The Siren Song of Pyramid Lake

I always liked to end my week out at Pyramid Lake—just me, my truck, a couple of cold beers, and a quiet you can’t buy. Right after the sun sank behind the mountains, I backed my old Ford into a shallow hollow by the lake’s edge.

There was a tall tufa formation to my east, almost like a sentinel, and a knuckled ridge of sandy rock to the right. I couldn’t pick up a single radio station where I was parked, just a lot of static, so I clicked the knob off and let the silence settle in.

The night air carried a slight chill, and the water slapped the shore with a lazy rhythm. It was peaceful, too peaceful. That’s when I heard it.

At first, I thought it was wind whistling through the rocks, but the more I listened, the clearer it became–soft, sweet, feminine—carried on the night air. She was singing. I couldn’t make out the lyrics, just long, sorrowful notes that seemed to bend and drift like smoke over the lake.

I sat up straighter. “Someone out there?” I asked the darkness. Nothing replied, but the song floated on.

Curious, maybe even enchanted, I pulled my flashlight from the glovebox and flicked it on. The beam sputtered—weak batteries. I cursed under my breath, reached behind the seat for the spotlight, and plugged it into the truck’s lighter. A loud click and a burst of white light shot out over the water.

I swept the shoreline—nothing. The reeds stirred a little, and the water glimmered, but I didn’t see a soul. Still, that voice pulled at me. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It just was. Like it had always been there, waiting for me to notice.

Leaving the spotlight behind, I grabbed the flashlight again and started walking toward the sound. The voice seemed to drift east, so I followed, stepping slowly and quietly like I didn’t want to scare it off. I made it a hundred yards before I realized the song had moved. Now, it came from the West. I turned and followed.

“Hello?” I called out, feeling a little foolish.

Silence.

Then something splashed, quick and sharp. I snapped the light toward it, seeing only water.

“Probably a fish,” I muttered.

Then—laughter. High, airy. A girl’s giggle, just at the edge of the light’s reach. I froze.

My beam danced across the water. That’s when I saw a shadow, just beneath the surface, sliding like a seal through the shallows. Then it vanished.

The hair on my neck rose. I knew the old stories. The Water Babies—little drowned spirits of Paiute legend. People said they cried like infants, lured you close, and then pulled you into the deep.

“Nope,” I whispered, backing up three, maybe four steps.

I was starting to turn when my heel caught on a rock, and I hit the dirt hard. The flashlight flew from my hand and rolled into the brush. Before I could even curse, the song that had lured me turned into a scream—shrill, long, full of rage and pain.

Scrambling to my feet, I ran up the hill, back to the truck, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my ears. I fired up the engine, threw it in gear, and sped off like the devil was after me.

The voice didn’t follow me, but the scream echoed in my head down the dusty road.

As the lake disappeared in the rearview mirror, I remembered something from a book I read once. About how sailors used to leap from their ships, enchanted by the singing of sirens. Voices so sweet you didn’t even mind dying.

I cracked a fresh beer with shaking hands and didn’t take my eyes off the road.

That night, Pyramid Lake didn’t just feel lonely.

It felt alive.