Siren's Storm

by Lisa Papademetriou

  She choked and sputtered; she couldn’t breathe. She clawed at the creature, but it held her and would not let go.…

  “Gretchen!”

  With a final effort, she kicked at the creature, and all at once it opened its grip. The thing cried out with a familiar voice, and when Gretchen looked up, she saw that it was dark as night outside.

  Rocks bit into her hands; her knees throbbed where the flesh had been torn away. She was on her knees at the edge of the bluff. She barely had time to register that she had been sleepwalking again when something moved.

  “Gretchen!” shouted a voice. Will’s voice.

  The thing moved again, and Gretchen realized that it was his hand. It was gripping the earth with white knuckles. He had fallen over the edge of the bluff and was clinging to the rocks for dear life.

  He must have been trying to stop me from going over, Gretchen realized. I was sleepwalking again. “Will!” Gretchen crawled forward, but she was too slow. His hand slipped, then disappeared. “Will!”

  Gretchen scrambled to the edge and looked over. But all she saw was a deep blackness. And the only noise was the crashing of the waves on the rocks below.

  Will came to with a sudden jerk, a spasm in his neck. “Ow.”

  “Shh.”

  Finger to the lips. Green eyes. Long dark hair spilling forward, brushing his chest lightly.

  “Where—?” Will looked around. He heard the soft crash of the sea as he struggled to sit upright. All of his limbs seemed to be in working order, but his mind—that was another matter. What is this stuff I’m lying on? he wondered, running his hands on the softness. It wasn’t rocks, which was what he had been expecting. It took him a moment to realize it was sand.

  “You fell,” Asia told him.

  Will looked at her, wondering dimly what she was doing there. “I know.” Yes, he remembered.

  Will remembered exactly what happened.

  From his second-story window, he had seen a figure in white slipping through the darkness. It was Gretchen. Although the night was dark, Will could see her clearly, as if she were illuminated with her own inner fire. Ghostlike, Gretchen made her way through the trees and headed toward the bluff.

  “Damn,” Will cursed under his breath, and yanked on his jeans. He shoved his feet into his sneakers and raced out the back door without tying the laces. The screen door banged behind him as he loped toward the willows.

  For a moment he couldn’t see her. Then—there, between the trunks—a flash of white. “Gretchen!” he shouted, plunging into the darkness after her.

  Twice before he’d caught her sleepwalking. Once, when they were seven years old, Will had seen her on the porch, and he snuck out of the house to join her. Her eyes were open, and she spoke to him. But it was in a strange voice, with words he didn’t understand. It took him a while to realize that she wasn’t awake, and then he was frightened. He’d heard that you could kill someone if you woke them while they were sleepwalking, and he was still young enough to believe it. He didn’t dare shout for help, and he didn’t dare to leave her. So they sat there for over two hours, until Will’s father went to check on him and realized that he wasn’t in bed. He found Will and Gretchen on Gretchen’s porch swing. Gretchen had fallen fully asleep, her head in a wide-eyed Will’s lap.

  The next time was four years later. Will had heard a noise downstairs, so he grabbed his baseball bat and crept into the kitchen. There was Gretchen. She was bathed in the warm light of the fridge as she stood before its open door, staring blankly at the bags of turnips, the wilting greens, the chicken thighs, the iced tea, the half-empty jar of mayonnaise, the bottle of chocolate syrup. Will took her hand and gently closed the fridge. Then he led her out the door, down the steps. His feet were slippery with dew as he led her across the lawn to her house, where a frantic Johnny had just realized she was missing.

  These were Will’s thoughts as he stumbled after Gretchen in the dark. He was afraid that she might hurt herself. If she reached the bluff, she could fall.…

  He doubled his pace. A branch whipped across his cheek, a rock found its way into his shoe, but he didn’t stop.

  In a moment he was beyond the trees and could see her, moving quickly across the wide sweep of grass that led to the bluff. The distant roar of the ocean grew nearer, more dangerous.

  She paused for a moment, looked up at the gibbous moon with her unseeing eyes.

  “Gretchen!”

  She darted forward, her long legs racing toward the precipice. Will’s breath was thick and heavy in his throat. The long muscles in his thighs burned as he tore up the incline. She was five steps from the edge. Three.

  Two.

  “Gretchen!” Will shouted, reaching for her. A fistful of fabric, and he yanked her back. She raked her nails across his face and let out an unearthly scream. She hit at his throat, choking him. He struggled for breath, but he wouldn’t let go.

  Gretchen gave a sudden, violent kick. Will cried out as he fell to his knees. “Wake up!” he cried as she kicked again.

  His knee slipped as blows rained down on him—he was shocked at her strength. His leg skidded over the edge of the bluff, his foot straining for purchase against gravel and rock. Will reached for the ground with his hands, but he grasped only earth. He reached for her leg, but one last, terrible kick sent him reeling backward. “Gretchen!” he cried as his fingers struggled to keep their grip on the gravel.

  He couldn’t see the waves below, but he could hear them. He knew the rocks well. Mountainous boulders of slick red granite. Jagged as shark teeth, and as unforgiving.

  His arms ached with strain as he struggled to pull himself upward. But the ground crumbled beneath his fingers, and in a sickening plunge, he fell back into thin air. A searing flash against the back of his head, and then even the stars went black.…

  And now, green eyes. Asia. Her face was clear in the light of the fattening moon.

  “What are—? How did you—?” He sat up, then stood uncertainly, testing the pain in his body. He squeezed his eyes shut. Aches. Soreness. But nothing broken. He could feel a knot forming—he must have hit the back of his head when he went over the edge. But he wasn’t at the foot of the rocks. He was on the sand at the base of the bluff, a hundred feet away. It was as if a breeze had blown in and carried him to safety. He opened his eyes. “What happened?”

  No answer.

  He turned, and found himself alone. Asia had simply disappeared.

  Will fought the feeling of unreality that was creeping over him like an army of ants. Maybe I was sleepwalking. Maybe I am—

  “Will!” someone shrieked. “Will!”

  It was Gretchen’s voice.

  “Here!” he called.

  “Will? Will?” A figure in white tore down the bluff. “Oh my God!” In a moment, Gretchen reached him, wrapped him in a hug. “Oh my God.” She sobbed against his bare chest, and suddenly Will’s teeth began to chatter in the cold night air. He was shivering, desperately cold, but relief made his joints feel fluid and loose.

  “It’s okay.” Will patted her hair awkwardly.

  “I’m okay.”

  “I thought you were—” “I’m not.”

  “But you—” She looked back at the bluff. Put a hand to her forehead. “I was dreaming.”

  “I know.”

  “What happened?” Will shook his head. “No clue.”

  “But you were up there.” She gestured toward the bluff. Then her face crumpled in confusion. “Weren’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  Gretchen slipped her slender fingers into his, intertwining them like bean vines. “Are we both going crazy?” she whispered.

  Will couldn’t quite make himself say no. “I don’t know,” he said instead.

  “Great,” Will said bitterly as they neared his house. It was lit up, as if they had turned every light on in the place so they could look for him in the shadows—behind the couch, in the corners of the closet. His mother was probably tearing t
he house apart to try to find him. He could practically hear her wearing the floorboards smooth with her pacing.

  “I’ll go in with you,” Gretchen offered.

  “You don’t have to,” Will told her.

  Gretchen squeezed his hand as if she couldn’t let it go, and Will realized that she was still shaking. The trembling had passed through his body like an earthquake, leaving him exhausted and dazed. He imagined the rubble of fallen buildings, windows shattered, bricks and rocks and scattered papers blowing down a deserted street. That was how he felt: wasted.

  Gretchen, on the other hand, looked down at him with wide eyes, pupils dilated. Her hand felt hot—she was almost burning him with the intensity of her grip—and Will realized that she was frightened. Terrified. For her, the earthquake was still happening.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Guernsey was the first to hear their footfall on the step at the side door, and she came clack-clack-clacking across the linoleum to greet them, tail wagging. Her movements were slow and stiff with age, and she hadn’t quite reached them when Mrs. Archer darted in from the next room, face pale, eyes wide.

  “Will!” Her voice was a strangled scream as she flung the screen door wide, shoving the dog aside.

  “I’m all right, Mom, I’m—”

  Pain tore across his face as she slapped him, hard. Nobody moved.

  “How could you do that to me?” she whispered. Tears gathered at the rims of her eyes, pooled, then spilled down onto the slack of her hollow cheeks. She was wearing her ugly flowered nightgown—the one with the collar that buttoned up to her neck—and, over that, a battered yellow terrycloth bathrobe. She looked ancient and tired.

  Guernsey sat down, ears back, and stared up at Mrs. Archer, watching her carefully. “Oh, God, Will.” She grabbed him and pulled him into a hug. “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Don’t do that.”

  The clock on the wall ticked on, and a shadow appeared in the kitchen doorway. It was Will’s father. He looked from Will to Gretchen, who was still clinging to Will’s arm like a frightened little girl. “Where you kids been?” he asked.

  Mrs. Archer seemed to notice Gretchen for the first time. A blush bloomed across her face and she dried her eyes quickly.

  Will was still too angry to say anything, but Gretchen spoke up. “I was sleepwalking again. Will saw me. He—” She looked up at Will, gave his hand another squeeze. “I was headed for the bluff. I got all the way to the edge.”

  Mrs. Archer gasped and reached for Gretchen’s hand. “Good God, girl.”

  “Will saw me from his window. He came after me,” Gretchen said. She shivered.

  Mrs. Archer’s eyes lit on her son, and she seemed to take in the bloody scratch on his face.

  Mr. Archer nodded. “I thought it might be something like that. Don’t just stand there, Evelyn, get the girl some tea.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Gretchen said, but Mrs. Archer had already hurried over to the stove and was filling up the kettle.

  Mr. Archer pulled out a chair, and Gretchen sank into it gratefully. Guernsey hobbled over and plopped at Gretchen’s feet. Will continued to stand. He folded his arms across his chest, suddenly aware that he was half naked. His chest and arms were lightly muscled and tan from farm work. It was strange how he never felt awkward with his shirt off while he was outside in the summertime, but here, in the closeness of the kitchen with his parents and Gretchen, he felt exposed.

  “Has this been happening a lot?” Will asked.

  “More lately,” Gretchen admitted.

  “You need to take some warm milk before bed,” Mrs. Archer said as she dropped a teabag into a white mug and filled it with steaming water. “Or chamomile. The best tea for calming the mind.” She placed the mug on the table in front of Gretchen.

  “I’ve tried,” Gretchen told her. “I’ve tried everything—yoga, meditation, tea, whatever. Nothing works. Not even sleeping pills.” She shook her head, then blew lightly on the tea. But she didn’t pick it up.

  “Maybe you should lock yourself in your room,” Will suggested.

  Gretchen looked up at him, hurt registering on her face, and Will winced. His words had sounded sarcastic, although he hadn’t meant them to.

  “I’m sorry,” Gretchen said weakly.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Will, you’re a godawful mess,” Mr. Archer put in. “Why don’t you go wash that crust off your face and put on something that isn’t covered in dirt?”

  Will nodded, happy to have an excuse to disappear for a moment. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

  * * *

  Mr. Archer retreated to the living room as Will’s footsteps shuffled up the stairs. For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was Guernsey’s gentle snoring. Then a creak and a sigh as Mrs. Archer slid into the chair across from Gretchen. She sipped her tea with a slurp, swallowing loudly.

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” Mrs. Archer said into her tea.

  “Thanks to Will,” Gretchen said.

  Mrs. Archer looked up. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Well.” She frowned, shrugged. “I just don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. I think of you like a daughter, you know.”

  Gretchen felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Where is that coming from? Will’s mother wasn’t usually so open with her feelings.

  Mrs. Archer placed her hand over Gretchen’s. Then she leaned so far forward that Gretchen could feel her breath. She smelled the mint of her toothpaste, the sweetness of the chamomile. “I know about Tim,” Mrs. Archer whispered fiercely. “I know how much he—”

  Gretchen drew her hand away in shock, but at that moment Will came bounding down the stairs in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He had washed the blood off his face, revealing only a small scratch on his left cheek. Smaller than the scar on the other side, but symmetrical. Gretchen’s head swam with relief. She didn’t want to discuss Tim. Not now.

  Mrs. Archer stood up and crossed to the sink, where she placed her mug carefully. “Will, you should take Gretchen home,” she said, her back turned to her son.

  “You ready?” Will asked Gretchen.

  “Sure.” She handed the mug to Mrs. Archer, who accepted it like a token. “Thanks for the tea.”

  Mrs. Archer nodded, her piercing gaze strangely unmatched to Gretchen’s light words.

  Will didn’t notice, though. He just held open the door for Gretchen and let her walk through it.

  All the way across the lawn to her dark house, Gretchen couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. Archer had been about to say. She knew about Tim. But what exactly had he told her? Not the whole story. That was impossible.

  The day Tim died, he had made a confession to Gretchen. She had gone for a walk at the edge of the bay. He had seen her from his bedroom window, and had joined her. He’d looked serious and miserable. And then he told her that he loved her.

  “Tim,” she’d started, but he put a finger to her lips.

  “I know,” Tim said, staring down at her with his intense brown eyes. “It’s Will, isn’t it?”

  She’d felt the tears spill over the rims of her eyes, but she couldn’t answer.

  “Does he know?” Tim asked.

  Gretchen shook her head.

  Tim pulled her into a hug, and he didn’t seem to mind the tears on his shirt, or the fact that Gretchen’s nose was dripping. “You should tell him,” he whispered into her hair.

  But she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t risk it. Whether or not he felt the same way, the moment she said something, things between them would never be the same. Gretchen wasn’t ready for that. And then Tim had died, and Gretchen had started to doubt that she’d ever be able to tell Will the truth.

  “Do you want me to go inside with you?” Will asked when they reached her door. It was unlocked, as usual. Nobody locked their doors around here.

  “I’ll be fine,” Gretchen told him. She wanted to give him a hug but suddenly felt too fragile. “Good night.”<
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  “Sleep well,” Will told her. “Hope the chamomile works.”

  Gretchen smiled weakly, then turned and walked into the dark hall. Will started back toward his house. Gretchen looked back to her front door, thinking about her dream, about how Will had fallen over the edge yet landed down the beach … Her mind churned and buzzed with questions that had no answers.

  Chapter Seven

  Women of the Rocks (Traditional)

  The women, the women, they call you to sea

  With skin alabaster and lips of ruby,

  With voices of angels as soft as a sigh,

  And touches like fire that call you to die.

  Gretchen dipped a toe into the crystalline water. “It’s warm,” she said, surprised.

  “Heated,” Jason said as he stripped off his navy T-shirt. Three quick steps and he leaped out over the water, pulling his legs into a cannonball.

  Gretchen screeched as the splash sent drops spewing all over her. “You jerk!” she cried playfully as Jason broke the surface and shook his head, sending out a shower like a lawn sprinkler.

  A gardener looked up from the hedge he was clipping, then quickly turned back to his work. He was Filipino, one of three workers busily weeding, mulching, and trimming the property. Jason’s mother had rented a different house this year, and the yard was pristine and very private. An ancient apple tree grew in the center of the yard, partially shading a collection of green and white hostas. Everything was surrounded by towering boxwoods and trimmed with periwinkle-blue hydrangeas. The brick-rimmed pool was near the house, and there was a pretty little ironwork cafe table with a market umbrella and four chairs. Gretchen imagined taking a morning swim in the pool, then drinking an espresso by the water. She didn’t usually like pools, but the lush garden surrounding this one made it seem like a natural part of the landscape, almost like a lake.