Story 1024: The Siren and the Silence

The village of Greystone Cove had been silent for seventy-three years. Not quiet—silent. No birdsong, no ocean breeze, no whispers from the wind. Just stillness, thick and unnatural, like sound itself had been drowned.

They said the silence was her doing.

The Siren.

Back then, Greystone had been a whaling village. Brutal, greedy, loud. They hunted the great sea beasts with iron and fire, their harpoons staining the waters crimson. One night, the men hauled in a creature they could not name. It had the body of a drowned maiden and the maw of a deep-sea god—eyes like moonlight, voice like thunder turned sweet.

They caged her.

Mocked her.

Dismembered her.

And when she sang—begged—they sewed her mouth shut with rusted hooks.

The next morning, sound vanished from the world.

The sea stood still. The villagers’ lips moved, but no voice came out. Bells wouldn’t ring. Fires wouldn’t crackle. Even the thunder refused to rumble.