The Last Message in the Rain – Part 3: Shadows on the Page

The rain pounded against Nora’s apartment windows, a relentless drumbeat that seemed to echo the anxiety building in her chest. Each raindrop felt like it carried a warning, and the air in her small apartment grew heavy with the sense of being watched. She had locked every door, checked every window twice, and turned on every light she could find. Still, the oppressive feeling wouldn’t go away.

When she stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and dripping water onto the floor, her eyes immediately landed on the kitchen table. The third letter was there, waiting for her, though it had come from nowhere.

Her heart stopped. She hadn’t heard a single thing—no knock on the door, no sound of footsteps. Just the ominous presence of the letter, sitting in the center of the table as if it had always belonged there.

The envelope was soaked, as though it had walked through the storm itself. She moved closer, her fingers trembling as she carefully opened it, her pulse quickening with every passing second. The handwriting inside was frantic, almost desperate.

“You will see his eyes tonight. They’ve always been watching.

Do not scream. Screaming gives him power.

You still have time. Not much.

—R.”

Nora’s breath caught in her throat. She backed away from the table, trying to make sense of the words, but they didn’t fit. They didn’t make sense. And the signature—“R”—felt cold, like it came from a place she couldn't even comprehend.

She scanned the room. Her phone, which had been plugged in just minutes earlier, now lay dead on the floor, as though someone had yanked it out of the charger. It was too much—too strange, too personal. She couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she grabbed her coat and keys. She didn’t know where else to turn—only one place still felt safe, one place where she could feel a sliver of comfort.

She bolted into the rain, running through the downpour like she could outrun the terror tightening around her chest, heading for her grandmother Evelyn’s house.

Evelyn lived at the edge of town, tucked away behind a row of twisted, dying trees. Nora hadn’t even realized how much she needed to see her grandmother until she was standing at her doorstep, breathless, soaking wet, and desperate for a sense of grounding.

Evelyn opened the door with a calmness that only years of surviving storms could bring. Without a word, she ushered Nora inside and wrapped her in a warm embrace. A cup of tea, the soothing scent of jasmine, and Evelyn’s steady presence made Nora feel as though she might just be able to breathe again.

When Nora told her about the letters, about the impossible things happening around her, Evelyn didn’t seem surprised. She didn’t offer empty reassurances or dismiss her fears. Instead, she said something that sent a chill through Nora’s spine.

“There’s a name for people like you,” Evelyn said quietly. “You’re a Veilwalker.”

“A what?” Nora asked, confused.

“You attract thin places,” Evelyn explained, her voice soft but steady. “Places where the barrier between the living and the not-yet is thin. Spirits, visions, omens—they find you because your spirit listens when others don’t.”

Nora blinked, disbelieving. “Are you telling me that I’m... haunted?”

“I’m saying someone—or something—is trying to warn you,” Evelyn replied, her eyes darkening with unspoken knowledge.

Without saying another word, Evelyn walked to an old trunk in the corner of the living room. She pulled out a stack of yellowed journals, their leather covers cracked and worn by time. As she flipped one open, the scent of dust and history filled the air. The pages inside were filled with intricate sketches—storms, shadowy figures, and letters with symbols Nora didn’t recognize.

“This happened to your mother, too,” Evelyn whispered, almost as though she were afraid to speak it aloud.

Nora’s breath caught in her throat. Her mother had died when Nora was just six—hit by a car during a rainstorm. It had always been chalked up as a tragic accident. No one ever spoke of it again.

Evelyn’s voice softened further. “She started receiving the letters at twenty-five, just like you.” She paused, her hands trembling slightly as she ran a finger over one of the drawings. “But she ignored them… until the night she saw the eyes.”

“The eyes?” Nora’s voice barely escaped her lips.

Evelyn nodded grimly. She tapped the page, and Nora’s gaze followed her grandmother’s finger to a sketch of a silhouette standing outside a rain-streaked window. Two glowing, inky eyes stared through the glass, and behind them, a shape seemed to twist and writhe, like smoke taking the form of a man.

“She screamed,” Evelyn said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And then he came.”

Nora felt her world tilt, her mind scrambling to piece together the fragments of truth that felt too close, too familiar. She stayed up all night, reading through the journals, uncovering secrets about the women in her family—mothers, daughters, grandmothers—each one visited by warnings during thunderstorms. They all received letters. Some survived. Some vanished. It was a pattern, a legacy passed down like a curse.

By morning, Nora knew what she had to do. She had to return home, even though Evelyn begged her to stay. There was no escaping it. Whoever "R" was, they were leading her somewhere—and she needed to know the truth.

The drive back was quiet, the streets glistening with rain. Fog crept in from the hills, thick and suffocating. Her windshield wipers smeared more than they cleared. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as she drove through the haze, but then, out of nowhere, she saw him.

A man, standing in the middle of the road, drenched to the bone, his face hidden beneath the brim of a wide black hat. He didn’t move as Nora slammed on the brakes, her heart thundering in her chest.

When she stepped out of the car, the man was gone. But something fluttered in the wind—something small, paper-like, sticking to the pavement. Nora approached, her legs unsteady as she bent down to pick it up.

It was soaked, water dripping from its edges. She unfolded it slowly, her breath catching when she read the message:

“Tonight, you will see. But do not scream.

Or you’ll become the story.

One more letter remains.”

Her eyes locked onto the final words, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. The storm was building again, the tension palpable in the air. The next chapter of her family’s curse had just begun.

To be continued...