street. Cobblestones shimmered as the rain flowed toward the drain at the end of the gutter. The gutter that was becoming ever more obscured beneath a veil of discoloured, frothy rainwater.

‘Hmmm,’ he sighed. Jacob’s bones were aching from the labours of factory work, and he had a long day of that ahead of him. But not before he would get soaked through on the way there.

His wife, Jean, a quiet woman with the inner strength required of a housewife with very little money to live, moved about the cramped kitchen with a sense of defiance in the face of the unease that lingered in the air. She packed her husband's lunch in silence, her movements graceful in the face of her humble life.

‘Your lunch is packed,’ she said, her voice barely audible above the drumming of the rain. ‘What weighs on your mind, my love?’

Jacob’s gaze remained fixed upon the window, his thoughts lost in the sombre depths of the rain-soaked streets. ‘It is nought but the weather,’ he muttered, his words typically short and sweet, if they could ever really be called sweet. Jean, ever attuned to the silent language of their shared existence, knew better than to press him further, for if she did she would get nothing more from him.

With a resigned sigh, Jacob rose from the table, his movements were at peace with the burdens of labour that awaited him at the factory. He cast one final glance at the drain outside, its dark depths seemingly swallowing what good there was on this dismal day before he departed into the streets of Violshire.

Left alone in the dimly lit kitchen, the wife stole a furtive glance outside, her gaze lingering on the ominous drain that seemed to beckon with a sinister allure as it drew in yet more water. She noticed her young son, Marcus, a boy of five, standing by the window, his small frame silhouetted against the dreary backdrop of rain-slicked cobblestones.

‘Come away from there, my dear,’ she implored softly, her voice tinged with maternal concern. But the boy, his gaze transfixed by the swirling waters below, seemed oblivious to her instruction. She placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the table for his porridge. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and joined him.

As they ventured outside later that morning to procure coal for the dwindling fire and provisions for the evening meal, Jean kept a watchful eye on her son. ‘Stay clear of the drain, darling,’ she cautioned, her voice almost cut off by the sideways rain. But the boy, heedless of her warnings, edged closer to the middle of the street, to the gutter in which the water washed, his curiosity piqued by its murky depths.

She spotted a neighbour entering her home across the sodden street. ‘Rotten day,’ she said with a friendly enough smile, though she had not gotten to know any of the neighbours in the short time she’d lived on this street.

‘You should stay indoors,’ replied the lady without turning her head, and she slammed the door behind her.

She observed her son’s fascination with the rain-filled drain, a fascination that bordered on the edge of obsession as he took a look back before it was out of view.

The family had only enough money to buy their groceries from the market rather than the shops. The shops sold fresh vegetables, and the butcher fresh meat. The markets would get the leftover vegetables on the verge of rotting, and meat slaughtered a week before. She was at least glad they lived in a small space of their own. The next street over was where the overcrowding really started. A couple of families get crammed into one room, shitting in the street outside and feeding it to the swine - sometimes.

She looked at some of the bruised vegetables and held in a cringe. Then she rooted through and found something passable, something she could cook for her family and maintain a degree of self-respect. She got a piece of pork that was far less rancid looking than the rest and some coal and hurried home, the rain beating down all the while.

As they approached their modest home, Jean cast a weary glance at the neighbouring houses, their windows dark and foreboding against the gloomy backdrop of the waning day. She ushered her son inside, but could not shake the feeling of unease that settled over her. She glanced once more at the neighbouring houses, where curtains twitched and shadows flitted. The whispers of the townsfolk spoke of secrets hidden behind closed doors, of fear and suspicion that lurked just beneath the surface.

But it was not just the hushed murmurs of the neighbours that unsettled the mother. It was the way their curtains snapped shut with an almost audible finality as she dared to meet their gaze as if they feared the mere sight of her and Marcus would invite some unspeakable horror into their homes, their lives.

Upon their return, Jean set about her daily tasks to maintain the home she had, imagining the home she could never have - the balcony overlooking the gardens filled with flowers. Dogs and children playing on the grass. The sun on her skin. However, the rain continued its relentless assault on the weary streets in the gathering dusk of Violshire.

At their own window, Marcus stood silent and watchful. He gazed upon the rain-swollen drain that lay just beyond their doorstep. Yet, there was something else lurking in the depths of his wide-eyed stare, something that sent shivers down her spine. The daylight drained away, casting elongated shadows that streaked across the walls.

With a heave, the mother drew the curtains against the encroaching darkness and turned away from the window as condensation formed in the corners of the glass. She prepared the vegetables and stoked the fire. She hung their coats on the backs of chairs to help them dry out and went back to stir the pot.

As she sliced the pork for the evening stew, a creak echoed through the silent hall, its mournful resonance piercing the oppressive ambience. ‘Is it thee, my love? Returned home on the hour?’ she called out, her voice tinged with a note of hopeful anticipation.

But there came no response, only a chilling breeze and the sound of the downpour outside that hung heavy in the air. With a sense of trepidation, Jean ventured into the hallway, her heart quickening its pace with each passing moment. The door stood ajar, a gateway to the unknown, and her son stood upon its threshold, his gaze fixed upon the rain-filled drain that beckoned him to the beyond.

Before she could utter a word of warning, her son stepped onto the drain. The rainwater surged and swirled, almost as if it sensed him, a living thing coiling hungrily around his ankles. In an instant, it rose, twisting up his small legs like dark, skeletal fingers. With a monstrous pull, the water yanked him downward, swallowing him whole. He vanished, leaving only a ripple behind, as though he had never been there at all. A strangled cry tore from the mother’s lips, her heart pounding as she watched, paralysed, the water closing over the place where her son had stood, a cold, merciless predator claiming its prize.

In a desperate frenzy, she flung herself into the rain-soaked streets, her screams lost amidst the relentless drumming of the rain as she searched frantically for her lost son. But the drain offered no solace, no answers, only the cold embrace of its watery abyss. She splashed around as she searched but there was no hole in which her son could have fallen. It was impossible. The drain was covered by a heavy metal grid, the gaps of which were too small to fall between.

As she thrashed through the water, screaming and sweeping water away, she was met by the sight of her husband returning home, his face etched with concern.

And the rain continued to pour. A torrential downpour turning the narrow streets of Violshire into murky rivers, Jean’s screams echoed through the gloomy cul-de-sac. Her husband rushed to her side, panic setting in. The water in the drain, now resembling a sinister, obsidian pool, held no trace of their young son.

In the dim light, she was soaked and dishevelled, clinging to her husband, her eyes wild with terror. She recounted the chilling sight of her son walking into the puddle, disappearing as if swallowed by the rain-soaked street.

‘My boy!’ she screamed, followed by another cry of anguish as she beat her husband’s chest.

She dropped to her knees in the flowing water and whispered desperate pleas into the rain, praying for some sign of her lost child. Her husband watched helplessly as his own grief set in.

In the following days, the community was shrouded in a suffocating atmosphere of dread. The mysterious disappearance of the young boy became the whispered talk of the town, and the drain, now an object of fear, was avoided by all. Doors were bolted, and curtains drawn as the residents sought solace in the safety of their homes.

Jean, consumed by grief, became obsessed with the idea that her son was still within reach, trapped in a watery purgatory. She spent sleepless nights by the drain, her eyes glazed with a haunted determination. 

 The rains continued to pour over Violshire, relentless in their pursuit of the weary people that dwelled within. As the days stretched into weeks, the mother's obsession with the drain deepened, her once-bright eyes now dull with the weight of grief. She spoke of hearing her son's voice carried upon the rain-swept winds, a spectral message of reassurance. But all Jacob could hear was the echo of his wife’s terrible screams. My boy!

Neighbours whispered in hushed tones as they passed by her house, casting wary glances at the woman who had become a shadow of her former self. They distanced themselves from her as if to shield themselves from the raw anguish that emanated from her very being. As if her misfortune were contagious.

Eventually, the seasons changed and the rain cleared. Years passed, and Jean, her spirit now unrecognisable from what it once was, found solace in the monotony of repeating the same daily routine. Yet, the memory of her lost son remained a wound that refused to heal. 

One autumn morning, as the rain fell in mournful torrents again, the changed woman watched from her window as the woman who had once warned her to stay indoors was carried away by silent figures in sombre attire. Her eyes, hollow with grief and haunted by past tragedy, followed the procession with a sense of resignation that bordered on numbness.

As the years wore on, a young family, much like her own young family that had once been, moved into the weather-beaten house across the street. Their laughter echoed through the rain-soaked streets, a stark contrast to the sound of clanging machinery that had settled over this small corner of Violshire.

One day, as the new mother ventured outside to gather provisions for the evening meal, she encountered Jean from across the street, her eyes wide with worry and uncertainty.

‘You should stay indoors,’ Jean whispered resentfully, her voice a hollow echo of the warnings she herself had once received. Yet, the young mother politely offered a smile, oblivious to the weight of the words that Jean spoke.

And as the rain continued to fall like a lingering memory, casting its melancholy veil over the streets of Violshire, Jean retreated into the shadows of her empty house, reminded of her loss.

The new mother ventured out into the rain, her child’s hand clasped in her own, their steps light and unburdened.

Jean stood at her window, her form barely visible in the dim light that seeped in. Her eyes followed them until they disappeared from sight, swallowed by the gloom. She closed the curtains against the world outside and the memories that were held there, 

And so the rain fell, unceasing, its rhythm a reminder of all that had been lost, and all that would be lost again.

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