The Whisper in the Breeze

I heard a strange whistling sound coming from outside my window. It wasn’t the gentle murmur of wind through trees—it was sharp, almost purposeful. Pushing aside the curtain, I froze. An eerie figure swayed in the moonlight, its long limbs moving as if caught in a silent, haunting rhythm. Its glowing eyes locked onto mine, piercing through the glass with unnerving clarity.

I stumbled back, my pulse hammering. Yet something pulled me to look again. The figure seemed closer now, the movements less like a dance and more like a message. I could almost make out a whisper threading through the whistling—my name.

Grabbing my phone, I fumbled to turn on the flashlight. The beam swept over the figure, and it vanished in an instant. Only a frayed kite, tangled in the skeletal branches of a tree, remained.

Relief washed over me, but as I turned off the flashlight, the whistling returned. This time, it wasn’t coming from outside. It was behind me. A cold draft brushed my neck as I spun around, heart in my throat.

There, on the floor, was a scrap of paper. Written on it in spidery handwriting were two words: “Still watching.”