Siren's Storm

by Lisa Papademetriou

  Johnny dropped the bills on the table. “No, you’re right.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Gretchen.”

  She touched his shoulder. “It’s okay, Dad.”

  He put his hand over hers, but did not look at her. She gave him a playful poke on the shoulder, but he just sighed. “I never worried about money,” he admitted. “I guess I thought musicians weren’t supposed to care about it.”

  Gretchen nodded, but she felt her thoughts clouding. The truth—if she dared tell it to herself—was that she was furious with her father for losing all their money. For not caring enough. For not taking care of things. She didn’t want to live on Long Island for her senior year. She didn’t want to switch schools. She didn’t want to stay near the bay, near the bad memories.…

  But she also loved Johnny. And one of the things that she loved about him was that he didn’t care about money and things in the way that her mother did. Johnny loved people and he loved experiences. He didn’t care about cars or jewelry or the right crowd.

  She gave him a quick kiss on his tattoo. “Love you.”

  He looked up at her with his deep gray eyes. “I love you, too, Sugar Bunny.”

  Gretchen laughed and tossed the banana peel into the trash. She waved over her shoulder as she headed out the door, her sneakers crunching the gravel still wet with dew.

  Gretchen loped along the patchy grass by the side of the road, starting with an easy trot. She passed the falling-down old potato barn, gray in the mist, that marked the point at which the Ellis land ended and the Archer farm began. Her muscles were tight, but each pace warmed her, loosening them. A light breeze swept the clammy air over her skin.

  She heard a clatter and rumble behind her. Trucks often used this route as a cut-through to the highway. Gretchen moved to the right slightly and kept running. The engine hummed, picking up speed, and the tires crunched over the asphalt as the truck bore down on her.

  Gretchen screeched and slammed her shoulder into a hedgerow as the black truck sped past, spewing dirt and rocks with its oversized tires. A chunk of gravel nicked Gretchen’s calf. She cursed and inspected the scratch. She would probably have a bruise later, but it wasn’t bad. Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked after the truck, which had already disappeared into the mist. She had thought of getting the license plate thirty seconds too late.

  What would I have done, anyway? she wondered. Called the police? The driver probably just didn’t see me in the mist.

  Her legs felt weak as she crossed the street. For a moment, she considered going back home. But she didn’t want to. Momentum carried her forward, and she gathered speed as she ran across the Archer property. She passed the flowering squash patch, the heavy yellow flowers bowing under the weight of the gathered mist. Here and there, pale orange butternut or fat red kuri squashes peeked out from wide green leaves. The squash patch was a long, slim strip—most of the summer people were gone by the end of September, and there wasn’t much of a market for winter squash. Still, some people bought the ornamental gourds and pumpkins. And there were enough gourmet cooks and local restaurants to make the delicatas and carnival squashes worth the ground they grew in.

  Gretchen ran past dormant fields and into the small copse of trees. There was little mist here, although it was dark with shade. Still, Gretchen navigated easily. The Archer land was as familiar to her as her own, given that her two best childhood friends, Will and Tim, had grown up here.

  Through the trees and out toward the sand. The muscles in Gretchen’s legs strained with the change in terrain as she ran along the mix of sand and rock. Mist hung over the water in a cottony blanket, and a single dark rock jutted up through the layer of fog like a grasping arm. The early-morning sun struggled to break through the clouds, managing only to send down a few pale bars that disappeared before reaching the earth.

  Gretchen ran farther, then stopped to rest on a rock. It had been months since she had run, and—although her body felt good—she wasn’t used to it. Part of the mist had burned off, and she could see the dark green water, smooth as glass. There was no evidence of the minnows and crabs that lived in that water, and Gretchen imagined them still sleeping, dreaming their watery dreams.

  She pulled at her shirt, which clung to her body with a mix of sweat and fog, and picked up a small stone. It was gray, with a white line across the center, smooth and oval. Tim had taught her how to skip a rock across the water ages ago, and she held it between thumb and forefinger and skimmed it out over the water. It bounced once, twice, three times, then hurled itself forward for the final fourth bounce and landed with a plop.

  “Tim could do seven,” Gretchen murmured, leaning back on her elbows. She pictured handsome, ten-year-old Tim, grinning as his rock danced over the water. Poor Will. He could only send a rock bursting into the water like a cannonball.

  Gretchen watched the rings spreading from the point of final impact. Pretty, she thought, watching the fog roll back like a slow wave. A pale disk appeared at the place where her rock had pierced the water. She cocked her head, watching. A ring formed around the edge of the disk and didn’t disappear. Instead, it grew darker.

  Like an eye, Gretchen thought. Her body felt cold suddenly, and she was aware of her damp shirt clinging to her skin.

  Mist swirled around the dark ring, twisting upward, spouting an oval wall. It gained volume and grew, like a pillar, toward the dark cloud above. The cyclone writhed, snakelike, and slithered slowly toward her.

  Gretchen leaned backward slightly, but felt hypnotized by the waterspout. It moved slowly at first, then more quickly. Gretchen struggled to her feet. She stumbled backward and fell, the rock tearing into her flesh right where the gravel spewed by the truck had hit her. Her hair blew around her face as the wind shrieked like a screaming ghoul.

  The waterspout reached toward her, and for a moment Gretchen thought she saw a woman’s face—hideous and terrible—in the writhing core. Air blasted her hair like a wild, cold breath of some ferocious, devouring animal. She screamed and tried to struggle away as the waterspout moved toward her. But as it reached the edge of the water, it dissipated into the air as suddenly as it had appeared.

  Gretchen froze, staring in disbelief. She was so focused on the emptiness before her that she shrieked as a hand clutched her arm.

  “Easy,” said a voice.

  Gretchen looked up into the face of Bertrand Archer—Will’s dad. His brow was wrinkled with concern as his warm brown eyes looked down at her. “They can’t do much once they reach the land.”

  “You saw it?” That was a relief. At least she hadn’t been hallucinating.

  “Waterspouts—not that uncommon around here. Seen ’em a few times.”

  Mr. Archer let go of her hand, and she realized she was shaking. So did he, apparently, because he caught hold of her hand again. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at her. “Strange weather.”

  Gretchen nodded.

  “Maybe it’s not a good idea to be out by the water like this. Tell you what—why don’t you come on home with me? I’m sure Evelyn’s cooked up something for breakfast.”

  The thought of the Archers’ warm yellow kitchen calmed her. “Yes, thank you.”

  Mr. Archer gave a curt nod, and turned. Gretchen followed him.

  But she couldn’t help casting a final glance over her shoulder.

  The surface of the water was smooth as glass again, hiding the dreams and intent of the creatures that lay beneath.