Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad oleh M.R. James,

Professor Parkins, a young and meticulous man of academia, found himself on the East Coast for a well-deserved golfing holiday. Burnstow, the seaside town he’d chosen, was a picturesque escape from the bustle of Cambridge. He secured a room at The Globe Inn, a quaint establishment with a history as rich as the mahogany furniture within. While the room itself was comfortable, the presence of a second bed slightly irked his sense of order.

His first day in Burnstow was a delightful blend of fresh sea air and the satisfying thud of a well-struck golf ball. On his return to the inn, Colonel Wilson, a fellow guest with whom he’d shared a round, regaled him with tales of the local Templar preceptory. These fascinating ruins, now partly devoured by the ever-encroaching sea, were said to hold secrets yet to be unearthed. Colonel Wilson, an amateur archaeologist himself, expressed a desire to explore the site further and even offered Parkins a role in a potential excavation.

The next morning, armed with a map and a thirst for historical exploration, Parkins set off to locate the preceptory. The walk along the deserted beach was a solitary meditation on the past. As he rounded a bend in the coastline, he spotted the crumbling remains of the Templar stronghold, a poignant reminder of a bygone era.

His exploration led him to a partially exposed section of the masonry. Curiosity taking hold, he began to clear away the loose soil, revealing a small, hollow space. Nestled within, gleaming even in the dull light filtering through the ruins, was a peculiar object – an ancient bronze whistle. The inscription on its surface, though weathered, seemed to depict a helmeted figure holding a similar whistle. Intrigued, Parkins carefully pocketed his find and commenced his return journey.

On the way back, a strange sensation swept over him. It felt as though someone, or something, was following him – a presence just beyond sight. Glancing back repeatedly, he saw nothing but the desolate expanse of the beach. Ascribing this feeling to overactive imagination fueled by the day’s discoveries, he dismissed it and continued walking.

Back at the inn, the whistle became the center of his attention. Brushing off the remaining soil with a handkerchief, he examined the inscription more closely. The inscription, in Latin, sent a shiver down his spine. It roughly translated to: "He who whistles and I will come to him, that which is ours shall be ours."

Intrigued, yet oddly uneasy, Parkins decided to consult the local library the following day. Perhaps they could shed light on the whistle’s origin and the chilling inscription. But sleep eluded him that night. The thought of the whistle, with its promise and threat, lingered in his mind. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle outside his window, sent a jolt of nervous anticipation through him.

The next morning, armed with his newfound knowledge from the library (the whistle was indeed a Templar artifact, associated with a dark legend), Parkins felt a renewed sense of purpose. He would unravel the mystery of the whistle, separate fact from folklore. But a nagging doubt remained – was this just a historical curiosity, or something more?

That evening, after a restless day of research, Parkins settled into his room with the whistle in his hand. The inscription seemed to taunt him, its meaning both alluring and unnerving. In a moment of morbid curiosity, he pressed the whistle to his lips and blew a tentative note. The silence that followed was deafening. Perhaps it was just a relic, robbed of its power by the passage of time.

A sense of relief washed over him, only to be shattered by a sudden, cold gust of wind that extinguished the candles and plunged the room into darkness. Panic surged through him. Was it just a draft, or something more sinister?

In the inky blackness, a guttural voice echoed through the room, a voice filled with ancient malice. It spoke of betrayal, of vengeance, of a long-awaited return. The voice demanded the return of what was rightfully his. Parkins, his heart pounding in his chest, fumbled for a match, desperately seeking the light.

When the flame flickered back to life, the room was empty. The whistle lay discarded on the floor, silent and innocuous once more. But the chilling encounter left Parkins shaken. Had he merely imagined the voice, or had he awakened a long-dormant evil? The inscription on the whistle no longer seemed like a mere historical inscription – it was a chilling pact waiting to be fulfilled.

The next day, Parkins made a decision. He couldn't allow the whistle to remain in his possession, a constant reminder of the horror he had unleashed. He would return it to the place where he found it, burying it deep within the ruins of the Templar preceptory.