I
Snowflakes still fell from last night’s blizzard. They were something beautiful to behold if you were inside a warm house or watching from a hotel balcony. They were something frustrating to handle if you were walking home or on the road. Thankfully, only one car drove where the snow was the worst. Unfortunately, the car’s driver could not afford to take his time. His name was Joseph Crane, and he needed to get to an interview. Though the subject of the interview would likely not care for time, Mr. Crane’s schedule was busy. He had many more interviews to conduct, and he was still expected to be back at the university in time for finals week.
The car left the main road, and the dirt roads jostled the driver. Crane grunted and hoped this interview would be a good one. He had been all over Michigan collecting odd tales and strange stories. You see, his university was partnering with the state to produce a collection of folktales. A collection of the stories which formed the fabric of the public’s imagination. Crane was chosen because he was his university’s single expert on the subject. He had written countless essays on everything from Irving’s Headless Horseman to Twain’s Jumping Frog. Of course, none of these essays could ever catch the collective consciousness quite like the works they discussed. No, Crane’s essays were left to literary journals which sat unread in university libraries and databases alike. Crane’s only readers were college students mining for quotes to include in their papers. Perhaps that is why Crane took the folktale collection so seriously. It was a chance to have something people would actually, hopefully, read. This collection would be at every park and historical site in the state of Michigan. Sleeping Bear Dunes, Tahquamenon Falls, Mackinac Island. All of these and more.
The car hit a pothole. The whole vehicle shook. Crane cursed and prayed that this next interview would be worthwhile. So far, he had only encountered common things in every folktale collection about Michigan. Devils, dog men, ghostly soldiers. All of it seen somewhere else. Where was the thing that would make Crane’s collection unique? Where was his book’s crown jewel? Crane told his editor about this problem. She did not necessarily share his concern, but she did understand it. That led her to schedule an extra stop on Crane’s journey up north. His editor had apparently called around searching for unique folktales. Eventually a friend of a friend told her about something called the Snow Siren. The informant had heard the story on a camping trip. The storyteller was an old mechanic named Ed Simon. A few more calls, and Mr. Simon was found in a town long forgotten. Crane needed this Snow Siren story to be worth his time.
The car parked at a small home surrounded by pine trees. As Crane got out, his perspective on the snow shifted. He had to admit the white piles resting on the trees were something to behold. Crane smirked and grabbed his phone. He meant to inform his editor he had arrived at the interview site. Instead, the message failed to send. Crane grumbled and shook his phone, hoping that would somehow make it work.
“Hey!”
II
Crane looked up from his phone. An old man wearing an even older-looking sweater moved onto the home’s porch.
The old man said, “No point being on that thing. Most phones don’t work up here.”
Crane put away his phone. “Guess I’ll call later then. Are you the one with the Snow Siren story? Mr. Simon?”
Simon leaned on the door. “I am. Had a fire going all day, so you won’t be needing that heavy coat of yours.”
Crane laughed. “Thanks, I’m not used to being here this time of year.”
Crane followed Simon into the home. The professor hung his coat in a small wooden hall and fixed up his shirt collar in a nearby mirror. Simon was already in the family room. He was rearranging the wood in the fireplace and moving chairs closer to the warm flames. Soon Simon directed his guest to the warmer seat. Crane sat and grabbed a notebook from his bag. He also set his phone on the arm of the chair to record the interview.
Simon sat. He waited for Crane to start.
Crane tapped his pencil along his notebook, “Alright, first things first. Please tell me a bit about yourself. It’ll help me write a blurb on you for the collection’s acknowledgements page.”
Simon rested his head on his hand. “Not much to tell. Lived here my whole life. Was a mechanic up until I retired, but I still go hunting every season. Family stopped coming up when my wife passed. I’ve always been a fan of sharing stories at the campground, and everyone always said I told the Snow Sirens’ stories the best.”
“So, was this a family story then?”
“No, it’s a true community tale. I actually learned it from my wife’s old neighbor. There was just something about how he told it. I couldn’t get enough. Wanted to hear more, so I went around finding every story I could. Eventually started telling the tale whenever anyone wanted to listen.”
Crane nodded along. “Okay. Could you give me a general gist of the Snow Siren? How she works? How she fits into the community’s mythology?”
Simon leaned back, deep into his chair. “Snow Siren’s said to be the source of strange disappearances during winter. She calls men to her chilling arms. When they meet her, she allows a brief moment of bliss before freezing them cold.”
“So, this is a wintery ghost story?”
“Most ghost stories happen at night. Siren calls at dusk and dawn. That way, those she summons may see her beauty. Makes sense since she lures men using their desires.”
Crane raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit unique. What does she look like?”
“That would be best revealed in one of the more popular stories.”
Crane prepared his pencil. “Let’s hear it.”
Simon cleared his breath. “Many years ago, a bride to be sat weeping on her wedding day. Her groom had run away just as day began to break. Soon a late guest arrived. He had seen the groom wandering through the woods. The heartbroken bride ran after her love. She wandered the woods for hours until the sun started to set. Finally, she found her hopeful groom freezing in the snow. Above him stood that beautiful fiend, the Snow Siren.”
Simon paused for dramatic effect. Crane somehow found himself on the edge of his seat.
The storyteller continued, “Before the bride stood a woman who was winter itself, a strange mix of purity and tragedy. The Siren’s dress was fine. Some parts were whiter than the bride’s own wedding dress, though others were darker than the night sky. The Siren’s fierce gray eyes belonged more with a wolf than a human. Her long, flowing hair was held in delicate braids. The startled bride reached out to see if her vision could possibly be true. The Snow Siren merely smirked and disappeared with a sudden blizzard.”
Simon paused once more. Again, Crane found himself on the edge of his seat.
The storyteller concluded, “Search parties found only a freezing bride begging for help beside her frozen groom. The poor girl had been too late. Winter’s Daughter had already claimed him.”
Silence lingered in the air once the first story finished. Only the crackling fireplace dared make any sound. Crane believed his hopes were finally answered. He had found his collection’s crown jewel.
Crane asked his host, “How many more stories do you have about the Snow Siren?”
Simon grinned. “Plenty.”
Many more tales were told. Stories across the entire history of a town long faded from history. The Snow Siren seemed to charm men from inside and outside the community alike. Simon told stories of campers lost in the woods. He spoke of drivers swerving off the road because of tiny glances at the siren. Simon told all these tales with such authority and experience. After all, not many new stories of the Snow Siren were being formed. The community behind the stories was fading fast. There did not seem much point for new stories when preserving the old ones took such great effort. The last attempts at new Snow Siren stories came when a few college kids actually returned to town for once. They tried to tell stories of a heroic Snow Siren who used her charms to save good women from bad men. Unfortunately, this virtuous siren never interested anyone. Something just seemed to be missing from these stories, so they faded almost instantly. Only vague memories remained.
Crane was submerged in the conversation. He shuddered and shook. He smiled and laughed. All sense of time faded away. The Snow Siren was bound to make his collection a masterpiece. State parks and historical sites would be only the beginning now. This was a story Crane could truly make his own. Of course, the story was missing something crucial to reach that scale. Something that started to eat at Crane the longer the conversation lasted.
Inspiration shook Crane’s hands with the burning desire to write. He just needed to know where to start. He practically demanded, “Where did the Snow Siren come from?”
Simon paused. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “No one truly knows. Some call the siren a betrayed bride. Her husband left her for another woman, so now she seeks revenge on all men. Others say she was the runaway. She got lost in the woods and now desires companionship only to freeze all she meets. Still others say she is the unholy child of December Cheer and January Misery, a creature of both pleasure and doom. After all, winter may hold our warmest holidays, but the harsh season also holds many tragedies.”
The room grew silent for the second time. Crane clenched his pencil. He still needed a place to begin.
Simon dared to break the silence. “Do you need anything else? Maybe a hot drink? You should be good for your book by now.”
Crane looked up to a nearby window. The sun was close to setting. “Sorry, I need to get going. Still have a few more interviews to do.”
Simon stood to guide his guest to the door. “Alright, have a safe trip.”
Crane nodded and grabbed his coat.
III
The car was back on the dirt roads. They shook the driver just like before. Crane grunted and gripped his steering wheel tight. He needed to find a way to begin the Snow Siren’s story in the collection. The thought had crossed his mind to play to the mystery angle. Begin with something like, “None know who she is. Fewer know what she is. A runaway bride? A vengeful spirit? Winter’s own daughter? All we know is her name, Snow Siren.” But that would be a stupid beginning. The Snow Siren deserved better. Crane deserved better. He needed to write something great. Something that would spread his name far and wide. Something to finally get people to read what he wrote. Playing to mystery like so many other folktale collections would just limit his work to gift shops and tourism centers.
The car remained on the dirt roads. Crane was sure he should have hit a main road by now. His phone finally buzzed with messages from his editor and other interview subjects. The messages, all hours late, were pleading to know where the writer was. Crane did not notice the messages. Not like those other interviews mattered anyway. He already had a few small stories to place around his crown jewel. The Snow Siren only even needed additional stories to fill the page requirements of the book deal. Honestly, Crane may have even been able to negotiate that the entire book be refocused to the Snow Siren.
The car hit a deep pothole. This one was bad. Crane cursed. He still needed a way to start the story. Why couldn’t Simon have been smart enough to trace the story’s origin? What a waste for a tale like that to be trapped in a dying town. The car ran another pothole. Crane jerked in his seat. Maybe the tale could have been part of other communities too. Perhaps one of those unread articles in the university’s library and databases held the key. They could contain information on the story’s spread through time and across communities. The car nearly flipped on yet another pothole. Yes, Crane could likely find something about the Snow Siren. A story that good had to have spread somewhere at some point. And the one, true, original tale would give the perfect beginning.
The car hit black ice and stopped moving. Crane growled and banged on his steering wheel. He grabbed his phone to call for help, but the signal was gone again. He now saw the messages he had received, but he did not care for them. The sun had still not fully set. Crane figured his only hope was to hike back to Simon’s house. The old man had been a mechanic after all. Even if he would not have tools, he still likely had some sort of phone that could work out here. Maybe Simon would even remember something about the Snow Siren’s true origin.
Snow began to fall. Crane knew he had taken a few turns. The quickest way back to Simon’s house would be through the white-capped forest of pine trees. There even seemed to be a trail at the edge of the woods. That had to be a walking path through the area. Crane walked along this trail. It weaved perfectly between trees and snow mounds alike. Despite the cold, Crane grew hopeful he would soon find his goal. Then the trail ended. There stood a frozen pond circled with the forest’s few dead trees among the pines. Winter winds moved through this place with power and grace. They called out to Crane.
He heard a woman’s voice.
Like This Story?
This story has a related blog post about its inspiration.
“Tale of the Snow Siren” will be one of the stories featured in my upcoming book Five Strange Stories, set to release on February 16. You can pre-order Five Strange Stories as an eBook on Amazon. A paperback version is planned. Five Strange Stories is enrolled in the Kindle Matchbook program, so anyone who buys the paperback can also get the eBook version for free.
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