The Girl in the Yellow Raincoat

I should probably start with the truth.

But the problem is, I don’t actually know what that is anymore.

Everyone says memory is like a photograph. Clear, crisp, and static. But I think it’s more like water—distorted by every ripple, shifting every time you touch it. And if you stir too much, well, it starts reflecting things that were never there.

That’s what happened to me. Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself so I can sleep at night.

The First Sight

I first saw her three days after the storm—the girl in the yellow raincoat. I was walking home from the grocery store, plastic bags cutting into my fingers, the air thick with that post-rain smell of earth and metal.

She stood by the edge of the park, near the swing set. Small. Still. Watching the puddles shimmer under the streetlights.

I remember thinking she looked lost. The coat was too big for her, the hood drooping over her face. I called out—something casual, like Hey, are you okay?—but she didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

When I blinked, she was gone.

That’s the part that messes with me. One second she was there, the next—empty park, dripping swing chains swaying in the wind.

I told myself I was tired. Maybe I’d imagined it. But that night, I dreamt of her standing at the foot of my bed, water pooling on the floor.

The Return

It became a pattern after that. Every evening around the same time, I’d see her somewhere nearby. Sometimes by the bus stop, sometimes behind the tree line near the lake.

Never close enough to touch.

Always watching.

And every time I tried to approach, she’d vanish.

When I told my friend Liam, he laughed. “Man, you need to chill on those true crime podcasts,” he said. “Next you’ll be saying your mirror blinks back at you.”

So I stopped mentioning her. But I started keeping track. Dates. Times. Locations.

All perfectly real. I had proof—handwritten notes. Except… when I looked back later, some entries were crossed out in thick black ink.

My handwriting.

The Police Report

You’d think I’d be smarter. That I’d know how this kind of story ends. But I didn’t go to the police because I thought she was a ghost. No, I went because one night, she left something behind.

A small yellow button. Wet, dirty, but real. I kept it in a drawer, next to my keys. Proof that I wasn’t imagining her.

The officer who took my statement nodded politely while I spoke. He wrote things down. Asked me if I’d had any “episodes” before. I said no, of course not.

Then he told me there was no missing child in the area matching my description.

He looked at me the way doctors do when they already know what’s wrong but don’t want to say it.

When I left the station, I noticed something strange. The button was gone. I know I’d put it in my pocket. I felt it.

But it was gone.

The Photograph

Weeks passed. I started taking photos around the park whenever I saw her. My phone was full of them—blurry shapes, trees, puddles, the faint glimmer of yellow fabric in the distance.

Except one day, I opened the gallery, and they were all gone. Deleted.

Every. Single. One.

So I went back through the cloud backups, just in case. That’s when I found it—a picture I don’t remember taking.

It was of my living room. The couch. The coffee table. My half-empty glass of wine. And behind it, standing in the hallway, the girl in the yellow raincoat.

I dropped my phone.

When I picked it up again, the photo had vanished.

Liam’s Visit

I told Liam about it. He looked uneasy but tried to play it cool. “Maybe you’re just stressed,” he said. “You’ve been alone too much lately. Houses make noise. Shadows move. It’s normal.”

He stayed the night to prove it. We made popcorn, watched an old movie, drank cheap beer. Everything felt almost normal.

Then around midnight, he froze. “Did you hear that?”

It was faint, but I heard it too—a drip-drip-drip sound coming from the hallway. Like wet footsteps.

Liam got up, joking nervously as he went to check. He didn’t come back.

When I followed him, the hallway was empty. But the front door was wide open. Rain blowing in.

And there, just on the porch, was a single wet yellow footprint.

I didn’t see Liam again after that.

The police said he’d probably gone home drunk. His car was missing, too. I tried calling. Texting. Nothing.

They looked at me strangely when I mentioned the girl. One officer even said, “You mean the same girl from your last report?”

I hadn’t realized I’d been there before.

The Mirror

I started avoiding mirrors. Don’t ask me why—it just felt wrong.

There’s this one near the front door, old and warped. The glass ripples, like water trapped behind it.

Once, while walking past, I saw something move behind me. But when I turned, the room was empty.

I told myself I was losing it. So I smashed the mirror.

Except when I woke up the next morning, it was back on the wall. Perfect. Not a crack.

I don’t remember cleaning it up.

The Letters

A few days later, envelopes started showing up in my mailbox. No stamps. No names. Just folded sheets of paper with one sentence each.

“Stop following her.”

“You were told to forget.”

“She remembers.”

The handwriting looked familiar—mine, again.

I burned them all in the sink. Watched the ashes turn black and curl. But that night, when I opened my notebook, the same sentences were written across every page.

In my handwriting.

The Return (Again)

Last night, she came closer.

I woke to the sound of dripping again. My carpet was soaked. The air smelled like river water.

And there she was—standing at the foot of my bed. The hood had fallen back. Her hair hung wet and matted. Her eyes were dark, empty, like two pieces of glass filled with stormwater.

“Why are you here?” I asked, or maybe whispered.

She tilted her head. Water ran down her cheek.

Then she said it—soft, broken, barely audible.

“Because you promised.”

I don’t remember what happened after that. Maybe I screamed. Maybe I didn’t.

When I woke up, the bed was dry. No footprints. No puddle. Just my own handwriting scrawled across the wall in black marker.

I’m sorry I forgot you.

The Police Again

They came by this morning. Said they’d found Liam’s car by the lake.

Empty. Doors open. A child’s raincoat tangled in the reeds.

Yellow.

The officer asked if I’d like to come identify it, but I couldn’t. My chest hurt too much.

I keep thinking about her words.

Because you promised.

What promise?

Then I found something—an old photograph buried in a box from years ago. Me, younger, smiling awkwardly beside a little girl in a yellow raincoat. Her hand in mine.

The back of the photo said:

“Me and Sarah. The day before the storm.”

The Realization

The memories come in flashes now. The storm. The car swerving. Water filling the windows. Her hand slipping from mine.

I thought I’d made it out alone. I thought I’d buried it.

But maybe I didn’t.

Maybe she’s been here all along, waiting for me to remember.

Or maybe I’m still there, trapped in that cold water, dreaming of a world where I survived.

Sometimes I hear her humming by the window when it rains. A soft tune, familiar, like something I used to sing to her.

And sometimes, when I pass a mirror, I see her reflection standing beside mine. Not behind me—beside.

Smiling.

The Last Entry

If anyone finds this, please tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I didn’t forget her. Tell her I see her now.

And if you ever see a girl in a yellow raincoat standing by the park after it rains—don’t look too long.

She might be waiting for you next.