There’s a story in a small, forgotten town about a figure they call The Whistler. No one knows where the story started, but everyone seems to know the same warning: if you hear whistling at night, don’t look for the source.
It began one stormy night. A young woman named Emma had just moved into an old house at the edge of the woods. The realtor said it had been abandoned for years, and the previous owner “left in a hurry.” Emma didn’t mind—she loved the quiet of nature.
The first night, she lay in bed listening to the rain tapping against her window. As the wind howled, a faint sound reached her ears.
Whistle… whistl… It was a simple, eerie tune, carried by the wind, soft but clear enough to hear.
Emma sat up. “A neighbor?” she whispered to herself. But there were no houses nearby. She ignored it, eventually falling asleep.
The next night, the whistling returned. It was louder now, as if whoever—or whatever—was making the sound had moved closer. Emma looked out the window. The forest was pitch black, trees swaying under the moonlight. Nothing out there, or so it seemed.
By the third night, the whistling was unmistakable. It echoed around her home, starting faint but getting louder and closer with each passing moment. She grabbed a flashlight and stepped outside onto the porch.
“Hello?” she called out, her voice trembling. The whistling stopped abruptly.
Suddenly, from deep in the woods, she heard it again. A slow, deliberate whistle, mimicking the tune she had heard before. It sounded human… but there was something wrong with it. It echoed, distorted and off-key, like something trying too hard to imitate a person.
Then she saw it.
Standing at the tree line was a figure. Not quite a man, not quite a shadow. It was tall, impossibly thin, and its head tilted unnaturally to the side as if listening to her. The figure raised a hand—long and bony—and pointed directly at her.
The whistling started again.
Emma stumbled backward into the house and slammed the door, locking it tight. She ran to her bedroom, her heart pounding. She sat on her bed, clutching her knees. The whistling began again—right outside her window.
Slowly, against every instinct, Emma turned her head to look. There it was. The figure was staring in through the glass, its face pale and its mouth impossibly wide, whistling the same tune without ever breathing in.
The last thing she remembers before blacking out was the figure pressing its face against the window, whispering just one word: “Soon.”
The next day, Emma was gone. Her house sat empty, the front door swinging open in the breeze.
Some say The Whistler still haunts those woods, whistling that same eerie tune, always getting closer. And if you hear it outside your window at night… don’t look. No matter how curious you are.
Because if you see him, he sees you. And when he sees you, he comes for you.
Whistle… whistle…
Sweet dreams! ?
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