Salt spray kissed her face as Marie stared out at the turquoise expanse. It was a morning like any other on Saint Barthélemy – or so it seemed at first glance.
The usual gentle rhythm of the waves breaking on the shore was present, the familiar scent of the sea filled her nostrils, and yet, a subtle discordance vibrated beneath the surface of the day's apparent tranquility.
The island felt… wrong.
It wasn't a dramatic shift, no sudden cataclysm or obvious terror. Instead, it was a creeping unease, a dissonant chord struck within the symphony of island life.
The vibrant colors seemed slightly muted, the normally cheerful calls of seabirds held a strained quality, and the laughter of children playing on the beach sounded thin, almost brittle. Marie, a lifelong resident, felt it deep in her bones, a primal instinct whispering of disruption to the established order.
She traced the rim of her coffee cup, her brow furrowed. The disappearances had started slowly, almost imperceptibly. A surfer here, a windsurfer there.
At first, it was dismissed as the inherent risks of their pursuits, the ocean claiming its own, as it sometimes did. But then, the frequency increased.
Too many seasoned watermen, individuals who knew the currents and the moods of the sea like the backs of their hands, vanished without a trace. No wreckage, no bodies, just empty boards bobbing aimlessly on the waves.
A shiver, unrelated to the morning's mild breeze, danced down Marie's spine. It was more than just the missing surfers now. It was the sound.
A strange, melodic humming that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once. She'd first noticed it days ago, a faint undercurrent to the usual sounds of her home.
At first, she'd dismissed it as the wind whistling through some unseen crevice in her old family house. But it persisted, growing slowly but steadily in volume and clarity.
It wasn't the wind. It was singing.
A low, resonant vocalization, almost like a choir of voices harmonizing just beyond the threshold of hearing.
It resonated in the walls, vibrated through the floorboards, and seemed to seep from the very pipes in her house.
At night, it was worse, the island's usual nocturnal quiet punctuated by this unsettling song, growing louder in the stillness. Sleep became a fractured thing, punctuated by uneasy awakenings and the constant, droning melody.
"You hear it too, right?" Marie had asked her neighbor, Jacques, yesterday, catching him tending his small garden. Jacques, a weathered man of few words and even fewer expressions, paused his weeding and straightened up, his eyes, the color of faded denim, meeting hers.
"The… humming?" he'd finally responded, his voice raspy. He didn't look at her directly, his gaze drifting towards the colorful bougainvillea cascading over his fence. "Yes. I hear it."
His admission was reluctant, almost grudging, but it was confirmation.
She wasn't imagining it. The song was real, and others were hearing it too. "Do you know what it is?" she pressed, needing some kind of explanation, some anchor in the rising tide of fear.
Jacques simply shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement. "No. But… it isn't right. It's in the pipes, Marie. Listen closely. It comes from inside the walls." He turned back to his garden, dismissing her with a quiet grunt, and returned to pulling weeds, leaving Marie standing there, the weight of his words settling upon her.
He was right. It was in the pipes. She'd gone back inside her house and pressed her ear to the cold metal of the plumbing beneath her sink. The singing was clearer there, a distinct, almost musical vocalization.
It wasn't human, not quite. It was too low, too resonant, and possessed an unsettling quality that defied easy description. It was beautiful, in a strange, haunting way, but also deeply, fundamentally wrong.
This morning, the singing was louder than ever. It had woken her before dawn, a persistent drone that vibrated through her mattress and rattled the windowpanes. The sky outside was a pale grey, the sun still hidden behind a bank of low-hanging clouds.
The beach, usually teeming with early morning surfers eager to catch the first waves, was eerily deserted. That's when the full weight of it hit her. It wasn't just an unsettling sound. It was connected to the disappearances.
The surfers. They were drawn to the water, to the ocean's roar, and maybe… maybe they were also drawn to the song.
A siren song, emanating not from the sea itself, but from within their own homes, from the very infrastructure that connected them. The pipes. The water supply. Something was using the island's plumbing as a conduit.
Marie set down her coffee cup, the lukewarm liquid untouched. She needed to do something, anything, beyond simply listening to the dreadful melody and watching her community vanish piece by piece. But what could she do?
How did one fight a song that lived within the walls, a sound that seemed to seep into the very foundations of their lives?
Hesitantly, she walked to the sink again, placing her hand on the cold metal pipe beneath. The vibration of the singing was stronger now, almost palpable. It felt… alive. A terrifying thought took root in her mind. What if the song wasn't just a sound? What if it was… calling to them? Calling to the surfers, luring them out to sea with its haunting melody?
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her initial unease. This was no longer just strange; it was dangerous. She decided she had to go to the authorities, to the Gendarmerie.
Maybe they would dismiss her concerns as hysteria, the fanciful worries of an over-imaginative woman, but she had to try. Silence was no longer an option. Silence meant more disappearances. Silence meant succumbing to the insidious song.
Stepping out of her house, the morning air felt heavier, pregnant with unspoken dread. The humming was pervasive now, no longer just an undercurrent but a constant, droning presence.
She could hear it everywhere, in every house she passed, in every building, a collective, subterranean chorus that blanketed the island.
The streets were unusually quiet. Where were people? Usually, by this time, the small town center would be starting to stir, shops opening, the aroma of fresh bread wafting from the bakery. Today, it was still, almost desolate.
A few figures moved in the distance, their steps slow, almost listless, their faces drawn and pale. They seemed… subdued, as if the song was draining something from them, something vital.
Reaching the Gendarmerie station, she pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The usual brisk efficiency of the officers was absent.
The main room was dimly lit, only a single desk lamp casting a weak circle of light. Behind the desk sat a young officer, his uniform rumpled, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He looked up as she entered, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," he mumbled, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. "What can I do for you?"
Marie took a breath, trying to organize her thoughts, to articulate the nebulous fear that had taken hold of her. "It's about the… the disappearances. The surfers. And the… singing."
The officer blinked slowly, as if struggling to comprehend her words. "Singing?" he repeated, his brow furrowing slightly. "What singing?"
Frustration flared within Marie. How could he not hear it? It was everywhere! "The humming," she clarified, her voice rising slightly. "The sound that's coming from the pipes. Everyone is hearing it. And it's connected to the surfers vanishing. I know it is."
The officer sighed, rubbing his temples wearily. "Mademoiselle, with all due respect, we are aware of the missing individuals. We are investigating. But singing… pipes? Perhaps you are a little… stressed?"
Stressed? Yes, she was stressed! Terrified was more like it. But this wasn't just stress; this was real. People were disappearing, and this… this officer was dismissing her because she was talking about singing pipes? "Listen to me," Marie pleaded, stepping closer to the desk. "Go home. Go to your own house. Put your ear to the water pipes. You will hear it. It's a song. And it's calling people. I think… I think it's luring them into the ocean."
He stared at her for a long moment, his expression blank. Then, slowly, a flicker of something that might have been curiosity, or perhaps just weariness, entered his eyes. "Alright," he said finally, his voice barely a whisper. "I will… listen. But Mademoiselle, I must ask you to remain calm. We are doing everything we can."
Calm? How could she be calm when her island was being consumed by a silent, insidious horror? Marie left the Gendarmerie station feeling a profound sense of isolation. If even the authorities wouldn't listen, who would? Who could she turn to?
Returning home, the humming seemed to have intensified again. It was no longer just a background drone; it was becoming a dominant force, a relentless vibration that permeated every corner of her house.
She felt it in her teeth, in her bones, a constant, unsettling resonance. And the silence outside was even more profound now, the streets utterly deserted. Where had everyone gone?
Suddenly, a thought struck her, cold and sharp as shattered glass. The surfers were gone. But what about the others? The non-surfers? Were they also… affected by the song? Were they… leaving too? Disappearing in their own way, drawn not to the sea, but… somewhere else?
Panic began to claw at the edges of her composure. She ran to the window, peering out at the empty street. A movement caught her eye.
Down the road, a figure emerged from a house, walking slowly, deliberately, towards… somewhere. It was an old woman, Madame Dubois, who lived alone two houses down. Her steps were unsteady, her posture slumped, but there was a strange, determined set to her shoulders.
Marie watched, frozen, as Madame Dubois continued to walk, further and further away from her house, heading towards the… the woods at the edge of town.
The woods that locals avoided, whispering stories of strange occurrences and unsettling shadows. No one went into those woods willingly. Unless… unless they were being called.
Driven by a desperate impulse, Marie burst out of her house, running after Madame Dubois. "Madame Dubois! Wait!" she called, her voice cracking with fear and exertion. The old woman didn't stop, didn't even seem to hear her, her pace unwavering, almost trance-like.
Marie gained on her, finally catching up and grabbing her arm. "Madame Dubois! Where are you going? It's not safe!" She pulled at the old woman, trying to turn her around, but Madame Dubois was surprisingly strong, her grip surprisingly firm.
"The song," Madame Dubois rasped, her eyes glazed over, unfocused. "It calls me. I must go. It's… beautiful." Her voice was devoid of emotion, flat and monotone, like the officer at the Gendarmerie station.
Marie felt a wave of icy dread wash over her. They were all being affected, not just the surfers. The song was spreading, its insidious influence seeping into the minds of everyone on the island. It wasn't just luring them to the sea; it was calling them… away. Away from their homes, away from their lives, towards… what?
With a surge of adrenaline, Marie wrestled with Madame Dubois, pulling her back towards the houses. The old woman resisted, muttering about the song, about beauty and peace, but Marie held on, dragging her, stumbling and panting, back towards the safety of their street. Safety? Was anywhere safe anymore?
She managed to get Madame Dubois back to her house, locking the door behind them, bolting it shut against… against what? The song? Could she lock out a sound? A feeling? An irresistible compulsion?
Inside, the humming was deafening now, vibrating through the very air. Madame Dubois slumped onto a chair, her eyes still unfocused, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Beautiful," she murmured again, her voice barely audible above the droning song. "So beautiful."
Marie sank to her knees, her head spinning, despair threatening to overwhelm her. The island was being emptied, consumed not by violence or destruction, but by a song. A song that lured people away, into the unknown, into… oblivion?
She thought of her family, her friends, all the familiar faces of her community. Where were they? Were they all walking, like Madame Dubois, towards some unseen destination, drawn by the siren call of the pipes? Was she the only one left who could still hear the dissonance, the wrongness of it all?
Suddenly, the singing shifted. It didn't get louder, but… different. The melody changed, becoming more complex, more intricate, weaving a new pattern, a new… emotion into its haunting harmony.
It was no longer just beautiful; it was… personal. It felt like it was speaking to her, directly, intimately, resonating with something deep within her own soul.
Marie felt herself swaying, her head tilting, her gaze drawn towards… the pipes. The pipes in her own house, singing their insidious song.
The call was stronger now, more insistent, more… tempting. It wasn't just a sound anymore; it was an invitation. An invitation to… what? To join the others? To follow the song?
She stood up, her legs moving as if of their own accord, walking towards the kitchen, towards the pipes beneath the sink.
The song resonated within her now, filling her mind, drowning out all other thoughts, all other feelings. It was… peaceful. Yes, peaceful. And beautiful. So beautiful.
Reaching the sink, she placed her hand on the cold metal of the pipe, the vibrations intensifying, merging with the song in her head, in her very being.
It felt like… coming home. Like finding something she had been missing, something essential, something… true.
Her other hand moved, reaching for the wrench hanging on the wall, the wrench her father used to use for plumbing repairs.
Her fingers closed around the cold metal, the weight familiar in her palm. Purpose filled her now, a clear, undeniable directive. She knew what she had to do.
With slow, deliberate motions, she began to unscrew the pipe beneath the sink, the wrench turning smoothly in her hand.
Water began to drip, then trickle, then gush, spilling onto the floor, flowing around her feet, but she didn't stop. She kept unscrewing, loosening the pipe, releasing the water, releasing… the song.
The humming intensified further, reaching a crescendo, a vibrating, resonant peak, and then, as the pipe finally came loose, it abruptly stopped.
Silence descended, heavy and absolute, replacing the pervasive song. A silence so profound, so complete, that it felt deafening in its suddenness.
Marie stood there, water pouring from the severed pipe, soaking her clothes, flooding her kitchen floor, the wrench still clutched in her hand.
The silence pressed down on her, an oppressive weight, broken only by the sound of rushing water and her own ragged breathing.
The song was gone. But so was everyone else.
Looking around her empty house, the silence echoing in every room, Marie realized the brutal truth.
She had stopped the song. But she was too late. Everyone was gone. The surfers, the townsfolk, even Madame Dubois, who had slipped away in the confusion, drawn back to the call she could no longer resist.
She was alone. Completely, utterly alone on a silent island, surrounded by the ghosts of a community vanished by a song.
The water kept pouring, a relentless, indifferent flow, mirroring the tears streaming down her face. The sun, finally breaking through the clouds, cast long, empty shadows across the flooded floor.
And in the deafening silence, Marie understood. She had saved herself, perhaps. But at a cost so immense, so devastating, that survival felt like the cruelest fate of all.
The island was silent, and so was her heart, broken by the song that had stolen everything, leaving her behind in a world of echoing emptiness and the crushing weight of absolute, solitary loss.