The Whistler In The Night

Prologue

I woke up in a dark room, my heart already pounding in my chest. At first, there was nothing—just thick, suffocating darkness. But then I heard it: a low, eerie humming, followed by a faint whistle, both coming from somewhere close. Too close.

I couldn't see a thing. My breath quickened, panic surging through me. I tried to move, but my body felt frozen, paralyzed by the unknown. The humming grew louder, more unsettling, filling the silence like a warning.

Then, out of nowhere, I saw him. A tall, shadowy figure, his frame barely visible in the faint light coming from the far corner of the room. He was wearing all black, his skin pale like he hadn't seen sunlight in years, and his eyes—huge and unblinking—were fixed on the wall in front of him. I was behind him, but he didn't seem to know I was there.

He kept whistling, the sound grating against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to run, but I couldn't move. I just watched, my breath shallow, as he slowly turned around.

In his hand, he held a knife—its blade dripping with blood. I didn't know whose blood it was, and I didn't want to. He stopped whistling, the room falling into an unbearable silence. His lips curled into a slow, twisted smile, his eyes locking onto mine like he'd been waiting for me all along.

Without saying a word, he crouched down, placing the bloody knife on the floor with deliberate slowness. Then, with the same eerie calm, he lifted his black hat from his head, his pale fingers running along the brim.

And then he started walking toward me.

Step by step, his boots clicking softly on the floor, each one dragging me deeper into a nightmare I wasn't sure I'd survive.