The Rain Knows My Name

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The rain had been following me for three blocks before I realized someone else was too.

At first I blamed the storm for everything I heard. Water hammered the roofs and poured from gutters in silver sheets. Wind shook the trees hard enough to send branches scraping across windows, and every few seconds thunder rolled over the neighborhood with enough force to make the pavement seem to tremble beneath my feet.

Then I heard the footsteps.

They were behind me, never close enough to see and never hurried enough to sound like someone trying to catch up. They simply kept pace, steady and deliberate, no matter how quickly I walked.

I pulled my hood farther over my head and crossed the street without looking back. The rain had already soaked through my sweatshirt, and water squished inside my shoes with every step. I told myself I was being ridiculous. It was a neighborhood. People walked through neighborhoods. Someone else being outside in a storm did not mean they were following me.

I turned left at the next corner.

The footsteps turned left too.

My heart began to pound harder than the run deserved.

I ducked beneath the branches of a maple tree and glanced behind me. Lightning flashed, bleaching the street white for a fraction of a second. I saw parked cars, dark windows, a trash can tipped on its side near the curb.

Nobody.

The darkness returned, and with it came the footsteps.

I ran.

I wasn't even sure where I was running anymore. Home, I thought, but the word felt strangely hollow. I tried to picture my front door and couldn't. I tried to remember whether I'd left a light on in the kitchen, whether there would be mail on the counter, whether anyone would be waiting for me.

Nothing came.

A sharp metallic sound cut through the storm.

I stopped so suddenly that my foot slid on the wet pavement. For one disorienting instant, I smelled hot metal beneath the rain and heard something scrape across asphalt. Then thunder cracked overhead, and the sensation disappeared.

"Get it together," I whispered.

Rain struck the leaves above me in a sudden rush.

A-lys-sa.

I looked up.

The branches shuddered beneath the weight of the water.

Alyssa.

My name moved through the leaves as clearly as if someone had spoken it.

I stepped away from the tree. "Who's there?"

The only answer was rain.

Behind me, the footsteps had stopped.

That frightened me more than hearing them.

I ran again, cutting across the street and taking the next corner without thinking. A porch light glowed at the far end of the block, and relief loosened something in my chest. I knew this street. I had walked it before.

At least I thought I had.

A white house with blue shutters stood on my right. Beyond it was a brick house shaded by an enormous oak tree. Both should have been familiar. I searched my memory for the names of the people who lived there and found nothing.

Two bright lights suddenly appeared ahead of me. Headlights. I threw up my hands. A horn screamed. Then the street was empty again. I stood in the rain, shaking. There had been no car.

I turned slowly, trying to decide whether I was more frightened of whatever was happening in front of me or whoever was somewhere behind.

The footsteps began again. Not hurried. Not stumbling. Coming closer. I ran until my lungs burned. The neighborhood blurred around me, every house becoming another dark shape behind the rain. I rounded one more corner and stopped. The street ended. Not at an intersection. Not at a cul-de-sac. It simply stopped. Where another row of houses should have stood, an old wrought-iron gate stretched across a narrow gravel road that disappeared beneath enormous oak trees. Moss hung from the branches in long gray strands, and beyond them was nothing but darkness. A weathered wooden sign dangled from one rusted chain. 

MERRYWOOD ESTATE

I stared at the faded letters.

"Merrywood."

The name stirred something inside me. Not a memory exactly, but the sensation of standing outside a locked room and knowing something important waited on the other side.

Lightning flashed behind me. The footsteps stopped. I turned. The street was empty. For several seconds, there was only the rain. Then a man's voice came from somewhere close enough that I felt his breath against my ear. I couldn't catch what he said but I could feel his breath.  I spun around. No one was there.

When I looked toward the gate again, it stood open. I knew it had been closed before. I was certain of it.

Water streamed from the iron bars and collected in the gravel below. Beyond them, the road curved out of sight. Rain tapped against the gate.

Alyssa.

I backed away. “No." The rain struck the pavement behind me.

Alyssa.

I looked toward the empty street. Somewhere beyond the curtain of water, a shoe scraped against concrete.

Ahead of me, the rain whispered my name again. I stepped through the gate. The change was immediate.

The neighborhood disappeared behind me, not visually but in every other way. The distant traffic vanished. The barking dog I'd heard two streets back was gone. Even the thunder seemed to retreat until the only sound left was water falling through the leaves overhead. I glanced back. The gate remained open, swaying gently in the wind. I could leave. Then the footsteps resumed on the other side. I turned toward the road and began walking.

The oaks grew so close together that their branches formed a canopy above me. Moss clung to the trunks like tattered curtains, and the scent of wet earth replaced the smell of pavement. With every bend in the road, my name seemed to move ahead of me, carried by water trickling over stones or falling from one leaf to another.

Alyssa.

I stopped answering it.

The farther I walked, the more a strange certainty settled over me. I had never been here. I knew that. Yet something about the road felt familiar enough to make my chest ache.

A child's laughter floated through the trees.

I froze. "Hello?"

The laughter came again, farther ahead. For a moment I saw a little girl beneath one of the oaks. She wore a pale dress, and dark curls framed her face. She stood perfectly still, watching me. Lightning flashed. She was gone. I rubbed rain from my eyes. "I'm losing my mind." A horn tore through the darkness. My body reacted before my thoughts did. I stumbled backward, arms rising instinctively to protect my face. A burst of white light filled my vision, followed by the squeal of brakes.

Then there was only the forest. I stood trembling in the road. "What is happening to me?"

Rain slid down the back of my neck.

Alyssa.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked the voice since it seemed to be leading me .... somewhere.  The road curved again, and the trees opened. Merrywood Manor rose from the darkness. For several seconds, I forgot to be afraid. The house was enormous, built of gray stone softened by age and climbing ivy. Tall windows glowed with warm amber light, and smoke curled from a chimney into the storm. Wide steps led to an entrance framed by columns, and the slate roof disappeared into darkness above the third floor.

Someone was home. That was all I cared about. I hurried across the drive and up the steps. My foot slipped on the wet stone, and I caught myself against the railing.

Pain exploded through my shoulder. For half a heartbeat I wasn't on the porch. I was falling. Then I was standing again, gripping the iron rail so tightly my fingers hurt. I stared at my hand.

"What is wrong with me?" I asked again and yet the manor offered no answer.

I climbed the remaining steps and reached the massive oak door. Its brass knocker gleamed as though it had been polished that morning. I lifted the heavy ring and let it fall. The knock echoed deep inside the house. Nothing happened. I knocked again. "Please. Somebody be home." The rain hammered the porch roof.

Alyssa.

I closed my eyes. "Yes. That's my name. I know."

The moment the words left my mouth, the rain stopped. Not gradually. One second it was pounding against the roof; the next, there was silence. I opened my eyes. Water still dripped from the eaves, but the storm itself had vanished. Then footsteps sounded inside the house. Slow. Measured. Growing closer. I stepped back. The doorknob turned. The heavy door opened, and a woman stood in the warm light beyond it.

She looked to be in her late sixties, with silver hair pinned loosely at the back of her head. Her emerald dress fell in graceful folds to her ankles, making her look as though I had interrupted a quiet dinner rather than arrived half-drowned in the middle of a storm. What unsettled me most was that she wasn't surprised.

Her gray eyes moved over my face with calm recognition. "You've come a long way," she said.

I stared at her. "I'm sorry to bother you. I think someone was following me. I saw your lights and hoped you might have a phone."

"I know." The certainty in her voice made me forget the cold.

"You know?" She opened the door wider. "Come inside, Alyssa. You're freezing." I didn't move. "I didn't tell you my name."

"No."

"I've never seen you before."

"No."

I waited, but she seemed content to let the silence remain between us. "I think you have me confused with someone else."

Her expression softened. "No, I don't."

Warm air drifted through the doorway, carrying the scent of cedar from a fire somewhere inside. Behind her, a crystal chandelier cast soft light across dark polished floors. A grandfather clock stood against one wall, its pendulum moving with patient certainty. I should have demanded an explanation. I should have walked away. Instead, I found myself wanting to trust her.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd find your way," she said.

"What does that mean?"

Her gaze rested on me for a moment. "You'll understand what you need to understand before you leave."

"I'd rather understand now."

A small smile touched her lips. "I know."

Nothing about the woman felt threatening, and somehow that made the decision easier. Whatever had followed me through the streets was still somewhere beyond the gate. The woman, at least, was standing in front of me.

I stepped inside.

She closed the door.

The grandfather clock began to chime.

I counted without meaning to. By the sixth strike, an inexplicable pressure had begun to build in my chest. By the ninth, I knew the clock was announcing midnight even though I couldn't remember looking at a watch all evening.

The twelfth note echoed through the foyer. Every light in the manor flickered. Then a child laughed upstairs. I looked toward the sweeping staircase. The laughter faded, leaving the crackle of the fire and the ticking clock.

"Who was that?"

The woman calmly took my wet jacket and draped it over the banister. "You'll meet them soon enough."

"Them?"

She walked toward a small table near the fire. I was wondering if I should trust the nut outside vs the nut that seemed to be here.  "I think I should leave."

She glanced back. "Do you?"

"Yes." The word came too quickly. I crossed the foyer and grasped the front door handle. It turned easily, but the door refused to open. I pulled harder. Nothing. My pulse quickened. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

I yanked again. "Open it."

"Sometimes it sticks."

"This isn't funny."

"I wasn't making a joke."

She stepped beside me, placed one hand against the door, and pushed. It swung open without resistance. Cool air rushed into the foyer. I stepped onto the porch and stopped. The stone steps were still there. The lanterns still burned on either side of the entrance. Everything beyond them had disappeared. The gravel drive was gone. The oak trees were gone. Even the gate had vanished beneath a blanket of white mist that stretched in every direction. I closed my eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. Nothing changed.

I went down two steps.

"Hello?"

My voice disappeared into the fog. From somewhere inside it came the faint sound of rain.

Alyssa.

I stumbled backward. The woman stood in the doorway. "What is this place?"

Something changed in her face. Not surprise. Recognition. "What is Merrywood?"

Before she could answer, a young voice drifted down from the second floor.

"Alyssa?"

I turned toward the house. The voice was neither frightened nor threatening. It sounded hopeful. And familiar. "Alyssa?" the child called again. A strange pressure built behind my eyes. I knew that voice. The certainty came without a memory to support it. The woman smiled gently. "I think she's been waiting for you."

"Who is she?"

"You should go see."

I looked once more at the mist. The rain whispered my name somewhere beyond it, but the sound had changed. It no longer seemed to be calling me back. Slowly, I stepped inside.

The woman closed the door, and the warmth of the house settled around me. My eyes traveled up the staircase. That was when I saw the portrait.

It hung halfway up the wall in a heavy frame of carved wood. A young woman stood beneath a massive oak tree while rain fell around her. One hand rested against the trunk, and there was something peaceful in her expression, as though the storm belonged to another world entirely.

I moved closer.

Dark hair. Green eyes. A slight tilt to the mouth.

My fingers rose to the tiny scar above my left eyebrow before I consciously understood why.

The woman in the painting had the same scar.

I had gotten mine when I was ten after ignoring my mother's warning and riding my bicycle down a hill that was much steeper than it looked. Six stitches later, my mother hadn't been able to decide whether to hug me or ground me.

I climbed two steps.

At the bottom of the portrait, almost hidden by the frame, a small brass plate bore a single name.

ALYSSA

"What?!" A few other choice words wanted to follow the what but instead I turned toward the woman. "I've never been here before."

"No," she said. "You haven't."

"Then how is that possible?"

She looked toward the second floor.

"Stop doing that."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Doing what?"

"Answering everything without actually answering anything."

To my surprise, she laughed softly. "I remember feeling exactly the same way."

The words stopped me. "What does that mean?"

Before she could answer, the child's voice came again. "Alyssa?"

This time it sounded closer. Something inside me responded before I could think better of it. I placed my hand on the banister, and a memory flashed through my mind: a smaller hand tucked inside mine. Then it was gone. I began to climb.

The upstairs hallway stretched farther than seemed possible from outside the house. Portraits lined both walls, some so old their colors had faded into browns and grays. Men in uniforms, women in dresses from another century, children holding toys whose paint had worn away. Other paintings looked almost new.

The faces were different, but their expressions shared something I couldn't name. Peace, perhaps. Or waiting. I stopped beside a portrait of an elderly man sitting near a lake. "When were these painted?"

"At different times," the woman said behind me.

"Who are they?"

"People who found their way."

"To Merrywood?"

"Yes."

"Are they still here?" She looked down the hallway.

"Somewhere." A movement beyond her caught my attention.

At the far end of a crossing corridor, a man stood half in shadow. He was perhaps forty, dressed in ordinary clothes, with one hand resting against the wall as though he needed it for balance. His gaze met mine only briefly before moving to the woman. Something passed between them. She gave the smallest nod. The man disappeared through a doorway. "Who was that?"

The woman turned back to me. "Someone finding his way."

I almost laughed despite myself. "There's that answer-that-isn't-an-answer thing again."

This time her smile was warmer. "You're learning."

Before I could ask anything else, the child's voice came from the room ahead. A single white door stood at the end of the hall, open only a few inches. Golden light spilled through the gap. I walked toward it.

Halfway there, the smell returned. Wet asphalt. Hot metal. My stomach tightened. Rain pounded against something hard. A horn sounded so close that I flinched. Then I heard a scream. Mine. I stopped walking.

The woman came no closer. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know."

"That's all right."

"No, it isn't." This was had already become a strange night, and now?  It was off the rails.

She didn't argue.

I reached the white door and pushed it open. Warm light filled the room beyond, although I knew it was midnight and a storm had been raging only minutes ago. Lace curtains glowed beside a neatly made bed. Shelves held rows of well-loved books, and a rocking chair sat near a small fireplace. On another shelf were toys: a wooden horse, a faded stuffed rabbit, tiny painted houses arranged in a careful row.

The room felt occupied, not abandoned. It was as though someone had stepped away only moments before and expected to return. A leather-bound journal rested on a table beside the bed. My name was embossed across the cover. **ALYSSA**

I looked at the woman. "What is that?"

"Yours."

"I've never seen it."

"I know."

I approached the table and reached for the journal. The instant my fingertips touched the leather, the bedroom disappeared. Rain filled my vision. Headlights. A horn. My foot slipping from a curb. A scream. The room snapped back into place. I jerked my hand away. "What was that?"

"A memory."

"No."

"Yes."

"I would remember."

Her expression was gentle. "Not always."

I stared at the journal. Every part of me wanted to leave it closed. I opened it. The first page was blank. So was the second. I turned another, and a word slowly appeared across the paper as though rising from beneath it. HOME. I blinked. The page was blank again. I turned to the next. RUNNING. Then RAIN. HEADLIGHTS. BRAKES.

I slammed the book shut. Behind me, a child spoke. "I've been waiting for you." I turned. A little girl stood in the doorway. She couldn't have been more than eight years old. Dark curls rested on her shoulders, and her bright green eyes studied me with a warmth that calmed something inside me before I understood why.

She smiled. "I've been waiting for you," she repeated.

My throat tightened. "Who are you?"

Her smile faded only slightly. "You don't remember me yet."

Yet.

I looked toward the woman. "Who is she?"

"Someone who knows the journey you've just taken."

The little girl walked into the room. I knelt down to her height without knowing why. Something about her face hurt to look at, not because it frightened me but because it stirred an emotion so deep I couldn't find its source. One dark curl fell across her forehead, and I had the absurd urge to brush it away. Tears filled my eyes.

"Why do I feel like I know you?"

"Because you do."

She held out her hand. I stared at her small fingers. A faint dimple marked one knuckle. I had seen that hand before. Holding mine. I reached for her. The moment our hands touched, the world broke open. The rain returned first. Not the rain at Merrywood. The rain before. I was running across a street. Someone behind me shouted my name.

"Alyssa!" Headlights burst through the storm. Too close. A horn screamed. Brakes shrieked against wet pavement. I turned, but there was no time. The impact lifted me from the ground. Then the cold asphalt came beneath my cheek, and rain struck my face. Voices gathered around me, loud at first and then impossibly distant. Someone kept saying my name.

"Alyssa. Alyssa, stay with me." Footsteps pounded toward me. The footsteps I had spent the night running from. A man dropped to his knees beside me. "Don't move. Help is coming."

He wasn't chasing me. He had been trying to reach me. The memory shifted. Red lights reflected across wet pavement. An ambulance door slammed. A face hovered above mine. Then darkness. I opened my eyes. The bedroom returned. The little girl still held my hand. Tears ran freely down my face."I didn't make it."

The woman crossed the room.

"No, Alyssa."

I looked at her. Her voice was filled with compassion. "You made it home."

Something inside me gave way. Not broke. Released.

I looked down at the child. "Who are you?" She squeezed my hand. For a moment, nothing happened. Then I remembered another room. A hospital room. I was eight years old, lying beneath a thin white blanket while my mother sat beside me and tried not to cry. In the bed next to mine was a little girl with dark curls and green eyes. Not simply another little girl. My twin. My other half.

We whispered to each other after the nurses turned out the lights. We had heard the doctor say our new hearts were doing well, so we made plans for everything we would do when we went home. We promised that no matter what happened, neither of us would ever really leave the other.

I went home.

She didn't.

"Emily?"

Her face lit with joy. "You remembered."

I pulled her into my arms. She laughed against my shoulder, and I recognized the sound immediately. It was the laughter I'd heard from downstairs. I held her tighter, overwhelmed by the impossible familiarity of her. When I finally released her, I kept both hands around hers.

"You've been here all this time?"

"Not all the time."

I glanced at the woman and asked again, "What is this place?"

She considered the question before answering. "Merrywood is a place people find when they need it."

"That's not much of an answer."

"No," she agreed. "But it's the answer you need right now."

I studied her face. "Am I dead?"

For the first time, there was no mystery in her response. "Yes."

The word entered the room quietly. I expected terror. Grief. Anger. Instead, I looked at Emily. At the journal. At the impossible sunlight glowing through the curtains. Then I thought of the portraits.

"Who were all those people?"

"People who came through the door."

"Like me?"

"In their own way."

"And you?"

The woman's gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, toward a memory I couldn't see.

"Once."

I understood then why she had never seemed afraid of me, or surprised, or impatient with my questions. She hadn't been waiting for a stranger. She had been waiting for someone who was lost.

Outside the window, rain began to fall. Softly this time. Summer rain. It touched the glass in delicate silver drops. Alyssa. I turned toward the sound.

The rain knew my name. It had known it all along. It hadn't been hunting me through the streets or driving me toward Merrywood. It had been guiding me when I no longer knew where home was. "What happens now?" I asked.

Emily slipped her hand into mine. "Now you stop running." The white door behind her stood open. The hallway was gone. Beyond the doorway stretched warm light, soft and endless. Voices came from somewhere inside it. Laughter. Conversation. Someone calling my name with such joy that my breath caught. I knew those voices. Some I hadn't heard in years. Others waited just beyond memory. My fear loosened its hold one finger at a time.

I looked back at the woman. "Are you coming?"

"Not yet."

"Why?"

She glanced toward the hallway that was no longer there, and for the first time I thought of the man I had seen waiting in the shadows. "Someone else will need the door opened."

Emily tugged gently on my hand. "Come on. Everyone's waiting." Together, we walked toward the light. At the threshold, I looked back one last time. 

Merrywood had begun to soften around the edges. The bedroom faded into pale morning mist. Somewhere far below us, the grandfather clock gave one final tick. Beyond the windows, rain fell through the oak trees. Alyssa. This time I smiled.

"I know."

Then I stepped through the doorway. For the first time since the rain began, I wasn't running anymore. Ahead of me was home.

The End