Favia
A/N: If you'd like to hear this story narrated, check out my YouTube channel, FearScapes: https://youtu.be/kvn63yvFWrw
The Miami terminal teemed with retirees in matching visors, honeymooners joined at the hip, and a bachelorette party three mimosas deep by noon. She zeroed in on me as I cleared the sliding doors, materializing at my elbow even before I found the check-in line.
“First cruise?” Asked the woman in Jackie O sunglasses and a floppy red hat. Her voice had a strange quality, as though she’d prefer to sing rather than speak. “Oh, you’ve got something, just there—” She brushed the offender, probably a bug, from my lapel.
Alarmed by her sudden closeness and overpowering cloud of coconut oil and cheap perfume, I stepped back, pretending to straighten my suitcoat. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’re the only one not smiling.” She extended her hand. Diamond rings flashed on her long fingers. Gold bracelets jangled on her wrist. “I’m Favia.”
She looked too young to be a divorcee, although with a name like Favia, actress or nepo baby wouldn’t have been much of a stretch. “David,” I said. “David Dearborn.”
“Perfect! You’ll sit with me at dinner.” She hooked her arm through mine and steered me toward the gangplank. “I have a gift for reading people, David. Something tells me that you’re going to need a friend on this voyage.”
The word “gift” raised the hair on my neck. Of all people, I’d been ambushed by an amateur psychic. She’d probably want to read my tea leaves next.
The SS Meridian was one of those mega-ships that looked like a floating hotel casino: ten decks, three pools, a rock climbing wall, and enough buffets to feed a small nation. My cabin sat on Deck Seven, sandwiched between a family with screaming twins and what sounded like an extremely athletic couple on their honeymoon.
Later, after settling into my cabin, I discovered Favia had booked the suite across the hall.
“Isn’t this convenient?” She winked when she mentioned it at the welcome reception. By then, she’d traded her incognito look for a flimsy, strapless sundress. “We can have slumber parties.”
I sipped champagne, trying my best to look enthusiastic. I’d booked this trip to decompress after eighteen months of hell at the firm. The last thing I needed was a stage-five clinger with boundary issues.
Of course, Favia ignored every hint. She appeared at breakfast, sliding her tray next to mine. She claimed the pool chair beside me, though dozens sat empty. At the wine tasting, she emerged the moment I tried to leave early.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re avoiding me.” She slipped in front of me, blocking the exit.
“No, Favia.” I sighed. “I’m just tired.”
“You’re always tired. Or you have a headache. Or you need to make a call.” As she tilted her head, flashing perfect veneers, her platinum curls caught the light. “It’s almost like you don’t want to be friends.”
“I came here to relax. Alone.”
"How sad." She touched my arm, letting her fingers linger a moment too long. "Everyone needs someone, especially on a ship like this. You never know what might happen."
She strolled off before I had a chance to respond.
That evening, determined to find a Favia-free zone, I slipped into the ship’s theater for a presentation. Although not a fan of maritime mysteries, I refused to let her run me off a ship I’d paid thousands to board.
To my surprise, the small space was packed and the presentation already underway. I took a seat in the back row.
“Take the Devil’s Triangle, for instance.” The presenter projected a map onto the screen. “Also known as the Bermuda Triangle. In the last century, dozens of ships and planes have vanished without a trace.”
He launched into a veritable hit parade of unexplained disappearances—Flight 19, the USS Cyclops, the Mary Celeste—each punctuated by audience gasps.
“Some locals believe these disappearances are the work of sirens,” he said, clicking the next slide. “Creatures that lure sailors to their deaths with irresistible songs.”
“Sirens?” The middle-aged woman next to me crossed her arms, snorting. “Do you believe this rubbish?”
“Shh! He’ll hear you!” Her companion, wearing a string of pearls over her “World’s Greatest Grandma” t-shirt, nudged her in the ribs.
“Oh, come on, Frieda! Alien abductions and ships vanishing without a trace? What’s next, kraken sightings?”
I smiled. At least I wasn’t the only skeptic on board.
Three rows ahead, a woman raised her hand. Even in the dim theater, her platinum hair seemed to shimmer.
“Do you mean mermaids?”
Laughter and more expressions of disbelief rippled around her. As she turned to her detractors, my stomach sank. Damn it! No matter what I did, I couldn’t get away from her!
“Well, yes. Both are mythological creatures.” The presenter fumbled with his notes. “But some traditions do call them—”
“They’re not myths. Mermaids are real.” She rose. “Every sailor who’s passed through these waters knows it.”
“Let’s stick to documented cases for now,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time for discussion afterward. Already, I can see it’ll be a spirited one.”
Favia settled back into her seat, shoulders shaking. Whether with laughter or indignation, I couldn’t tell. By then, I didn’t care. Horrid woman! Who did she think she was?
I left before intermission. Anyone else might’ve locked themselves in their cabin for the night, but I was determined to find the one place on this floating hell where I could enjoy a moment’s peace.
In the end, I settled for the ship’s library. In our short time together, I’d never seen Favia with a book or magazine—nothing more demanding than a dinner menu. I liked my odds.
The Meridian’s “Book Nook” occupied a quiet corner of Deck Five. An intimate space with overstuffed chairs, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a calm expanse of moonlit black water. Lucky for me, it was also unstaffed this time of night.
After bypassing stacks of popular fiction and romance, I found the history section. Among the many maritime offerings, Vanishings at Sea: Documented Disappearances in the Western Atlantic, 1800-Present caught my eye.
It was dry reading at first, but a chapter about the Bermuda Triangle included a passenger manifest from the SS Calypso. While sailing from Miami to the Bahamas in 1987, the cruise ship vanished with three hundred and forty-two passengers aboard. There’d been no distress call, and no wreckage ever found.
Miami to the Bahamas: our route.
While the thought made me shiver, a rogue wave, sudden storm, or mechanical failure could’ve been plausible causes. But someone had paperclipped an old news article to the page. Sole Survivor Can’t Explain Tragedy.
The survivor's name had been redacted, though the article included a quote:
“I only survived because I… I made a choice. God forgive me.”
Below it, someone else had written a response, although it wasn’t in any language I recognized.
Mermaids are real. Favia’s singsong voice coiled inside my head. Everyone knows it.
Ghastly woman! I reshelved the book and hurried back to my cabin. Maybe by now, she’d have gotten the message. Let her glom onto another unsuspecting victim, some sap who could keep her dripping in diamonds.
Unable to sleep, I slipped out after midnight. Festivities were in full swing with a band on the Odyssey Deck—an 80s tribute group—mangling “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Wishing to avoid the crowd, I headed to the uppermost observation platform.
The rounded decks rose in a staggered formation, forming a misshapen horseshoe around the main level and party below. Though I could never completely escape the sound of the festivities, the distance dulled it well enough.
The Stargazer Deck sat empty and peaceful at the ship’s highest point. As I stood at the rail, enjoying the salt-scented air, the wind shifted, and the air pressure dropped. My ears popped.
Lightning flashed. Its gold-and-green sheet briefly illuminated something in the water. Dolphins, maybe? I leaned over the railing as far as I dared. Did they swim at night?
The music died in a burst of feedback. Then a voice drifted up from the main deck.
No, it couldn’t be! What were the odds? I slammed my fist against the railing.
Favia stood at the center of the stage, now wearing a long dress. A form-fitting number, sheer on the top with a hip-to-floor array of iridescent sequins. The kind of thing Cher would’ve worn for a Vegas gig.
Not content with monopolizing my time, she’d somehow managed to hijack an entire stage! Even worse, while she had a lovely voice, I couldn’t understand a single word of her song.
Did this woman have no shame at all?
Below, no one else seemed to mind. The passengers closest to the stage began to sway in time to the rhythm. I thought they were dancing at first, and then, when they moved, dividing into two long lines, maybe attempting some version of an old-fashioned reel.
Dancing people were supposed to look happy, weren’t they? Their faces, expressionless, resembled those of sleepwalkers. Still swaying, some tried to pick up Favia’s tune. The sound rose like a wave. Toneless. Emotionless.
When I saw where their lines were headed, I screamed for them to stop—for the music to stop—but my voice couldn’t compete with Favia’s song.
The honeymooners went over the side together, still holding hands. The retirees in matching visors followed. The bachelorette party, still in their sashes, shambled to the edge and toppled over. No one struggled or screamed, and no one resurfaced. The black water swallowed them whole.
I clapped both hands over my ears, but the melody resonated up my spine and into my skull. It changed nothing. Now, my feet began to move.
My rational mind screamed at my body to stop, to run, to do anything except walk down those stairs toward the main deck.
The dance floor had emptied by the time I reached it. Except for Favia’s song and the gentle lap of waves against the hull, a sound like soft kisses, the ship had fallen silent.
As Favia glided to me, what I’d thought were sequins had turned into fine scales that shimmered in the moonlight. Her platinum curls writhed and twisted, tasting the air.
“I knew you’d be last, David,” she trilled in a voice no human throat could reproduce. “The skeptics always are. You fight so hard, even when the truth’s right in front of you.”
“But...”
She opened her arms. “Save yourself. Be one with me.”
Below us, more shapes rose from the depths. Dozens of them. Pale-faced and shark-mouthed, hair frothing like chiffon scarves. Beautiful and terrible creatures with webbed claws and bioluminescent eyes.
“Why?”
“Does it matter, David?” Favia smiled, flashing her now-needlelike teeth. “You can join us willingly, or you can drown, and we’ll take you anyway. Either way, you’ll belong to us.”
Join or drown: a choice. I thought of the survivor’s account in the old news clipping. He’d made a choice, too, but he lied. No one was safe, no one immune from this evil.
I looked down at the writhing mass in the water. Then back at Favia. Join or drown? Either way, I’d be dead.
“Join us, David.”
On legs that refused to obey my brain, I staggered to the railing. One more step and I’d be over.
There are worse things than death. Choices you never thought you’d have to make. Decisions that turn you into something unrecognizable.
“Favia.” I took her hand.
The water was warmer than I expected.
...
Before you board your next cruise, check who’s watching the crowd. If someone picks you out before you even reach the gangplank, turn around and go home. Because once you hear the song, your only option is choosing what kind of monster you become.
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