Horror stories, urban legends, e.t.c

Something walks whistling past my house every night at 3:03

Every night, no matter the weather, something walks down our street whistling softly. You can only hear it if you're in the living room or the kitchen when they walk by and it always starts at exactly 3:03. The sound is faint at first, somewhere at the beginning of the lane near the Carson place. We're towards the middle of the street, so the whistling moves past us before fading away in the direction of the cul de sac.

When I was younger, my sister and I would sneak into the kitchen some nights to listen. Mom and dad didn't like that and we'd catch Hell if they found us out there but they were never too hard on us since we always stuck to the one Big Rule.

Don't try to look at whatever was whistling.

My neighborhood is a funny place. I've lived here since I was six and I love it. The houses are small but well-kept, good-sized yards, plenty of places to explore. There are a lot of other kids here my age, I turned 13 back in October. We grew up together and would always play four square in the cul de sac or roam around from back porch to back porch in the summer. This was a good place to grow up, I'm old enough to see it. And there's only the two strange things here; the night whistling and the good luck.

The whistling never bothered me much. Like I said, I couldn't even hear it from my bedroom. But mom and dad don't like talking about it, so I've stopped asking questions. My dad is a strong guy, tall and calm. He has an accent since he moved to the US as a kid. His family, my grandparents, they're from the islands. That's what they call it. My dad, the only time he isn't so calm is if the whistler comes up.

He talks a little quicker then, eyes move faster, and he tells us not to think about it so much and to always remember the one rule, the Big Rule: don't try to look outside when the whistler goes past.

Not that we could look even if we wanted. See, there are shutters on the inside of every window, thick pieces of heavy canvas that pull down from the top and latch to the bottom of the window frame. Each latch even has a small lock, about the size of what you'd find on a diary. My dad locks those shutters every night before we all go to bed and keeps the key in his room.

My mom...I don't know what she thinks about the whistling. I've seen her out in the living room before at 3:03 when the sound starts; I could see her if I cracked my door open just an inch to peek. She's not out there often, at least I haven't caught her much, but once or twice a month I think she sits out there on our big red couch just listening.

The whistler has the same tune every night. It's...cheerful.

Da da dada da dum. Da da dada da dum.

Remember how I said there are two odd things about where I live? Well, besides our night whistler, everyone in my neighborhood is really lucky. It's hard to explain and dad doesn't like us talking about this part much, either, but good things just seem to happen to people around here a lot. Usually, it's small things, winning a radio contest, or getting an unexpected promotion at work, or finding some arrowheads buried in the yard, you know, the authentic kind.

The weather is pretty good and there's no crime and everybody's gardens bloom extra bright in the fall. "A million little blessings," I've heard my mom say about living here. But the main reason we stay here, why we moved here in the first place, is my sister Nola. She was born very sick, something with her lungs. We couldn't even bring her home when she was born, only visit her in the hospital. She was so small, I remember, small even compared to the other babies. A machine had to breathe for her.

We moved into our house here to be closer to the hospital. As soon as we moved here, Nola starting getting better. The doctors couldn't figure it out, they chalked it up to whatever they were doing but we all could tell they were confused. But my parents knew, even I knew, Nola getting better was just another of the million little blessings we got for living in our neighborhood.