The Whistle in the Field

They told stories about the fields behind the village.

Dry, endless fields. Yellow grass. No trees. No shadows. Nothing.

And always, that one warning: “If you hear whistling after midnight—don’t turn around.”

No one explained why. They just said it like a rule. Like you say “Don’t play with fire.”

It wasn’t superstition. It was survival.

But of course, Ibrahim never believed in ghost stories.

He was 22, tough, and tired of hearing the same old village fears. He lived with his grandmother, helped with farming, and often took his dog, Sheru, out for long evening walks—sometimes into the edges of the fields.

One night, after an argument with his cousin, Ibrahim stormed out of the house.

“I’ll go where I want,” he snapped. “You all live in fear!”

The stars were sharp in the sky. The moon barely a sliver.

Sheru followed him, tail low.

They walked deeper into the fields than usual. The grass grew taller here. Dry. Brittle. It cracked beneath every step like old paper.

The wind was quiet.

---

Then came the whistle.

Low. Slow. Just four notes. Rising, falling.

“Who’s there?” Ibrahim called out, voice firm.

Sheru froze.

His ears pointed forward. A soft growl escaped his throat.

“I said who’s—”

Another whistle.

Closer this time.

Same four notes.

Ibrahim turned around—

But there was nothing.

Just grass. Stars. Silence.

Then… a third whistle. This time, right behind him.

He spun fast—

Still, nothing. No one.

But Sheru barked wildly now, pulling at the leash, trying to run.

“What is it, boy? What do you see?”

Then he saw it too.

Not someone. Something.

The grass ahead began to move—like something crawling through it. Fast. Quiet. Too big for a dog. Too low for a man.

The wind picked up suddenly, and the whistle returned—but now it sounded different.

It wasn’t just four notes.

It was… breathing. Through teeth.

---

Ibrahim started to back away, pulling Sheru with him.

But the air was thicker now. Like the night itself was folding in on him.

He turned—and that’s when he saw it:

A figure standing in the grass.

No face.

Just long arms, a twisted neck, and lips pursed tight—still whistling.

It didn’t walk.

It glided.

No sound. No footsteps.

Ibrahim couldn’t move.

His legs locked. His chest heavy.

Then Sheru barked once—loud—and charged.

“No!” Ibrahim shouted.

But Sheru ran full speed toward the figure.

The thing didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

It just opened its mouth wider, and the whistling grew louder, sharper, almost angry.

Sheru stopped. Whimpered. Then collapsed.

Still. Silent.

Gone.

Ibrahim screamed.

He turned and ran—faster than he ever had.

But the whistle followed.

No matter how far he ran, it echoed in his ears, around him, behind him, beside him.

He didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the field.

---

He burst into the house, slamming the door shut. Fell to the floor, gasping.

His grandmother looked at him. Pale. Eyes wide.

“You turned around… didn’t you?”

He nodded.

She said nothing. Just placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.

“You brought it with you.”

---

That night, the whistling didn’t stop.

Not once.

Every hour, it circled the house. Outside the windows. Behind the walls. Sometimes… inside.

Ibrahim didn’t sleep.

Sheru never came back.

The next morning, the fields looked normal again.

Sunshine. Wind. Birds.

But Ibrahim knew—he hadn’t left the fear behind.

It had followed him. Lived in him now.

And sometimes, when he closed his eyes…

He heard the four notes.

Low. Calm. Waiting.

---

Moral:

Curiosity is human. But some sounds were never meant to be followed.

And if something whistles for you in the dark… keep walking.