My name is Evan. After a messy divorce, I moved into my late grandfather’s house, deep in the woods outside a quiet Alabama town. At first, the silence was peaceful… until the seventh night. That’s when I heard the whistling—slow, broken, drifting from the trees. Every night at 1:17 a.m., it came closer. The sheriff said my grandfather used to report the same thing every spring. In the attic, I found his journals—he’d heard the same tune, seen shadows by the shed, felt watched. Then, the whistling came from under the house… then the porch… then inside. One night, I saw a tall figure in the hallway. I chased it, shotgun in hand. The door was unlocked. Someone had a key. I left that night. I live in the city now, surrounded by lights and noise. But sometimes… I still hear that whistling. Right outside my window.