The Man Who Walks Through Rainbows

“Some things aren’t meant to be believed in daylight, but they still walk through the dark.” — Robert Dallow

The scream tore from Violet’s throat before she knew she had drawn breath. It ripped through the house, shattering the fragile silence of night, summoning chaos.

Doors flew open. Her parents’ hurried footsteps pounded down the hallway, but in the heartbeat before they reached her, Violet’s room convulsed with light.

Colours erupted across the darkness—vivid, impossible swirls of purple, green, and electric blue, a kaleidoscope that seemed to writhe and pulse with unnatural energy. Violet staggered back, blinded, her stomach lurching. And in the centre of it all, sharp against the maelstrom, she saw it: a silhouette, tall, male, motionless.

Her breath hitched. The world collapsed into blackness again, leaving her room exactly as it had been—pitch dark, still, silent.

By the time her parents reached her, she was trembling violently, her fingernails biting into her palms.

“Violet!” her mother cried, rushing to her side, the tremor of fear in her voice unmistakable. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Her father pushed open the door and flicked on the light. The bulb hummed, casting its pale glow over four familiar walls. The posters, the schoolbooks stacked haphazardly on the desk, the unmade bed—it was all normal. Nothing out of place.

Except Violet, still shaking, still staring at the patch of air where the silhouette had stood.

Her father’s gaze narrowed. “You’re dressed,” he said, his voice taut, teetering between concern and simmering anger. His eyes flicked from her jeans, to the open bedroom window, and then to her scuffed trainers. “Where have you been?”

Her mother shot him a sharp glance, a silent warning. “Not now,” she whispered, drawing Violet closer. “Can’t you see she’s frightened?”

Violet’s throat closed around the truth. She couldn’t explain—not the car, not the voice, not the colours, not the man who had been there and then wasn’t. She swallowed hard, nodding mutely, letting her mother’s arms steady her.

Then another door creaked open down the hall.

Jasmine padded into the light, her hair tousled from sleep, eyes heavy-lidded yet curious. She rubbed at her face with one small fist, blinking at the scene before her.

“Vi,” she murmured, her voice soft and blurred with sleep, “why are you scared? It’s only the man who walks through rainbows…”

Her words drifted out innocently, as though she were still half-dreaming. But Violet froze, her heart slamming against her ribs. The colours she had seen moments before, the silhouette, the voice—they surged back in a single, suffocating wave.

Jasmine tilted her head, her eyes glimmering faintly in the light. She almost smiled.

“…he won’t hurt you.”

Before Violet could speak, her father’s voice cut through, hard and unyielding.

“Jasmine.” He stepped forward, his face drawn tight, his tone edged with a sudden anger that shocked the air out of the room. “We’ve already talked about this. The rainbow man isn’t real. Do you hear me? Enough of this nonsense. Go back to bed. Now.”

Jasmine blinked, startled by his firmness. For a moment she looked as though she might protest, but then she lowered her eyes and shuffled back down the hallway without another word.

The silence she left behind was heavy, charged. Violet glanced at her father, confusion and suspicion burning in her chest. His jaw was clenched, his gaze fixed anywhere but on her.

Her mother fussed at her side, murmuring words of comfort, but Violet barely heard. The echo of Jasmine’s voice lingered, twined now with her father’s furious denial.

The rainbow man.

He wasn’t supposed to be real. And yet Violet couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone in this house knew more than they would admit.