“Call me Nim,” she said, and she liked the way he tasted her new name in his mouth like the finest fish in the sea.
“It is unusual,” he said, and nodded. “Where are you from? I can’t quite place your accent.”
She started. “My accent? Do I not speak just like you? Do I not use the same words?”
He was quick to placate. “The same words, certainly. You speak beautifully. But the way you pronounce your words are unique. Quite lovely. I’m certain I’ve never heard such an accent, but at the same time it sounds utterly familiar.” He blushed, a strangely human thing, and Nim wanted to reach up and feel the tips of his red ears to see if they were indeed as hot as they looked, but she kept her strange fingers to herself.
“English is not natural to me,” she said, and shrugged. It felt good to sit, to tuck her legs under her as easily as she would have tucked her tail. “I spoke many things first. Greek was what I remember most, I think. After a while they all run together.”
His attention was starting to drift, his pupils dilating at the sound of her voice, the cadence of her words, and she didn’t want to lose him yet to the siren’s curse. She cleared her throat.
“What about you? What can you tell me about this ship?”
She tapped her foot sharply on the deck, and his eyes focused.
“I . . . what? Oh, the ship. Yes. Well, it’s very new. Very special. Unsinkable, they say, and filled to the brim with the nicest things.”
“Like what?” she asked him. “What do you consider nice things?”
He hesitated. “Well, it’s not what I consider nice, I suppose. It’s what they consider nice.”
“Who are they?”
“You know. They. The ones who make the decisions.”
“Like your king, then? King of the humans?”
He blinked at her.
“I suppose I never understand the concept of they. Others telling you what to do. Then again, I never listened to the gods themselves,” she said, and smiled. This time she forgot herself and showed all of her teeth. They were sharp and pointed at the ends. “This has been both my freedom and my bane.”
Her smile was unlovely, she knew. She was always the homeliest of her sisters, the unpretty siren, but it wasn’t about appearances, was it? It was about the song. The desire. The raw need that she and her kind tapped into.
She quickly covered her mouth with her hand, hiding her teeth. She wanted to talk more, to ask questions, and more than that, to actually speak. To talk about sailors breaking against the rocks and the taste of men’s blood, certainly, but to speak of other things, too. Of her lost brothers, of sea foam, of the wonders far below the waves that so few humans had the chance to see. There were horrors and terrors and so much beauty their souls would ache.
She couldn’t speak of these things, of course. She couldn’t speak of anything, because opening her mouth for more than a few sentences would seduce anyone who listened, would drive them mad, and while she would be expressing her love for the sea or her fascination at the birds who float above it in their own ocean of stars, they would be slitting their own throats or throwing themselves from their bows in order to quiet the madness inside of their heads.
A siren is meant to sing, but must silence herself in order to not be a monster.
“Do you find me to be a monster, William?” she asked, but his fingers were already walking themselves to his throat, ready to thrust themselves inside and suffocate him with his own flesh.
She took his hands in hers, firmly, and held them until his fingers stopped twitching. His brows furrowed and he blinked rapidly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and his words were slightly slurred. “I can’t recall what we were talking about. Perhaps it is too much sun.”
She nodded, and released his hands. She missed the feel of them, strong and warm with bones and blood. She heard his heart beat. A single heart, such a simple organism. Her three hearts were a perfect percussion in her body. Too ornate. Too intricate.
“The ship,” she nudged, and his eyes refocused.
“Ah, yes. Let us go inside and we’ll explore, you and I.”
There was a grand staircase made of polished wood. It reminded her of the ships of old, where the wooden figureheads were polished and painted, shining like the sun until they were worn down by the salt of the sea.
“Show me more, please,” Nim said, and William showed her different tables and dishes, with beautiful cloths and silverware. He showed her how the joints of the ship were fitted tightly together, and, most of all, he showed her how the people walked around in wonder.
The humans! They had dry skin and bright smiles and walked so smoothly on their stilted shoes. Children ran around, chasing each other and not caring when they bumped into her.
“S’cuse me, Miss,” one called before scurrying away. Nim eyed him hungrily.
“They can be little terrors,” William said apologetically.
Nim shook her head. “Little wonders, you mean. We have no children at home. They’re so difficult to come by. They’re like tiny breaths of spring.”
“No children? But where do you—”
William was interrupted by the long, low sound of the ship’s fog horn. Nim was relieved. His questions were getting a bit too close.
“Let’s watch more people, shall we?” she chirped. She followed a woman with a feathered hat, and reached out to touch it, cooing with delight.
Men were for eating. Their bones were sharpened and used for tools sometimes, but other than that, they were for nourishment and perhaps a few hours of fancy. But human women? They were rare. They weren’t allowed on ships at first, angering the gods and cursing the sailors. They were exquisite, their skin dewy, and their dresses were both ridiculous and magical. Nim looked down at her own dusky gown, pilfered from an unattended piece of luggage. It was better than the human rags she was wearing previously, tattered and full of salt. She wanted to fit in, just for a day, in order to see something different. That was all. Was it really too much to ask?
“I wish I could stay with you all forever,” Nim told William. Her eyes were full of lights, she could feel them, but she couldn’t shut them off even if she wanted to. She was far too happy. “This is where I want to be.”
“Why can’t you?” he asked, puzzled, but then his eyes unfocused again. Something dark and deadly swam across his irises, and Nim gasped.
“No,” she said, and picked up her unfamiliar, heavy skirts. She burst through the doors and ran outside to the railing of the ship.
The beautiful, hellacious voice of her sisters rang from the sea. They were hungry. They were so lonely. Wouldn’t somebody join them and keep them company? Wouldn’t somebody offer their delicious souls, their toothsome sorrows, the firm meat of their body to satiate their hunger?
“Not this ship,” Nim shouted, but her voice was only one of many, lost in the swirl of sound.
“Nim?” William asked. He had come up from behind her, his face pale and sweating despite the cold air. He looked into the water below.
“Don’t look. Don’t listen,” Nim said, and grabbed his face between her hands. “They will kill you. They have no love for you, do you understand?”
Join us. The waves themselves seemed to echo the song. Forget your troubles. Be free.
“I wish to be free,” William murmured. Nim held him fast.
“It isn’t freedom. It’s death,” she said, and was surprised to find her face wet. It must be the sea spray, she thought. Tears were for humans.
“So beautiful,” a woman next to her said. Her dark eyes swam with madness. She pointed into the sea. “Look.”
Nim knew what she would see. Her sister’s faces rose from the ocean as they swam easily alongside the ship. They were stunning, their mouths open in song. Long hair wound around them like seaweed, moving in the water luxuriously. Now it covered their nakedness, now it demurely hid it. They splashed their tails and reached longingly toward the ship.
Join us. Please. We are ever so hungry.
The woman beside them nodded once. She removed her fine hat and slid her dress over her head.
“No, please,” Nim said, but she didn’t dare let go of William.
The woman slipped silently over the railing. There was a quiet splash and then the water frothed. Nim’s sisters sliced the water with their tails and ripped their prey apart with pointed teeth. The sea bloomed red.
“Let me go,” William said dreamily, and stretched his hand towards the sea. “I need to go. They’re so lonely.”
“They’re hungry, William. There’s a difference. A terrible difference.”
The siren’s song increased in volume and urgency.
Come. Join us. Jump to your deaths. Impale yourself on our teeth and claws. Let us wrap our tails around your throats until you are dead. Oh, so wonderful! Oh, so wanton!
William’s muscles bunched as he pushed Nim away. But she refused to let go. She, too, was a monster of the deep, and she, too, knew how to get what she wanted.
She captured his eyes with hers and opened her mouth.
Stay with me, she sang. Her teeth were sharp and white and glorious. There is nowhere but here, no one but me. Stay.
William struggled, his fingers reaching for the railing even as he seemed to go boneless in Nim’s arms. She nodded and covered his mouth with hers.
The kiss was final. He would never heed another siren’s voice again. He belonged to her.
There was a scraping and a great groaning as the ship listed violently to one side. Nim stumbled and William grabbed her, pulling her safely to the railing.
“What was that?” she asked.
William’s eyes were full of Nim’s lights, but his voice was clear enough. “I think we ran into something. What would we possibly run into out here?”
The sisters in the water laughed triumphantly.
Not this ship, Nim sang down to them. Any others, but I told you to leave this one alone.
Who are you to tell us anything, weak one? They answered back, fangs glinting. Nim had been on the receiving end of them more than once. We lust, little ugly one. We feel greed. There are so many on board, and soon they will be in the water. We will feast on their hands and their hearts and their eyes . . .
Stop it.
. . . and we will especially enjoy the one you cling to now. He will scream your name as we tear him apart. He will beg you for help, but what will you be able to do about it? You will do nothing but watch him perish.
Their ugly laughter was the worst part. It always was.
Yelling filled the night. Crew ran this way and that, inspecting the sides of the boat and the equipment. Nim could taste their terror, their franticness.
“We are going to sink,” she said.
William smiled at her. “Impossible. This ship is unsinkable, after all.”
Sweet human. Trying so hard to calm her terror even as he was realizing the true horror of it all. Was this the way of man? Is this what humans did?
She took his hand and held his fingers to her lips. “You will not be allowed to live,” she said simply, and turned away.
He pulled her back. “What do you mean?”
She felt the sadness in her smile. Oh, she wanted this kind person to survive, to marry and have more little humans and tell them the stories of his childhood, and perhaps even stories of her. But that wasn’t to be. He had heard her call and would never fully be free from it. He could live in the desert but would long for the sea, crawling on hands and knees through the dunes until he could make his way to the coastline. He would look for her all of his life, forgetting to eat and drink and sleep until his body gave up. Even then, his soul would be trapped if she didn’t come for him.
“I’ll do what I can for you. I think you’re a good man.”
She stepped away and fell backward over the railing. She heard William scream her name and closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see his horrified face. She hit the water and took a deep breath. The sea caressed her skin more gently than any lover ever had. She twisted free from the binding human dress and her awkward legs became a graceful tail once more.
“We brought the entire ship down,” her sister said. She swam around Nim with glee. “All we need to do is wait. We’ll have them all in the end.”
It was what sirens did. It was what they have always done. It was a curse and a gift, this craven desire, this jubilation for carnage, but Nim had grown tired. History repeated and repeated and repeated. The gods had died and forgotten them. They were simply more predators in the sea, sharks with higher senses of self-importance.
She watched the ship break in half. The lights went out and the screaming onboard increased. She thought of the beautiful staircase, of the marvels of human creation, and felt empty sorrow when the bodies plummeted into the sea en mass.
Her sisters began their feeding frenzy. Tails whipped the surface and churned the water into foam. They feasted on those in the water and beat at the windows to get to the terrified passengers inside. Their seductive songs ceased as they filled their bellies.
After a few hours, there was an aching silence. The screams and chatter died down, and the sirens, fat and lazy, sank to the bottom of the sea to rest. Nim swam quietly to and fro in the dark.
She found William clinging to a floating barrel, listless and barely moving in the cold. The hollows of his cheeks stuck out pitifully. Nim looked closer and saw a gash on his head. His soul oozed illness and pain.
“My friend,” she said, and was surprised at how relieved she was to find him.
“Nim?” His voice quivered in the dark. “Is that you? You’re alive.”
“I am. I’m so glad I found you. You’re terribly hurt, aren’t you?”
“I think my back is broken, Nim. Something hit me on the deck. But the water is so cold that I can’t feel much. That’s a blessing.”
He was so dear, this brave man. She swam closer and pushed his hair out of his face.
“Look at me, William.”
His eyelids fluttered but he managed to meet her eyes. His face lit up and a smile rested on his lips.
“May I sing you a song, my human? It will make everything go away.”
He nodded as best he could, and Nim pulled him to her. He released his grip on the barrel and tangled his fingers in her hair. She touched her forehead to his and sang him a song of freedom, of peace, of love and desire, as she pulled him down to the beautiful depths below.
THE TELL-TALE MIND
KEVIN J. ANDERSON
The cramped, cluttered offices of Inspector Dupin were less impressive than the Richmond chief of police warranted. The window was so narrow and fly-specked that he had to light a kerosene lamp on his desk so he could read his handwritten case ledgers. The inspector himself needed a shave and a bath, and his dark blue uniform was dotted with stains that had been brushed off but not washed.
But Edgar Allan Poe was not one to cast judgment. He cut an even less impressive figure, bedraggled and desperate, but he had to make his report. He had to expose the terrible crimes he had seen in his mind. Poe could only hope that his strident wavering voice conveyed urgency rather than irrational agitation.
“I assure you, Inspector Dupin, I am not mad. You must believe me. I am not mad!” Poe placed both of his palms against his high forehead, stroked back his unruly raven locks of hair in a demonstration of abject misery. “Reginald Usher has murdered three people that I know of. I’ve seen it.”
Inspector Dupin had initially taken the young writer seriously when Poe barged into his office, slapping the side of his head as if to scatter buzzing bees from his thoughts. Dupin leaned forward at his desk and rubbed his weary eyes. “Has the police department not heard your accusations before, Mr. Poe? And have they not always turned out to be false?”
“Not false! Unproven—as yet. I am not mad. You must believe me.”
Poe realized that he came across as entirely the opposite. His eyes were bloodshot and red-r
immed from far too much drinking. It was the only way he could silence, or at least quiet, the haunting, yammering voices that barged through his head. “I am not mad,” he whispered as if unsure he could convince even himself. “I know Usher committed the murders. My senses are heightened. My powers of observation keen.”
How could he explain that he often heard the feverish thoughts of others in his own mind?
Dupin poised with a quill pen in hand, the ink pot open, the page of his case ledger still blank. “As a writer and a poet, no doubt you believe in your understanding of human nature, but your claims are preposterous. Reginald Usher is a man of high social standing, a wealthy benefactor of the town’s orphanage. He prints the most reliable newspaper in Richmond, The Epitaph.” The inspector narrowed his eyes. “Until recently were you not in the employ of Mr. Usher, writing articles and literary criticism for The Epitaph?”
Poe looked away. “That job proved to be . . . untenable. The things I saw there, the thoughts I heard.”
Dupin raised his eyebrows. “The thoughts you heard, Mr. Poe?”
“I am not mad,” Poe insisted again.
He recalled the time he had gathered the nerve to face Usher in his newspaper office, a finely appointed room that was more a private library than a business office. Reginald Usher had many shelves of fine books, classics of Greek and Roman literature, the plays of Socrates, the lives of Ovid, the histories of Plutarch, the works of William Shakespeare, and hundreds of unmarked journals of ancient philosophers. As a philanthropist, Usher made his wealth of information available to Epitaph reporters should they need to look up a fact or verify a quote, and also to scholars and seekers of truth in general, but few took him up on the invitation.
With his fascination for literature, having published his own volume of poems in 1827, Poe aspired to make his living by writing. He had accepted the position with the Richmond Epitaph, vowing to become an important reporter. Poe had not expected such a devastating experience when he entered the editor’s office, though. Instead of a quiet sanctuary of books, he found the room loud with Reginald Usher’s violent, unshielded thoughts that rang throughout his sensitive mind. He witnessed what the man had done, heard the screams of victims, felt the blood, and experienced the sheer joy he drew from it.
Fantastic Tales of Terror Page 3