It’s called Petrichor. The faint smell of dew on a spring morning, the intoxicating aroma of a thunderstorm. The smell of rain on soil. Humans can smell it in the air at just 400 parts per trillion, 200,000 times better than a shark can smell blood in water. In the past, we relied on this sensitivity for survival. Part of the magic that made me love rainstorms so much, I guess. Being raised in the backcountry, I was never particularly afraid of the woods, or the dark for that matter. But on nights like tonight, during these forest storms, it’s a whole new level of creepy. The white noise of forest animals, now hiding out the storm, is hauntingly absent, replaced by the deafening roar of the rain. Even under the trees, the warm rain drenches me, contrasting the cool night air. The downpour blots out what little visibility I would normally be afforded on a night like this. I navigate mostly by feeling my way through the dense wood, my only chance to see the path ahead being the occasional flash of lighting.

I don’t know the name for what I’m feeling now, the pool of dread collecting at the bottom of my spine. The strange tingle on the back of my neck, the new weight my heart feels. The feeling I am being watched by someone, by something. Maybe our anscestors once relied on this feeling, much like the smell of petrichor. My grandma had always warned me that what lurks in these woods will see me long before I see it. Over the rain now I can barely make out another sound. I doubt you would even notice it if you weren’t as used to the rain as I was. A faint, panting breathing. In this rain, it’s impossible for me to make out it’s source.

Until the next lighting flash I suppose.