Whistling At Night Novels & Stories

SILAS The vibration of the Great Horn shudders through the floorboards of my office, a deep, mournful lowing that signals the start of the seventh night. At the sound of it, my fingers tighten around the rim of my glass. I turn toward the tall arched window, jaw set, and watch the darkness beyond the glass as the distant chorus rises and multiplies, wolves answering wolves across the grounds, across the treeline, the entire pack being drawn into the sacred call like iron shavings to a lodestone.

I rolled over my bed again trying to find another position hoping for the sleep to engulf me. After tossing and turning for another thirty minutes nothing happened. The faint light of the moon entering from the window was illuminating every corner of the room. I shut my eyes again but this time a voice entered my ears. It was Emily. Her room led to the balcony but my window was open due to which her whispers were clear to me. It was almost 3 am, Emily had a habit of going for a walk in her wolf form at night whenever she had trouble sleeping.

The air, filled with the sweet scent of blooming wildflowers, grew cooler, carrying the whispers of nocturnal creatures awaking from their daytime slumber. In the distance, the chirping of crickets and the hooting of owls created a soothing melody, punctuated by the occasional bark of a dog and the rustle of leaves as unknown creatures stirred. The world suddenly seemed bathed in a soft, lunar glow, as if the very essence of the night had been distilled into a magical elixir. As the transition from evening to night reached its climax, Rhys couldn’t help but experience the otherworldly peace that bathed the village—a time for dreams, secrets, and the whispers of the unknown.

The wind that evening was completely soundless, it slipped on the tightly glassed window like a ballerina on the ice rink. The water in the kettle started to boil but Melany had forgotten to put on a whistle and the steam quickly covered the cupboards with fat drops of hot water.

Under the quiet of the evening, with the draft sighing between them and the city beating beyond, she whispered, "Then let's continue listening."

“If he remembers, you die faster.” --- That night, alone in her corner, Melodie whispered toward the stars. “Don’t let her win. Not with my song. Not with my life.” --- In his chamber, Alexander held the straw whistle again. He stared at it for a long time. Then, suddenly, he blew. A few trembling notes escaped. Raw. Fragile. And utterly familiar. His hand shook. --- “She wasn’t lying,” he whispered. ---

He vanished just like a thin air But she could hear the sound of someone whistling until it faded away. And Aria could only clench and unclench her fists, standing out in the darkness around her.

I grabbed the silver dagger from the nightstand, the one Matteo had nearly killed me over, and tucked it into my boot. If the Council wanted a Carrington heart to open their vault, and Serafina wanted my skin for a trophy, they were going to find out that even a branded wolf has teeth. I turned back to the bed, picking up the dead raven by its cold feet. I walked to the balcony and hurled it into the darkness, watching it vanish into the trees. "I'm not the mouse anymore," I said to the empty night. I was about to turn back inside when I heard it—a low, melodic whistling coming from the gardens below. It wasn't a wolf’s howl. It was a human tune. A song Knox used to whistle when we were kids

This is all I know. I continue to play my cello. Humming a natural tune along with my notes. Yet, my felicity is stopped once more. I hear the scattered whispers, the ones I hear every night. The gossip and buzz show up every night, right at dusk. Right when the moon is put into the sky.

I’m laying in bed staring at the ceiling above me, the shadows dancing above me playing a haunted scene before my eyes, a gentle breeze sways through the room from the open window and I can hear the noise of each nocturnal animal around the estate, it’s like listening to a sorrow-filled symphony.