The Whistle of Death

It was the rainy season when I went to my grandfather's farm. As night fell, a storm would form and I remember my grandfather's warnings:

-Those are the nights when El Silbón walks.

After dinner, I went out for a smoke. The wind was picking up and mist covered the countryside. That's when I heard it: a chilling whistle that broke the silence. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si.

My blood froze. If you hear it far away, it's close... if close, far away.

Between the trees, a tall skeletal silhouette loomed. He was taller than any man, hunched over, with a sack on his back. I felt his gaze on me as the hissing intensified.

A guttural whisper came on the wind... like someone counting bones. One, two, three.

I ran inside in terror. My grandfather didn't ask, he just took a machete and scattered hot pepper.

-Pray, boy. If he doesn't mark you today, he'll come back for you.

Outside, the wind and whistling continued all night. At dawn, a smell of rot permeated the air.