Dancing Children, pt. 1

Maran woke up to a strange wind that gusted through the house followed by a loud thud. She was awake, moreso than the rest of her family hopefully. In the chill of the night, it was possible there was a draft, but the old style of the Edenton was durable to stand the cold of winter. It could've been an opened door or window from downstairs, in which case the proper action to take would be to call the police and report a break-in. It would've been logical, but that wouldn't happen. She didn't really suspect a break-in. There was a window or door open somewhere and she had a feeling her sister had something to do with it, not a burglar.

Kirsa, her sister, had always been the restless type and her walking around in the dead of night was not unusual. When she snuck in the back door last time she had to intervene to give her sister the most subtle informative talk at two in the morning. Never before had she spoken to her about sneak tactics, but she managed to mention the back porch and ledge. Her sister was a bit of a slacker and Maran wasn't exactly daughter of the year, having slipped out at all hours of the morning herself until she was sixteen.

As a student, Maran found herself more immersed in her social activities than in her studies. It wasn't that she was popular—she wasn't—but that she fell in with a rather violent group and ruined her reputation with fights. Her mother caught her sneaking in through the back yard when working in the den. Up until that moment, her mother hadn't shown she suspected. A couple of months of intense therapy and some serious family time, she was a semi-model student. Now she was very well off their radar and into the proverbial melting pot of ignorance. She hated it, for the most part, but she didn't mind not being noticed. It was a sacrifice to let people think she'd converted to the social cult of America.

Normal people would've turned over and gone back to sleep. Maran in her old ways would've gone to shut the window before doing the same, but now her reaction was to go down and investigate somewhat. A likely scenario would be a midnight snack and paranoia and a positively embarrassing lecture from those awake.

But this felt different. Kirsa was usually quieter than this. There was no real possibility of drinking since she was more trouble when sober, but Maran needed to investigate. She sat up, ran a hand through her short brown hair to even it back, and pulled the sheets away. Her feet were itching to move, and it was driving her to leave the room in haste. Something about that wind was borrowing her for a moment, and she felt nearly entranced. The air was so thick she had to get to the door.

Then she heard it, the music. It was so faint that she had to concentrate to hear it. The eerie sound carried her away from her bed, getting louder as she gained distance. Almost to the door, her feet were moving alone to match the music coming from outside. It felt as though a warm blanket was being thrown over her, comforting her and lulling her into a deep sleep. Her body seemed to be in tune to the woodwind sound, but her mind was dozing too quickly for her taste. This shouldn't have been happening. She was in control of herself, she didn't need some outside force to try and exert power. The music suddenly became louder. Her arm shot out and grabbed a coat rack outside of her door, flinging sweaters and a hat into her mother's door. The woman could sleep through a nuclear blast.

Kirsa's door was wide open, and her curtains were billowing. Maran forced herself to concentrate on the cold in the walls as she dragged herself down the stairs and towards the front door, coat rack in tow. Her grip was painful, bringing her closer to what it felt to be awake. There was the choice to make now, whether to bring a weapon to the fight or play it by ear. She wasn't without any fight in her body, a mind of her own and several years in a karate class made her able to defend herself.

A voice appeared in her head, a soothing one with such an alluring sound that she found it hard not to listen. It was too calm and it caused her a headache because no one really sounded like that. The voice was promising her peace and quiet, things she desperately wanted, things Anyone would be foolish not to want so much. Grabbing the railing to the stairwell, she felt her feet almost fall into step and take her headfirst down the stairs. Peace and quiet, a place of her own where she could live. Away from the noise of the world she lived in. It was not far, and she could go with them and they could all live happily ever after. . . Maran scoffed then, her mind focusing on her hand gripping the handrail. Her body was turning to jelly about peace and quiet, but that was exactly the problem. Everyone wanted peace and quiet, so what was so special about that? The voice got quieter as she kept thinking, the fog in her mind disappearing as she became more skeptical of the sounds coming from inside her head.

Her body was back in her control. Finally, she thought. Now, lets see if we can find something worth going after.

She made her way down the stairs and peered into the living room. No one. There was a clear view to the dining room. That meant they were either in the dining room or kitchen, where there were tools of destruction. Maran didn't want to make herself vulnerable to attack. To meet an intruder without properly having something to bring to the fighting ring would be dangerous. The music began to fade, her senses returning to her. The post in her hand was snapped in half over her knee, which hurt at first but was a fade compared to the cloudiness from just now. Was there someone in the house other than the three of them? She made her way down the stairs quietly, dodging the creaky steps and holding her breath as she ventured towards the living room.

Then she heard mumbling around the corner. Kirsa was talking to someone in the kitchen, not begging or conversing like usual—which in her case was near yelling—but answering questions in an almost cheerful disposition. Kirsa wasn't a chipper person by any means, just like her sister. Maran's ears prickled a little at the mention of her name, and there was no secret about her position now. The splintered rod in her hand served well as a weapon, and she had every intention of using it on an assailant.

"She's overprotective, violent, and strong." Kirsa's voice. It didn't sound like her at all, more chipper and automatic, but the tone was not really unmistakable. When you lived with someone long enough, some things were automatic. Her hand clenched around the pole and she heard a male voice, accompanied by the returning music. This time it was louder than before, as though trying to convince her to fall back asleep. At first she thought it was a good idea, the sleep so calming it was sickening. It was a mellow light in the black. . . Then she heard her sister giggle. He giggled as well. His shrill sound pierced her eardrums, deadening the eerie tune again. Never again, she promised herself.

"She is a stubborn one," the male voice said again. He had an accent, possibly German, and why he was in her living room, Maran wasn't sure she'd find out right away and enjoy the answer if she did. "We'll have to bring her in to say hello." The music stopped altogether, but there was the opening of a drawer. Someone was going for something sharp. Crap, crap, crap. Maran's heart sped up and her grip loosened on instinct. She needed to get this one right. She also hoped that Kirsa wasn't going to let someone hurt either of them.

She just needed to stay completely quiet and strike when the opportunity was best. Then a voice whispered to her. "Psst. Who are we waiting for?" Maran tensed and saw spots. Turning, she found the broken coat rack gone from her hand and missing completely while staring into the face of a young man, quite a bit shorter than her. At five-foot-nine, Maran towered over many of her classmates and it helped with intimidation at times. The man was about four-foot-nine, and he carried something at his side. It looked like a recorder, but it looked so old. He wore a green shirt and tights, a belt holding his clothes up. Something told her he didn't belong from this region or even time, his clothes suggested. It worried her.

"Are you the sister?" His accent, so thick, was like an ice cube down her back. Her nails were digging into her palms, trying to grab onto the pole again that wasn't there. "I took away your little toy as good little girls don't play with sharp objects."

"Who are you?" Her voice cracked, it was so dry. The man grinned so wide his teeth glinted. His teeth were sharp enough to tear through leather, and that scared Maran. Many people were scared off by threats, idle or not. Maran's fears were based more on actual experience. Sharp things cut deep, and she'd been torn into before. The man looked so sure of himself that he could cut into her as well.

"Call me Hamelin. I'll be taking your sister. You're too old, a giant I'm afraid, but the journey specifically states that no giants are to be admitted."

"I'm not a giant. There are a lot of tall kids around. As I recall, you weren't able to hold onto me, not the other way around." There. The slight sneer and unwavering smugness he bore into her was moved just a bit.

"Either way, you're not a child by far, giant." The name he'd given her spiked her anger the slightest bit, driving away some of her fear. For a moment she could feel the weight of the post in her hand. She hadn't been aware of a cloudiness fogging her vision as she stood facing him. Her memory didn't feel like it was all there. Maran could hear her sister creaking up behind her, and turned to catch the hand sailing down to her soldier before it reached her. Kirsa had a knife and Maran had nothing. Thankfully Kirsa was also shorter and though she had a good right hook, she was no match for her older sister. Maran's eyes went wide as saucers when she spotted the look in those once dull eyes. They were green with excitement in the glow of the outside lamplight as she tried to push the knife down with incredible strength. The eldest of the two ducked under her sister's arm and twisted it back behind her, removing the blade from her hand. Maran had no idea what happened to her sister, whether she was in on this psycho's game or if she was hypnotized. She'd hurt the kid if she had to, but only with the intent of knocking her unconscious.

"And neither is my sister. What do you want?"

"A short time ago there was an infestation and I went unpaid."

"It's called an invoice."

"All debts are promises."

"Did you get shorted, then, Mister Hamelin?" He smiled again.

"In a manner of speaking, yes, so I'm taking my dues." Maran was confused. What dues could he possibly want that he'd have to entrance children to get them? She stared at him as though trying to step away and sweep the strange sense of familiarity into something discernable. It sounded somewhat familiar and it was on the tip of her tongue. Then it wasn't. The cloudiness came back and fought for some control over the thought process, taking her immediate line of thinking away. "As I said before, go back to sleep, giant."

He brought the flute to his lips and began to play. She didn't want to feel vulnerable again, and she knew what was coming.