My people been out here since the 1820s, some of the first to appear on this prairie. They never brought no tales of sinister songs with them, least not that I thought. My granny Alice, she came from Irish stock, said the banshee would scream ya dead. But nothing about a beautiful shimmer over the tall grass, such as I am hearing now.

It is sunset and I feel most myself at this hour. Just me and my horse and my rifle, looking more for the creatures that stir when darkness starts to show than for any would be rustlers. The cougar, the bobcat, the coyote, the wolf. The wolverine. They all get mighty hungry come suppertime. So I let my dogs lead the cattle in from pasture, heading home to the paddock. I notice frost in my beard. It is getting late, the creek is loud in my ears, and the singing is really spooking me.

I turn to Jay, on his blue roan next to me, muttering about that sound. He nods, says he'll check it out. Now I feel awful bad sending him, but I ain't scared. Just sure it's nothing, so no use going.

I feel relief when the music starts. Then my body goes real cold, all sudden like, when I hear Jay screaming like a she goat before the slaughter. I gotta leave the cows for now, so I peel off from the herd, towards the creek. Into the creek. I storm down the ridge, splashing into the water. And there's Jay, his chest open and his guts steaming, blood getting in the creek. His hands are muddy, he looks at me and whispers but I can't make out what he says.

"Behind you," he's saying.

I turn. A sasquatch, my first thought. All superstitious now. He stands a head taller than me, covered in mangy furs. Lynx, elk, cow hide, even buffalo and something pink and fleshy that might be human. He stands before me. His hands are covered in blood.

"Looking for me?"

And he begins to sing. Tranquil, sweet nothings, melodies that dance on my ears. I am astounded that so brute a being could sing so beautifully.

Behind me, I hear Jay gasp, dying. That breaks me out of this. I have no gun on me. I turn, breaking the singer's spell, and stagger through the thigh high water to get to Jay. I scoop him up, he weighs nothing to me. I run to my horse on the bank, tossing him over the horse. The singer stops, laughs, and begins wading through the creek towards us.

I grab my rifle from its holster, strung beside my saddle. My horse, calmly, entranced by the residue of song on the breeze, does not even stir.

"Watcha gonna do? You wouldn't hurt me. I'm too beautiful. Listen."

But I can only hear the groans and death rattle song of Jay behind me. His breathing focuses me. Who is this bastard, threatening us? I line up the iron sight with his brow. And still the singer laughs, smiling. I fire.

And smile. Watching him drop, dead, blood dribbling from his forehead, into the creek with a mighty splash.

I turn to Jay, but he has nothing left to say.

That was a year ago. Nobody knew who the singer was, or the murderer as we referred to him. I did not tell anyone of the singing. Didn't want them to think I was going senile or superstitious. I have many years left of living and I intend to do it without rumours of my going crazy. As the prairie is known to do, to the odd mind here and there.

Jay's folks visit every month or so, they're just down the road in Bergen. One town away. We sit on my porch and remember how the boy would smile. How good he served me. Out of respect, or some kind of fear, I have not hired another hand. I get by on my own. Sold all my cattle, took the money and decided hunting was what I'd rather do. Let the pastures go to the wilds. I don't go near Cattle Creek, though.

Until tonight. One year to the day and the frost is so sharp, the air so clean my lungs feel like they're just learning to breathe. I ride out, noticing a cougar in the trees. Her tail bobs down in one languid swish. I don't fear. Only see cougar when she wants you to see her. Feels like an omen.

At the creek, I check my rifle. Tie my horse to a stump that I swear is still stained by Jay's blood. Patches darker than the wood around. I remember his screams. I look to the creek and swear I see sparkles of red. Must just be fish scales.

And then I hear it. I swear on all that is holy and unholy, I hear it. The singing. Same loving melodies, same dancing sounds up and down. I crouch low in the reeds.

And a thin woman, the opposite of that bastard in every way, comes walking down the creekbed, barely making a splash.

I lower my rifle. I've killed women of other species, of course, but I've never killed another man. Or woman. She is sparkling in the sunset. She looks at me, right through the reeds, and sings to me. I want to put my rifle down. It slips, hits the ground.

Fires. And the sky is shaken and I come to my senses. This woman, I see, is covered in the same hides and skins her husband, her brother, her twin was. And I am disgusted. I remember the shimmer of human skin tanned and flickering in the twilight. I grab my rifle, my ears ringing with the sudden scream, and fire. Wildly. Madly.

Still she stands in the center of the creek staring unafraid at me. I do not believe in ghosts but I do not believe I missed. I reload, cock the rifle, and prepare to fire again.

"Now, now, we don't want a repeat of last year, do we?"

But I am not listening. With shaky hands, I fire. The bullet goes wide. I am angry. I drop my rifle, draw my knife. I advance towards her.

"Who are you?" I holler, "What do you mean by coming here?"

She smiles.

This makes my blood congeal, cold and thick, running heavy in my veins.

"I'm here to thank you," she says. With a real warmth that scares me.

My Bowie knife in hand giving me confidence, I say nothing. Seems she is in a talking mood.

"My brother and I, you scared us. But since his death, you've left me alone to hunt."

Squatters. On my land. Land that been my family's for fifty years. And here these squatters snuck in, living feral on the land. On my land. Now I'm really glad that bastard's dead. No respect.

The singing must be an idea of theirs to scare away us good folk. Well, not last year, and not now.

I step towards her. She begins to sing. But I am not listening. I hear only the waves of the creek from when her body hits the water, the roar of my own heartbeat.

And the tear of meat under my knife.

This time, I don't ride into town for a doctor. Or the sheriff. I let her squirm and watch how her guts float in the creek. She tries to sing but only a red mist escapes. I want to feel pity but I cannot. This is my land, my family's, since 1820.

Then I see her. The other her. The cougar. My horse didn't make a sound dying. She feasted, that cat, on my fine blue roan who once was Jay's.

She ripped the throat right out of it, and I didn't hear a damn thing. Now she's eyeing me up, and me with only my knife.

Well. I guess the forest might be hers. But this creek, this land, it is mine. My grandaddy killed for it. I will kill for it. I have killed for it, I think, looking at the cold face of the squatter under the creek surface. She died with her eyes open.

I look back to the bank, but the cat is gone. Only the wrecked carcass of my horse remains. My blood feels thick and cold and sick again. I shake. I vomit into the creek. It will be a long walk back home. This land feels cursed. I am trying not to think of what my grandaddy would say.

I hear singing, on the wind. Wonder who it might be, what ghost is coming to haunt me now. I slosh across the creek, clamber up the back.

This is my land, dammit.