“The Whistle in the Woods”

There were only three rules in the town of Elmridge:

Never enter Hollow Pine Woods after sunset.

If you hear whistling, don’t respond.

If something calls your name—run.

Everyone knew the rules. And everyone obeyed them. Except for Jake Monroe.

Jake had just moved to Elmridge with his mother after his parents’ divorce. He was seventeen, skeptical, and stubborn. When he first heard the local lore, he laughed. “You all scared of trees and bedtime stories?”

“They’re not stories,” warned Ava, a quiet girl from his class. “People disappear. No one ever comes back. It always starts with the whistle.”

He smirked. “Cool. Then I guess I’ll go make friends with whoever’s doing it.”

That night, Jake packed a flashlight, left a note for his mom, and biked to the edge of Hollow Pine. It was just after sunset when he stepped past the rusted old sign: NO TRESPASSING – BY ORDER OF THE TOWN COUNCIL.

The woods were dense, silent, and colder than the air outside. The trees bent in strange angles, as if leaning in to whisper to one another.

An hour passed.

Nothing happened.

“Figures,” Jake muttered, turning to leave.

That’s when he heard it.

A long, slow whistle.

It came from deeper in the woods, soft but clear. Almost... melodic.

Jake froze.

The sound repeated. A pattern. Friendly. Beckoning.

“Nice try,” he called out, assuming some local kid was playing a prank. “Very spooky. You got me.”

The whistling stopped.

Then a voice, thin and familiar, echoed from the trees: “Jaaaaake…”

He blinked. That was his mom’s voice.

He turned slowly. “Mom?”

Silence.

Then again—closer. “Jaaaaake… help me.”

It was her voice. But stretched. Off. Like someone trying to sound human but not quite managing.

His instincts screamed to run. But his feet stayed rooted.

Then he saw it.

A shape between the trees. Human-like, tall and thin, but wrong. Its limbs were too long, and its head lolled to one side like a broken puppet. In the dark, he saw a pale smile split across its face. Black eyes. No whites. No soul.

It lifted one crooked finger to its lips.

And whistled.

Jake bolted.

Branches whipped at his arms. Roots clawed at his feet. The woods seemed to shift and change, trees rearranging to keep him in.

Behind him, the whistling grew louder.

Faster.

And then—silence.

He stopped, panting, listening.

A whisper behind his ear: “Gotcha.”

He screamed and spun around, but nothing was there.

Just the trees.

He ran until the woods spat him out onto the roadside. He collapsed, gasping, and didn’t stop until he reached his front porch. He slammed the door and locked every bolt.

The next morning, he told no one.

But something was wrong.

His reflection in the mirror smiled a second too long.

His dog refused to go near him.

And every night, at exactly 2:03 a.m., he heard it.

Whistling. Outside his window.

No one else in town heard it. His mother thought he was having nightmares. Ava avoided him entirely.

A week later, Jake didn’t show up to school.

The sheriff found his bedroom empty. No signs of struggle. The window was open. Muddy footprints led from the woods to his bed—and then back out.

That night, Ava swore she heard Jake’s voice outside her house.

“Avvvvaaaa… come play…”

She didn’t open the door.

She didn’t sleep.

And she never—ever—whistled again.