The Whistler In The Night

Chapter 10

I saw Scarlet from a mile away, her familiar figure rushing toward me through the early morning haze. As soon as she reached me, she pressed her lips against mine in a smooth, soft kiss, her arms wrapping around me as if holding on for dear life. The cold air around us faded for a moment, and all I could feel was her warmth.

"How are you, babe?" I asked after we pulled away, still holding her close.

"I'm fine... when I'm with you," she whispered, her voice soft, but the tension in her eyes told me otherwise. Something was still wrong—something that lingered between us ever since we found that cursed diary.

We walked over to a bench under the streetlamp, and she began talking quietly, her words unsettling. "Yesterday, I went through more of that diary," she said. "There was this one entry about a man who killed his girlfriend to become a witch... And then I saw a sketch—a wooden house in the snow. I swear, Evan, I think it's your grandfather's cabin. The one you told me about."

I stared at her, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. I had told her about the cabin once, how my family used to visit when I was a kid. It was a small, lonely place deep in the woods, isolated from everything. We hadn't been there in years. But why would it be in that diary? What was the connection?

"I think we need to go there," Scarlet said, her eyes locked onto mine. "There's something about that place. Something that can help us figure this out."

I hesitated. The idea of going back to the cabin, especially with everything going on, sent a shiver down my spine. But Scarlet was right. This diary, this man, all of it—it was pointing us there. And maybe, just maybe, we could find some answers.

We agreed to go right away.

The drive to the cabin felt like it took hours, even though it was only about an hour north. The snow had been falling heavily, making the roads slick, the white landscape stretching out endlessly around us. Scarlet sat in the passenger seat, quiet, lost in her own thoughts, while I gripped the steering wheel tight, trying not to let my nerves get the best of me.

By the time we arrived, it was nearly nightfall. The log cabin stood in front of us, small and worn down by the years. It looked just like I remembered, though now it seemed darker, more menacing. The cold air bit at our faces as we stepped out of the car, snow crunching under our boots.

"Babe," Scarlet said, stopping me just before we reached the door. "We should turn off our phones. If we leave them on, our parents are going to keep calling. And if they figure out where we are..."

She didn't need to finish the sentence. They wouldn't understand. None of this made sense to anyone but us.

Without a second thought, I pulled out my phone and smashed it against the ground, the glass screen cracking in an instant. Scarlet followed suit, throwing her phone down until it shattered. For a brief moment, I felt a sense of freedom, as if cutting off that connection meant we were truly on our own now, for better or worse.

We approached the cabin. The weather was freezing, the wind biting through our clothes, but neither of us said a word. I turned the rusted doorknob, and it creaked open, revealing the dusty interior of the old wooden house.

It was just as I remembered—small, with a few pieces of old furniture and a fireplace in the center. Everything smelled like wood and cold, untouched for years. But something felt... wrong. There was an energy, a heaviness that made my skin crawl.

We stepped inside, closing the door behind us.

"Do you feel that?" Scarlet whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness.

I nodded. The atmosphere was suffocating, like the cabin itself was alive and watching us.

As we walked further into the room, my eyes caught something on the far wall—a faded photograph of my grandfather. He stood in the snow outside the cabin, smiling in that familiar way. But behind him, in the tree line, there was a shadow. A figure. It was hard to make out, but it was there, looming in the background.

Scarlet saw it too. "That's him," she said, her voice shaking. "The man from the diary... and your nightmares."

I couldn't deny it. It was the same man—the same black hat, the pale skin, the wide, haunting eyes. He had been watching my family long before I was even born.

Suddenly, there was a noise—a creaking sound coming from the far corner of the cabin. We froze, both of us staring in that direction. I grabbed Scarlet's hand instinctively, my heart racing.

"What was that?" she whispered, gripping my hand tightly.

I shook my head, listening carefully. It was coming from the back room, the small storage room where we used to keep firewood. The creaking grew louder, as if something—or someone—was moving around in there.

"We need to check it out," I said, though every part of me wanted to run back to the car and get the hell out of there.

Scarlet squeezed my hand. "I'm with you."

Together, we slowly made our way to the back room. The door was slightly ajar, and as we approached, I could feel the temperature drop even further. My breath came out in visible puffs, and I pushed the door open with trembling hands.

Inside, there was nothing. Just an empty room with some old boxes and a few logs of firewood stacked against the wall. But the sense of dread didn't go away. In fact, it only grew stronger, like something was hiding, waiting for us to leave.

Scarlet let out a shaky breath. "I don't like this."

Neither did I. But we couldn't leave. Not yet.

I glanced at the floor, where something caught my eye—a faint trail of footprints in the dust. Small, almost unnoticeable, but they were there. And they led straight to the corner of the room... where an old, wooden chest sat.

I crouched down, my fingers brushing the surface of the chest. It was cold, almost unnaturally so. Slowly, I opened it.

Inside, there was something wrapped in cloth. I pulled it out carefully, unwrapping the layers until I revealed what was hidden inside.

A knife. A black, old, rusted knife, stained with something dark. Blood.

Scarlet gasped, stepping back. "That's... that's the knife from the sketch. The one the man was holding."

I couldn't speak. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn't just some nightmare. This was real. The man had been here. And he had left this knife for me to find.

But why?

We stood in silence, staring at the knife, knowing that whatever was happening wasn't over. This was only the beginning.