Whistles in the Mist

Whistles McCoy was up before the Sun every day of the week. Being a logger means long, weary hours and sleep is seldom seen. Most of us are still languishing in dream as he makes his way past the town’s gated cemetery, his footsteps echoing about him in the fog.

This day is different. Today he killed someone.

A crow whooshes past out of the graveyard and settles in a bare tree across the street.

“Good morning, brother.” Whistles tips his hat.

The crow bobs it head, studying him before cawing once. Whistles hefts his axe to the other shoulder.

The mist seems heavier now. Harder to move thru. Tendrils twist around his ankles as if trying to hold him. The thick carpet obscures the blood splashed over his boots. He leaves sticky, unseen half-footprints in his wake.

“Whistles. . . .” He spins, clasping the axe in two-hands.

“Whistle for me, Whistles.”

He peers into the fog. Impossible, he thinks, it’s not possible.

“You remember the tune, don’t you?” a figure glides into view.


“No! It can’t be. . . I. . . .” Whistles’ knuckles are white. Sweat beads at his temple.

“Yes, you did.” the mystery guest sits against the cemetery fence.

“But you’re. . . .”

“Quite.”

Whistles glances around, hoping someone will appear and tell him what the hell’s going on.

“I want my money back, Whistles.”

Whistles looks askance at him, “You’re dead.”

“Yes, we've covered that.“

“Then why do you need the money?”

The stranger’s eyes blaze, as if lit from within. Whistles readies his axe.

“HA!” a stream of hearty laughter shakes the shadow. “You know, I always liked you Whistles. You’re smart. A hard worker. You had potential.”

With a sudden cry, Whistles rushes the shade and swings! The axe head whispers thru the evanescent stranger and ricochets off the fence. It cleaves thru bone, flesh and leg muscle. Whistles crashes to the ground, screaming in agony. His life flows out, disappearing into the empty whiteness around him.

“But your choices. Tsk, tsk. Poor Whistles.” the figure rises from white, axe in hand. “You’re choices have been very disappointing.”

“Here!” Whistles digs into his overall pocket. “Take it! Take the money!”

He tosses numerous rolls of bills.

"Take it! Just leave me be! Let me live, please!”

“Oh, I’m not going to kill you Whistles.” The smile can be heard if not seen.

“Thank you! Thank you!” he crawls slowly backwards, pushing off his good leg.

More crows gather in the trees. Far-off in the fog, footsteps are approaching. In the branches overhead, the blackbirds laugh and flap their wings. Whistles looks over his shoulder, breathing erratic now. Shock is setting in.

A very tall person in a top hat and billowing coat materializes out of the mist. He leans on a scorpion topped cane and gazes down at Whistles.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for so long.”

Removing his hat, the tall man crouches to grasp up Whistles hand.

“Yes, you’ll make an excellent addition, of that I have no doubt.” he shakes it exuberantly and stands to address the shade.

“Perhaps I should apologize, Martin.” the top hat is replaced.

“Not necessary, Mr. B. I got the money right here.”

Mr. B pockets the rolls.

“And one soul, right?” Whistles’ murder victim points at him.

The man touches his brim. “That was our bargain.” they shake hands. “You’re free to go, Mr. Reyes.”

Martin Reyes, once only black ectoplasm is himself again. He drops the axe. Looks at his hands, feels his face. With a delighted grin and eyes shining he bows.

“Oh thank you, sir!”

“Off with you now.” Mr. B watches him go. “Nice fellow.”

He stoops to grab the axe and turns back to Whistles.

“Now, as for you Mr. McCoy! You and I have to be going as well. Oh it’s short trip, don’t worry.”

Whistles complexion is ashen, like the swirling fog. His eyes bulge, showing a lot of white. He licks his lips.

“Who are you?”

Mr. B looks cross.

“You know I was quite hoping for a little bit more out of you, Whistles. How disappointing.”

“I’m hearing that a lot lately.”

Mr. B laughs approvingly. The crows above shift in flurries of feathers and rattling branches and soft caws.

“I see what Martin meant about you! Yes, now I’m absolutely positive you’ll fit right in! I’m glad to have you.”

“Where. . . where are we going?”

Mr. B’s red eyes flare. His grin is suddenly rotting black and toothless. Whistles can smell dead flesh and feces. The mist darkens around them.

“To a place you made, Mr. McCoy. A place of wicked horror and eternal torture. I’ve come to take you by the hand.”

“Oh, my God!”

Mr. B flashes a dead smile.

“Not quite.”

Martin Reyes lived into his late nineties. When he died, he was whistling.