Siren

         Marcus bent down and grabbed a bag of brown rice from the shelf, and as he straightened, a woman passed into his line of vision.  She was at the end of the aisle, her back to him, slender, long-legged.  Something about her seemed familiar.  Someone he’d seen at the market recently?  Shrugging, he tossed the rice in his cart and then heard the woman speak.

         “Marcus.  I’ve missed you.”  Her voice caressed him, making him shiver.

         The hair on the back of his neck stiffened as she drew nearer, a tiny smile playing about her red mouth. Lustrous blonde hair tumbled past her shoulders, shining in the glare of the florescent lights.

         “Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t missed me,” she said mockingly, so close now he could see the faint scar on her cheek.  “After all we shared, I would have thought you’d still have some feelings for me.”  That melodic voice began to insinuate itself into his mind, and he actually took a step toward her before catching himself.

         “We have some unfinished business, you and I,” she said, and stretched out her hand.  “Take my hand, Marcus.”

         He stared at the long, blood red nails he remembered so well. Remembered the feel of them ripping into his flesh, making him scream…With a huge effort of will he jerked his eyes away from her and then his body followed and he fell into the adjoining aisle, startling a  young mother and her children.

         “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, the cart nearly decapitating him.  Her children squealed and began asking dozens of questions, but Marcus was only aware that she was gone.  Gasping, he pushed up off the floor and risked a look behind him.  The aisle was empty except for his half-filled cart.  Shivering, he quickly made for the exit, hoping and praying she wasn’t lurking outside for him.

         He reached his Honda without incident, much to his relief.  Marcus fumbled with the keys and hurriedly jammed one in the ignition. The engine started with a growl and he floored it, tires screeching.

         He saw nothing on the way home.  The horrible memories crowded to the forefront, memories he’d spent five years trying to bury.

         He had been barely twenty years old, and enjoying his first night in a new city.  He entered the noisy, smoky club, wondering if he’d meet anyone.  He nervously ordered a drink, but the frazzled waitress didn’t even blink.  Pleased that he looked old enough to drink, he leaned back in his chair and scanned the room.

         His eyes flitted over attractive women, but none caught his eye until he saw her leaning against the bar.  His pulse quickened when he realized she was watching him as well.  The woman straightened, resplendent in a bright red mini dress and began pushing through the crowd toward him. He watched her approach, mesmerized by that shining blonde hair.

         “Hello,” she whispered huskily in his ear.  Warm breath tickled his skin, making him shiver.

         “Hi,” he answered, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans.  They chatted awhile, and he bought her a drink.  Blood red lipstick stained her lips, but her skin seemed free of any other cosmetics.  Huge green eyes seemed to glow as they talked and laughed. Finally he screwed up enough courage to ask her if she was ready to leave.

         “Of course, Marcus,” she said, catching his eyes with hers.  “I’ve only been waiting for you to suggest it.”  She smiled then, a blinding display of perfectly white teeth.  Grabbing her hand, he led her through the crowd and to his car.

         At his apartment he barely got the door open before she was kissing him and the next thing he knew they were on the couch and he could hardly stand it.  Eyes closed, he kissed her mouth again, then felt her lips travel down to his neck. Suddenly a tearing pain shot through his throat.  His eyes jerked open and he beheld a living nightmare.

         Gone were the luscious white skin and shiny hair.  The creature poised above him with his own blood dripping from red lips had wrinkled brown skin like an overripe banana and straw-like hair sticking out all over the dried out skull.  Marcus opened his mouth to scream and the creature gripped his hair with clawed fingers and yanked his head back.

         “Not a good idea,” it hissed, stroking his bared throat with one lacquered fingernail.  It smiled, displaying needle-like teeth, and the fingernail scraped harder. He tried to jerk away from it, but it held him tight.

         “What’s the matter, don’t I turn you on?”  Marcus shuddered and struggled desperately. But the creature held him down firmly with the weight of its horrible body.  A strange keening, almost like singing, filled his ears and made it difficult to think.  The melody insinuated into his mind, whispering of hidden pleasures, of ecstasy beyond his imagining.

         Marcus relaxed a fraction, and the thing’s fingernails stroked his cheek in an excruciating mockery of a lover’s caress.  The singing intensified and he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the spell as that crimson mouth filled his vision.  Again he tried to scream, but at that moment the needles dug into his flesh and he had no breath. He fumbled for a weapon on the coffee table, something, anything to get that thing off of him.  His fingers found a pencil, and he brought it up as hard as he could.

         The pencil ripped into the thing’s eyeball, and it shrieked horribly, maddeningly.  His terror broke free, and their cries mingled in a cacophony of horror and pain.  It rolled off Marcus then, a clawed hand yanking at the pencil. Red blood oozed down its face.

         “You’ll pay for that, Marcus,” it hissed, tossing aside the pencil.  It started to move toward him, but someone pounded on the door, and voices shouted in the hallway.  The thing looked around wildly, trying to find some way to escape.  The figure seemed to shiver, to change, and suddenly Marcus was staring at the beautiful girl from the club, although now a jagged, bloody hole marred the perfect face.  Then everything went black.

         He awoke hours later in a hospital bed, and no one seemed to know anything about a beautiful woman in his apartment.  According to the cops, Marcus had been found alone, bleeding from horrific wounds to his throat.  He’d very nearly died.  There had been many questions, and he’d answered them as best he could.

         Now, five years later, the nightmare was beginning again. Marcus parked his car haphazardly in his space and dashed across the pavement.  Taking the steps two at a time, he glanced behind him constantly, certain she was behind him.  He reached his apartment and fumbled for the key, feeling the sweat dripping down his back.  A slight scrape behind him brought a strangled sound from his throat and he whipped around, heart beating in his chest.  The keys fell to the floor, jangling noisily.

         The hallway loomed silent and empty.  The silence bore down on Marcus as he retrieved his keys and unlocked the door and went inside.  He carefully locked the door and swiftly headed into the bathroom, stripping off his clothing as he went.  Under the pounding hot water, Marcus closed his eyes, but popped them open again immediately.  She was there, swimming in his mind, grinning and capering, teeth flashing.

         Shuddering, Marcus shut off the water and dried off, avoiding his reflection in the foggy mirror.  Despite the hot shower, gooseflesh covered his body, and he pulled on briefs, jeans and a heavy sweater in a vain attempt to get warm. Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob and left the misty warmth of the bathroom.

         Droplets of water dripped down the back of his neck.  Marcus flopped down on his sofa and clicked on the television.  He needed something to distract his mind, to make him forget about that scene at the store.  But the news only depressed him.  Killings, wars, robberies, everything evil and perverted and disgusting right there before his eyes.  He was about to turn off the T.V. when the newscaster’s words dawned on him.

         “…found in an alley viciously murdered.  Police have been strangely silent on this matter, but sources say the victim was a Caucasian male in his late twenties.  Police have not released the victim’s name pending notification of relatives.  This is the third such murder in a month.  In other news today, the President-.”

         Sickened, Marcus thumbed the button on the remote and the television fell silent.  Covering his face with shaking hands, he fought down the urge to vomit.  It couldn’t be a coincidence.  She/it was sending him a message. 

         Fear coursed through him.  But beneath that terror was something else: rage.  Rage at the injustice of it all.  Sheer chance had taken him to that bar where she had enticed him, lured him with her wicked body.  For five years he’d been afraid of his own shadow, jumping at every little noise, steering clear of relationships.  For five long, agonizing years he’d been alone in the night, wondering if that horrible thing was still looking for him.

         Marcus scrubbed the tears from his face angrily. He wasn’t going to sit on his ass, cowering and wondering when she would show up.  The anger energized him, and he started to jump to his feet, only to freeze at the ringing of the telephone.  Unable to move, he listened to the rings, and then his answering machine took over.

         “You’ve reached 555-0203.  Leave a message at the tone.”

         “Marcus,” that sultry voice purred.  “I’m disappointed you’re not at home.  Or is it you’re just not picking up?  Too bad.  I wanted to chat.  Well, maybe I’ll stop by, shall I?”  He could feel her pulling at him and had to thrust a fist in his mouth to keep from screaming.

         “I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Marcus.”  With a laugh that chilled his bones, she hung up.

She was coming here!  The knowledge threatened to paralyze him.  He needed something, a weapon, but what?  A pencil wouldn’t be good enough this time, he knew.                                                Yanking open a drawer, he pawed through it, pens and paper clips and papers and all sorts of junk flying out like so many moths.

         “Where is it, where is it?” he muttered, abandoning the drawer.  Running into the bedroom Marcus dropped to his knees beside the bed and pulled out a large cardboard box. Sweat popped out on hi s forehead, dropped into the box.  He rummaged through it, becoming increasingly agitated until his fingers finally touched cold metal.  His hands trembled as he lifted it out.

         He stared at the thing, a loathsome machine of violence. Would it be enough?  Would he be able to use it?  There was no doubt in Marcus’ mind that he was capable of shooting that frightening creature, but what about the woman?  He shook his head and got to his feet, toes digging into the soft carpet.  This gun, a 9mm, has been a gift from his father after Marcus’ stay in the hospital.

         “I don’t understand what happened, Marcus,” his father had said, staring intently into his son’s eyes, “but I want you to have some protection.”  When Marcus protested, his father held up his hand.  “Take it, son, and learn how to use it.  I have this feeling in my gut that someday you’ll need it, God help you.”

         How prophetic his words had been.  If only he were here now.  Marcus hefted the weapon, disliking the heaviness.  He couldn’t use it against another person, of that he was very sure.  But that thing’s not a person, his mind whispered.  Still holding the gun, he left the bedroom, noticing how dark the apartment had become.  He began clicking on lights.

         

         “Hello, Marcus,” she said from the darkness of the living room.  He jumped, gun slipping from nerveless fingers.  It thumped on the carpet, bouncing a little.  A lamp clicked on, and there she was.  There it was.

         Beautiful blonde hair, shining green eyes, marvelous body.  Marcus backed up until he collided with a wall.  She rose majestically from the floral couch and approached him.  That strange, musical keening hummed in his ears, and fought it, fought the lethargy, the desire that threatened his very existence.

         “Oh, Marcus, stop fighting it.  Your feeble little mind can’t stop me.”  She sounded amused.  Sidling up next to him, she ran one lacquered fingernail down his cheek, down his chest.  His skin burned, her very touch sending jolts of pleasure through his body, so intense it hurt.  He closed his eyes, knew he’d be afraid to open them again.  She grasped his hand and he jumped, refusing to look in the childlike faith that if he couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there.  The thing led him over to the couch and he collapsed onto the soft cushions.

         She sat beside him, so close he could feel her hip touching his, and he tried to move away. She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, a sexy laugh.  Startled, he looked at her.

         “Do you realize how absolutely refreshing you are, dear Marcus?  I can’t tell you how long I’ve been stricken with ennui.”

         He couldn’t speak, eyes darting desperately for the gun. Where was it?  He tried to look without being to obvious. She frowned at him, and a hint of that other self, that thing shone through.  Marcus pressed back into the couch, and her face settled back into that beautiful façade.

         “Since my sisters were killed, I’ve been alone.  Thousands of years, and no one even half as interesting as you are.”  Was he supposed to feel honored?  Sorry for her?

The only emotion he felt was gut-twisting hate mingled with downright terror and lust for that body.

         He fumbled for something to say, because she seemed to expect it.  “Wh…what  are you?”

         She sat back, tapping one long fingernail against her teeth.  Her sharp, white teeth.

         “I don’t see the harm in telling you about myself, since I’ll be killing you soon.” She grinned, and this time gave him more than just a glimpse of that thing beneath the mask.

         “I am Peisinoe,” she said, looking expectantly at him.  When he said nothing, she frowned.  “Does that not mean anything to you?”  He shook his head, having no idea what she was talking about.

         “I and my sisters were known as the seiranes.  There are many stories about us.  Odysseus escaped us, as did Jason and his crew. Surely you have heard of them.

         Marcus stared.  “But they’re just myths.  Stories.”

         “Even myths have a grain of truth to them, Marcus.” She shifted on the couch, leaned closer.  Hot, fetid breath wafted into his face, gagging him.  If this thing was some sort of mythological creature, what chance did he have?  He had to stall her, give himself time to think.

         “I’ve had many males, but none were a challenge. Not like you.”  Her green eyes glittered; he couldn’t look away.  “They always give in.  Always.”  Her face was only inches away.  He felt her hand clamp down on his thigh. “I do not understand why you are different.”

         “I guess you’re not my type,” Marcus croaked, and the thing (Peisinoe?) smiled.

         “Oh, I’m every man’s type, Marcus dear. And it’s really only a matter of time before you give in and I get what I want.”

         “I’ll never give in,” he said, even as his body betrayed him.  She ran her fingers up and down his thigh.

         “You will, Marcus.  Already your body responds to me, and soon you will not be able to resist and I will give you my kiss.”

         “No, no, no,” he moaned, as that unnatural song filled his senses.  He flung his body off the couch and fell heavily to the carpet. 

         “What are you-?”  The song lessened, giving him the impetus to scramble away.  His fingers clawed the rug, seeking purchase, propelling him across the room.  He heard her bolt from the couch, felt her breath on his neck.

         “You can’t get away,” she said in his ear, and he screamed, flailing his arms about. “You took my eye, I will take the very essence of your life.”

         One of his arms struck her head, knocking her back, and Marcus gained his feet and dashed into the kitchen. 

         He yanked open drawers, spilling measuring cups, straws, tableware.  His hand closed upon a wooden skewer as her heels clicked on the tiles.  He didn’t turn around, but he could feel her getting closer. The skewer clutched in his sweaty grip, he squeezed his eyes closed, wishing he had earplugs or wax for his ears.  She’d started that infernal song again, and it took every scrap of his remaining will not to fling himself into her arms.

         A hand settled on his shoulder and he shivered. “No more games, Marcus,” she said, and pressed her mouth to his neck.

         Screaming, he shoved the thing away with his elbow and stabbed it with the skewer.  The sharp tip plunged into the base of her throat and instantly the woman was gone, replaced by that thing. 

         “GAAAK!” it cried, clawing at its neck and crashing into the refrigerator.  The Big Bird cookie jar his mother had bought for him toppled to the tile and smashed to pieces.  The thing slipped on a yellow piece and skidded to the floor, flat on its back

         “GAAAK!  GAAAK!”  He watched, unable to move, as the creature writhed.  A foul, greasy smoke began emanating from its body, and Marcus realized the thing was burning up.

         “Go to hell,” he muttered, and it looked at him then.  Hatred flowed, so strong he staggered back a step.  But that was all.  It was impotent. The wooden skewer had done its work.  In another moment all that remained was a greasy pile of black ashes. 

         Marcus leaned against the counter and closed his eyes, feeling strangely empty.