The Whistler

The Whistler

Me and my brother have a tradition every year where we go camping out in our 10-acre backyard. Each time, we set up camp different places along our property, but this year, we chose the woods in the very back of the acreage. We do this tradition every year because our grandfather did it with us when we were kids, he used to hike out to the exact same spot every time, near the old barn, and set up camp there. We would spend about 2-3 days there, and when we had to leave, Grandpa drove us to the ice cream shop before we headed home, as a treat. God, what I wouldn't do to get him back...
When Ryan and I got to the woods, we were about to collapse from exhaustion. We dropped the ridiculously heavy bags we were carrying, and both looked at each other.
"Well, let's get camp set up, then we can have a drink."
"Sounds like a plan" I said
We began to unpack what we brought: a tent for each of us, some cooking equipment, a lighter and some firewood, food to last us about two or three days, a deck of playing cards, and some whisky. As we were unpacking, I noticed how quiet the forest had become since we got there. Usually, it was filled with birds chirping and squirrels chattering, but now it was dead silent. But I seemed to be the only one to notice because I looked over at Ryan, and he was still setting things up. I decided it was just me imagining things, so I went back to helping Ryan set up.
In the late evening, we were all settled in. We had gotten a roaring fire going and everything seemed blissful.
"Hey, want to crack open that Jim Bean?" My brother asked
"Give me a good reason not to"
He got out two camping mugs and filled them a quarter full with the potent alcohol. We both sat back and watched the fire. It was mesmerizing with its dancing flames. Ryan and I stared at the fire occasionally sipping at our liquor. Not a single word was exchanged for several minutes, until Ryan looked up from the fire and spoke
"Remember when Grandpa used to bring us here, he would always tell us stories of when he was in the war?"
I laughed "And how you always got super freaked out that a Nazi bombing squad would fly over our house and kill everyone?"
Ryan laughed back "Yeah that was stupid"
And just like that, we went back to staring at the fire.
"Hey" Ryan said, "Want some dinner?"
"Does a bear shit in the woods?" I shot back
"Fair enough" he replied
Ryan stood up from his camping chair and walked over to the cooler where he had packed a bunch of food for our trip. "
"What do you want?" He shouted over his shoulder
"What did you bring?"
"Hotdogs, burgers, stuff like that"
"Hit me with a couple of hotdogs" I said
Ryan came over and tossed the package over to me. I opened the pack and stuck two on a hotdog stick and hovered them over the fire. There is something about the fire that's hypnotizing. I sat the hotdog stick in hand hovering over the flames and staring at the fire. When I got out of my trance like state, I looked back at the hotdogs and swore. They were burnt to a crisp. I had left them too long
"Shit" I remarked
"What's wrong?" Ryan asked
"I burnt the goddamn hotdogs"
"It's fine" he said "There's two more for you there, ill just eat something else"
He then pulled some chips out of the cooler, opened them, then sat back down
"I wasn't really that hungry anyway" he said
After dinner, we had about a handle of whisky each, so we were well and proper drunk. At about 1AM, we decided to hit the hay. So, we crawled into our respective tents and climbed in our sleeping bag. I was so drunk; I fell asleep before my head touched the pillow.

I jerked awake; I didn't know why. Something had been loud enough (or close enough) to wake me from my drunken haze. Lay there for a couple of minutes, wondering what could have woken me up.
Until I heard it.

One, single, monotone, long whistle.
It sounded as if a record player had gotten a scratch and was repeating the same note over, and over, and over again. At first, I thought it was Ryan messing with me, so I opened the tent flap, the zipper seemingly louder than I remembered it, and there was Ryan, squatted in front of his tent, seemingly looking right at me. He had a look of pure terror I haven't seen since he came back from Iraq. His mouth was agape, more so than a normal human should, I thought. What got me the most were his eyes. They were hollow and wide, almost as if they were going to pop out of his head. By the dying light of the fire, I could see his pupils were pinpricks and his skin gaunt. I realized then that he wasn't staring at me but staring behind me. All while that same damned whistling noise echoed through the forest. It occurred to me that whoever was making that whistling noise did not stop for a breath, like anyone else would have. No, it was just one very long one note whistle.
I turned my head to look at what Ryan was stricken with fear at. What I saw, I can never ever forget.
There was a figure, thin and fragile directly behind my tent, body pushing up against the fabric of the back of the tent. The figure finally took a breath, and that eerily familiar sound wafted through the air once again. I looked back at Ryan and said one word:
"Run"
We both started to sprint back to our house, which was a good two miles away. While we made our escape, I looked back and saw the figure, not walk, but sort of slide towards us. I think I screamed; I can't remember. Since we were wearing no shoes, it was painful to run through the forest and into the field towards our house. All while that fucking whistling kept on going. The figure was gaining on us quick, and a couple seconds later I heard Ryan's bloodcurdling scream.
"RYAN!!" I shouted
What I saw almost made me throw up. The figure pinned Ryan up against a tree and used its long fingers to stab him right in the heart, blood draining from his body. I stopped for a brief second and stared, shocked. He was silhouetted in the moonlight. It was grimly poetic in a sense. The creature then turned its head towards me, and I ran. I ran until I finally got to our house and burst through the door. Our elderly parents, who lived with us, were sleeping upstairs, since it was after all 3 AM. I slammed the door behind me and locked to door pushing a cabinet in front of it and slumped down, crying. Ryan was gone. He was gone and there was nothing I could do.
As I was wallowing in my own self-hatred that I let me fall behind, the phone rang. I picked it up and listened. What I heard; I won't be able to forget until I die:
One, single, monotone, long whistle.