I grew up in a farming community three hours north of Saskatoon, where storms rolled across the prairie like mountains learning to walk. One autumn, when I was fifteen, an old neighbour named Walter gave me a warning while we watched black clouds gathering on the horizon. He never smiled when he said it. "If the rain knocks," he whispered, "don't answer." I laughed, assuming he meant someone would come looking for shelter. Walter grabbed my wrist hard enough to leave marks. "Not someone. Something. Rain doesn't knock." Two weeks later, Walter's house was empty. The RCMP searched the property for days. They found muddy footprints leading to the front door. None leading away.
The storm arrived just after midnight.
At first it was ordinary enough. Wind rattled the windows. Rain hammered the roof. Then came three slow knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Not on the door.
On my bedroom window.
I lived on the second floor.
I froze beneath my blankets, listening. Branches couldn't reach that high. There was no ladder outside. My parents slept downstairs, oblivious. Another three knocks echoed through the glass, each one perfectly spaced apart. I forced myself to peek through the curtain. Raindrops streamed across the window, distorting everything beyond. Then, for a split second, a pale face appeared between the drops.
It wasn't pressed against the glass.
It was inside the rain itself.
Thousands of droplets shaped eyes, a mouth, and impossibly long fingers tapping gently against the pane before dissolving back into water.
The knocking stopped.
So did the rain.
The silence felt worse.
The next morning, the outside wall beneath my window was soaked while the rest of the house was dry. On the siding were handprints made of grey mud. They were enormous—far too large to belong to a person. My father washed them away without saying a word. That afternoon Walter's abandoned house burned to the ground after a lightning strike, despite the sky being perfectly clear.
Years passed. I convinced myself exhaustion had created the face.
Until last month.
I now live alone in an apartment on the ninth floor.
Rain began just before midnight.
Three knocks came from my living room window.
I didn't move.
The knocks continued for nearly an hour before stopping.
The following morning, every apartment in the building had water stains beneath their windows—except mine.
The superintendent asked if I'd heard anything unusual overnight. Four residents had vanished.
Their apartments were locked from the inside.
The windows were still closed.
Last night the weather forecast predicted clear skies.
At exactly 12:03 a.m., my phone buzzed with an emergency weather alert.
It contained only six words.
DON'T LET THE RAIN COME INSIDE.
There wasn't a cloud overhead.
Then...
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
This time it came from the bathroom mirror.
There are no windows in my bathroom.
I'm writing this while every tap in the apartment is dripping, even though I've shut off the main water valve. The sound has changed. It's no longer dripping.
It's spelling out my name.
And every few minutes, something politely knocks from the other side of the walls.
If you hear three knocks during the next rainfall, don't investigate.
Don't look outside.
Don't open the curtains.
Most importantly...
If the rain begins knocking from somewhere that has no window—
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