Some nights, I am quiet and still, reveling in the solitude of a dark, idle night, the gentle swishing of the ocean waves against the shore.

But on this night, feeling lonely and peckish, I draw in a lungful of crisp, salty sea air and let loose a song. A breeze that smells of ocean spray carries my voice toward town, a soft whisper over the wildflower fields, a quiet whistle through the leafy forest canopy. My song finally reaches the uneven cobblestone streets of the village, where a young man is stumbling out of the tavern after one too many pints.

“Get on with ya!” shouts the barkeep as he closes the door with a pointed slam.

The young man scrubs a clumsy hand through his hair and, as my melody first teases his ears, misses the last step down to the street. “Is someone ...” Bloodshot eyes screwed up in confusion, he turns toward the beach. Toward me. After a brief hesitation, he takes a step in that direction.

A smile pulls at my lips as the song takes hold. On a night like this, it’s almost too easy.

He appears, dazed, at the edge of the field where the tall grass gives way to a wide stretch of sand. I beckon him closer. He’s just a boy, really, caught in a trance, longing for more.

I long for more, too. For the lifeforce within him, the spirit that will give me strength when I take it as my own.

With one hand outstretched, I step backwards toward the waterline. He follows on unsteady legs, until the water swallows him.

Unfortunately, this is also the night the townspeople have had enough of me stealing away their sons in the dark of night. They come for me as dawn breaks, a warm honeyed glow kissing the horizon. I am lounging on the beach, sated and drowsy, when the first boot sinks into the sand.

I turn toward them, pressing my lips together in a gentle hum. The tune has no effect; they push forward undeterred. I stand, and as they draw nearer, I see the menfolk have wax crammed into their ears.

Smart.

Fear flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. I back away towards the safety of the sea but, unaffected by my song, they too easily surround me. I have recently fed, and the first dagger skips harmlessly off my chest. The second strikes true, only to snap in half.

I stand tall, smirking, but they do not seem dejected.

“Sister Amala!” one of them calls, voice too loud as he compensates for his muffled hearing.

The crowd parts, allowing an old woman to step forward, leaning on a cane. I recognize her face; or, at least, the look of it. Weathered and knowing, as I am, but without the benefit of all those ingested souls.

A witch.

She’s whispering, a constant low tone that stings my ears.

“Be gone from our sons,” she mutters. “Be gone from our homes. Be gone from this land.”

I raise my hands to cover my ears but cannot block her out. Her voice, her spell, echoes through my mind.

The witch holds out a gnarled hand, where a seashell is settled atop her palm. Her soft words pull at me, drawing me to step closer.

“Be gone from our sons. Be gone from our homes. Be gone from this land.”

“No,” I protest as my foot drags along the sand. It is the first true word I’ve spoken in a century, and it’s to no avail. I walk towards the witch, caught in her spell the same way men have been caught in the thrall of my song.

A glow is building within the hollow of the shell, increasing in intensity until I must look away.

After that, all I know is darkness.

*     *     *
Brianne had heard the stories, same as everyone who grew up in the sleepy seaside village of Freybury.

“That beach was once home to a vicious sea witch,” some said, “who slithered through the sand like a snake to snatch slumbering children from their beds.”

Others would wave a dismissive hand and weave a different tale. “It was a kraken ’at dwelled within the waters. Having emptied the sea of fish, the beast developed a taste for human flesh.”

“You’ve all got it wrong,” still another would argue. “’Twas an eerie songstress in the sea, whose tunes wormed into the minds of unsuspecting men and dropped them into a trance. She lured them to walk straight into the surf, until the water closed over their heads and swallowed them whole.”

The tales had been twisted and stretched with time, until no one could agree what evil once lived there. The only thing everyone did agree on was that the evil was gone, one way or another, and they should be thankful for it. Should not flirt with allowing such malice back into their lives and homes. The beach had been abandoned for decades.

Brianne had grown bored of the life Freybury had to offer when she was still young. While other girls were playing with dolls or weaving wreaths from wildflowers, she daydreamed of adventure on long walks through the forest and fields, venturing a bit farther from the village each time. Eventually, she came upon the famed beach and stood in awe of the beauty of the sea, feeling neither fear nor trepidation, only stillness. Peace.

Every morning since, she wandered along the overgrown path to the beach, paying no heed to the stories, the thriving fear of her neighbors, or the wooden fence and sign posted at the edge of the sand that declared the area dangerous and off-limits. Whatever monster may have once called this beach home, she reasoned, it was gone long before she was even born.

Despite the eerie, low-hanging fog of early morning and the coarse pebbled sand that stuck to the bottoms of her feet, Brianne found herself missing the beach whenever she was back in town. It was calm here, away from the anxious bustle of Freybury, and quiet, but for the crashing waves, the whisper of the surf climbing the sand as the tide rolled in. She loved to sit in the sand for hours and stare into the waves, concocting fantastical stories of far-off lands.

One morning, as she left her shoes at the sign like always, she saw the tide was lower than ever, revealing a new, unexplored stretch of dark, damp sand littered with half-buried shells and stones. Brianne lifted the hem of her skirt and hurried to explore. Each shell she came upon was more beautiful than the last, glistening under the light of the rising sun. Her gaze fell on a large, cream-colored seashell with hints of turquoise and purple along its swirling ridges, glimmering gracefully in the sunlight. When Brianne stepped closer, she noticed that one edge of the shell was cracked, a single sign of imperfection. She dropped her skirt and crouched in the damp sand, carefully working the shell free. The pad of her thumb brushed over the crack, and a piece of the seashell fell away.

Brianne winced and returned the shell to its spot on the beach, regretful she had disturbed it. She shook the sand from her skirt and continued her walk, leaving the treasure behind, allowing nature to take its course.

*     *     *
I’ve grown weak within the confines of my dark prison, scratching at an unseen barrier with strengthless fingers, aching for the smell of the sea.

A shear of light splits the darkness, the first I’ve seen since that morning with the witch. I am falling, then come to a sudden stop against soft, sinking ground.

The light lingers, blinding. I blink, fingers scrabbling as I struggle to push myself up. I feel coarse sand and smooth stones, inhale the welcome sting of salty air. I look up, and through watery eyes, I see the sun rising over my head.

My lips twist in a weak grin.

I’m out.

I’m free.

*     *     *
Brianne made her way towards the beach under a matte gray sky, with the rest of Freybury still slumbering behind her. It had stormed the night before, and that usually meant a late morning start for most of the townspeople. Melle wouldn’t be expecting her at the bakery for hours.

Bracing a hand on the signpost, Brianne stepped out of her shoes. When she raised her gaze to the sea, she startled. For the first time, she was not alone on the beach. A woman stood in the water, ankle-deep, staring out at the sea. She looked more like a spirit than a person, the lightweight material of her long, simple gray-blue dress shifting with the breeze blowing off the sea, as well as her curtain of white-blonde hair.

It was immediately obvious that the woman wasn’t from town; no one in Freybury looked like her. Brianne remembered the ferocity of the night’s storm and squinted out at the lazily rolling water, looking for any sign of wreckage, for the shapes of bodies or cargo bobbing in the waves, anything to serve as evidence of how she came to be here. But Freybury had no port, and she could not remember the last time anyone had visited their small village.

“Hello?” she called. “Do you need help?”

The woman didn’t react to the sound of her voice. She stood motionless, the frothy sea lapping around her ankles.

Brianne shivered just watching her; this early in the day, and on the heels of such a storm, the water had to be freezing. “You probably shouldn’t be out here,” she said. “They say the beach is dangerous.”

The woman said nothing, only inclined her head in Brianne’s direction as she stepped closer.

Brianne stopped a short distance away and ducked her chin, squinting. “Do you talk?”

The stranger turned to face her fully, and Brianne sucked in a breath. The woman was beautiful, in an odd, ethereal sort of way. Her eyes, the color of the ocean swell, narrowed as she stared quizzically at Brianne.

*     *     *
I can hardly believe my good fortune, that this delicate, vulnerable creature has wandered onto my beach at a most opportune time.

I open my mouth ... and nothing comes out. The young woman cocks her head, her brown eyes clouding with concern. “Are you injured?” she asks.

Anger swells fast and warm in my icy chest. No one has ever looked at me in such a way. They wouldn’t dare. I am something to be feared, not ... pitied.

I raise a hand to my throat, cursing the tremble in my fingers. That damned witch; her seashell trap may have fallen to pieces, but too much of my strength has been taken. I don’t have enough for a song.

It will take some time to recover what I’ve lost, to become what I was once. I turn away from the girl, looking back to the sea. I do not want her pity.

After another long moment of stillness, I hear her soft steps in the sand as she walks away.

*     *     *
The strange woman was there again the next morning, standing in the same spot as Brianne had left her the day before. Arms hanging at her sides as she stared out at the rolling sea.

“Hello there,” Brianne greeted, though she did not expect a reply.

She didn’t get one; the woman lifted her chin but did not even look her way.

Brianne shrugged and started to walk away, but something stopped her. She turned back and studied the woman. She looked so ... lost. And that was a feeling Brianne could empathize with. She had never quite felt like she fit in with the others in Freybury, but without anywhere else to go, she had just sort of ... drifted along through the days, taking the apprenticeship at the bakery when she was old enough to seek out work. She had never paid much mind to those who spoke of fate but couldn’t help feeling like there was a reason she was here on this beach, now.

She hefted her skirt and settled onto the sand. “I think I’m going to sit here awhile,” she said, “and watch the waves. You’re welcome to sit with me.” Brianne draped her arms loosely over her tented knees and waited.

With a resigned sigh, the woman turned away from the sea and stalked to where Brianne sat, leaving a trail of wet footprints in the sand. She flopped down and looked at her expectantly.

“I’m Brianne,” she said. “What’s your name?” The stranger rolled her eyes and gestured to her throat, and Brianne winced. “Right. Sorry.”

The woman’s gaze dropped to the sand, and she picked up a stick that had washed ashore. She turned the stick in her hand and dug one end into the sand. With long, smooth strokes, she etched a single word.

“Eliria,” Brianne read. “That’s your name?” At the woman’s reluctant nod, she said, “I like it. It’s very pretty.”

The woman’s posture relaxed, and they sat for a long time in not entirely uncomfortable silence, watching the waves as the sun warmed the sand beneath them. Every few moments, Eliria would glance at her with a strange, appraising look.

Finally, Brianne squinted up at the sun; it was later in the morning than she had intended, and Melle would for sure have something to say about her tardiness. She stood, brushing sand from her skirt. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, Eliria. If you’re still here, that is.”

Eliria just stared as she walked away.

*     *     *
This Brianne is an odd creature. But strangely, I find myself looking forward to tomorrow morning, knowing I will see her again. There is a warmth in my chest, an odd tingling in my limbs I’ve not felt before.

There is more than pity in her eyes, and more than curiosity. It is a familiar longing that I see in those brown depths, and I find myself drawn to her.

*     *     *
Every morning after that, Brianne ventured down to the beach with a newfound skip in her step. As the days went by, her curiosity at seeing Eliria on the beach had turned to anticipation, which was quickly becoming excitement. Even though the other woman didn’t speak, there was a different kind of connection growing between them.

“Do you want to come into town with me?” she braved one morning. “It isn’t much, but you can get a decent pastry at the bakery.”

Eliria opened her mouth as though she was finally going to speak, but she quickly snapped it closed and averted her gaze.

Their hands were splaying in the warm sand, fingers nearly touching. Brianne reached out, covering the other woman’s cool hand with her own.

A dark look came over Eliria’s face. She tore her hand away and stood abruptly, turning away from Brianne. Without looking back, she walked purposefully toward the water.

“Eliria!” Brianne jumped to her feet, stumbling in the sand. “I’m sorry! I-I didn’t mean .... Come back!” Her voice pitched higher as Eliria stepped into the sea. “What are you doing?”

As she watched, the woman kept walking, until the water closed over her head.

Brianne stood at the shore, her face ashen, and waited for Eliria to resurface.

She never did.

*     *     *
I have never been the one to run away. Of course, I have never felt fear like this. Even when that witch was weaving her spell to trap me, I did not feel like ... this. I know that I cannot tell Brianne what I truly am. Not only because she would never want to come near me again, but because to hear my voice would be to succumb to my thrall.

With time, my strength has returned; not all, but enough for a song. I crave the power that came with being what I once was, but I do not want to sacrifice Brianne. My song may mean strength and power for me, but it serves only as a harbinger of death for those who hear it.

There has only ever been one way for this to end.

*     *     *
Brianne lay awake all night, thinking of Eliria, trying to make sense of the woman’s sudden appearance and disappearance, the oddness that had lingered in the space they spent between.

As the first hints of sunlight crept across the night’s sky, an unwelcome sense of certainty came over her, settling in her stomach like a rock.

*     *     *
I wait by the water as dawn breaks. I know Brianne will be back.

They’ve never been able to resist me.

She walks right up to me, stands at my side and looks out at the water. When she finally turns to face me, there are tears glistening in her eyes. “You’re the thing they tell stories about, aren’t you?”

I drop my gaze. I don’t want to hurt Brianne. I want to take her as my own, but not as a trophy. I want her as a companion. A partner. But it’s not possible.

I press my lips together and nod.

“I started coming here when I was a little girl,” she says.

I remember. She’s told me everything about her. Her dreams, her wishes. The fantasies she’s conjured as she sat here on my beach. And I have offered her nothing but silence. And still she returned, day after day.

“Did you ...” Brianne takes a breath, tries again. “Did you lure me here? From the sea?”

A long, still moment passes between us, broken only by the far-off crash of waves. “I don’t know,” I say quietly, carefully. Truthfully. I very well may have. It is the only thing I have ever done. “I must have.” It takes effort to speak without singing. I gave up on the use of it, eons ago.

“I’m not so sure,” Brianne says, stronger now. “Eliria ... sing for me.”

I gape. “N-no.”

She reaches out and takes my hand, smiles. “Trust me. You won’t hurt me.”

I turn away, shoulders tensing, but I do not possess the self-control to keep from humming. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brianne lean in closer, and I stutter to a stop.

“No,” she says quickly, squeezing my fingers. “I’m just ... listening.”

In a soft whisper, I offer my first song since that night with the witch. I watch Brianne as I sing. Her eyes remain pinned on mine, but they do not glaze over. She is enthralled by my song, but not because of any magical power I possess.

*     *     *
Some mornings, we are quiet and still, reveling in the solitude of a dim, idle morning, the gentle swishing of the ocean waves against the shore.

But on this day, feeling content and whole, I draw in a lungful of crisp, salty sea air and let loose a song that is just for Brianne.