Siren’s Song Bay, home for all my life, is a picturesque coastal town. The summer tourist season is short-lived, being a few hours from the Canadian border. It’ll be completely deserted by Labor Day, with half the shops boarded up for the season. Like most tourist towns it has a gimmick.
Mermaids.
Not the fun, whimsical variety you watch in kids movies, but the vicious, grotesque kind that lure people to their deaths. One merchant ship disappears crossing the Atlantic, hundreds of years ago, so naturally that means our waters are infested with sirens. Naked and disoriented people wander into town and it’s definitely not drugs. It's the ocean's version of skinwalkers. Curious tourists venture to a forbidden island and are never seen again. They’ve obviously been captured and tortured by malformed sea creatures. There’s no way they became lost in the thick vegetation or succumbed to poorly timed currents.
The siren’s song itself is the only folklore I give any credence to. A haunting melody that floats on the ocean breeze, enticing tourists and locals alike out to sea. A few bodies have been recovered, three were actually rescued alive, the rest disappeared entirely. The survivors claimed one second they were surfing or paddle boarding or kayaking and the next they were out too far. No land in sight. The last thing they remember is disembodied singing echoing across the ocean.
Once in the last several years would be a tragic accident. Twice is a suspicious coincidence. Three or more is a pattern that I refuse to join. I’ve heard the beginning of the song enough times to know something is drawing people out. Like now, at the opening notes, I immediately start belting out, very badly, the first song that comes to mind and paddle like hell for shore.
The coarse brown sand feels soft under my toes. With tourist season still a week out, it’s not yet littered with garbage and people. Most schools are still in session too, and locals are busy preparing for the upcoming season. Ten weeks of summer tourism sustains the community year-round, so I have the beach almost entirely to myself this morning. The sun is still rising over the horizon, casting vibrant colors of orange and pink across the murky water. The waves are absolutely perfect. Just enough to make it fun without trying to kill me.
I slam my board down to prop it in the sand and sprawl ungracefully onto my towel. My AirPods are blasting music in my ears before I finally stop my terrible singing. A fiery, golden-tailed mermaid stares serenely at me from my board. She is the single greatest piece of art that I have ever created in my life. Straight from a recurring nightmare I’ve had as long as I can remember.
Her hair is fire-engine red, long Irish curls floating around her like living flames. Her tail is gleaming gold with flowy, almost translucent fins like tulle. She’s reminiscent of a dramatic betta fish I had when I was younger. People always assume that I painted myself in mermaid form, but beyond the hair, which I’ll admit is striking, we have very little in common feature-wise.
She looks completely content and ethereal, but the background is dark and dingy. The cavern walls are made from jagged rocks. In my dream I hear her cry out in pain as they slice into her delicate fins. It’s full of horrific sea creatures. Anglerfish with elongated fangs biting into her arms and tail. Serpent-like viperfish slithering around her arms and neck. Ghost and goblin sharks with gnashing teeth, bioluminescent jellyfish stinging her flesh, and some monsters that I’ve never been able to identify.
I’ve spent so long in this nightmarish cavern that I know the water is stale and stagnant. It has a thick quality to it, like swimming through molasses, and the pressure is unbearable, like my head might explode. The golden mermaid is a ray of warmth accepting it all until she dissolves into nothing. I can feel her in the water all around me then until the monsters consume me one painful piece at a time. After my nightmares I wake up choking on salt water, like I’d been in the process of drowning. Or what I assume drowning feels like. I never told anyone that last part. How I could always taste the salt on my tongue.
I spent years sketching various images of it, trying to get it out of my head. My sketchbook is constant in my life. Pages filled with half-formed shapes, swirling currents, silhouettes that looked almost human if you stared long enough and monstrous creatures. I spent all last summer painstakingly painting every detail onto my surfboard. She seemed like she belonged in the ocean, so I wanted to make sure she could visit whenever possible.
The one street through town is completely deserted so it takes no time at all to reach my apartment above Tom's surf shop. One side is a boardwalk with bars and restaurants that open directly onto the beach during season. The opposite side is lined with pastel-colored souvenir shops, spas, salons, and boutiques. They sell mostly knockoff junk to parents trying to keep kids from full-on tantrums. Tom's is tucked somewhere in the middle. Great location walking basically anywhere, terrible location as far as noise is concerned in season.
I wrinkle my nose at the aroma seeping out of the apothecary directly to the right. A local witch doctor, who claims to be descended from mermaids, peddles magic potions and tinctures from there. She also shelves disturbing ingredients like mermaid scales, blood, or tears. The tourists eat that shit up.
I park in the tiny gravel driveway for Tom’s Bayside Surf, which stands inside a building that used to be a house. He yells a greeting as I run through the store. After replacing the wet swimsuit with the first dry clothes I can grab, I'm off again.
“Rae!” he calls as I dash back through. “Wait! I might have a commission for you!”
I skid to a stop and backtrack. Who cares if I’m late? “Say what now?”
“Local guy I used to coach, made it to the big leagues. He saw your board yesterday. Asked if you do custom paint jobs.”
“Uh, I do now! How much?”
“Two grand.”
“As in two thousand dollars?” My voice comes out as a disbelieving squeak.
“Yes.”
“Holy cow, that’s like two and a half months rent!”
“You interested?”
“Absolutely! Did he say what he wants?”
“A sexy Harley Quinn with the Suicide Squad logo.”
“Seriously?” I laugh. “That actually sounds kind of cool.”
“He’ll be here around three this afternoon. You can work out details then.”
“Thanks Tom! You’re the best!” I kiss his cheek and rush out the door.
It only takes ten minutes to walk to The Flying Dutchman, the best bar and restaurant in town. I'm probably a little biased though. Hank and Lou Ann are my best friend Gracie’s parents, and I practically grew up here.
“Sorry I’m late!” I call out.
“All good, kid! We appreciate the help!”
“Sure thing. What do you need done?”
I spend the next several hours doing whatever odd jobs they give me. Like most establishments, they’re in a last-minute dash to spruce up before tourists set in. My favorite part of this place is the massive aquarium that consumes the middle of the room. It’s modeled after a vibrant Caribbean coral reef and has a huge rock arch in the middle. In season, mermaids swim around for entertainment, a feature that truly sets the Dutch apart from other places. During family hours they’re pretty well covered, for the kids. After ten p.m. they turn significantly more risqué for the raunchy crowd.
When I was in high school my summer job was swimming around during family hours. Only after I turned eighteen did they finally let me try late-night shifts. My mom threw a fit and refused to step foot in the doors at all for an entire month.
I loved it immediately. I’ve never felt at home in my own skin, which makes basic functions, like walking for example, extremely difficult. Water always felt like home to me, which is why I not only swam competitively, but also spent as much time as possible in the ocean. Pretending to be a mermaid made me feel comfortable and confident in my skin. Other than swim meets, it was a feeling I rarely ever had, so I soaked up the attention from drunk tourists that would never recognize me in the light of day. This is the first season in three years it won’t be my primary source of income.
At twenty-two and heading into my final year of undergrad, I was accepted into a prestigious marine biology program. They are actually paying me to assist a PhD student doing research. Despite not working here, I’m still obligated to help my surrogate parents get ready.
I push the swinging door from the kitchen open and promptly hear a muttered “son of a bitch,” followed by a loud thump and shattering glass.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.”
“Can you watch where the fuck you’re going?”
“I said I’m sorry, it was an accident!" I crouch down to try and assess how much damage I’ve done and accidentally bang my head into a large figure already kneeling on the floor.
He’s rubbing his forehead. “I’ve got it under control.”
“I’m…”
“Don’t apologize again, please just go.”
I nod, biting back tears and bolt to the bathroom. My cheeks are bright red. It’s not like it’s the first time my clumsiness has claimed casualties. It never gets easier though. Back out in the main dining area I’m tasked with sitting stationary to roll utensils and told to just leave the bucket there when I’m done.
I study the guy I knocked into while I work. He looks around my age, maybe a few years older. He’s tall and has dreadlocks pulled back. The white undershirt is at least two sizes too small and stands out against his dark skin. I’ve never seen him before, which is rare around here. We don’t get transplants very often. When he sees me staring at him, he scowls and disappears into the back.
We’re off to a great start this summer.