This story originally appeared in the 30 Tales of Spring anthology by _Once_Upon
The ending is somewhat rushed and I'm not happy with it. I will edit it sometime in the future until then, be aware that this is a rough draft.

(Btw for those who might be interested, Naomi is a character from a very old story of mine  revolving around sirens that I started writing a long time ago but never finished)

Lorelei

I groan as I heave the box up and set it down on top of the waiting ones. The sound of clinking porcelain penetrates my ear as the items inside of it move and shift against each other. I blow a strand of my hair, that has come undone from my braid out of my face. Who would've thought that a bunch of tea cups could be so heavy?

"Careful with those, Naomi." Comes my mother's voice from my right as she peeks her head through the door frame. "Your grandmother spent years collecting these, we don't want to break them now that she's barely under the ground."

She sighs, running a hand through her dark hair and I can't help but notice that it looks less lush than it used to. Her nail polish is chipped and her blue eyes are rimmed with dark circles. Just like that, she seems to have aged several years over the last few days.

My hand lingers on the stack of cardboard boxes before me, fingertips drumming a quick beat of impatience. I hesitate for a second, contemplate whether I should ask her or not. But in the end, my obnoxious teenage-self wins.

"Are we done yet?" I say and try as I might, I can't seem to keep the annoyance from my tone.

No offence grandma, but I really need to call Anna and try to convince her into coming to Oliver's party tomorrow. I'm sure, if you were still alive, you wouldn't want to interfere with your granddaughter's love life, would you?

My mother sighs again, hands reaching down to brush the dust off her black blouse. She blows a strand of hair out of her face, just like I did earlier, before her eyes finally settle on me.

"No, we are not done." Her mouth is set in a straight line, disapproval written all over her features. "We still have to clear out the attic."

I want to groan again. This was supposed to be done in an afternoon, but now it has been two days. But I don't say anything, sensing that she won't like the response I would like to give. Instead, I turn and head for the attic.

When I manage to climb the steps of the old wooden ladder—carefully, as the thing keeps trembling and shaking with every tiny move I make, as if it might collapse at every moment—and peek at the single room, I feel like crying.

The place is cramped with boxes, shelves, and objects covered in white sheets. Specks of dust dance in the dim light that falls through the cracks in the roof. It will probably take the whole day to sort through all these things.

Why, oh why did my grandma have to be so obsessed with collecting useless stuff?

Cautiously, I climb to my feet and put one foot down onto the wooden floorboards. They creak suspiciously but seem to hold my weight well enough.

I take a look around, trying to decide where to start when a box in the far corner of the room catches my eye.

I won't be able to tell later why I felt compelled to take a closer look at it, but right now it seems to call out to me. So I duck down, careful not to bump my head against the sloping roof and let my fingers run over the lid, surprised that they don't come back covered in dust.

Inside, a stack of folders and books awaits me. I snort, of course. The woman was a librarian for half of her life and even after her retirement, she hadn't stopped collecting all kinds of written documents.

In a sudden burst of curiosity, I grab one of the topmost folders and flip it open. The smell of ink and age assaults my nose as my eyes land on a scrap of yellowed paper. It's crumpled, but neatly cut out from a newspaper.

LOCAL WOMAN MISSING

It looks old, really old, to the point where it's hard to decipher the script. As my gaze skims over the rest of the article, I'm convinced that I'm holding a historical document in my hands.

The young local Lorelei Dubois (23) has been reported missing on Monday. Concerned neighbours had contacted the officials when they had not seen her since last Thursday.

Dubois, who was known as a social recluse had been living on her own with her daughter in a little cottage near the cliff. Locals claim she had little to no contact with any of them ever since she had moved to the village a few months prior.

They described her as being in a 'constant state of sadness'.

The aforementioned cottage has been found deserted except for the little girl. The police have found a handkerchief, they assume belonged to the missing woman, near the edge of the cliff and evidence of Dubois' late husband dying in a boat accident.

Officials presume that Dubois was suffering from a long-term melancholia and thus her disappearance is classified as suicide in reaction to her spouse's death.

The body has not been found yet, but it shall be assumed that it was carried away by the current.

Dubois leaves a two-year-old daughter behind, Eleonore Dubois.

I frown, unsure why my grandmother would keep a newspaper article about some unknown woman. I leaf through the rest of the pages, but there are just more articles about people drowning near the cliff and even some handwritten notes about locals hearing singing around the rocks.

I look at the box at my feet again and that's when I see it: a book bound in leather. A thin string closes around the cover and when I lift the lid, pages covered in neatly looped handwriting stare back at me. It almost looks like... a journal.

I'm not sure why I didn't see it before or what to expect when I pick it up, but my curiosity has finally won over. And so despite the dirt covering the floor, I plop down and set the book onto my lap.

17th March 1807

My dearest Eleonore,

You are sleeping in the adjacent room as I am writing this, wistfully unaware of the woes wracking your mother's heart. My dear dear child, I cannot even begin to express how much it pains me to leave you behind like this, without a parent, without anyone to take care of you.

But I cannot go on like this. Even if you grow up hating me for abandoning you, I hope with every fibre of my still beating heart, that one day you will be old and wise enough to understand why it had to end this way. That you are better off without me, that I would have never left you had  I not loved you more than anything.

My sweet child, watching you sleep and knowing it will be the last time I ever see you, tears the rest of my soul apart, but I pray that one day when you read this memoir, you will be able to understand and forgive me.

Your ever loving mother

If possible, I'm even more curious now. My fingers turn the page without me ever making the decision to do so. My eyes sweep over the next page, which is again covered in the same handwriting.

March of 1803

This story, my dear Eleonore, starts on a sunny spring day in 1803, long before you were born my sunshine. But this was the fateful day that I met your father for the very first time.

I woke up that day, thinking it would be a day like any other.

My mother, your grandmother... may God rest her soul... gave me the same speech she always gave. About how I failed to behave like a proper lady. How at the age of seventeen, I still had not found an acceptable match to get married and leave her house to have my own household and children.

But that day, I did not pay her any mind, I was simply too excited to see my friend Klara again, who had spent her summer staying with relatives.

Maybe it was fate that instead of early March, it felt like May. It was almost as if the weather knew what would await me that day and the sun was trying its best to shine bright and warm my skin.

The first thing I saw of your father, was his uniform. Up close.

I must admit, your grandmother might have been right when she reproached me for not being as graceful as other young ladies. Because as I was walking in the park towards mine and Klara's secret spot, I tripped over the hem of my dress and straight into the chest of a young soldier, who just happened to be strolling the same park.

"Are you alright, Mademoiselle?" A baritone voice reached my ears and before I even looked up. I felt myself blush, not just from the embarrassment of stumbling into him, but more from the shivers that raced up my arms right where his hands were touching me.

When I finally did look up, I lost myself in the warmest hazel eyes I had ever seen. If possible, my face reddened even more as I mumbled an apology and tried to pull away, yet at the same time wracking my brain for a possibility to stay in his arms forever.

That was the moment, when I heard a familiar voice call out my name.

"Lorelei, there you are!" Klara approached us with much more grace than I could ever imagine to muster up myself.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she laid eyes on the man by my side, but her face lit up with a smile, flashing her charming dimples at him.

"Bonjour Monsieur," she said in perfect French, "Je suis Klara." She curtsied and continued as she reached out her hand for mine: "Et ça c'est ma meilleure amie Lorelei."

He smiled back at her, glancing at her longer than was probably necessary, already smitten with her charms, I could tell. But finally, he bowed.

"C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer, Mademoiselles. Je m'appelle Adrien."

Just that one meeting was enough for me to fall head over heels with him, it didn't even matter that he was not even a 'proper' gentleman, but a Frenchman. I wanted to be the only girl for him, the only one he smiled at or kissed.

I look up from the book in my lap, just to find that the light has dimmed in the little upstairs room. The sun has begun to disappear apparently.

How long has it been? I've been skipping back and forth in Lorelei's journal and totally forgot the time. And the fact that I was supposed to clean out the attic.

But instead, my attention is drawn back to the writing. I leaf through the pages once more until I notice several paragraphs that seem to have been written with less care than everything I've read before. The letters here seem rushed, penned with more force than the text a few pages back.

May of 1803

You will probably not believe what I am going to tell you next, my dear. And trust me, I would have a hard time to wrap my mind around this if I had not experienced it myself.

It was late spring and the air was humming with love and laughter, hope and sunshine. We were having tea at Klara's house. Out in their garden, sitting underneath the gazebo as the scent of peonies and lilac permeated the air, it happened that she suddenly giggled and under her breath—like the proper little lady she was —she told me that Adrien had been sending her flowers and letters.

If her mother was right, we would be hearing wedding bells soon.

Klara continued to sip her tea and nibble at her cake, but my own appetite had suddenly left me. That night, I cried myself to sleep. I had thought I had finally found someone special. Only to have him snatched away from me by a girl, who already had everything and was admired by everyone.

Why could she not let me have him at least?

I woke up the next morning with a broken heart and an aching head and maybe that was why I did what I did then. Somewhere in the deepest darkest hours of the night, I made a promise to myself: I would not allow my best friend to steal my Adrien away. I would fight for him, even if it meant conspiring with forces beyond my imagination.

I did not attend the mass that day. Sending a quick little prayer towards the heavens, I set out towards the outskirts of the town.

There was an old well just outside of town, on a little strip of bare land between where the houses ended and the woods began. People were too afraid to wander too far away from familiar grounds. Too superstitious, too.

That was why stories of a witch living near the well and the river near it kept most of us away and safely behind the borders of our little town.

But not me that day. The truth was, people were just as much driven by curiosity and the desire for the unknown. Oftentimes I had heard—always in whispered furtive conversations—how the witch by the well had the power to grant wishes. You could ask her for anything your heart desired, and in the blink of an eye, she would make it happen. All you needed, was a coin and a drop of your blood.

There was one thing I wanted most in the world and on that morning, I decided I would ask her for the love of a man.

I bled onto the coin and threw it into the well like I had heard people doing it in the stories. But unlike in those myths, no black smoke appeared, no mysterious voice whispered to me from the depths of the dark hole in front of me.

Instead, I was met with resounding silence. Blushing furiously and berating myself for my naivety, for believing, just for a second, that those stories might be more than just a fragment of someone's wicked imagination, I was about to turn and walk back home.

But then, a voice, too deep and rich to be coming from a female, reached my ear and stopped me.

'Do not be afraid, little lady,' it said when I jumped and took half a step back.

A woman, dressed in a simple white shift was standing in front of me. Her wild black hair covered most of her upper body as it fell in waves onto her shoulders and down to her tiny waist. Eyes the colour of violets were fixed on me.

'So, what is your name, little lady?' She inquired as she took in every little detail of my face before she smiled, looking more like a predator than an actual human.

'L—Lorelei,' I replied and felt my resolve that had been so strong just moments ago weaken and crumble beneath her dark gaze.

Maybe that was why Adrien had not bothered with getting to know me better, because I was a meek little girl.

'Lorelei, I like that. It has a wonderful melody to it.'

The witch let out a quiet laugh, sitting down onto the edge of the well. Her hand shot out and grabbed mine, dragging me down towards her until we were sitting next to each on the wall of the well, like best friends who were just having a chat.

'So, my dear Lorelei, what is it that you came to ask from me?'

I swallowed hard, but in a sudden burst of courage my pent-up frustration simply spilt over and the words spluttered from my mouth.

'I want to be loved,' I said, 'I want this man to notice me. I want him to be mine and only mine.'

The woman nodded but remained silent for several seconds and I found my heart sinking to the bottom of my stomach.

What had I gotten myself into? She was probably going to think I was crazy for demanding such a silly thing.

And then that same unnerving smile slid across her features again. She took hold of my hand again, the same one I had cut earlier and I noticed for the first time, that her fingertips were dripping with water.

'Do you like to sing, my dear?' She asked, her wet fingers tracing circles onto the back of my hand.

I was confused by her weird question, but all I could manage was a hasty nod.

'Sadly, I cannot make a man love you just like that,' she drawled. 'But I can give you a voice that will enchant and make him fall for you. Would you like that Lorelei?'

'I—yes. Yes, would like that.' I said, not knowing and honestly not caring what I was getting myself into right then and there. In that moment, there was only one thing I desired in the world: To be desirable to the man, who held my heart.

'I will only ask one tiny thing of you in return,' she told me. 'Do you agree to give me what I ask of you when I come to collect my reward?'

'Yes,' I said again.

'Then so be it.' She nodded and smiled before she leant forward lightning-fast and pressed a kiss to my lips.

Again, I skip several pages that consist of how Lorelei finally managed to win over Adrien by singing for him, how he had sent her flowers instead and how they had ended up getting married.

But I'm far from stopping to read this strange diary. I'm strangely fascinated with this woman's story and even though, I'm usually not the reading type, I find myself unable to put this one away.

November of 1805

Everything changed one day in November, barely half a year after you were born my dear Eleonore.

One night when we two were alone at home—your father had been called to duty and had not been home a few weeks—I woke from a frightful dream. Upon waking, I could no longer recall what I had seen that had riled me up so much, but tears were staining my cheeks when I opened my eyes.

I was still trying to calm my beating heart when I suddenly heard you whimper in your crib. But when I entered your room, the beating of my heart increased even more, because there was a dark figure standing right in front of the window.

I screamed and snatched you out of your bed, pressing you to my chest as you started to cry.

'What do you want?' I said to the dark shadow still lingering by the window.

It just let out a raucous laugh and when it stepped forward and light finally fell onto their face, I found a pair of violet eyes staring back at me.

'I just came to collect my price, sweetest Lorelei.'

I gasped, taking a step back. You cried louder in my arm, probably sensing my unrest. But in that moment, I was unable to calm down and comfort you. My eyes were drawn to the woman standing in your bedroom. Despite the cold, she was wearing the same white shift she had when I had first met her more than two years ago. Water was dripping from the hem of it, pooling in a puddle at her feet.

'What do you want?' I said again, with a little more strength in my words this time. 'We do not have any money.'

She smiled her predatory smile, her strange eyes glinting in the shadows flickering across her too-pale face. She reached out her hand and pointed at you.

'Oh, you can keep your precious money, dear. All I want is your firstborn.'

She approached me again, stretching her arms towards you. I, in turn, clutched you tighter to my chest.

'What do you want with my daughter?'

Her smile widened until her features resembled a mask more than a human face.

'Why, I need a successor of course,' she drawled. 'Are you refusing to pay the price you agreed to grant me?'

'I never agreed to giving you my daughter!' You whimpered again, louder than before as if you could sense my agitation.

The witch's face fell and darkened. 'You agreed to give me what I would ask of you.' Her lips parted and she revealed rows of sharp teeth, glinting dangerously in the dim light.

'You cannot have her. I will never give her to a monster like you.'

A cackling laugh escaped her, making me jump in fright once again. 'Oh my dear Lorelei, I am only a monster to those who betray me. You will see soon enough.'

And with that, she disappeared and the only thing that remained of her was the little puddle of water she had left behind on the floor by the window.

I did not know back then what she was really capable of, but she was right, I did see it soon enough.

My beloved child, when you grow up, people will tell you about your father's death. They will say he died in a tragic accident on a boat. They will say he died as a brave soldier. That none other than the vicious tides, who took them are to blame for his death.

But I know better, so when you read this, you will know, too. I know that it was her. I know that she sent that storm, made his boat turn over. She was the one, who pulled him six feet under and stole the breath from his lungs.

She did it to break me, to pay me back for refusing to give her what she really wanted, desperately needed—you.

But I could not let her have you. You are the person I love most in the world. My love for you is even bigger than my love for your father, you are my soul, my heart. You are my sunshine.

And that is why I have to take your place. In order to protect you and all the ones, who will be dear to you, I have to become a monster myself.

I am the one, who decided to call her, so I will be the one to carry the burden of this curse.

I flip the page, eager for more, wanting to know what happened to Lorelei and Eleonore. If they managed to stay safe from the witch, but to my disappointment, my fingers flip the last page of the book.

The memoir, Lorelei's story ends there and I sigh, straightening my back and getting off of the floor.

Just as I'm about to shut the book and return it to the box though, my gaze catches onto a paper lying on top of a dozen other books and folders. A familiar name blinks up at me.

I'm looking at a family tree—my family tree to be exact. My sister's, my mother's, my grandmother's names, they are all there, next to mine.

My head is buzzing as I flip back to the first article, eyes flitting over the page again, taking in the words with more care than I did before.

Lorelei. Her name had been Lorelei.

I could kick myself for not paying more attention earlier, for not making the connection right away.

We had discussed the legend in local history class before. The damn rock I was standing on was named after her. Or was she named after the rock? Considering that it was all just a myth. The story about a mysterious woman sitting on the cliffs, singing and combing her hair, while people below hit their boats on the sharp rocks and drowned, too engrossed with her voice to even pay attention to the current.

But looking through at these papers feels like looking at a police file. So many dead bodies, all washed ashore, all drowned in this same river.

And it had all started with Lorelei.