The Whistler In The Alley

My name’s Christian. I live three blocks from my high school, but somehow it always feels like the walk home takes longer than it should. Especially now. Especially since… the alley.

People don’t talk about it much anymore. Not out loud. But I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has, if they’ve lived in this part of the city long enough.

There’s an alley behind the old brick hardware store near 8th and Larchwood. Just a narrow slice of concrete between two buildings, with rusted dumpsters, faded graffiti, and a sagging chain-link fence at the back. Most people pass it without thinking. But the ones who know—the ones who remember—cross the street. Or speed up. Or hold their breath until they’re past it.

Because of him. The Whistler.

That’s what they call him.

He doesn’t have a face. That’s what they say.

He whistles the tune you were just thinking. That’s what they say.

And if you hear him behind you… you’re not supposed to turn around.

Ever.

I didn’t believe it, of course. Who would? Urban legends are just scare tactics, stories to tell at lunch or pass around in text threads. I told myself it was all made up. Even laughed about it with my friend Jonah. That’s probably what made it worse—thinking I was immune.

I walk past that alley every day after school. I’d always cut behind the hardware store to shave five minutes off my walk home. Never saw anything. Just trash, rats, and cracked pavement. The alley stank like mold and oil, and sometimes I’d see a dead bird or something with its eyes pecked out. Still—normal city grossness, not ghost-story stuff.

But that day, it was different.

It was a Wednesday. Cloudy. The kind of sky that looks like it forgot how to be blue. I remember the weird pressure in the air. The kind you feel before a storm, except the wind never came. Everything just… sat there.

Dead quiet.

I stepped into the alley like I always did, backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, some random track looping in my ears. My head was full of the last bell, the math quiz I probably failed, and the dumb argument I’d had with my mom that morning about cleaning my room.

And then…

I felt something.

Not saw. Not heard. Felt.

It wasn’t the cold—not yet—but something like the absence of movement. Like the entire alley had stopped breathing. Like it had become a room with the door sealed shut.

I took my earbuds out.

Silence.

No cars, no pigeons, no hum of electricity from the lampposts. Just the dull thud of my shoes against concrete. I remember thinking, why is everything so quiet?

And then…

I thought of a song. One from a horror movie I watched with Jonah. The theme stuck in my head. Just a few notes. That creeping little melody you hum without meaning to.

Three seconds later—

From behind me—

A whistle.

The same tune.

Exactly.

Slow. Deliberate. Wet-sounding.

I stopped walking.

My chest turned to concrete. It wasn’t just that I’d heard it—it was the way it matched my thoughts. I hadn’t said anything. I hadn’t hummed. But he knew.

The Whistler knew.

And he was right behind me.

I didn’t turn around. I don’t know how. Every instinct I had screamed to look. But something deeper—older, maybe—told me not to.

My hands trembled. I felt my knees unlock, but I couldn’t move my legs. Not yet.

The whistle came again. Closer. The same tune. As if he was stepping in rhythm with the melody. The notes were slightly off-key, just enough to make the hair on my arms rise.

Then… silence. Again.

But I could feel him.

You know when someone’s staring at the back of your neck? That pins-and-needles buzz along your spine? Multiply that by a thousand. It was like his presence pushed the air around me, as if the atmosphere warped wherever he stood.

I squeezed my eyes shut. One step. Another. Keep walking. That’s what I told myself. Don’t run. Don’t look. Don’t think.

But my mind didn’t listen.

I pictured him—against my will.

I didn’t want to. But it’s like my brain filled in the blanks.

He was tall. Slouched forward like his limbs were too heavy. His clothes didn’t fit right—baggy and threadbare, hanging off him like they belonged to someone else. The kind of outfit you’d find in a pile of donated clothes left out in the rain.

But it wasn’t his body that chilled me. It was the skin.

His skin didn’t look like it belonged on a person. It had a texture—almost like wax paper stretched too tight. There were discolorations, too. Large splotches where the skin seemed rubbed raw, flaked at the edges. Not bleeding. Just… wrong. Like something wearing a human shape and trying to hold it together.

And his head…

There was no face. Not in the traditional sense. Just the impression of features. Indentations where eyes should’ve been. A nose that looked flattened, like clay pressed too hard. His mouth—if you could call it that—was barely visible.

But it opened when he whistled.

I could hear it.

That subtle rasp at the start of each breath. The way the whistle vibrated, wet and close, like something forcing air through damaged lungs.

The final note came.

Then nothing.

No more steps. No more breath.

And I knew—he was waiting.

Waiting to see if I’d turn around.

I ran.

I don’t remember how far. I think I cleared the alley in three seconds flat. I crashed into the street, almost got hit by a cyclist, and kept going. Didn’t stop until I was outside my apartment, gasping and drenched in cold sweat.

I never looked back.

I told Jonah everything the next day. He laughed.

“Dude, you were thinking of that song and you imagined the whistle. Power of suggestion, bro.”

But I could tell—even as he said it—he didn’t fully believe himself. Not with how pale I’d gone. Not with how shaken I was. He dropped the jokes eventually and sat back, quiet.

“You think it’s real?” he asked.

“I don’t think. I know.”

Jonah nodded slowly, then leaned forward.

“My brother told me a story once,” he said. “Back in the ’90s, one of his friends disappeared. Right near that alley. They found his backpack in the street. But nothing else. No blood. No footprints. Just… gone.”

I swallowed.

“Christian…” he said, lowering his voice. “My brother said he saw the guy the night before. His friend had been humming something all day. Some stupid jingle from a commercial. Said it was stuck in his head. That night, they walked past the alley, and he heard it. Someone whistling that same tune. He turned around.”

“And?” I asked.

Jonah looked me dead in the eyes.

“They said his face was gone. Like someone peeled it off. Not like blood and gore, just… erased. Nothing there. Just skin. Like he’d never had a face to begin with.”

I didn’t respond.

I couldn’t.

Because the next words out of Jonah’s mouth sent a lightning bolt through my chest:

“You were humming yesterday too, weren’t you?”

Yes. I had been. In the hallway. At lunch. During class.

The theme song.

The one that got stuck in my head.

The one he whistled.

It started that night.

At first, I thought I was dreaming.

I was lying in bed, the ceiling fan spinning slowly above me, blades creaking with every turn. I couldn’t sleep. My legs felt too restless, my arms too heavy. The image of that alley kept replaying in my head like a skipping record. That whistle—I could still hear it when the room was quiet enough.

I looked at the clock. 1:17 AM.

I turned over.

And then… I felt it again.

That same pressure in the air. That wrongness.

Like the walls of my room were warping inward, slowly pressing against my ribs. Not physically—but something deeper. Something that touched a part of me that shouldn’t be reachable.

I sat up.

And I heard it.

From outside my window.

The whistle.

Exactly the same notes I’d been thinking just seconds before.

I froze. My room faces the alley behind our building. Fifth floor. No fire escape. No trees to climb. Just a straight drop into broken concrete and rusted garbage bins.

But the whistle… it was right outside.

I pulled the curtain back. Just enough to peek.

Nothing.

Just black sky. Motionless streetlights. A few plastic bags caught on barbed wire.

I let the curtain fall.

And then it came again.

The same tune.

This time—inside the room.

I spun around.

No one there.

My breath caught in my throat. My chest heaved. I scrambled out of bed and flipped on every light I could. Lamp. Closet. Hallway. Nothing.

But when I looked back at my bed, I saw it.

On my pillow.

Three finger-shaped stains. Long, thin, and slightly greasy. Pressed into the pillowcase like someone had leaned down while I slept.

Like he was there.

Inches from my face.

Watching.

I skipped school the next day. Faked a fever. My mom didn’t ask questions—she was already halfway out the door, rushing to work.

I sat at my desk, staring at the wall, chewing my fingernails down to the quick. The whistle kept bouncing around in my skull like an echo I couldn’t shut off.

I texted Jonah: “It’s not just the alley. He followed me home.”

He didn’t reply.

That afternoon, I did something I hadn’t done in years. I walked to the downtown library. Not to use the computer or check out a book—but to ask someone.

A woman named Ms. Estrella worked there. Everyone knew her. Old, hunched over, glasses bigger than her face, always smelled like cinnamon gum and cold paper. She’d been there forever. People said she used to be a teacher. Maybe a witch. Maybe both.

I waited until no one else was around.

“Do you know anything about… a man who whistles?” I asked.

She didn’t even look surprised.

“From the alley?” she whispered.

My mouth went dry.

She nodded. Slowly. Her eyes dropped to the floor, then back to me.

“He’s not a ghost,” she said. “Ghosts are trapped. He moves. He chooses.”

“Chooses what?”

“Who to follow.”

She stepped closer.

“He doesn’t kill right away. That’s not what he wants. He needs you to hear him. Needs you to think about him. That’s the key.”

I swallowed.

“What happens if you look?”

She shook her head. “That’s not the question you should ask. The right question is—why does he take your face?”

I didn’t answer.

She reached under the desk and pulled out a small notebook. Yellowed pages. Torn cover. She flipped to the middle and handed it to me.

A crude drawing filled the page. Black pen. Lines thick and frantic.

It was him.

No features. Just that tall shape. That warped skin. And those empty indentations where eyes should be.

There were words scribbled underneath. Faded but still legible.

“He whistles what you hum. He waits behind you. If you turn—he takes what you are.”

“What you are?” I asked.

“Your face,” she said. “But it’s not about flesh. He takes your… identity. The part of you that’s seen. That’s known. You’ll walk, but you won’t be you anymore. You’ll be blank.”

My hands shook.

“There’s one rule,” she said. “Only one way to survive once you’ve heard him.”

She leaned forward and whispered

“Don’t. Think. In. Music.”

It’s impossible. You don’t realize how often your brain makes noise until you try to silence it.

Everything becomes a rhythm. Your steps on the sidewalk. The way your backpack creaks. Even the sound of your breathing.

My thoughts kept slipping. I’d hum under my breath without noticing. A tune from a commercial. A ringtone. Something from gym class. It didn’t matter what it was—he’d hear it.

Every time, the whistle came after. Delayed by a few seconds. But always matching. Always closer.

It got worse that night.

I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth. Trying not to think. My mouth foamed. The mirror fogged slightly from the hot water.

Then—I heard it.

That sound.

Behind me.

Whistling. Soft. Right at my back.

But this time…

He added something.

At the end of the melody, after the last note…

He spoke.

Not loudly. Just one word. Gritty and broken. Like a voice that hadn’t been used in centuries.

“Christian.”

My name.

Said slowly. Drawn out. Like he was tasting it. Like it hurt him to say it—but he wanted to anyway.

I dropped the toothbrush. My heart slammed into my ribs.

I didn’t turn around.

But in the mirror… I saw the shape.

Not clear. Just an outline. A silhouette where no one should be.

Tall. Leaning slightly. Arms long and unmoving. Head tilted.

No eyes.

Just presence.

And a whistle that never ended.

It’s not just the alley anymore.

He’s inside my house.

Inside my thoughts.

And now—he knows my name.

I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.

I sat in my room all night with the lights on, holding the baseball bat from under my bed. Every hour or so, I’d hear it—just faintly—whistling, like wind caught in a broken vent. But it wasn’t the wind. My window was shut. My door was locked.

My mom didn’t notice. She’s barely home lately. And when she is, she’s either glued to her phone or passed out on the couch. That night, I think I could’ve screamed and she wouldn’t have heard me.

At around 2:40 AM, I dared to look at myself in the mirror.

I mean really look.

My face was pale. Lips cracked. Eyes wide and bloodshot. But something else was off. Something I couldn’t place at first.

It took me a full minute to see it.

My reflection… blinked too slow.

I blinked—then a second later, he blinked. My reflection. Like it forgot how to follow.

And then it smiled.

I didn’t.

But it did.

A lazy curl of the mouth. As if it found something funny. Something inside me.

I backed away slowly.

The reflection tilted its head.

And then I heard the whistle again—this time from inside the glass.

I slammed a towel over the mirror and didn’t touch it again for two days.

Jonah finally texted me back.

“I heard him too. I think I messed up.”

I called. No answer.

I walked to his house. Rang the bell six times. His mom answered. Her face was red. Puffy eyes. She looked through me like she didn’t recognize who I was.

“Jonah’s sick,” she said. “You should go.”

She shut the door before I could say a word.

That night, I got a message. From his number.

video attachment

I hesitated, then opened it.

The screen was pitch black. But the audio…

It started with that same melody. Whistled. Shaky. Slow. Then a second whistle joined. In perfect sync.

And then I heard Jonah’s voice. Broken. Terrified.

“He’s… he’s standing in my closet. He doesn’t move. He’s not breathing. I can’t stop hearing it. I—I tried not to think, but he’s in my head. I keep seeing myself in places I wasn’t. My mom talked to me this morning, but I wasn’t there. I saw it happen. From across the room. I’m splitting—Christian, I think I’m splitting. He’s taking pieces of me. I can’t stop—”

Static.

The video ended.

I called again. And again. No answer.

I walked to his house a second time the next morning. His mom wasn’t there. The door was cracked open.

Inside, the whole place was silent.

Too silent.

Jonah’s room was empty.

His phone sat on the desk. Still warm to the touch. On the wall behind his bed was a strange smear—like someone had dragged their fingers across the paint.

Five parallel lines.

Like claw marks.

But there was no blood. No body. No sound.

Just a scent.

A dry, stale rot. Not like death. Not like garbage.

More like… the smell of something left behind.

That night, I found myself standing in the alley again.

I don’t know why. I didn’t walk there. I just… was there.

One moment I was in my room, and the next I was standing in the middle of that narrow strip between buildings, hands numb, face cold, the distant buzz of a streetlamp overhead flickering like it was struggling to stay awake.

I turned to leave—and saw him.

Not him exactly.

But them.

There were three figures at the far end of the alley. Motionless. Facing me.

No faces.

Not even blurred. Just flat, stretched skin where identity should’ve been. Each body was thin. Angular. Fragile-looking but tall. Their postures sagged as if gravity hated them.

And then—one of them raised its hand.

It waved.

A slow, twitchy motion. Like it didn’t know how hands were supposed to work.

My breath caught.

Because it was wearing Jonah’s hoodie.

The gray one with the torn sleeve and the bleach stain across the front.

And the figure beside it?

Wore my reflection’s smile. The one from the mirror.

They weren’t just people.

They were versions.

Pieces. Stolen parts. Faces pulled off and worn like masks.

I ran.

I don’t remember the sprint home. I just remember the sound.

Not footsteps. Not chasing.

Just… whistling.

Layered.

More than one.

Each of them singing the tune I thought I’d forgotten.

The next night, I tried something desperate.

I blasted white noise through my speakers. Played static and rain loops to drown out everything. I taped over the mirrors. I wore headphones and thought of math problems instead of music.

It didn’t matter.

The Whistler had already gotten in.

At 1:00 AM—on the dot—I woke up gasping.

Not from a nightmare.

From a note.

A single, high-pitched whistle inside my skull. Like someone had struck a tuning fork behind my eyes. I clutched my head. I couldn’t think.

The tune kept repeating. Except now… it was saying words.

Not with a voice. Not like a person.

But through the pitch. Through the rise and fall of sound.

A whisper tucked inside the whistle.

“You think you still have a face.”

“You think you’re the only one left.”

“You’ve already turned around.”

I opened my eyes.

And he was there.

Not across the room.

Not in the corner.

He was on the ceiling, upside down, neck craned backward, mouth open, as the whistle poured out of him like steam.

And for the first time—I saw what was beneath the skin.

His jaw didn’t move right. It unhinged. Not like an animal. Not like a demon. But like something pretending to be both.

Inside his mouth was no tongue.

No teeth.

Just more whistling. Like a tunnel. An endless black hallway that hummed with soundwaves and echoed with names.

Mine. Jonah’s. Others.

Too many to count.

He crawled toward me—upside down—slow, dragging limbs, body twitching with the rhythm of the song stuck in my head.

I screamed. Loud. Louder than I ever had.

My mother never came.

It’s not sleep anymore. It’s shutdown. Like my body gives out every few hours and I wake up somewhere different—my room, the hallway, once even the front porch—no memory of how I got there.

Each time I wake, something’s missing.

First it was my toothbrush. Then the photos on my wall. Then the sticky note I always kept on my lamp that said “You are still here.”

Gone.

Last night, my reflection didn’t return.

I stared into the bathroom mirror for ten minutes. The surface showed the room, the walls, the door behind me—but not me.

No body. No outline. No shadow.

Like I was no longer part of the world.

I touched the glass. My skin was there. Cold. Solid.

But the mirror… refused to recognize me.

And behind me, in the corner of the mirror where my face should have been—was a faint smear.

A handprint.

Pressed from inside.

I told my mom.

I begged her to listen.

I screamed in her face.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other resting on her lap. But it was the way she sat—completely still, not even breathing—that made something in me snap.

Her face was wrong.

Not visibly. Not at first. But the more I looked, the more I realized something was missing. Her expression. Her life. The subtle things that make a person feel present.

She turned to me and smiled.

But not like her.

It was too… rehearsed.

“Everything’s fine, honey,” she said, her voice just slightly off, like the pitch had dropped half a note. “You’re just tired. Go rest.”

And then she lifted the mug.

There was nothing inside.

She drank anyway. Her throat moved like she was swallowing something, but the cup was bone dry.

I backed away.

She kept smiling.

And then, from the living room—I heard her voice again.

The real one.

Coughing.

Calling for me.

I turned, heart pounding, and there she was—my real mom—staggering through the front door, keys in hand, groceries spilled across the floor.

“Christian?” she gasped. “Why are the lights off?”

I turned back toward the kitchen.

The other one—the thing at the table—was gone.

Only the empty mug remained. Sitting perfectly still.

Steam rose from it now.

Even though it was empty before.

Today… I tried to scream again.

But nothing came out.

No sound. No breath. No vibration in my throat.

I opened my mouth and felt the motion, but not the result.

Like my voice had been scooped out with a spoon.

I ran to the mirror and pulled my lips apart, shining a flashlight into the back of my throat.

Nothing.

Not “no tonsils.”

I mean—nothing.

No passage. Just smooth, featureless skin stretched across the back of my mouth like a wall.

I tried to cry, but the tears didn’t fall. They just sat there, thick and motionless in my eyes, like my body no longer knew how to release pain.

And then… the whistling started again.

But it wasn’t from outside this time.

It was inside my skull.

Every beat of my pulse came with a note. A tune in sync with my heartbeat. A rhythm echoing through my teeth.

“If I can whistle with your thoughts,”

“I can breathe through your mouth.”

“If I can hum your name…”

“…I can wear your skin.”

I slammed my head into the sink. Once. Twice. Blood bloomed across the porcelain like a slow blossom.

But the whistling didn’t stop.

It got louder.

I stopped leaving the house.

Then I stopped leaving my room.

Now, I just sit in the corner with my knees to my chest and watch the shadows grow longer on the wall.

They don’t move with the light anymore.

They move with him.

He visits now. Every night. Never speaks. Never enters. Just stands in the hallway outside my room.

Whistling.

Sometimes I see more than one shape behind the doorframe. They take turns. Jonah. The thing that wore my mother’s skin. A smaller one that crouches like a dog and scratches at the wood with fingers too thin to make noise.

And the wall across from my bed… it’s changing.

Names are appearing.

Written in the flaking paint.

Faint at first. Now darker.

Jonah’s was the first.

Then mine.

Then others.

People I’ve never met.

Some of them scratched out. Others still glowing faintly, like heat signatures.

One name keeps appearing over and over again.

Not mine. Not Jonah’s.

Chelsea.

Written in uneven letters. Sometimes forward, sometimes mirrored. Once upside-down.

I don’t know who she is.

But he does.

Tonight… I turned around.

I don’t know why.

Maybe I wanted it to end. Maybe I was too tired. Maybe part of me wanted to see what was waiting in the dark—just to prove I still had eyes.

I was standing in the hallway, head down, thinking of nothing.

I heard the whistle. Close. Right behind me.

And I turned.

And there he was.

Not walking. Not reaching. Not grinning. Just there.

Standing six inches from my face.

No eyes. No face. Just that blank, sagging mask of skin.

He leaned in.

Put his finger gently to my lips.

And blew a single whistle into my mouth.

My vision shattered.

Not blacked out—shattered. Like glass falling into my head. Each shard showing a different image. A different memory. A different version of myself. Some were twisted. Some were missing. Some weren’t me at all.

And when I came to—

I couldn’t remember who I was.

My name was gone.

My voice was gone.

My reflection was gone.

All I had left… was the song.

The tune I can’t stop hearing.

The one that whispers through my lungs when I try to breathe.

I hum it now.

I hum it for him.

I don’t remember the last day I was myself.

I don’t even remember the last day being real.

Everything’s soft now. Blurred. Like I’m underwater. Except the whistle cuts through it all, sharp and clean, piercing the fog inside my skull.

I hear it when I move. When I blink.

When I try to remember my name—the whistle plays it back wrong.

Wrong melody. Wrong pitch.

Like my identity was thrown into a blender and spat back out in fragments.

There are pieces of me left in places I’ve forgotten. I think I found one last night.

In the crawlspace.

It started when I heard scratching behind the wall. Slow. Purposeful. Like fingernails dragging through drywall.

I peeled back the panel under my bed.

There was something inside.

A small object. Wrapped in flannel. Tied with a shoelace.

I opened it with trembling hands.

Inside: a Polaroid.

Me. Jonah. A girl between us—blonde hair, braces, bright smile. The name “Chelsea” scribbled on the back in my handwriting.

I don’t remember her.

But I think… she remembers me.

And beneath the photo—something else.

A folded slip of notebook paper, crusted with old blood. The words were written in uneven ink:

“Don’t listen too long. He’ll teach you to whistle.”

“And once you learn… you can never stop.”

I broke into Jonah’s garage.

No one stopped me. Not even his mom. She just stood in the window, eyes vacant, mouth barely open. Like she was waiting for a signal she’d already forgotten.

The garage was quiet. Cold. Dust on everything. But I knew where he kept the old cassette player. We used to record dumb voiceovers on it, pretending we were ghost hunters.

I found it. With a tape inside labeled “C.”

I played it.

The static rolled in first. Loud. Harsh.

Then—Chelsea’s voice.

“If you’re hearing this… I didn’t make it.”

“He’s not just a legend. Not just a shadow. He’s a hole. A gap in the world pretending to be a man. He learns you. He mimics your thoughts. He becomes what you fear most. And then he takes it all.”

“He took Jonah. He’s taken others. But if you listen too long… he gets inside.”

“He wears you. Not like skin. Like a song. And then he sends you back out into the world—just another whistle in someone else’s hallway.”

The static grew louder.

Then the tune began.

Soft. Whistled from far away. But slowly getting closer. Closer. Until it was right inside the tape player.

The pitch bent at the end. Warped.

And over it, another voice whispered:

“Christian.”

I threw the tape against the wall.

But I could still hear the tune.

Inside my ears.

Three nights ago, I saw myself walking outside.

Not a hallucination. Not a dream. I was awake. Aware. Watching from the window as my body—my exact body—walked up the street, slowly, calmly, whistling.

Neighbors waved to it. Cars passed it.

No one noticed it wasn’t real.

No one noticed I was still here.

When it reached the alley, it stopped. Turned its head up toward me.

Didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just stared.

Even without eyes… I felt the stare.

And it whistled again.

This time—I felt it in my chest.

Like I was the one making the sound. But I wasn’t. My mouth was shut. My throat tight.

And yet… the tune poured from me anyway.

I dropped to the floor, convulsing, choking on notes that weren’t mine.

When I came to, I was on the kitchen floor.

The same song still playing from my lips.

And in the living room, the TV flickered on—on its own.

It showed my face.

But the mouth didn’t match the words. It kept opening wider and wider until there was no head at all—just a tunnel of dark sound and a whistle so loud it shattered the screen.

My skin isn’t fitting right anymore.

I look down and see seams.

Subtle at first. Now clear. My wrists, my ankles, my neck. Little ridges. Little puckered lines like something was stitched.

And beneath… something moves.

Like a slow shifting mass. Like smoke trying to form bones.

I’ve started finding faces.

Not people. Not photos. Loose skin—hung like masks on nails inside the attic.

Blank. Featureless. Dried out and curled at the edges.

Dozens of them.

One had Jonah’s haircut.

Another… I think it was mine.

A note scrawled on the wall in soot:

“We are the melody now.”

I think the Whistler isn’t alone.

I think we become him.

This is the last thing I’ll ever write.

Because I’m no longer sure I’m Christian.

Not all the way.

The music is always inside me now. Not just sound—memory.

Each note holds a person. A life. A stolen identity folded into the song.

The Whistler walks with me.

Or maybe… I walk with him.

I’m standing in the alley now.

Where it started.

It’s different here. Colder. The buildings curve inward, unnaturally tight. Like the alley itself is closing around me.

He’s behind me again.

But I don’t fear him anymore.

Because I hear so many whistles now.

All playing in harmony. All echoing the same tune.

Christian.

Jonah.

Chelsea.

You.

If you’ve read this far—

If the song is in your head—

Don’t hum.

Don’t whistle.

Don’t think in melody.

Because once he learns your song…

He’ll whistle it back.

And when you turn around—

You’ll be singing too.