I wasn’t really close to my Uncle Kent. I barely saw him growing up, and we only spoke on birthdays or holidays. I wound up going to college near where he lived, so when my mom proposed staying with him to save on room and board, I was hesitant. Evidently, the arrangement worked out better than expected. Uncle Kent welcomed me with open arms, and put me in a huge room overlooking the backyard. He didn’t charge rent, cooked all my meals, let me do what I wanted, and even hooked me up with a job.
The first few months passed without incident. Then, late one night, while watching one of my shows, I detected the faint aroma….of cinnamon. It was strong enough to notice, and lingered for about two or three minutes. I initially thought nothing of it, until it happened the second time. About 10 days later, I was up late studying, when that same cinnamon smell manifested. It was more pungent and had a burnt smoky scent this time that seemed to thicken the air, to the point where I couldn’t even concentrate.
I stood up to open a window….and that’s when the whistles started.
I completely froze. The whistling sent sharp chills down my spine every time there was a fluctuation in its pitch. It sounded muffled and distorted, appearing to come from all directions, as if emanating from the walls. It started out slowly, going through random rhythmic and arrhythmic patterns. It almost sounded like the whistles were trying to form actual words, and continued for about 10 minutes before finally ceasing. The smoky cinnamon scent lingered a little longer, even after I opened a window. When I told Uncle Kent about it the next morning, he looked more annoyed than surprised or concerned.
“It’s probably the heating system again,” He said in a drab tone. “It’s really old, and does that every now and then. I’ll have it checked if it gets worse.”
I didn’t like the answer, but was satisfied he at least had an explanation. There wasn’t really a pattern in how often what I came to know as the “cinnamon whistles” occurred. I’d usually hear them about once a month. They were always just within earshot, and happened at night. Some nights, their fluctuating tones and pitches were more melodic. Other times they sounded shrill and high-pitched, like a drill or buzzsaw. I never got used to the whistling. It always gave off this eerie aura, and had an organic almost human-like quality that I found deeply unsettling.
I put my foot down one night in mid-February, when the cinnamon whistles were so unbearable, I tried sleeping in another room, but realized they permeated throughout the entire house. Since Uncle Kent was so ignorant about it, I took matters into my own hands. One of my coworkers named Shane used to repair heating apparatuses, and came over to take a look. I brought him down to the basement, where he inspected the furnace and parts of its ducts, but gave me a surprisingly positive report.
“The furnace itself is old, but in good shape still,” Shane said as he put away his tools. “There could be something inside the ducts that’s causing the smells and sounds, but I don’t have the right gear with me to know for sure.”
Shane wanted to find the house’s outside ventilation exhaust shafts, and trace one particular duct that connected to the heating system, but didn’t attach to the furnace. While Shane did that, I made sure to leave no trace of him being in the basement, knowing Uncle Kent would be pissed if he saw I had someone look at the heater. While moving some boxes, I spotted an old tape recorder leaning against a vent grille on the floor. I knelt down and picked the recorder up, noticing it contained a cassette tape, which had “Georgia 1/9” written across its label. I was going to take the recorder upstairs with me, but decided to leave it, in case Uncle Kent had it there for a reason.
I planned on mentioning what I found to Shane, but when I stepped outside, he was nowhere to be seen. I circled the house twice, called his phone, and checked the backyard to no avail. It was like he disappeared into thin air. I found myself checking under the back deck, remembering he wanted to see where that other duct led. Way in the back, obscured by a pile of discarded junk, I came upon a narrow vertical opening in the house’s side that was wide enough for someone to enter and exit. The entrance was covered by metal fencing under chain and padlock, but seemed to lead roughly around where the actual basement was located. After picking up a whiff of smoky cinnamon that came from the narrow passageway, I was about to investigate further, when my phone alerted me that I received a text message.
It was from Shane. “Gotta run. Something came up. Talk later.” I tried calling, but Shane didn’t answer, so I texted him to meet me in front of the house. However, when I arrived, he was still nowhere to be seen. I called out Shane’s name a few times, before realizing his car was also gone.
“Your friend just left. He said to tell you something came up,” Uncle Kent said as he stepped outside. “I just got home; bumped into him on his way out.”
“He actually looked at the furnace….said it was still in good shape, but thinks the whistling and smell is coming from inside the ducts,” I awkwardly blurted, thinking he may have kicked Shane out if he told my Uncle the reason for his visit. “So you’re not gonna need a new heater or anything like that to fix this.”
Uncle Kent just nodded, appearing neither amused nor angry by my remarks.
“I’ll call someone to get it done.” He replied flatly before reentering the house.
I never heard back from Shane, thinking he was either angry about my uncle kicking him out (if that happened), or he was in fact dealing with a serious matter. Whatever the case, I figured it’d be best to give him his space, and try him the next day. I was awoken by the cinnamon whistles that night around 2:30 AM. Preceded by the scent of burnt cinnamon, they sounded particularly intense that night and filled me with a strong sense of dread, lasting about 10-15 minutes before abruptly ceasing. Despite every instinct telling me otherwise, I returned to investigate that gated entrance I found under the deck the next day. I cut the padlock with bolt cutters, and had to squeeze through the slim corridor, which contained that overpowering cinnamon scent. The passage grew wider, and led to a steep narrow staircase that brought me to a windowless concrete room.
The smell of burnt cinnamon was overwhelming. The air was heavy, stagnant, and I started perspiring from the sweltering temperature. A single bulb hung from the ceiling that gave off dim flickering light. I first spotted a wooden desk with a small shelf installed directly above it that was lined with black cassette tapes. I focused on the desk and slowly walked towards it, before noticing the room’s main feature—a metal capsule-shaped enclosure that stood on four legs in the room’s center. It was placed directly over a circular depression in the floor, which was filled with ashes and charred chunks of wood—presumably a hearth. An intricate network of different-sized pipes and tubes protruded from the enclosure’s top, and funneled into a metal duct that looked exactly like the one Shane was trying to trace yesterday.
I looked back and forth between the desk and enclosure, unsure which to investigate first. I wound up approaching the desk, after noticing a pile of burlap sacks stacked against it with “Cinnamon” written across each one. My eyes were drawn towards the desk’s messy surface. There were cassette tapes scattered across it, along with another tape recorder. The cassette tape it held had “Ash 11/29” written on its label. Despite every fiber in my body urging me not to, I pressed the play button. I heard faint static at first, before it played something that made my blood run cold. A symphony of cinnamon whistles rang out, sounding distant, but clear enough to distinguish their choppy high-pitched melody. I started trembling as the audio played, but continued scanning the desk, until I spotted one particular tape….whose label read “Shane 2/16.”
Despite dreading what I’d hear, I shakily swapped out the tapes. As expected, the “Shane 2/16” tape played more cinnamon whistles. What was most disturbing….I immediately recognized them as the same ones I heard last night. My nausea worsened as I sifted through a few other tapes on the shelf, noticing they were all labeled similarly—Willard 3/1, Daphne 7/24, Cora 10/31, Janice 11/5—they had to be names and dates, I thought; but if that was the case….then Shane’s tape was made yesterday. I quickly tried calling his phone, but as it rang, I noticed something written on one of the cassette tapes that almost made me faint. As I processed this horror, I began hearing a set of rhythmic vibrations that coincided with Sean’s ringback tone. I slowly faced the direction it came from, finding myself gazing at one of the room’s darkened corners, where I spotted the light blue glow of a flashing phone screen.
“Shane….?” I whispered, as my phone slipped from my sweaty trembling hand.
I stood anchored in place as the glowing phone screen moved towards me, accompanied by the sound of slow heavy footsteps. My stomach sank. Someone else was here, I thought. That was Shane’s phone….but that wasn’t Shane. The approaching figure was definitely taller. This person was shirtless, their arms and torso were coated in what looked like gray and red paint, which glistened in the room’s dim flickering light. The individual wore dark cargo pants….and had two curved horns protruding from their head, along with a long snout-like nose, that was a lot stiffer than the rest of its body—it was a mask, I quickly realized. Either a mask, or by the looks of it….the actual head of a cow or bull.
“Who’s-there….?” I weakly mumbled, while stumbling back against the desk, my eyes widening with horror as the bull-headed figure paused right at the light’s edge.
After releasing a deep exhale, it walked up to the metal enclosure, and opened a square hatch. I was hit with a fresh wave of that burnt cinnamon aroma, which had something gamey mixed with it that reminded me of overcooked beef. It reached inside the hollow enclosure, completely submerging its head and upper body, which was when I took my chance to run. Before racing up the staircase, I looked back once more to see the bull-headed figure now facing me….holding a human skull in one of its hands that it pulled from the enclosure. I squeezed through the passageway in seconds, screaming frantically as I burst out from under the deck, ran to the front yard, and collapsed in a heap against my car. I wasn’t going back inside that house, and didn’t know what to do next—call Uncle Kent, the police, or just get somewhere safe. I went with the latter option, got in my car, and called for help at a neighbor’s house.
I still can’t fathom what the police uncovered. The metal enclosure was apparently made of bronze, and seemed to function as an oven or furnace. Investigators found human remains inside the enclosure (mostly bones) coming from at least eight different individuals—including Shane—but thought the body count was higher. They believed my uncle (or whoever else it was) brought people into the chamber, got them inside that bronze enclosure, lit a fire under it….and literally cooked them alive. Investigators concluded this after finding the enclosure’s inner walls were littered with scratch marks.
The cinnamon was thrown in to mask the smell of burning flesh, but what bothered me most was how that assortment of pipes and tubing on top of the enclosure functioned. Those pipes converted the acoustics of screams of people burning inside the enclosure….to make them sound like whistling. Every time I smelled burnt cinnamon and heard that ghastly whistling, it was actually someone’s agonizing shrieks while they were being roasted alive. Uncle Kent vanished that same day, and was never found. Looking back at how nonchalant he always was whenever I mentioned the cinnamon whistles, it makes me wonder what he truly knew—was he trying to cover up his own doing, or protect me from who or whatever lurked beneath his house? Was the bull-headed figure I saw actually my uncle….or someone entirely different? Both outcomes were equally terrifying.
The police found 15 cassette tapes. As I suspected, each one was labeled with someone’s name and a date, which actually helped investigators identify some of the victims. The tapes were a collection of every victim’s recorded screams (or whistles), which I realized probably explained that old tape recorder I found in the basement. There was one particular tape, whose memory still induces a sense of paralyzing fear. I spotted it while trying to call Shane, right before I heard his phone vibrating.
The cassette tape in question had my name written on it…along with a date of 2/18.