Did you know that whistling can be used as a form of therapy? That’s right, for people with anxiety or respiratory problems, this can be a relaxing technique, but for me, definitely not. I hate whistling, whether it’s for dogs, humming songs, or any other variation of that blowing sound.
All of this started about four weeks ago when I moved to my current apartment. I’m a small-town guy, and the search for a better job brought me to the chaos of the big city. Don’t get me wrong, but it’s too much information for my head. Since money is tight, I live in a small flat at the back of the building, very close to a busy street, crossed by a highway. Cars, people, noises, all of this left me mentally exhausted for a while. And that’s why I didn’t find it strange when it happened.
You see, I would go to bed around 01:00 AM when things became pleasantly quiet. This obviously made me sleep for only a few hours, and the next day, I used to look like a zombie. During that particular day at the office, Richard, one of my colleagues, recommended using earplugs when I explained to him the reason for my dark circles:
“You can trust me,” he said. “I use them whenever possible.” I saw him take out a small transparent plastic package with two small yellow foams inside. “Take these, I have plenty at home.”
Thanking Richard for the recommendation, I took the earplugs, eager to try them out that night. I really needed some peace and quiet to relax and recharge my batteries, or I would definitely go mad. I spent the rest of the shift daydreaming about an 8-hour night of complete silence and peace, almost not noticing the time passing by.
Then, the moment to go home finally arrived. The way back was a relief after a stressful day at the office. I arrived at my apartment, took off my shoes, and took a shower, ordering food from an Italian restaurant down the street since I hadn’t unpacked my kitchen stuff yet, and prepared for the eagerly awaited night of sleep.
After dinner, I put on the earplugs Richard had given me. They were comfortable, soft foam that molded to the inside of the ear canal. It was the first time I had used earplugs, and I remember finding funny the feeling they caused. I don’t know if you’ve ever used these or those earphones with earbud tips, but they give you an isolation that, at least for me, gave a certain feeling of imbalance.
That didn’t matter, as I was going to lie down anyway. I lay down on the bed and covered myself with my sheet, and for a moment, everything seemed perfect. The silence was comforting, and I felt as if I were floating in a sea of tranquility. However, this feeling of peace was abruptly interrupted by a sound that seemed to come from the floor above, like something being dragged, scratched.
“It can’t be, just today they decide to move,” I commented after nearly 20 minutes of almost uninterrupted noise.
I got up, annoyed, struggling to remove the earplugs and about to call the front desk to complain when I realized something:
The noise wasn’t coming from the floor above. It was probably part of the confusion the earplugs caused, making me misjudge the sound’s origin. In fact, it came from the side, specifically from one of the walls. I approached it, still in disbelief, trying to perceive that it was just a mistake, an auditory hallucination on my part, but no, it came from behind the wall. The external wall. And here’s another point: I live on the fourth floor.
It was like a scraping, something sounding dry and agonizing, sending a shiver down my spine when it hit higher notes. I thought to myself, trying to find a logical explanation for what was happening. Maybe it was a bird? Or perhaps some object caught in the wind? Yes, it made sense to be some animal; I remembered seeing a video of rats climbing vertical walls a while ago, and even in the countryside, it was common to see them climbing barns.
I decided to try to scare whatever it was away with a simple tap on the wall. With a nervous sigh, I gently punched the wall, hoping the creepy noise would stop. And surprisingly, it did. Complete silence filled the space, leaving me with a momentary sense of relief.
“Okay, I guess that’s it,” I thought, but before I could finish reasoning, my stomach was churned by a new element.
It started softly, then picked up speed, the sound of a whistle, coming from behind the wall, was… a Christmas carol, “Silent Night,” but out of tune… it was discomforting. It was as if someone was trying to sing the song but failing miserably, creating a distorted and eerie melody.
With each out-of-tune note, my discomfort grew, and the feeling that something was not right intensified. The whistling seemed to be getting closer, moving slowly along the external wall of my building, as if something or someone was walking back and forth, just messing with me.
Was it a prank? It had to be, right? My legs trembled as a thick, oily drop of sweat trickled down my forehead. I felt embarrassed for being afraid of something like this; I wanted to reassure myself, so why not look out the window and just put an end to it once and for all?
I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and cautiously approached the window. I had the earplugs in, which now seemed to amplify the pounding of my racing heart. With a quick movement, I pulled back the curtain and looked outside.
I saw nothing, at least not initially. The whistling still echoed eerily and uncontrollably, growing louder and more piercing when a shadow briefly passed through the window’s reflection—a slim, white figure. I couldn’t say for sure what it was, but it was definitely something.
I was overwhelmed by a crushing fear and a sense of imminent danger. Instinctively, I took a step back, moving away from the window while trying in vain to close the stuck curtain. I ripped out the earplugs, hoping that would somehow bring me back to reality.
The whistling abruptly stopped, and the shadow vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving me in deafening silence. The weight of the experience hit me full force, and I felt completely disoriented. I sat on the edge of the bed, still trembling and full of adrenaline, trying to process what had just happened. Every shadow in the corners of my apartment caught my attention, and any subtle noise made me jump. I was alone but didn’t feel safe.
The following days were torture, going through the same ritual: the scratching and the whistling. I didn’t even tap on the wall like I did initially, and the sound would start. My performance at work plummeted; I felt stressed, and I think it showed on my face because Drake, a guy from work, approached me on a Friday:
“Hey, you look really bad, are you okay?” He asked, with a genuinely concerned expression on his face.
At that point, I didn’t care if I was called crazy. I told him about the noises, the whistling, and everything else. Drake listened attentively, without interrupting, but with an increasingly concerned look as I detailed the events. Honestly, now I realize he must have thought I was going crazy.
“And you talked to the building’s management about this?”
“I did, but there are no cameras in the back, and it seems like I’m the only one reporting this whistling.”
“So, no one else hears this noise, just you? And someone is scratching your window from the fourth floor?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“I know how it sounds…”
“Look, Ethan, I know you’re not used to all this hustle and bustle, so here’s the plan: today we leave here, buy some drinks, and go to your apartment. I’ll stay there until the time these whistles happen, and we’ll see what happens. What do you think?”
I hesitated for a moment, weighing the proposal. He had a point; I’d never heard this with anyone else, and maybe company would distract my mind.
“Okay, Drake, let’s do it. But drinks are on you,” I replied with a smile, met with a salute.
That night, Drake came to my apartment after work carrying a large paper bag filled with bottles. We sat in the living room, drinking some beers as we waited for the usual whistling time. The atmosphere was thick with tension and anticipation, and I could feel my hands sweating.
As time passed, the silence in the apartment was almost deafening, interrupted only by the distant sound of the city outside and the commentary of the sports games we were watching, punctuated by the occasional loud remark. The atmosphere was palpable, and I found myself constantly looking at the external wall, anticipating the sounds that would come from there.
Finally, the time came. Midnight. I was utterly terrified. We had now muted the TV and were attentive to any noise. Nothing. I began to question my own sanity.
Drake noticed my anxiety and tried to reassure me.
“Look, Ethan, maybe it’s just some strange noise from the building or something. You don’t need to be so tense.”
“But… I’m sure it was real.”
“That’s what hallucinations mean,” he commented jokingly.
We waited for another 10 minutes in total silence until he stood up.
“Well, problem solved, I guess. Time to head home.”
I saw him dialing his phone to order a ride as he walked towards the door, which he had already opened when I placed my hand on the wood and closed it again.
“Look, man… please, just wait a little longer. I don’t want to be alone here.”
I realized how childish my complaint sounded and felt embarrassed instantly. Drake looked at me, clearly startled and now certain of my madness. But that certainty didn’t last long; before he could protest, the scratching began. We both stood there, paralyzed in front of the door, as the scraping sound continued, growing more frenzied and erratic, moving from one side of the wall to the other.
“What the hell is this?” Drake whispered to me.
“I told you, man, I told you!” I replied, my heart now pounding fast, the presence of another person doing nothing to ease my fear.
He began to approach the wall as the vibrations were transmitted.
“What are you doing?” I almost let my voice rise when he pressed his ear against it and stayed like that for a while.
I jumped in surprise when he, clasping his hands in front of his mouth, began to mimic a bark. The noises quickly stopped; he continued barking, and a heavy silence settled in until, miserably, that accursed whistle started again, the melody making me tremble, reminding me of that shadow as the off-key notes made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Drake stopped, but the whistling didn’t; it continued like this for a long hour until everything stopped.
“Look, man… I… I’m sorry for doubting you, could I, well… sleep on your couch?”
I laughed at the irony of it all.
“Okay, okay, just hope you don’t snore.”
I arranged a pillow for him and locked myself in the bedroom, still wondering what could be causing this, now more apprehensive knowing it wasn’t just in my head. The next day, I convinced Drake to “return the favor” and let me sleep at his place. It was a good experience, something I hadn’t had since I arrived in town. His fiancée prepared some snacks, and we played some board games. At bedtime, I shared the couch with a big white Labrador named “Doodles,” and I felt much safer. I thought maybe adopting a dog would be a good idea. I remembered one I had left in the countryside with my family when I moved, a shepherd dog named Todd. I even missed him a bit.
In the late afternoon, Drake was giving me a ride home when it struck me:
“Turn down this street!” I yelled, startling him and nearly causing him to miss the turn. “Sorry, I just thought this time we could come through the back of the building, where my apartment is, where… you know, the noise comes from.”
Drake looked at me with a serious and concerned expression. He hesitated for a moment but then nodded.
“Alright, let’s do it. But I hope this clears things up because I’m not in the mood for anything supernatural today.”
We drove slowly down the street that bordered the back of the building, offering a clear view of my window, where I had seen that thing. However, before we got close, I noticed something:
“Look, up there,” I said, pointing to something. I counted the windows from bottom to top. “1, 2, 3… 4.”
“What is that?” he said, squinting.
As we got closer, the twilight allowed us to absorb more details: etched next to my window, where the scratching came from, was a simple drawing that still makes me shudder when I think about it: a pair of eyes and a smile. They seemed to be carved into the outer layer of plaster, the result of continuous friction.
“Has that always been there?” Drake asked, puzzled.
“No. I mean, I hadn’t taken this route before, but it definitely wasn’t there when I rented it.”
“Isn’t it… well… a prank from the building’s residents? Teasing the newcomer?”
“Ah, sure, their prank is to damage their own property?”
We fell silent as the wheels slid over the asphalt, leaving the smile behind. I thanked Drake when I got out of the car, and he said I could call if needed. I walked into the lobby and saw the building’s owner, Vincent, leaning over the counter, one hand hanging inside while the other scratched his beard. He’s an older Italian gentleman, around 50, bald with a protruding belly above his leather belt. I approached him to discuss the damage at the back of my apartment, but he seemed to want to talk to me first:
“Hey kid, come here! I don’t know how things are where you come from, but here we don’t allow pets.”
This statement caught me off guard. I put my hand to my forehead, mentally laughing at the fact that he had guessed my intention to get a pet.
“Look, I don’t know how you guessed, but I haven’t adopted any yet, and now that I know, I won’t-“
“Lying will only make things worse!” he interrupted. “No use hiding it, young man, I already know you have an animal in the apartment.”
“But what?” I asked.
He raised the hand that was hidden, holding a red collar.
“The doorman gave me this in the morning. You can get rid of it or get out of the apartment, but either way, I hate lies, okay?”
He left before I could say anything. I looked at the collar he had left in my hand and noticed a folded piece of paper tied to it. I opened it to reveal its contents, a handwritten note with terrible handwriting:
“I didn’t know you had a dog :)”
A shiver ran down my spine instantly. I looked around, feeling watched, even inside the building’s lobby. Vincent had moved away, and the other residents seemed too busy to notice me. I went up to my room, grabbed the most basic things I could think of, wrote a note to Mr. Vincent saying I was leaving, and left an advance payment for the next month to cover any issues. I passed by the doorman and handed him the sealed package, bidding him farewell. I loaded my things into my car and sped away without looking back. That collar I had received was Todd’s.
We never found out what happened to the shepherd dog, and to this day, innocent whistles meant for a dog are enough to make my stomach turn, while that damned smile still burns behind my eyelids.