An excerpt from SIRENS by Joseph Kertes
Prologue
Among her great-grandfather’s effects, Phoebe found a letter which he’d never opened. It was postmarked Krokos, Kozani, November 7, 1951. He’d left it sealed for seventy-five years! He must have looked at it, must have held it, yet neither opened it nor discarded it.
He’d left it to her—it was hers to do with as she saw fit. Phoebe held the letter for a long minute, but then, using her thumbnail, she delicately slit open the side of the blue envelope. The paper was crinkly. The note inside, written in pencil, read,
Dear Gabriel,
My brother took this photo of you and Phoebe on your wedding day. I thought you’d like to have it. Look at the two of you.
Did you ever make it back to Chortiatis to see what was left of the place? Is that barn of yours still standing?
Stay safe,
Calliope
Tucked into the envelope was the photo. Phoebe’s heart quickened. The young woman staring out at her from the old photo might as well have been her, staring out at herself. Phoebe held back her hair the way the young woman in the photo wore it, as if to confirm what she was seeing. She gazed at her pappou too, no older than a teenager, his face lit up and keen.
In the bathroom, as she brushed her teeth and washed her face, Phoebe wondered how it was possible that—more than inherit features—she could share a face. What was asserting itself in her? Or reasserting itself?
Without calling her parents or grandmother, as she might have done—should have done—Phoebe tore off on her motorcycle in the direction of Thessaloniki. Over the five-hour trek, she pulled over only once to fill up. But when she turned into the village of Chortiatis just up from the city, she was surprised to see bulldozers and a crane where the wartime village houses must have stood.
“Villas,” a woman said. She stood in front of her little café, which was open. “They’re putting up luxury villas for the folks of Thessaloniki who can afford it.” Phoebe switched off her engine.
“Come and have a bite to eat,” the woman said. Phoebe hesitated.
“Are you in a hurry? I have dolmadakia, my own grape leaves, homemade filling. Come. Pretty girl.”
Phoebe removed her helmet and sat at a little wooden table. She was all alone in the café. The woman brought several of the stuffed grape leaves for Phoebe. “What brings you here?”
“I’m just curious. I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly.”
“You can stay here, if you’d like. I have an extra room.” Phoebe didn’t answer. “I have a son,” the woman said.
“He must eat well,” Phoebe replied. She took a bite of a small green bundle. “These are delicious.”
Down at the end of the road stood a wooden structure which loomed over the village. “It’s coming down too,” the woman said.
“It’s a barn. But it’s haunted.”
“Haunted?”
“Yes, legend has it that a boy, a young man, hid there during the war. He was a xenos, an outsider—not Greek. And he survived, while most of the villagers perished.”
Phoebe settled up and headed for the barn. A construction worker was padlocking the place when she pulled up. The other workers had already left. She switched off her engine and asked if she could have a look inside.
“It’s not safe,” the man said. “It’s haunted.”
“It’s just for a bit. I just want to have a look, then I’ll go. I won’t disturb anything.”
“I’ll stay. I’ll wait for you.”
“Please don’t. Just leave the padlock open. I’ll lock it, I promise.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry. I appreciate that you’re worried, I do.” She smiled and touched his hand, then took her hand back again. She could feel her face heat up, the heat trailing down her neck. He smiled too and nodded. She waited while he trudged toward his jeep and drove off.
Inside the barn, Phoebe felt strangely secure—not embraced exactly by the cool hollowness of the building—but surrounded, enveloped.
She switched on her phone’s flashlight. There was not much to see: a chair with three and a half legs, a bench, a toppled old lantern and some metal pans which might have been used for making feta cheese.
She tapped the walls here and there but found nothing. And yet.
A xenos had been here. Not enough that he had to be a xenos, but a xenos in hiding, a xenos turned ghost.
It was then she spotted it. In the far corner. The end of a small rope, like a wick, sticking up from the floor. She went to it, got down on one knee, gave the rope a yank and opened what turned out to be a hatch.
She shone her light down into the darkness. She couldn’t quite make out what she was seeing. A small ladder led into it. She hesitated a moment but then climbed down. She touched the dusty but polished lid of a long box, ran a hand along its surface. Could it be? It looked like a coffin.
She glanced back up into the light of the barn. She aimed her light on what could only be a coffin. She held her breath and pulled open the lid. Inside were a leather jacket—big around the shoulders, likely a young man’s jacket—a violin, which had been folded inside the jacket, a bow, the remains of some candles, as well as an unlit one in a jar, some matches and a black notebook. She set everything down, opened the notebook and saw right away that it was an old diary.
It stopped Phoebe’s breath. She climbed out with her treasures, smelled the jacket before putting it on, fastening all four of its buttons to the top, tried the bench along the wall, then, striking one of the ancient matches, lit the big candle in the jar, made herself comfortable and read.
Excerpted from SIRENS by Joseph Kertes© 2026. Used with permission of Stonehewer Books.
* * *
Joseph Kertes escaped from Hungary as a child with his family during the Hungarian Revolution. He founded Humber Polytechnic’s creative writing and comedy programs and was the recipient of numerous awards for teaching and innovation. He was for many years Humber’s Dean of Creative and Performing Arts. His novels, among them Winter Tulips, Gratitude and Last Impressions, have won or been finalists for a number of awards. The Afterlife of Stars was a New York Times Book Review Editor’s Pick. Kertes was the recipient of the 2017 Harbourfront Festival Prize for his contribution to literature and to the literary community.
Order a copy of SIRENS here on All Lit Up, or via your local bookseller.
For more Excerpted, click here.
