You've seen her before.
A girl in a ragged white dress, waiting by the side of the road.
One of these days, you'll stop for her. You'll ask her if she needs help, if she's lost, if there's anything you can do.
She'll say, sweetheart, I'm starving. Her voice will thrum softly through your veins, irresistible as a current.
You will already know, at that moment. You will know she isn't human. You will know you ought to keep your distance.
But you won't.
She will draw you close. Draw you out of the car. Away from the road. Her claws will sink into your arms and you'll shudder. She'll hum a soft tune into your ear, and you'll shudder again.
You won't look back. You won't call for help. You certainly won't scream.
You'll need that voice so badly, you won't be able to do anything but beg her to sing again, whenever she falls silent.
You won't even make a sound when the water closes over your waist — your shoulders — your mouth and nose — the top of your head.
It will be too late.
You will want to be drowned, like a sailor in a myth.
You will want to dress her in your blood.