The Whistling Ghost of the Whittier
I wasn’t a believer. Not really. But the Whittier didn’t care.
It started with a tune in the wind — faint, playful, like someone whistling just out of sight. I told myself it was the river, or maybe my music mixing with the breeze. Logical. But when I mentioned it to the road supervisor, his face went pale. “There’s a story,” he said. “About a ghost that whistles.”
That night, I walked the corridor without music. I heard it again. Clear. Intentional. I said aloud, “How are you doing tonight?” And that must’ve been the invitation. The whistling came more often. It followed me. It moved through the building like it knew the place better than I did. And maybe it did.