whistle

very night, no matter what the weather, something passes by our street, whistling softly. The sound only starts at exactly 3:03 AM and can only be heard from the living room or the kitchen. It begins near the Carson family's house at the start of the street and passes by ours on its way to the end of the block. As a kid, my sister Nola and I would sneak into the kitchen to listen, even though our parents warned us about it. They never liked us talking about it or trying to understand it. There was always one rule: Don’t look at whatever is whistling.

We had lived in the neighborhood since I was six years old, and though everything seemed perfect—small, well-kept homes, a tight-knit community, and the best neighbors—it was hard to ignore the strange things that came with living here. The neighborhood was blessed with a sense of good luck. Little things would happen, like unexpected promotions, finding money, or winning contests. But what we didn’t realize when we first moved here was that for every blessing, there was a price.

Nola had been born very sick. Her lungs weren’t strong enough to keep her alive, so my parents moved to this neighborhood, hoping it would bring her some of the luck it seemed to give everyone else. And it did. Slowly, her health improved in ways the doctors couldn’t explain. The neighborhood worked its magic. My parents believed it was a miracle, and so did I.

But even miracles have their consequences. They come with a warning that you don’t fully understand until it’s too late.

One night, I overheard a conversation between my parents and the welcoming committee—the group that visited every new family to ensure they knew the “rules” of living in the neighborhood. They were friendly, offering casseroles and baskets, but their warning was chilling. The whistling. If you try to look at whatever is making that sound, your luck will turn—sometimes tragically. You won’t die, but you will lose your soul.

The committee gave my parents newspaper clippings of accidents, ruined lives, and deaths. They said the whistling had been around for as long as anyone could remember, and there was a rule: never, ever look for the source of the whistle.

The next night, I stayed up with my dad. We sat on the living room couch, waiting for 3:03 AM. Sure enough, it came—the soft, eerie whistle passed by our house and then disappeared. We never talked about it, but we both knew the rule. We couldn’t look.

Years went by, and Nola grew stronger. My dad even joined the welcoming committee, helping new families understand the unwritten law of the neighborhood. We lived in peace, keeping the blinds locked at night, always careful to follow the one rule.

Then, a new family moved in next door. The previous owner, Mrs. Medi, had lived a long life and passed away peacefully at 105. Our new neighbors were friendly, but like everyone else, they had to learn the rules. I could see from the look on my dad’s face when he returned home whether they were taking the warning seriously. Most did. But this time, something was different.

Holden, their son, was about my age, and one night when his parents were out of town, he stayed with us. It didn’t take long for him to start asking questions. “Do you know who whistles outside every night?” he asked, his voice full of curiosity and excitement. My sister and I exchanged a glance. "We don’t talk about it," I warned him.

But Holden was persistent. As the night wore on, he grew more nervous, asking if we’d ever tried to look. It was almost 3 AM. I didn’t want to entertain the thought, but Holden was determined. He admitted to sneaking into our parents’ room earlier to borrow the key to the blinds.

That’s when I felt the fear sink in. My father locked the blinds every night, but he kept the key on his keychain—just a few steps away from the window. For the first time in years, I realized my dad had stopped hiding the key.

Holden's face lit up with excitement as he pulled the key from his pocket. “What are you waiting for?” he said, moving toward the window.

I could feel Nola’s fear as she stood by me, and suddenly everything seemed wrong. "Holden, no," I whispered, but it was too late.

I rushed to stop him, but Holden was already fiddling with the lock. The whistling began, louder this time. I felt a chill run down my spine as the sound grew closer. My heart raced. I grabbed Nola and pulled her away from the window, closing my eyes tight.

The blinds rattled. The whistling stopped.

uddenly, there was a knock at the door. A soft knock. It echoed through the house, sending a wave of panic through me. "Don’t answer it," my mom whispered, her voice trembling.

We heard more knocking. Louder now. Coming from both doors. Then from all the windows. It felt as if we were trapped in a drum, the sound vibrating through the walls.

Holden’s face went pale. He started to cry. "Please, I’ll never look again," he begged, shaking uncontrollably.

The knocking stopped, but the tapping continued—soft, persistent taps on the window Holden had been looking through. It was as if something was trying to get in.

The night dragged on in silence, broken only by the faint tapping. The sun rose, and my dad finally opened the blinds. It was over. But we all knew something had changed.

Holden’s family left a few days later. I saw them packing, exhausted and pale, their eyes hollow with the terror they’d experienced. They never spoke to us again.

As we sat in the living room that night, Nola and I clung to each other, feeling the weight of the rule that had kept us safe for so long. Don’t look. Don’t look at the whistle.

We still live here. We still hear the whistle every night. The luck, the blessings, the miracles—they’re too good to leave behind. But we are careful now. My dad hides the key to the blinds better than ever. We don’t have friends sleep over anymore.

And no matter how tempted I am, I never look.

Because there are things you just don’t need to see.