Siren

This story contains themes of grief, bereavement, depression, and suicidal ideation. It also includes references to terminal illness, emotional distress, and a character’s increasing preoccupation with death. Readers who may find these subjects triggering are advised to proceed with care.

Wednesday 15th August 2018,

Today, on my visit to the doctor, she had suggested I write down how I am currently feeling in a personal journal. I suppose following the advice would be a better option than just ramming antidepressants down my throat and hoping they would cure me or even drowning myself in gin like I usually do. Other than that, the doctor has suggested I start taking long walks across the village as well as along the rocky shores of the beach near our private residence. I admit I haven’t written in a while, not since my beloved Mavis died over a year ago.

I tried to call my sister who lives in Nottingham again, but the phoneline is still broken. They plan to get it fixed by next Tuesday. This is the third time this year that the powerline has been damaged by stormy weather, but I can’t afford to move out now. Ever since I had decided to move out of Newcastle with Mavis after her terminal illness diagnosis, I’ve been struggling to get any further contact with a lot of my family other than my sister Nancy. She always comments that we could have stayed, and that she would offer any support we needed, but in truth both of us needed to get out of the city. The stress was getting too much for both of us. Mavis wanted to live the rest of her life peacefully and I wanted to work on my stories whilst I took care of her at our private residence outside the nearby town.

Perhaps even without the illness we were destined to come somewhere more private than staying in Newcastle. We were both slowing down as we got older, but I had hoped that I could just write my thrillers on my free-time and give it to my literacy agent Paul, though at a slower rate than I usual do – and which he had completely understood and was willing to let me take as much time as possible (though preferably sooner rather than a whole decade), but as Mavis’s condition got worse, my writing began to dwindle before I eventually stopped altogether. By then Mavis had to go into a hospital and I spent the rest of her last days with her as she slowly died. My manuscript is still on the computer along with my other works. I haven’t sent Paul an email because I don’t think I have a good enough excuse to contact him again about the latest novel I was supposed to work on. The novel I was working on is currently named Siren. The story is inspired by the town’s strange folk legend of a squid fish creature whose song lures her victims from land into the sea and drowns them there. Of course I couldn’t believe in such a thing, but it was a fun story that both we and my wife laughed in amusement when we first heard it and like two children joyfully talking about it throughout the night about what it could mean. We didn’t get far other than that it was a story about madness and death itself, or either that or something more humorously dirty we could think of as two sixty-something year olds. Though Mavis found it endearing compared to me, but I deep down suspected that said a lot about her situation as an omen to her just as much it was a story for me to write down.

Looking at my manuscripts the story that I wrote goes like this: A small fishing village reports of a bunch of mysterious murders that many of its locals claim to be from the attacks from a sea siren, of course our protagonist, the detective Joseph Calino suspects something greater, seeing that many of the victims were outsiders of the village, people who had moved into the fishing village for the real estates and he started his investigation across the area to solve the case; that was how much I wrote before having to take Mavis to the hospital for her last six weeks. I had only gotten to the first part of the character’s investigation interrogating a shop owner, before my wife collapsed on the floor trying to go and make a cup of tea for both of us. I had to go back and forth from the hospital to keep her company. One day, I nearly got in trouble for shouting at the nurse because he insisted that I left her for the night after demanding to stay a little longer, seeing how sad she was that I had to leave her again; I sat there during her last hours and –

I’ll have to get back to writing in another entry. It is too much for me right now. I’m plucking up all the courage as I am with these two pages so far.

Friday 17th August 2018,

I have decided that I should go out into the town centre like previously discussed with my doctor. I made it my plan to instead walk into the old town and purchase a book from the small book store and eat out at a local café rather than drive down around the local area for now. When I walked into the centre, I felt a strange sensation in my ear, like an extremely faint ringing as I moved closer to the local bookshop. I considered seeing if I could arrange an appointment to my doctor again when it then suddenly disappeared once I reached the doorstep. I assumed it was a moment of stress coming from having the courage to walk into the town, and I didn’t wish to bother Dr Sharma with a small thing like that. I walked into the shop and immediately saw a collection of thrillers of my liking, though some had been long published earlier like two years ago. I was happy at first, but it made me realise that nothing has really changed - rather that things have gotten colder for me. I knew some of these authors; I had met some of them over five years ago at parties with Mavis and they were wonderful to talk with and we had become friends with them. However, I think as time went by; we drifted away, becoming more occupied with our own lives, we stopped talking or interacting with each other and focused on projects and our true loved ones. That is when I truly felt like a stranger to this world. I stood there staring at a whole array of books looking just as lost, holding one of the latest books from these authors I was interested in buying to my side when the book shop owner recognised me and went up to see if she could help me. Speaking in an appropriately professional, concerned tone, she interrupted me from my momentary trance,

“Excuse me sir are you alright?”

“Yes, ma’am I am fine,” I said smiling, looking as active as possible for the young twenty-something bookstore runner. It was scary though, she looked like Mavis when I first saw her during a trip to the shores of Essex: a beautiful woman with brunette hair, round glasses and a small grey headband on her crown. Black and white blouse and carrying two books on her: one a hard copy of Moby Dick by Herman Melville, and On the Origins of Species by Charles Darwin. I continued with one of my quotes from my novels I really liked to say from time to time as I get older,

“Age is not the barrier of man, but the mind does get older, and William J Hollins has no longer a mind,”

She looked at me all confused, then like a flash of lightning, her expression changed as though she were in awe of my presence as she had realised who she was talking to,

“Oh, my goodness you’re Richard Holren,” she exclaimed, “the thriller novelist! My mother has read all your books – of course I remember that specific line because she likes to read aloud when I’m in the kitchen with her.”

“Oh, that is wonderful to hear,” I responded cheerfully, “I am deeply happy to see fans from across the country.” I picked up one of my own novels and brought both books to the counter. After purchasing them, I took the novel I had written, I opened the hardback, and signed the inside cover, and handed it back to the bookstore owner.

“I understand that your mother probably has this book but give this to her anyway as a form of gratitude from me,” I said to the owner of the quaint book store.

She smiled, nodding her head to thank me and put the book underneath the desk. I smiled back and walked out the shop, though just as much a stranger to her as before, felt my soul lightened after this conversation. I suddenly felt alert, as though someone were watching me. I turned around looking at the corner end of the street. I saw nothing as if whoever was watching me had disappeared in a flash. Not letting this deter me, I continued with the rest of my planned-out day.

Moving along as if the moment had never happened, I walked across the road to a nice-looking café, but when I sat down to order and read my book, I noticed that the town had a collection of crosses made of blue and pink flowers wrapped around long sticks tied together, one diagonal, the other horizontal hung up on walls and across the doors of houses. This was strange to me because there weren’t any Christian traditions that had something of that I could recall from my experiences, especially at this time of the year. When the waiter came, I asked him what was with these crosses. He’d simply explained that it’s some old tradition the locals have to ward off evil spirits. After thanking him for this information, I had simply made my order and he had left when I saw the reverend of the village sitting at the table opposite of me, he slid his chair to my table as subtly as he could. He was around his mid-thirties I had reckoned, with a straight posture, tall but surprisingly relaxed at the same time. Despite his meeker tone, he decided to talk to me about what these crosses meant,

“I apologise for interrupting you. I have seen that you were starting to read your book but I had overheard you asking about the purpose of these large bouquets arranged in the shape of crosses,”

“Yes – I'm aware about these crosses are used for warding off demons, I was wondering though if these have to do with this siren character the community have discussed about. You see I write a lot and this story has fascinated me a lot throughout my time here”

“Ah – Well, yes that. Personally, I hold no belief in the supernatural such as that, but speaking as the local historian of our small town as well as the reverend of its church, I have gained some better insights and can offer a helpful explanation on the origins of this creature than most of the residents here. What I have managed to gather is that this Siren only lured people already tormented by death itself.”

“That bit I didn’t know about. Only that they lured people into the sea”,

“Yes. I imagine this was very prevalent since this then-large village had a history of horrific, so‑called unexplainable plagues from 1562 to 1843, Miasma was often seen as the cause of these plagues, said to produce purple and red spots and whitening the hair. During periods of plague people made small ointments and covered the whole village with flowers and crosses before the winter arrived when the Siren had left the rocky shores of Norten to hibernate underneath the watery caverns. Nowadays, people just put these ornaments on for the sake of tradition,”

“So do you think that this might be the result of delusion rather than a real-life horrific creature or folk figure?” I questioned. I was jotting this explanation all down in small sentences. I somewhat admired the man for the diligence he had for his community and as a historian.

“Perhaps. A poetic manifestation of death itself like the greek sirens of the sea,” he responded. He seemed content with that one response and was waiting for me to write it all down.

I had finally jotted all that information down on a writing pad about the Siren, I knew I had something I could use for that story; the themes of community and a traumatic past I found inspiring, and I was certainly eager to put it into writing. However, something felt strange, like I was being watched again by something unfathomable, this time in front of me - something more visible than before. I could sense a calming shape of someone familiar, and the ringing in my ear returned louder than before. I looked to the third chair and saw nothing sitting there, empty space, and the ringing had abruptly stopped. I was sitting there unnerved for a moment. The concerned reverend asked me if I was alright. I calmed down and assured him that I was fine, explaining that I thought I'd seen someone who wasn't him. He understood, and we talked in general about a few things before he had to return to his table to eat his meal, and no later did mine. Once we both finished our meals, the reverend bid me farewell, and invited me to the next service this Sunday. I said I would think about it come Saturday. He smiled and wished me well and we went our separate ways.

As soon as I got home, instead of reading the rest of my book, I went back onto my computer and wrote in a furious passion the rest of the thriller, my speed as I tapped on the letters of the keyboards was at an extraordinary rate, that by the time It was eight in the evening, I had written about thirteen pages worth of story, and the day after I had completed another thirteen pages and today had done another eight pages so far. It was like my soul was being dragged into eternity. My mind for once was at an ease knowing I wasn’t as useless as I thought I was the morning two days ago. I am currently writing this small journal entry as a small break from writing the manuscript, and intend to continue. Though, I have been having some issues whilst I work. Once in a while, I kept turning around behind me expecting that someone is watching my back, and I get a little ringing sensation from my ears that I had to stop and sit down for five minutes before returning to my work. I feel like perhaps I need to take some time to rest; I think the stress is killing me, but I can only think about this novel now where before, I wasn’t able to pick up a pen and write down anything involving any fictional characters of mine. That conversation I had with the reverend truly sparked my fascination to this village’s history, and from then, my existence seemed to complete this manuscript and send it to Paul in the hopes to get my final book published. I am still thinking about Mavis, but I want to get this story done and have it dedicated to her.

Tuesday 21st August 2018

As the days have been going by, I have been getting slower again with my writing. I have been eating less and I’ve been struggling to sleep more. I feel like I am being watched every time, the ringing has transformed into a faint tune. Then it sounded more like Mavis whistling. It is like I’m being haunted by my muse – calling me - teasing me – as though she was trying to lure me away from the computer and follow her back to the coast. There I found myself staring at the sea. Yet I had to keep going, I wanted to get this final novel done but it is like the very force of nature pulling me away from my efforts. I felt like I was being dragged out of the building by invisible hands, from the living room to the door; the sound was becoming clearer every time I stepped down to the beach before moving back. Each time the water looked more inviting – I felt a strong urge to jump into the sea and submerge myself into it. No matter how I tried to resist — how hard I tried to ignore the temptation, the desire had grown stronger in me - consuming me like the incoming waves, pulling me even further toward it. I don’t think I’ll be able to complete this novel anymore. I think it’s time to walk away from it for now. I’m going to the sea.