The Eternal Whistle

It was still there, piercing his eardrum. He was convinced he was bleeding but he couldn’t find any blood. His breathing was deep and slow, savouring each breath. He was covered in sweat, each inch of his skin covered in dirt and grime. His jeans were torn and so was his white vest. Both sat loosely around his frame. It had been a while since he had last eaten. His shoes were gone. He could remember if he had run them into dust or if he threw them away. Time didn’t really matter anymore anyway. An idea filtered into his head, slipping past the last words he said to his daughter and what he regretted saying to his father. The same one. If he tried again, he might make it. He lifted his head and looked towards the figure again.

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“Hello,” he said with a croaky voice. As usual, the figure didn’t react. It just kept walking. “Please, you don’t have to do this.” Again, no reaction. It moved closer. He was backed into a corner. He was surely going to die here. The alley was narrow and cut off from passers-by. You would have to look to notice it. “Please,” he continued to plead. “Don’t do this.” It moved closer. Tears began to fall from his face as he collapsed to the floor. The whistle grew louder until it was all he could hear. It had ready been deafening. He could see its face now. It was hideous. “Please,” he whispered. It was now on top of him, looming over him like a giant. Its hideous face glaring down at him, its same expression was unchanging. Silently, the figure bent down and wrapped its leather-gloved hands around his neck and squeezed. Slowly, carefully, like a surgeon performing heart surgery. His eyes widened and he felt his breath hitch. He was going to die.

The figure then lifted him, holding him a few feet from the ground. The whistle was now deafening, consuming him is a bubble of noise. Now, he knew he was bleeding. But it was the least of his concerns. It was now he realised how tall the figure was. All the fear built in his heart suddenly dropping, crashing across his body as the figure squeezed further. His eyes widened further and his legs kicked from under him. He wrapped his hands around the figure’s arms. It didn’t react.

Then, gradually, the figure’s face twisted. The whistle stopped. He could finally hear again, but there was nothing to listen to. Its lips change, stretched and moulded into a grotesque, toothy grin. Several rows of teeth protruded from the figure’s gums, which were black. The teeth weren’t consistent. Some were sharp, dagger-like, others were flat. Each was angled in a different direction, some pointed outward, out of its mouth, but others pointed backwards, towards its throat.

He couldn’t scream. Its hands were still clenched around his throat. But, there was no one to hear him. With the figure’s grin etched into his mind, he felt the darkness around him, collapse, taking him, as the figure’s teeth sank into his neck.

* * * * *

Azealia awoke to the sound of birds chirping in the nearby window. She didn’t like it. She had never liked it. Bird songs reminded her of her mother. She hated her mother. She wasn’t a nice person. But, she could see why the song of a bird in the early morning could easily be seen as a beautiful thing. She felt the same about the drunken shouts of the men that returned home after a night on the town when she tries to sleep. For her, it was soothing. It was comforting to know that there were others disappointing their loved ones as well on a dimly lit Tuesday evening. Although, Azealia was disappointing people in a different way. She was single. Ever since her mother found her latest boy-toy, she had been nagging her to get with a young lad so they could double date, and Azealia detested every minute of it. First of all, she wasn’t interested in the men that were currently in her life. Some were gay, so that immediately ruled them out, and the rest were people she knew from work, and mixing business with pleasure is never a good idea. She had learned that from experience. So, it seemed to was destined to be single for a little while longer while also being perpetually bombarded with questions about her love life by her mother.

It was only her mother, she had realised recently. Her father never asked her about any boyfriends and she wasn’t sure if that was more of an insult. Was her father suggesting that she couldn’t get a boyfriend because she’s so unlikeable? Or does he not care enough about her to ask? If she were honest with herself, she didn’t care what he thought either way. She thought of her father as her father, nothing else. It was how he raised her. If he ever did ask, she would answer simple and he wouldn’t press. If she lied, she had her reasons. If she was telling the truth, it was another piece of knowledge that he possessed of her.

Azealia often found herself questioning how often she would lie to people around her because she didn’t want the trust to be known. She had probably lied to her mother the most, telling her about all the fun she had been having after having left home. In all honesty, she wasn’t having fun at all. The one thing that nobody during your school years tells you is how boring adult life can be. You leave school, maybe go to university, and then jump straight into a job that doesn’t require the qualifications that you studied for. Every smile she put on for every customer that ordered coffee from her shitty little coffee shop in the centre of town was a lie. And she knew their own smiles and “thanks yous” were also lies. Nobody actually liked anybody else. It’s all just lies.

She guessed that was why she found it so easy to lie to all the people she met through online dating apps. Despite her hatred of her mother’s begging, Azealia did actually want a boyfriend. Or hell, any friend would do. So it wasn’t uncommon to find herself scrolling through various accounts on various dating apps. None really took her fancy, with most men sending her obnoxious messages saying that they will be the “best she’ll ever have.” She usually gave a response of “with that shrimp?” before turning her phone off and switching to another app. The men never replied. But, for once, a man did reply.

His name was Louie and he was a strange man. Azealia didn’t usually go for men like him. Black hair, brown eyes, smartly dressed in some photos but a few that revealed a little too much for her liking. But, despite that, she matched with him and they began to speak. After his usual douchey attitude, and the same exchange she had had with several other men, he became gentler and kinder, offering his apologies for his words and a question to her.

r u afraid of noises? he asked.

She frowned and responded: What do u mean?

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do noises scare u?

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Again, she frowned and responded: Some I guess. There was a pause. A minute later, he texted again.

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have you heard of The Whistler?

Azealia rolled her eyes. The Whistler. He was trying to scare her.

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The Whistler, from her limited knowledge, was a weird, creepypasta that began somewhere on the internet following the surge of fans that came with Slenderman. The Whistler was a creature that, from a distance, looked human. Its clothing was always obscured by shadow and its face was covered in a black hood. The few who have seen its face say that its lips are pressed into a permanent whistle. According to the stories, referred to online as ‘the legend’, The Whistler picks a target at random. It could be any man, woman or child, and it begins to whistle. It’s subtle at first, your ears only just picking it up, but slowly, it gets closer. It doesn’t chase you down. It doesn’t hunt you from the shadows. All it does is walk towards you. Eventually, it gets close enough to kill you.

Of course, it was all horseshit. There was no such thing as The Whistler. If there was, he would appear on the local news a lot more. So for this man to start asking her about, was certainly strange. And a little off-putting.

Azealia sent back: what about The Whistler?

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have you heard him? Louie asked back. His response was immediate.

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Again, Azealia rolled her eyes before texting: yea. just a story tho.

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is he tho? was his next response. Azealia couldn’t help but chuckle at that. She could almost hear his voice as she read, a stern tone, suggesting experience. It was clear that this man was a little dilutional, or at least a bit theatrical. Azealia sighed but found herself intrigued by the man’s strange method of wooing. She didn’t think it would work, but she was certainly interested in seeing how far he would that this story. But she did see it all end with him making a comment about his penis again. She hoped it wouldn’t.

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Now, Azealia was ready to test new waters. i thought he was just a story.

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he was

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The response was quick, as if already prepared. A frown flashed across Azealia face as she reread the message. Now, it was getting a little creepy.

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he’s your problem now

Then, in the distance, in the back of her mind, a light whistle began. Azealia chuckled, feeling the hairs on her neck stand. She quickly texted back: what do u mean? No response. Her breath began to hitch. He was joking, right? It was just some kind of manipulative trick to get her scared to he could be the man and save her. Right? She tried to ignore the high-pitched sound but it kept leaking its way back into her mind.

Louie! she sent. Still, no response. She bared her teeth and sent: what is going on? Followed by: what have you done? This time, he responded.

i’m sorry, it read, but I made a deal. And just like that, he unmatched her and their conversation vanished. Now looking at a blank screen, Azealia found herself dumbfounded for the first time. The whistle was still there, scrapping the back of her mind. She tried ignored it. Gently, Azealia tried to laugh it off, assuming that the whole thing was a cruel practical joke. But the longer the whistle lasted, the less funny it became. Gradually, her smile dropped. Her phone slipped from her fingers. The whistle had grown louder. Shaking uncontrollably, Azealia slowly turned her head and lifted her eyes to the window next to her.

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The window overlooked the entire road. Her apartment building sat at the very end of it. She could see all the way down the road to the river. It was night. The street lamps were lit and no one was walking. In any other situation, she would have seen it as relaxing. But at the end of the road, silhouetted by the streetlamps, stood a figure. A shot of adrenaline ran through her. Her eyes widened. The figure was still. Then, it lifted its head and Azealia’s eyes met with the evil gaze of The Whistler, or a combination of all the sketches she had seen. With its lips pressed into its whistle, and Azealia frozen with fear, the figure began to move forward, its eyes locked with hers.