The Lullaby of the Tide

The field trip to Isla Verde was supposed to be the highlight of our marine biology semester. Dr. Reyes had promised us bioluminescent plankton, untouched coral gardens, and a night dive that would change our lives. The island itself was a speck on the map, a cluster of thatched huts and a single dive shop, reached by a rickety bangka that smelled of diesel and fish. We were a group of twenty, buzzing with excitement, ready for three days of sun and science.

The first day was perfect. The water was impossibly clear, and the reef was a kaleidoscope of color. We snorkeled until our fingers pruned, then feasted on grilled tuna and mango salsa at a long wooden table under a canopy of acacia trees. The owner of the dive shop, a wiry old man named Mang Lito, warned us about the night tide. ‘It pulls strong after midnight,’ he said, his eyes crinkling. ‘Don’t swim alone. And don’t listen to the singing.’ We laughed it off, exchanging glances. Island superstitions were part of the charm.

As dusk settled, the island transformed. There were no streetlights, only the soft glow of kerosene lamps from the huts. The generator sputtered to life for a few hours, but by nine, it was cut off, plunging us into a silence so complete that the rustle of palm fronds sounded like whispers. We gathered around a dying bonfire on the beach, toasting marshmallows and sharing ghost stories. Dr. Reyes, normally so composed, told us about his own encounter during a research trip to a remote Filipino island. ‘I woke up to a woman’s voice outside my tent, singing,’ he said, his voice low. ‘It was so beautiful, so mournful. My guide told me it was the sirena, the mermaid spirit. She lures fishermen to their doom.’ We shivered, but the warmth of the fire kept us grounded.

Eventually, we retreated to our lodgings—a row of bamboo cottages on stilts. I shared one with my friends, Mia and Paolo. We were exhausted, but the images of the day kept replaying in our minds: the vibrant fish, the gentle waves, the strange tattoos on Mang Lito’s arms. We fell asleep to the sound of the surf, our bodies heavy with salt and sun.

I woke with a start. The room was freezing, despite the warm tropical night. The aircon, an old rusty unit, was rattling loudly. I checked my phone: 3:47 AM. I shivered, pulling the thin blanket tighter, but the cold seeped into my bones. I got up to lower the thermostat, clicking it down to its lowest setting. As I crawled back into bed, I heard it—a faint, melodic humming, barely audible over the aircon. It sounded like a lullaby, in a language I didn’t understand. I dismissed it as wind through the bamboo, but it persisted, growing clearer, more insistent.

I tried to wake Paolo, but he was in a deep sleep, his breathing slow and rhythmic. Mia was the same, a smile on her face. I lay there, frozen, as the humming seemed to come from just outside our window. It was beautiful—ethereal, like nothing I’d ever heard. It tugged at something deep within me, a longing I couldn’t name. I felt my body move, as if of its own accord, toward the window. My legs were heavy, but I couldn’t stop them. I was drawn to the sound.

I don’t remember opening the door. But suddenly I was on the beach, the sand cold and wet between my toes. The moon was full, casting a silver path across the water. And there, at the edge of the surf, stood a figure. She was waist-deep in the water, her long black hair cascading down her back, her skin pale and luminous. She was facing away from me, but I could see her shoulders moving, as if she were humming. The tune was the same one I’d heard in the room, but now it was richer, more resonant, filling the air like a physical presence.

I felt a pull, an overwhelming urge to walk into the water. My heart was pounding, but my feet kept moving. The cold water lapped at my ankles, then my knees, then my thighs. The figure began to turn, and I saw her face—beautiful, but unnaturally still, her eyes dark and empty. She smiled, and her mouth opened, and the song poured out, wrapping around me like a silken net. I felt my body go numb. I thought of my friends, of Dr. Reyes, of the warnings. But all I could think of was the song.

Then, a tremendous force yanked me backward. I was on the sand, gasping, coughing up saltwater. Mang Lito stood over me, his face grim, holding my arm with a grip like iron. He was shouting something, but I couldn’t hear it over the ringing in my ears. He dragged me away from the water, back toward the cottages. As I stumbled, I looked back and saw the figure sinking into the waves, her eyes still on me, until there was nothing but the silver path.

Back in the cottage, Mang Lito gave me a cup of warm ginger tea. My teeth were chattering, and I couldn’t stop shaking. ‘You saw her,’ he said, his voice low. ‘The sirena. She takes the ones who are lost. She sings their soul into the sea.’ I asked about the others, but he told me to rest. In the morning, I found that Mia and Paolo were fine, unaware of anything. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been taken from me that night.

We left Isla Verde the next day, but I haven’t been the same since. Every night, at 3:47 AM, I wake up cold and shivering, and I hear that lullaby, soft and sweet, coming from the darkness outside my window. I’ve tried earplugs, sleeping pills, but nothing helps. The song is always there, waiting, pulling me toward the sea.

I know now that the tide never really lets go. And she will always be singing.