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At the siren’s call came an immediate halt of universal noise, followed by the sinuous movement of earth wave; it shook, dusted off the empty shack, and finally, finally woke up the lazy man in the hammock.
It was a long call, the siren’s one, as it produced such a sweet, inviting sound that seemed ethereal and divine; it was almost a rule that nobody resist it. But how can one do so? That was a question to ask, as the voice, taunting now, lead the dazed man moving. The man didn’t know divine, for he was a sinner, a lonely deliverer of human error, but still he succumbed to the banal holiness of the voice, fell for it, until he was lured and mindless . . . charmed and claimed. Such was the intent of the voice.
And so he went to the origin of the sound, felt the incredible lightness as he put foot in front of foot. He didn’t feel the earth, though, only the air as he took slow drunken steps. So easy, so light, as if flying, the man had thought, and went on gaiting.
In his mind was the owner of the voice, a beautiful maiden whose snow-white hair fell willowy upon the small frame of her shoulders, then and again tousled by the adoring wind. It was a gentle picture that the man had conjured in his thoughts; it was tender and mysterious. It was once what he had lost, and now he swore to claim it and never let go again.
And so he walked and walked . . . walked and walked until he felt the pain move up from his feet and to his legs. The man didn’t mind one bit? his quest was worth more.
When he reached the place the voice hid in silence, produced a distressful atmosphere all around. Then there was the cast of moonbeams. They clashed onto the ground, merged as one brilliant white, and filmed the place with fairy-like glitters. His nervous heart fluttered at the sight of fantasy.
But bathed by the moonlight was a slender figure of a woman, a tiny shadow yards and yards away. Even from afar he was seduced. And so the man, being a creature weak from temptation, walked toward the mysterious woman.
It was when he was near that he regretted doing so.
Under the brilliant light of the moon was a woman showered with death stench, beneath her rested pools of blood, crept over the ground and scattered more. Their eyes met, held, then locked, and he saw sanguinity there, a kind of crazed desire and greed that turned his blood into ice.
The woman seemed to know of his thoughts as she smiled . . . smiled with the passion of death. And when the man started to run, she lunged furiously, outstripping the abrupt gust of wind.
It was midnight now as the owl screeched, as nightly predators went to hunt . . . and as the last bloodcurdling scream in the forest ended the man.