This is a true story and it haunts me every single night.
It all started on a Tuesday night around 2:00 in the
morning. I'm lying alone in bed in the
dark and my window is cracked open.
I prefer having a breeze at night to stay cool.
I open my window every single night.
It doesn't matter if it's hot or cold or windy or rainy, I will
open my window. Anyways, I had to make this post
because it is really haunting me to explain.
All of a sudden the noise started.
I remember my eyes rapidly opening and the shivers being
brought down my spine. It was very paralyzing and it
made my whole body jolt like a shockwave running through my
nerves. This sensation is especially
intense at night when you are startled by a noise like your
old house resting. But this was unlike anything
I've ever experienced. To start the noise that scared
me seemed to be a man shouting from 1/4 of a mile away.
I thought to myself that this was extremely unusual.
I live in a desolate area and I don't have many neighbors
around, so it couldn't have been them.
I live in a woodsy area in a humble neighborhood.
Most people who live here are hermits and don't leave their
homes unless it's for biweekly grocery shopping or leaving in
the morning to go to work. But the screams were very
specific and were arranged in a pattern.
They almost sounded inhuman. The loud but faint yell would
sound about every two seconds, and the yells were
unintelligible words and lasted for about 1:00 to 2:00
syllables. It was almost perfect, sounding
like a recording of a shout played again and again and
again, but for hours. The dreadful sound stayed in
place for three hours of nonstop yelling, and the man never
seemed to move locations, except for when the noises slowly got
farther away, and that's when it seemed to stop.
The sounds lasted from 2:00 AM to 5:00 AM.
I assume the man making the disturbances in his early 30s.
It haunts me to think of someone just standing in the forest
blatantly yelling words for three hours straight in the
middle of the night. The sounds didn't appear, like
they were desperate, as if they were in need of any help.
The only drastic thing would be if a bear mauled you to death,
but no one's stupid enough to go out at night like this.
The shouts sounded emotionless and of course, very terrifying.
I eventually was able to catch my breath and peek out the
window. It wasn't the wind causing the
noise and most definitely wasn't a branch scraping my window Like
someone would try claiming in order to debunk me, but I was
too afraid to go outside and investigate.
I had to debate whether calling the police would be the right
thing to do or not. I'm a short woman and I'm not
the absolute strongest, and I know if I investigated on my own
I would be the avid kidnapping victim.
From watching and reading horror stories.
I know the person who investigates always dies in the
end. I kept my ear close to the
window for a few minutes and I was starting to decrypt what he
was saying. It sounded like it was in a
different language or a gibberish word being spoken, but
it was very strange. I know I'm not crazy and I know
what I heard. I will probably never open my
window ever again since I don't want to find out who or what was
making those sounds and I definitely do not want them to
come back. Does anyone know what this could
be? I asked my neighbors if they
heard, and only one out of four claimed they did.
We both don't know what it was. It was a day like any other, the
Wyoming sun piercing down on us when Victor and I set out to add
another member to our family. His hand, warm in mine, matched
the heat of our shared enthusiasm.
We didn't need much. We already had our three dogs, a
lively bunch composed of my Welsh terriers Goldie and Teddy
and Victor's miniature poodle, Fifi, but there was an unspoken
agreement between us. Room for one more.
We drove to the local shelter. The drive was scenic, open plane
stretched out on either side, interrupted occasionally by
scrubby Pines. Buster Ace, Milo, Victor mused,
his eyes twinkling in amusement. I smiled back at him, a sense of
shared comfort lacing the silence that ensued.
The shelter was bustling with activity.
Yips and barks filled the air, a Symphony of canine voices that
were both desperate and hopeful. It was in this cacophony that we
first saw Joey. He was hunched in the corner of
his cage, a one year old English Mastiff mix.
He was a mountain of a dog, his frame significantly bigger than
the rest. His previous owners hadn't
expected him to grow so big and couldn't keep him.
Joey, despite his size, looked at us with tender brown eyes, a
gentle giant. I felt a slight twinge of
apprehension as we approached him.
Joey towered over me, a contrast to our smaller, playful dogs
back at home. But one look at Victor's
enamored expression and I knew there was no turning back.
As I reached out tentatively to pet Joey, I noticed his eyes
flicker from the brown. They turned a deep, mesmerizing
blue. I blinked, disoriented, but when
I looked again, they were brown as before.
On our way home, Joey sat in the back seat, his head resting
against the window. His size was commanding, but he
seemed docile, content even, I told myself.
The changing eye colors had been a trick of the light, a
momentary illusion. Yet a small part of me continued
to harbor doubts. We introduced Joey to Goldie,
Teddy and Fifi. As soon as we got home.
Fifi, a normally spunky dog, growled low in her throat and
slunk behind the couch. Joey seemed taken aback by her
hostility, his expression one of perplexed confusion.
The other dogs didn't seem to mind him.
I brushed it off as Fifi, needing time to adjust.
That night, Victor and I sat on the porch, staring out into the
open Wyoming night. We raised our beers in a silent
toast to our new addition, while my mind kept returning to the
scene at the shelter, to Joey's eyes shifting from brown to
blue, I told myself it was nothing, just the stress of the
day playing tricks on me. I should have known then that
there's always more to it when it comes to dogs, especially one
like Joey. In the days that followed Joey's
adoption, I grew accustomed to the rhythm of our expanded
family. The morning sun shone through
our windows, our home bustled with activity and the days were
as lively as ever. But something about Joey set me
on edge. There was an underlying current
of weirdness. At first it was Fifi.
Poor girl, couldn't seem to catch a break.
She hid in the oddest places, under the bed, behind the couch,
even once in the laundry hamper. She was a trembling bundle of
nerves every time Joey was around.
The strange part was Joey's reaction, pure bewilderment.
It was as if he couldn't understand why she was so
terrified. Then there were the nights, they
say you're never truly alone when you have dogs.
And boy, I couldn't agree more. It started with me waking up to
Fifi's low whimpers and finding Joey standing near her hiding
places. There was an unsettling rhythm
to these occurrences that disrupted the serenity of our
Wyoming nights. One evening, as I brushed past a
hallway mirror, I noticed something that sent a chill down
my spine. Joey, standing behind me, bared
his teeth at Fifi, his eyes gleaming menacingly in the
mirror. I spun around, my heart
pounding, but found Joey sitting calmly on the floor, his tail
wagging gently. Victor thought I was
overreacting when I brought up my concerns.
Joey's a big teddy bear, he'd say.
You're just being paranoid. I wanted to believe him.
I truly did. But I couldn't ignore the dread
that lingered whenever Joey was around.
The unease in the house prompted me to move Joey to the kitchen
during the night. That's when the strangest thing
happened. Every morning we'd wake up to
find our food spoiled, as if left out overnight.
It was as if someone or something had rummaged through
our fridge. As I held the rotten food, Joey
would stare back at me, his eyes full of a challenge that made my
skin crawl. I thought moving Joey to the
backyard would end these occurrences, but the bizarre
incidents took a darker turn. Every morning I'd find dead
animals scattered across our lawn.
Their bodies were mangled, organs missing, as if expertly
removed. Victor was oblivious, always at
work before dawn, but I was there, cleaning up the grotesque
mess left behind. When I confronted Joey about it,
he snarled at me, a low, threatening sound that had my
heart pounding in my chest. I'd never seen him so
aggressive, not even with Fifi. My fears were escalating, and
Victor, caught in his world of denial, refused to see what was
happening. The Wyoming sun continued to
shine, the open plains continued to stretch out, but my world was
slowly closing in. I felt trapped in my own home,
my fears punctuated by Joey's increasing hostility and the
unnerving incidents. My mind kept going back to that
day at the shelter, when Joey's eyes shifted from brown to blue.
I had a feeling that something terrible was about to happen,
and it had everything to do with Joey.
In the shadowy quiet of Wyoming Nights, a sense of dread took
root within me. I felt myself being pulled into,
a horror I could neither comprehend nor ignore.
Our home, once a sanctuary now teamed with unseen fears, their
form given substance by Joey. I tried talking to Victor about
Joey, about the things I'd noticed Victor's bond with.
Fifi was special. She belonged to his sister, who,
along with her other dog, had died in a car crash weeks before
we met. Victor had a soft spot for the
poodle, and I hope my concerns would make him reconsider Joey.
But he shot me down, His face hardened with anger.
He couldn't bear to think his beloved Joey could hurt Fifi,
and I didn't have the heart to push it any further.
One night I awoke to a bloodcurdling scream.
It was Fifi. Heart pounding, I rushed
downstairs to find Joey in the living room.
The sight that met my eyes was something out of a nightmare.
Joey was tearing Fifi apart. I screamed for Victor, tears
blurring my vision as I took in the horror unfolding before me.
Victor came rushing in, his face pale.
He switched on the lights, and it wasn't real.
Fifi was safe, hiding under the couch, her body shaking with
terror. The remains on the floor were
that of a stuffed toy, not Fifi, but I couldn't shake the image
from my mind. Joey.
His mouth smeared with blood. Victor berated me for my panic,
for my accusations against Joey. But all I could focus on were
Joey's eyes, soulless, gleaming with a sinister satisfaction
that had my blood running cold. My fears escalated to a point
where I couldn't take it anymore.
My once peaceful home was now a battlefield, my dreams haunted
by visions of Fifi's death and Joey's monstrous form.
I was trapped in my own nightmare.
Then one night, the unthinkable happened.
I awoke to a grotesque figure looming over me.
Its limbs were twisted, its body distorted, Its eyes are piercing
blue. It was a creature straight out
of hell, and I knew it was Joey. I woke Victor up, fear clawing
at my throat. But by the time Victor blinked
his eyes open, Joey was back in his dog form, looking as
innocent as ever. Victor dismissed my fears with a
shake of his head and fell back asleep.
But I knew better. I'd seen Joey for what he truly
was. The next morning, I woke up to
an unexpected surprise. Victor had planned a weekend
getaway. We hurriedly packed our bags,
leaving Joey behind with a friend of ours.
As we drove off, I felt a sense of relief wash over me.
For the first time since we brought Joey home.
I felt safe. But as I glanced in the rearview
mirror, I saw Joey standing in our driveway, his eyes gleaming
A sinister blue. My heart pounded in my chest.
Something told me this was far from over.
As we drove further away from home, the verdant plains of
Wyoming seem to lighten my mood. We were heading towards a
destination where the echoing growls of a beast were no longer
part of my nightmares. But the lingering dread in the
back of my mind persisted. About 50 miles away from home,
Victor broke the silence. His voice was low, his words
delivered with a heaviness that made my heart sink.
He'd seen Joey, too, that night. Standing over us in his
grotesque form, he'd played down his reaction, but the sight had
shaken him as much as it had me. I was silent, processing his
confession. Victor had called an animal
rescue team instead of our friend.
He'd lied about Joey being aggressive and uncontrollable.
They were going to put Joey down.
The guilt etched on Victor's face was clear.
He'd seen what I'd seen, felt what I'd felt.
He just been too afraid to admit it.
We took refuge at my parents house, our home now tainted by
an inexplicable fear. We were safe, but the haunting
image of Joey in his true form lingered in my mind.
I wasn't sure we'd ever feel comfortable in our house again.
One evening, while Victor was outside talking to my dad, I
decided to check on Goldie and Teddy.
As I walked towards the room where they were resting, a
familiar fear clutched my heart. I heard a growl, low and
menacing, sending a shiver down my spine.
I pushed open the door, my breath hitching as I took in the
scene before me. Goldie and Teddy were huddled in
a corner, their eyes wide with fear.
Fifi was nowhere to be seen, and in the middle of the room a
large, twisted figure stood. Its eyes met mine, gleaming a
chilling blue Joey. A wave of terror swept over me,
my blood running cold. Joey was supposed to be gone.
He was supposed to be dead, but there he was, standing in front
of me in his grotesque, monstrous form.
A growl echoed through the room. That sounds so terrifying it
froze me in my tracks. And then in a blink of an eye,
he was gone. The room was empty, safe for
Goldie and Teddy. There was no sign of Joey or
Fifi. It was as if he'd never been
there, but the terror in the dog's eyes told me otherwise.
Joey was back, and he was far from done.
The Wyoming Knights had taken on a new form of terror, the
looming threat of Joey hanging over us like a dark cloud.
We thought we had escaped, thought we were safe.
But we were wrong. I looked out the window, the
moonlight casting long shadows across the yard.
I could almost see him there, Joey, his eyes glowing with an
unnatural blue. We had only just begun to
understand the nightmare we'd invited into our home from when
I was born. Up until four months ago, my
family of four lived in Nowhersville, Indiana.
The town consisted of exactly 37 streets, one school covering
kindergarten to 12th Grade 1, three story hospital, exactly 2
pizza places, and fewer than 6000 people.
We were well off owning a large three story house right next to
the school, but I always got the sense that my parents were
uneasy, specifically my father. He would go on month long
business trips to who knows where three or four times a
year, and he always seemed the happiest.
A few days before leaving, at around the age of 9, I came to
the conclusion that if his family wasn't here, he would be
living in some metropolis at least five states away.
He always seemed partial to New York.
We'd been there a few times, and he was always more energetic
than I'd ever seen him, dragging us from the Statue of Liberty to
the One World Trade Center to the top of the Empire State.
Then after at most a week, we would return to the land of
everybody, knowing everybody in a plethora of old white men
sitting on their porches in their rocking chairs, sipping
Arnold Palmer's and waving as you pass for some people, a
paradise, a retirement village if there ever was one.
But for my father? Purgatory.
The first incident happened at exactly 2:32 AM.
I was hunkered down in my room, blanket draped over my back,
illuminated by the glow of some horror movie.
I can't recall precisely what it was.
Perhaps The Exorcist, Or maybe Omen.
I've loved horror movies since I was old enough to get my hands
on them and I've seen all the classics.
I know The Legend of Jason Voorhees which scared me into
quitting sleepaway camp. I fear the dream demon Freddy
Krueger which made me pull 2 consecutive all nighters until I
collapsed in the middle of history from pure exhaustion.
Michael Myers stopped me from trick or treating one Halloween
and Pennywise keeps me at least 5 feet from a storm drain to
this day. Yet for all their downsides, I
couldn't tear my eyes away. Something about the monsters,
either human, ghost, zombie or killer clown, always drew me
back, so I was up late into the night when I heard the whistling
first. It Jarred me when it started,
and I paused the movie for a moment before forgetting about
it. It was a jaunty tune, cheerful
yet erratic. It never repeated itself, and
despite its upbeat nature, something about it was off
putting. Yet someone whistling, albeit
late at night, was no cause for alarm.
However, as the movie progressed and I drew the covers tighter
around my skinny frame, the sound persisted.
After 5 minutes, I paused the movie again to listen.
It was coming from the same general location, yet the
direction of the sound shifted ever so slightly, as if the
Whistler was pacing. It couldn't have been more than
20 feet from my house, but when I checked my second floor
window, it instantly ceased. There was nothing except a
spindly sapling sitting blocking my view, yet I saw no one.
I sat at the window for a minute or two but nothing.
I didn't think much of it and finished my movie then collapsed
into a nightmare filled sleep. The next evening was much of the
same. The movie playing out on the
screen this time was a personal favorite of mine, Paranormal
activity and during a quiet tense scene about 2/3 of the way
in the clock struck 232 and the whistling began again.
I instantly shut off the TV and grabbed my phone, clicking on
its flashlight. The tune was the same, but not
perfectly. Again.
It never repeated itself, but it was the same pace, the same
energy, the same set of notes. Something about it piqued my
curiosity. I needed to know what it was,
realistically. I was sure it was only someone
who couldn't sleep, waking up and whistling their tune that
they came up with themselves, but something about it drew me
in, something sparking my curiosity.
I crept to the window, careful not to make myself visible or
look out myself. I waited for what felt like an
eternity, but nothing changed. The two never shifted
significantly. The Whistler never moved.
I checked my phone repeatedly, watching the minutes go by.
By the 15 minute mark, a growing sense of unease had settled in.
I waited until exactly 3 in the morning and then sprang up,
scanning the area outside my window.
Yet only the tree sat there, surrounded by a field of yellow
brown grass stretching into Infinity.
The whistling immediately ceased and my heart pounded in my
chest. I raced to my bed and sat
against the corner, my covers around everything but my head,
my phone, flashlight pointed at the window and door to my room.
At some point I must have dozed off, because the next thing I
remember is my father shaking me awake at noon.
He looked mildly annoyed that I had stayed up late again, but he
didn't make a big deal out of it.
After I had breakfast, I settled down near him on the living room
couch. Something weird happened last
night, and Eldridge horror forced you to stay up until
sunrise. I rolled my eyes in
exasperation. I heard some guy whistling
outside for like half an hour. I immediately knew something was
wrong. My father's entire body tensed
up and his eyes snapped up from his newspaper to meet mine.
What? I was taken aback by the sudden
shift in tone, but I continued to explain.
Yeah, it was weird. I heard whistling outside my
window, maybe 20 feet away. I listened for a while, but as
soon as I looked out the window, it stopped.
He leaned towards me. When did it start?
A little past 230. His face had gone pale.
It was the most serious I'd ever seen him, and I was terrified.
I had no idea what was happening, but he continued to
interrogate me. Exactly when?
Thomas. How long?
Past 232 minutes, I think. Yeah, 232.
Dad. What?
Why are you acting like this? He paused, sat back, and slumped
forward, head in his hands. I was frozen.
I had no idea what this meant. Why did some whistling mean so
much to him? He picked up his head and asked
me a few more questions until I had relayed every detail of that
night. He paused for a long moment,
then got up and started to climb the stairs.
Halfway up, he turned to me. Stay inside for today.
I'm going somewhere with mom. Watch Sally.
The next day was Monday, and school resumed for the last time
that summer. The week passed in a blur and I
said bye to all my friends who were going away to camps, which
was almost all of them. Finally, on Saturday, the
inevitable announcement finally arrived.
We gathered around the dinner table and the mood was already
uncomfortable. Before I'd had a bite of my
spaghetti and meatballs, my mother started the conversation.
So I know you guys love this town.
My sister immediately interrupted.
I like New York better, but your father and I had to make some
financial decisions and well, we're moving.
Somehow I wasn't surprised. I had known for years it wasn't
a matter of if, but when. My 6 year old sister was less
than pleased when she realized our destination wasn't New York,
but a suburb adjacent to Boston. I quickly finished my meal and
retreated to my room. Around 10:00 that night, I heard
my parents put my sister to bed and walk down to the living
room. I followed after a few minutes
and as soon as I entered the room, their quiet conversation
immediately ceased. What are you guys talking about?
Nothing, honey. Just the move.
Bullcrap. I didn't call them out on it
though. As I sat down across from them.
Dad, he looked to me. Yes.
Is this because of the whistling?
He didn't react immediately. Deep down, I knew.
I knew that the answer was yes, but I waited for his response.
Thomas, I promise you, when you are older, I will explain
everything. But I can't right now.
So please, just go to bed, pack, say goodbye to your friends,
whatever. But know that I'm doing this for
us. He paused again, locking eyes
with me for this family. Finally, I exploded.
I don't remember what I said, but it wasn't pretty after all.
At the time, it seemed to me like they were tearing my life
apart because of a sound I heard a couple of nights in a row.
That night I stormed upstairs in a fit of rage, eventually crying
myself to sleep. I didn't hear the whistling
again for a month and 1/2. In reality, I hadn't stayed up
late enough to hear it. At that time, with all the time
in the world on my hands, I hadn't found a reason to stay up
past midnight. After all, I had no friends in
the state, much less nearby. However, my parents seemed much
happier. My mother had already made some
friends at some Pilates group, and my father was acting like he
did in New York every day. Even my little sister had found
some friends in the next door neighbors.
But I spent my days in my room dying of boredom.
So in late July I decided to try to hear the whistle again.
I didn't believe I would hear it.
After all, we had moved states. It would be completely illogical
to think I would. And yet, when 2:32 AM arrived,
it started again. I was frozen in fear for some
reason. I couldn't put my finger on it,
but I listened. The tune was the same.
It even sounded like the same distance and direction from my
bedroom window as it had been in Indiana.
After a few minutes I sprang up, this time outside my window.
There was a long, dark alleyway, but still, as soon as I looked,
nothing. The whistling came to a halt and
nobody was there. I didn't tell my father about
the whistling. I don't know why, I wish I had,
but at that moment it felt like some little mystery for me to
puzzle out, some special secret only I had.
How stupid of me. The next day my 3 best friends
paid us a surprise visit. As soon as camp had ended, their
parents arranged a surprise trip to see me at the request of my
parents, so for the next two days they would be sleeping
over. I was ecstatic, and it
immediately took my mind off everything else.
The night passed much the same as it would back in Indiana.
Horror movies, video games, and an ungodly amount of snacks.
At around 1:00, I started to keep an eye on the clock as it
inched forward. I felt as though I needed to
show someone just to prove I wasn't hallucinating, that the
loneliness hadn't pushed me over the edge.
I had made the decision to reveal the phenomenon to my
friends once again. I wish I hadn't.
I told them about 15 minutes ahead of time, and at first they
didn't believe me. After all, we had spent the past
six hours binging horror movies, and Past Midnight was the
perfect time for a scary story or a prank if you're ambitious
enough. But despite their complaining, I
could tell they were intrigued and I managed to convince them
to hide under the window with me.
Sure enough, the whistling began.
Right on schedule, they didn't have the patience to listen
long. Josh sprang to his feet after 2
minutes, despite my repeated whispered protest, and the
whistling stopped. Huh.
That's odd. Why did you look?
I was curious. I told you not to, So not having
enough energy to get mad over it, I surrendered, frustrated,
and we resumed our nightly activities, eventually falling
asleep at around 4:00 the next evening.
My friends had a plan. David started to explain.
So we just hide behind the dumpsters in the alley, then we
all spring out. One of us stays in the house.
If we get the Whistler in between us and the window,
there's no way to miss it. I pleaded with them, begging
them not to, but they ignored me.
I didn't even know why they were so set on catching the Whistler,
but they were. For some reason I knew this was
a terrible idea. I felt something deep in my
stomach screaming at me to stop them, but they wouldn't give up
funding humor in my terror and ignoring me until I stopped
trying to convince them. You always yell at the horror
movies on TV, but a group of 15 year olds can't be convinced
they've had a bad idea. No one was going to be the
coward that took my side. I eventually followed them out
at 2:25 that night, carefully sneaking out so as not to wake
my parents. I wish I hadn't.
We all ducked behind the five dumpsters lining one side of the
alley. None of us looked at our phones,
or even at each other outside of quick furtive glances.
I could tell they were getting impatient, pressed up against
the freezing metal backside of a full to the brim dumpster with
rats scurrying around nearby. Despite the fact that the wait
couldn't have been more than 5 minutes, I finally risked a
glance at my phone. 231 I snapped my eyes back to the
alleyway as my heart pounded against my rib cage.
The whistling started. It was working.
The whistling was coming from between us and the house.
I was petrified. I knew I had to stop them from
jumping out. I had to get my friend at the
window to look, to get it to stop before they exposed
themselves. I don't know why I felt such a
strong urge to stop them, but my gut was telling me I couldn't
let them look. My phone buzzed, as did theirs.
We all look down In Sync. A text from our friend in the
window jump as soon as the clock hits 233.
I frantically texted back, telling him to look while
shaking my head wildly. I gazed pleadingly at the two
with me begging them to stop. They simply smirked and texted
back. Ignore Tom.
Then they jumped. I shut my eyes and held my
breath, my heart skipping a beat.
I curled tighter into a ball and I waited.
After a few seconds of silence, I emerged from my hiding place.
My friends were standing in the middle of the alley,
dumbfounded, so I asked what. They slowly looked at me,
shaking their heads. Nothing.
I took that in for a second, shocked.
I thought they had to be lying, but I could see on their faces
that they were just as confused as I was.
I paused, considering what this meant, and came to the
conclusion that it meant we should get back inside ASAP and
I should never stay up past two again.
All right, you had your fun. Now can we put?
Before I could finish my sentence, a shrill ear piercing
sound tore through our ears. I snapped my hands to my ears
and locked eyes with my friends. Seeing them do much the same, I
sprinted back into the house, my friends instantly following
suit. We slammed the back door shut
behind us and after a second it stopped one long, angry note.
What the hell was that, Tom? One of them shouted.
I realized my legs were shaking and I slid back against the
wall. I don't know.
I don't know what you did, but can we please go to bed?
We all stayed there in shock until Max raced down from his
position at the window. Are you guys all right?
What the hell was that? The next day passed in a blur
until after dinner I was sitting on the living room couch on my
phone, my father taking in a newspaper on the chair opposite
me. He had been acting off the whole
day. I knew he could tell something
was wrong, but he seemed to be purposely ignoring it.
So I began to tell him what happened.
By the time I reached the end of my story, he was staring at me,
stone faced, but instead of shocking his eyes, there was
anger. This isn't funny, Thomas.
You don't understand what you're joking about.
Now go to your room and do not ever say something like that
again. I sprang to my feet now angry as
well. Dad, I'm not joking.
Ask David or Max or Josh. They'll back me up.
I swear to God, I'm not kidding. My father stood up, towering 5
inches over me, staring down into my eyes.
It's not possible, Thomas. We left that thing in Indiana.
Now go to your room. Why won't you tell me what this
thing is? I retorted.
If there's some goddamn monster you know about, why won't you
believe me when I say I hear it? He paused for a moment, then
returned softly. Because when I moved to Indiana,
it stayed in Washington, and when my father moved to
Washington, it stayed in Montana.
And you will not tell me that you have broken the chain.
You will not hear the whistling again until you have a child of
your own. Before I could respond, he
walked briskly back to his room, shutting and locking the door
behind him. I ran to catch up and hammered
my fists against his door, but no response.
He didn't emerge for the rest of the evening.
That night I was terrified. I tried desperately to fall
asleep, but I knew I wouldn't, and sure enough, I couldn't.
When the time drew near, I threw my blanket over my whole body
and shoved my fingers in my ears.
I'm an atheist, but that night I prayed.
The whistling took a different tune for the first time.
It was erratic and never repeating, but it was different
in tune compared to its former jovial sound.
It was angry, terrifying. I don't know how to describe it.
It was as if all of a sudden I had interrupted its nightly
routine and it wasn't happy. It's not him or her.
Whatever this is, it isn't human.
It can't be. I waited for over 10 minutes
before it began to get louder. At first it was a negligible
increase, nigh unnoticeable even after a couple of minutes of it
slowly getting louder, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on
me. But after 10 more minutes, I
couldn't deny it. It was getting louder and the
speed at which its volume was increasing was accelerating.
It overrode every other sound I could hear, growing louder and
louder until I was sure my eardrums would burst.
As it crescendoed, I couldn't take it anymore.
I jolted up and craned my neck, peering out the window as per
usual. It immediately stopped.
At some point that night, I fell into a fitful sleep, not waking
up until 11 the next morning. Once again, my father ignored my
pleas for help. My mother seemed worried, but
she inevitably took my father's side, and they forced me back to
my room. That night, I spent the next few
hours coming up with a plan. I waited until 1:00 in the
morning, when I was sure they'd be asleep, and snuck into my
mother's bathroom, careful to avoid creaky floorboards and
squeaking doors. I opened the medicine cabinet
and sure enough, there it was. Xanax.
My mother was prescribed it some seven years ago and continued to
use them well. After her prescription ended.
I scanned the back of the container, decided on one pill,
and returned the container, carefully making my way to the
kitchen. I filled a glass of water and
looked at the pill. I wasn't sure if this was too
much. The Internet had recommended
half a milligram, but I couldn't continue to stay awake.
I swallowed it without further thought and returned to my room.
It only took about 15 minutes before the effects began to kick
in. I fell asleep not long after.
The whistling started right on schedule for the first time.
It jolted me awake. My heart was pounding.
I felt like I should be knocked out, but I was awake.
The whistling wasn't even that loud, but as I checked my phone,
I realized it had awoken me right as it started.
The only silver lining was that it seemed to have resumed its
jovial tune, and despite the negatives of the situation, this
comforted me at first. When it began to move, my heart
skipped a beat. It had shifted a bit before, but
all of a sudden it quickly shot underneath my window.
I froze up, terrified. It continued to move, traveling
over to where my back door is. It paused for no more than a few
seconds, and then I heard the click of a lock and the door
swinging open. My heart pounded wildly as I
heard the whistling pass under my room to the other side of the
house. It traveled up my stairs without
a sound other than its jubilant tune, and I began to tense my
muscles and hold my breath as it approached my closed door.
It sat at the entrance to my room for over 5 minutes.
I knew no one else in my family could hear it now as it was too
loud for them to possibly sleep through.
My face was turned to the wall, away from the door and window,
but I was ready to turn. Then my door swung open, banging
against my wall. I whirled around, ready to face
the monster. I wasn't sure what my plan was,
but I was ready to fight whatever was coming for me.
But the whistling stopped instantly, and there in my
doorway was my six year old sister, Sally, I said.
I didn't realize how much I had tensed up, and as I relaxed, I
realized my words were slightly slurred.
The Xanax was still in effect, yet I was awake.
Were you whistling? She looked confused.
No, Tomie, I don't even know how to whistle.
Then why the hell are you in here?
It's like 3 in the morning, I think I left Bear in here.
As I retrieved her teddy bear for her, I considered telling my
parents what had happened, but the Xanax was calling me back to
my bed and the whistling had stopped for the night.
I would tell them the next morning, beg them to take us to
a hotel or something. As Sally left the room, I
collapsed back into my bed facing the wall and began to
drift back into dreamland. I only wish I had faced the
other way. What happened next chilled me to
my core. Right before I slipped back into
sleep, the whistling started again.
It was right behind me. It was angry once again, and it
was looming over me, inches from my bed.
I resisted the urge to scream, curling into a ball, trembling
and sucking in shaky breaths. It moved closer by an inch than
another. It stopped there, probably
touching my bed for what felt like an eternity.
The terror I felt was incomparable to any I had felt
before. No horror movie could prepare me
for this. And then I felt pressure on my
bed as if it had moved on to it, and I rolled over, swinging my
fist. I connected solidly with my bed
frame, letting out an involuntary gasp of pain.
I scanned my room as I shook nothing.
Since then, I haven't moved. It's around six, and the sun is
rising as I write this, and I've been furtively scanning my room
between every sentence. Tomorrow I'll make my parents do
something. Take us to a hotel, maybe.
But just in case I need my story out there, wish me luck.
It seemed like since the moment I was born that the supernatural
seemed drawn to me, though I wouldn't have my first real
experience with it until after my second or third year of
school. I must have been 7:00 or 8:00 at
the time. I can't be sure anymore how old
I was. The older you get, the more the
years all seemed to blend together.
It was during late summer, late July, most likely Back in those
days, I spent a good part of the summer with my grandparents.
It was okay, though, because that meant I got to spend time
with my Uncle Leo. He was my favorite of all my
dad's siblings. He was still a young man in his
late 20s. He had fought in the war and
lived at home to help my grandparents out.
Everybody has their favorite aunt or uncle, and Leo was mine.
Sometimes when he was off from his job at the meatpacking
plant, he would take me swimming and fishing.
We had this little spot, about an hour's drive out of town,
that we would frequent. It was on one of those
adventures that this fateful day would occur.
We got to the fishing spot a little after 8:00 in the
morning, made an entire day of it.
I got about 30 fish that day, a record for me at the time.
But that's not why I remember that day.
That's not why I remember it at all.
The day had been perfect up to that point, but as all days
must, they eventually have to end.
It was starting to get late. The sun was already starting to
set when we decided to call an end to our fishing expedition.
We were packing up the truck when I first noticed it.
Silence. I don't mean it was quiet.
No, I mean there was no sound, no nothing.
No birds, no insects. Heck, even the wind had stopped
blowing. It was eerie, the sun fading in
the back and the void of sound around us.
Suddenly there was this growl. Almost a roar, actually.
I couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from.
The way it echoed through the air.
It could have been coming from any direction, but one thing was
clear. It sounded to be getting closer
to us. As the seconds ticked away, it
sounded like it was maybe half a football field away.
That was when I heard the rustling from the trees just to
the left, almost directly above us.
Something was up there, something large.
You could hear the leaves rustling, branches snapping as
whatever it was jumped from tree to tree.
I looked over at my uncle. If he heard it, then I'll never
know he was paying it. No mind just packing up all of
our stuff, never once looking up or picking up the pace to this
day. I still believe he knew it was
there at that time, but he was paying it no heed as not to
panic me. Fear of whatever this was
started to overtake me. I stopped what I had been doing,
almost completely. Helping load up our gear was the
farthest thing from my mind. I started to become frozen with
fear. My uncle had to practically yell
at me to snap my attention back to him.
We're almost packed up, Reco, let's get going.
It's late already, and your grandmother is going to be
worried if we aren't home soon. Hurriedly, I helped him pack up
the remainder of our gear into the truck.
Whatever had made that sound, I wanted no part of meeting it or
finding out what it was. We got the truck packed and I
took one last look around to see if I saw anything before hopping
in the passenger side of my uncle's truck.
It was still dusk, not yet completely dark.
As we drove down the road, the light was quickly fading
overhead. My uncle flipped on the radio.
I don't even remember what was playing at the time.
Probably some jazz song. My uncle loved that type of
music. We had been on the road about 10
minutes when things began to feel not all right.
You know that feeling You get deep inside your gut when you
know something was wrong. I was feeling something fierce.
Suddenly the headlights began to dim and the radio began to fade
in and out, and from above us that rustling sound had
returned. Uncle Leo played with the dial
sum, but once again he ignored the noise.
His focus remained on the quickly darkening Rd.
It was then that it happened. I'll never forget it.
The horror, the fear, the uncertainty.
We had just taken a curve on the road.
The rustling sound had gotten louder.
Closer went unexpectedly. Bam.
Something big and heavy landed in the back of the truck.
It had leaped down from the trees above.
It landed with such force that the front wheels of the truck
temporarily lifted off the road. My uncle almost lost control of
the truck as it skidded across the road.
Leo looked briefly in the mirror, then moved his eyes back
to the road. He briefly touched the crucifix.
He kept on the dash, then tightly gripped the wheel with
both hands. His knuckles turned white with
how hard he gripped it. I just sat there, staring ahead,
frozen in fear. Whatever it was, it was moving
around in the bed of the truck. I could hear it going through
our stuff, tossing things around, rummaging through our
cooler. I started to get up in my seat
so I could look back and see what was back there.
Uncle Leo grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me back down
into my seat. No, Miho, just look ahead.
Don't look in the back, whatever you do, trust me.
There was fear in his voice. Not a lot, but a hint of it.
This was a man that had lived through the horrors of war, and
he was scared. I can tell you I did exactly as
he said without question. I could hear a small growl from
the back, and whatever was back there was moving around the
tailgate. Whatever it was, it was heavy.
The truck leaned towards the back because of the weight.
For the next 5 minutes I sat there, frozen in fear.
I looked at Leo. He just stared ahead,
occasionally glancing at his rearview mirror, unsure of what
to do. I sat there.
Fear had completely overtaken me.
I didn't know if the thin layer of glass between us and the bed
was enough to keep us separated. As my mind ran through every
possibility of what was back there that my biggest fear came
to be. Whatever was in the bed of the
truck was moving, not like before when it had stayed in the
rear of the bed. No, this time it was moving
forward towards the cab of the truck.
I was petrified. I couldn't move.
The creature had begun a slow, methodical move towards us, the
nails of the beast scrapped against the metal of the truck.
The truck shifted with its weight as it moved slowly closer
to us. Don't look, I will explain
later. Trust me, I trusted my uncle,
but I was scared. We were still miles out of town.
All that separated us from whatever was in the back was a
sheet of glass. No one lived near where we were
for miles, meaning no help. If somehow that thing decided to
come into the bed. The creature kept getting
closer, the scrapping louder. I could hear it's heavy
breathing now. My uncle kept looking ahead at
the road I saw in their left hand.
Though he had slowly unclipped the strap holding his sidearm,
he kept on his belt. Then there was the tapping.
You could hear the nails of the creature gently tapping the
glass directly behind my head. Tap, tap, tap.
The tears of fear begin to well up in my eyes.
Tap, tap, tap. The creature was just begging us
to turn around. What were we going to do?
What was it? Why did my uncle seem to know
what it was? What if it gets inside?
I was beyond scared. Nothing in my short life came
close to the fear I felt at that moment.
Just look ahead, no matter what. Never look back.
I'll never forget those words my uncle spoke or the sound of fear
in his voice. But that wasn't the worst of it.
No, not even close. What happened next?
I still dream about at night sometimes.
What is little one just up in the wind?
Do Owl let me in. An eerie, raspy voice spoke from
behind me. A gasp escaped my lips and tears
begin to flow freely down my cheeks.
My Uncle Leo gave the voice no notice and fiddled with the
radio. More.
Do not ignore me. Let me in.
Face your fate, angrier and louder.
The voice boomed. Then the banging started.
The creature, or whatever it was, began banging on the roof
of the cab with such force that the truck begin to rock with
each blow. Bang, boom, bang, the blows rain
down on my poor uncle's truck, but still I refuse to look back.
This continued for the next 30 minutes or so.
Just when I thought the roof would cave in from the blows
being rained down upon us, I saw the lights of the city.
As we neared the edge of the forest, A roar erupted from
behind us and the creature muttered these final words.
This is not the end. No little one.
One day we meet our fates. That protection won't be there
for you forever. Till then.
And with that, the truck rocked as whatever was in the bed
leaped in the air and away from the truck.
We speed forward in complete silence.
My uncle said nothing when we were about two blocks from my
grandparents. My uncle pulled over and finally
turned to me. Rico, we must talk.
You can never tell your grandparents what happened here.
There is much you do not know and not enough time for me to
tell you everything. The world is filled with great
evils. Our family.
Some of our family are chosen. We have a gift to see the other
world. Not all of us are as strong.
Some just see glimpses. Others, like me and you.
Well, we can interact with that world.
But there are creatures that live within that world that
don't appreciate our gift. They prefer to remain hidden
from view as they do their work. But there are rules they must
follow in ways we can protect ourselves.
I'm going to give you something. My grandfather gave it to me
when I was about your age. Now it's yours.
With that, my uncle grabbed the crucifix around his mirror and
put it around my neck. I had never noticed before the
uniqueness of it. There was a large Black Rock in
the middle Obsidian and the outside of it was glass with a
thick red liquid inside. I have never taken it off since
my uncle gave it to me. It's still around my neck to
this very day. My uncle made me promise to
never tell outsiders about what happened.
They wouldn't believe it anyways, he said.
After that night, he said we could never talk about it again.
Talking about it gives them strength.
We talked for about an hour more on that side of the road.
He told me about where they come from and of the evil and
corruption that they wish to spread.
Afterward, we continued our drive home.
True to his word, my uncle never again spoke of that evening with
me and I well, I wasn't going to bring it up.
About 10 years later, just outside of those woods, Uncle
Leo crashed his truck and was killed.
I've often wondered if whatever had jumped on our truck that
long ago night had somehow caught up to him.
Finally. The world is a beautiful place.
No one can argue that. But there are evils out there,
some that stay hidden just beneath the light.
Never forget that Some things can't be explained, and perhaps
it's for the best that they aren't.
All it took was a heavy rainstorm to break my spirit.
When the Thunder rumbled and the raindrops started their
relentless drumming. I felt that old terror sees me,
the one that echoed the screams of the past.
The guilt inside me reacted like a beast to the lightning,
growing restless and gnawing at my consciousness.
It's been this way since the accident. 8 lives taken.
Because I couldn't see the damn Rd.
I became an expert at drowning out storms.
When the storm approached, I pulled the curtains tight,
sealed the windows, and buried my ears under my old noise
cancelling headphones. They're worn out pads of
familiar comfort. But tonight, as the storm raged
outside, the power in my house cut out.
I was plunged into a suffocating silence, broken only by the
terrifying Symphony of Thunder and rain.
For some reason, it wasn't the darkness that frightened me, but
the whispers. They called my name floating
towards me on the gusts of wind that threatened to shake the
house apart. I brushed it off as my mind
playing tricks, a desperate ploy to keep itself busy in the face
of the terror outside until I heard the knocking, a soft
rhythmic knocking that echoed the frantic beats of my heart.
I held my breath, listening, hoping I'd imagined it.
The knock came again, more insistent.
I found myself drawn towards the sound, like a moth to a flame.
Against every instinct in me to cower and hide, I grabbed the
old baseball bat from the closet.
It's worn wood, reassuringly solid.
Under my clammy palms, my mind was a whirlwind of fear and
confusion. Who could be out there in the
middle of this maelstrom? I flung open the door, stealing
myself for a confrontation, but found nothing but the storm.
Rain and wind lashed at my face, drenching me in an instant.
The whispers grew louder. A taunting chorus carried on the
Gale. I stepped outside, hoping to
catch sight of whoever was playing this cruel prank.
The door slammed shut behind me, carried by the force of the
wind. The click of the lock resonated
in the storm, echoing my growing sense of dread.
Through the curtain of rain I saw her, a woman sitting on my
porch, her dress whipping around her in the wind.
She was holding something, my spare key.
I squinted, trying to make out her face, but what I saw sent my
heart plummeting. The face was pale, almost
luminescent in the storm's gloom, split by a jagged sewn
up, gash from forehead to chin. It was her, one of the victims
of the accident. A bolt of raw fear shot through
me, my heart pounding so hard I was sure it would burst from my
chest. But the woman ghost, whatever
she was, didn't move. She just sat there, clutching my
key, watching me. A cold shiver ran down my spine
as she lifted a finger to her lips.
Was she telling me to be quiet, or was she asking me to listen?
The storm roared around me, and for the first time since the
accident, I stopped trying to block it out.
I stood there drenched and terrified, listening to the
whispers on the wind. Their message was clear.
This was just the beginning. No amount of wishful thinking
could wipe the slate clean. You can bury your past, bury
your guilt, but it seeps into the soil and taints the
groundwater. It was a truth I knew all too
well. That day started off just like
any other. As the County Sheriff, I had a
duty to protect and serve. I woke early, had a strong cup
of coffee, and started the long drive to the station.
It was a route I knew like the back of my hand, my car snaking
its way through the twisting, turning mountain roads.
The storm was unprecedented. It descended on us without
warning, a roaring Tempest that swallowed up the day.
I drove through the downpour, windshield wipers struggling to
keep up every droplet on the glass.
A bullet of distraction. But I kept driving.
I was the sheriff. People were counting on me.
Then a flash of light, a patch of wet asphalt.
I lost control. The car skidded, spinning out on
the wet Rd. Then the terrifying crunch of
metal, the shattering of glass. In that split second I saw them,
a minivan full of kids, their faces pale in the lightning, and
then darkness. When I came to, the storm had
passed, leaving in its wake a silence that was louder than any
Thunder. The air reeked of gasoline and
burnt rubber. The minivan was a wreck,
crumpled against a tree. Inside were eight young lives
extinguished, snuffed out like candles.
In the storm. I lived.
They didn't. It was a burden I had to carry,
an anchor that dragged me down. Every waking moment, my career,
my reputation, all lay in shambles.
I retreated from the world, my home in the outskirts of the
town, becoming my fortress of solitude.
The guilt was my constant companion, as loyal as a shadow.
And now, years later, the past had found its way to my door,
bringing with it a chilling reckoning.
The woman, the victim, the ghost, she was a reminder of my
deepest guilt, my greatest fear, the stitched up face, the silent
accusation in her eyes. They were etched into my memory
that night as I lay wide awake, the storm raging outside.
My guilt took on a new form. The past was not something I
could outrun. The whispers in the storm, the
spectral woman on my porch. They were all parts of a puzzle,
a grim Riddle that I had to solve.
I could no longer ignore the guilt, the fear, the whispers I
couldn't hide behind. My old noise cancelling
headphones couldn't retreat into my fortress.
This was a storm I had to face, a ghost I had to confront.
As dawn broke, piercing the gloom with weak rays of
sunshine, I made a decision. I would go back to the crash
site, back to where it all began.
The journey would not be easy. The wounds it would reopen would
be raw and painful. But I had to do it.
I had to confront my past. For the 8 lives lost, for the
ghost on my porch, and for me. The whispers on the wind were a
call to action, a message from the storm.
I had to listen. I had to face my past, because
this was just the beginning. See, the thing about the past
is, I muttered to myself, driving through the desolate
mountain pass. You can't erase it, you can only
confront it. The storm that had been raging
in my head had now manifested itself in the sky, echoing my
torment, my guilt, my fear. It felt as though the universe
was In Sync with my inner turmoil.
The roads were familiar, yet foreign.
Years had passed since I'd last traveled these routes, and time
had left its indelible marks just as it had on me.
The thunderous roars and the rain pelting against the
windshield served as a constant reminder of that fateful night.
The once bustling town was now nothing more than a ghost town.
Nature had reclaimed the town, the dilapidated houses standing
like silent witnesses to a bygone era, the faint echo of
children's laughter, the residual warmth of a community.
All were now replaced by the cold, gusts of wind and the
eerie silence. My destination was the site of
my worst nightmare, the scar that had never healed the crash
site. I parked the car at a safe
distance, my heart pounding in my chest.
The rain had reduced to a drizzle, nature pausing to
witness my confrontation with my past.
The site was haunting. The crumpled tree, the shattered
glass still scattered on the ground, the faint traces of tire
marks, all silent witnesses of that horrifying night.
My knees buckled as the weight of my guilt bore down on me.
I fell to the ground, my eyes welling up with tears.
A flicker of movement caught my eye.
I looked up, my heart in my mouth.
There she was, the spectral woman standing a few feet away,
her eyes empty, her face a mirror to my guilt.
The silence between us was deafening.
I stood up, my legs shaking, my eyes not leaving her.
I walked towards her, each step of battle against my fear, But I
had to do it. I owed it to her.
I owed it to them. As I reached her, I looked into
her eyes, my guilt reflected in them.
My voice choked, my words a mere whisper carried away by the
wind. I'm sorry, I said, my voice
barely audible. She didn't say anything, just
kept staring at me. And then, as if on cue, a gust
of wind blew and she vanished, leaving behind only the chilling
emptiness. The whispers on the wind seemed
to subside, replaced by a haunting silence.
I was left standing alone, my guilt still gnawing at my soul.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a gloomy silence.
I had confronted my past, apologized for my guilt.
But was it enough? The only answer was the cold
wind whispering in my ear. And in that moment, I realized
that this journey was far from over.
This was just the beginning. The whispers in the wind, the
ghostly woman, they were all a part of a mystery I had to
unravel, and I was ready to face it all, ready to chase the
whispers, the musty smell of damp earth and age-old secrets
hung heavily in the cryptic woodland.
Trees stood like ancient Sentinels, their leaves
whispering secrets that were as old as time itself.
The air was thick with an eerie stillness that weighed on my
shoulders, amplifying my apprehension.
A mournful howl echoed through the night, sending a chill down
my spine. The spectral woman's presence
seemed to permeate the forest, wrapping around the trees and
sinking into the soil. The ghostly cold of her touch
seemed to reach me, even though she wasn't there physically.
I started the trek towards the cabin.
Each crunching step on the leaf littered ground seemed to echo
my pounding heart. The cabin, once a beacon of
warmth and family, now stood ominously in the heart of the
woods, darkened windows seeming like gaping, blind eyes.
The memories of laughter and camaraderie now seemed like
whispers on the wind. I unlocked the door with a shaky
hand. The old wood creaked open,
revealing A dusty room, the air heavy with years of solitude.
The moonlight filtered through the broken window, casting long,
haunting shadows. My boots echoed in the silent
room as I stepped inside, the echo serving as a chilling
reminder of the life this cabin once held.
A chill ran down my spine as a sudden gust of wind blew the
door shut. The silence was disrupted by the
soft rustle of papers. I turned around to see an old
photo album lying open on the dusty table.
The faces of my family smiled back at me, oblivious of the
tragedy that was to befall them. My fingers trace their faces, my
heart heavy with guilt and sorrow.
A soft whisper echoed in the room, making me jolt up.
I looked around, my eyes scanning the room, but saw no
one. The room felt colder, the air
denser. The whispers grew louder, a
cacophony in the silence, echoing my guilt, my fear.
The spectral woman appeared in the moonlit room, her presence
casting a cold pallor. Her empty eyes bore into mine,
reflecting my guilt. You could have saved them, she
whispered, her voice the embodiment of my deepest fears.
I fell to my knees, the guilt overwhelming me.
The room began to spin, the whispers growing louder, echoing
the horrifying truth. I could have saved them.
Suddenly, everything went silent.
The spectral woman disappeared, leaving behind the chilling
emptiness. The moonlight had dimmed,
casting long, foreboding shadows.
The silence was broken by a distant wail, A sorrowful cry of
a creature in pain. The whispering wind carried A
horrifying realization. The spectral woman was not just
an embodiment of my guilt, but a manifestation of my fear, my
regret. This was my hell, my eternal
torment. I was alone in the cabin.
My guilt, my only company outside the woods, echoed with
sorrowful cries, a grim Symphony that would haunt me forever.
The spectral woman, the whispers, the guilt, they were
all a part of me, etched into my soul.
I was trapped in this endless cycle of guilt and fear, bound
to relive my worst nightmare. The whispers in the wind were a
constant reminder of my sin, my failure.
And as I sank into the darkness, the last whisper I heard was a
chilling promise. A promise of eternal torment.