The Call of the Siren

The Call of the Siren - chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Ink Pool

 Being killed by the Siren is a wonderful way to die. He remained oblivious to the danger throughout the process, and, had she offered him the chance, he would have chosen to change nothing, and would have gone with her again to the lake. And again, and again.

He stood beside the water and tried to find her. He knew she had removed some clothes, for in the shadows he saw her do so, but the girl had since vanished into the complex background of dark trees and even darker spaces. He called her name and listened, but heard nothing. No twigs snapping, no rustle of feet on the fallen autumnal leaves, the maples shedding their summer mass in a rain of paper, their reds and oranges robbed of colour under the blackness as the night reached eleven.

What was she playing at? Teasing him in the darkness.

The tiny waves of the water played with the faint moonlight and the glow of the Milky Way, the inky black water invisible against the reflected sky. He was about to call out for her, when the soft sound of water drew his eyes from the water’s edge to the abyssal darkness of the pool. The ripples grew and then broke. A mound of shining wet hair rose from the water. He knew it was her. He wanted it to be her. Her face emerged, running with water, her eyes open before they appeared; huge and tempting and unblinking, even as the water coursed over them from her forehead and mass of wet hair.

His mouth fell open and the night air lost its chill.

She asked him if he wished to join her. The water lovely.

Not likely, he thought, briefly, knowing well the temperature of the forest lakes and pools. She rose slowly and approached, her unseen feet raising her on the muddy slope of the bed; her body revealed in the filtered leafy moonlight. With each step the cold of the air receded. Each step made the water more tempting. The girl walked from the lake and revealed herself inch-by-inch and step-by-step. Her expression melted him. Her body owned him. “Are you sure you won’t join me?” she asked, drawing before him, her head barely to his shoulders, her face tilted to his. She had yet to blink those vast and almost black eyes. At the touch of her wet skin, a wave of heat spread through his hands and along his arms. It filled his body as she sank into him, each point of contact releasing a furnace blast of delicious warmth. It burst from within when she kissed him gently on the lips, her lips pulling slowly on his. The air now felt as warm as the distant height of summer. She wrapped her wet hair around his shoulders and neck, and the contact felt like a hot shower. The water getting warmer by the second.

“Come,” she offered. “Trust me.”

He knew he should not follow. He wanted to ask her to wait, to allow him the time to remove his expensive training shoes, jeans and new top. In his right pocket he felt the pressure of his loaded wallet, with three hundred in tens and twenties. In his left pocket he felt the pressure of his expensive cellphone. They no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but the girl. He stepped into the water and found it as warm as a bath. It became more blissful with each joint reached, until soon he thought no more.It is, all told, a most beautiful way to die.

(Chapter 2 to follow shortly - The Call of the Siren is published in October 2013)