Terror in the Shadows vol. 5: Terror in the Shadows Anthology

191 pages

The Sound of Bone

They got home at dusk, and after taking their bags inside, they ordered pizza and Mari collapsed in front of the TV. Richard made some coffee, then remembered his find. He took the tissue-wrapped whistle from his coat and laid it on the kitchen table. It seemed smaller and a lot less interesting in the familiar environs of his home. But he persevered and cleaned it, poking out the dirt with a length of wire. Only then did he think to put some old newspaper underneath his find.

"Still disgusting," remarked Mari. "And where's my coffee?"

"Sorry," he said. "This is fascinating, though. It does seem to have a sort of inscription. But it's so worn I can't make it out."

"Property of Manchester United?" she suggested.

Richard looked at her, straight-faced.

"They did play football in those days," he said. "But they didn't have referees, which meant games tended to end in total carnage. And whistles, well, not sure what they used them for. Maybe luring birds into nets, something like that?"

"Ugh! Cruelty," she said. "The past is gross."

Mari put a mug of coffee by Richard's elbow and sat down opposite with her own.

"Seriously," she said. "That thing looks creepy to me. Unpleasant. Not just dirty. Even if you clean it, it's not something I'd like to have about the place, you know?"

Richard turned the carved bone over in his hands. The whistle did feel peculiar--cold, slightly sticky, and oddly heavy for a hollow tube. He held it up to the light and looked down the tube, wondering if a pebble was jammed inside. But the aperture was clear. Frowning, he laid the whistle down, then took a mouthful of coffee. Mari reached over, but at the last moment flinched and did not pick up the dark brown tube.

"No," she said firmly. "I don't like it. Give it to a museum. Or throw it in the trash. But please, don't keep it 'round here."

Richard raised the whistle to his lips. Mari's face twisted in disgust. Partly because she didn't want him to, but he blew into the hollow bone. There was a pathetic hissing sound, and Mari giggled. Richard, feeling slightly peevish, concluded that he had been too energetic. He blew more softly, and a low tone emerged.

It was a peculiar sound, slightly off-key, and unpleasant in a way Richard could not quite define. He stopped blowing at once, but not before he felt a chill run down his spine. The sound of the whistle seemed to linger for a split second after he took it from his lips, but he attributed it to the weird noise. It stuck in the mind, somehow.

"Is that it?" Mari asked, as if he had blown a cheap novelty from a Christmas cracker. "Kind of feeble, huh? Not very nice. Off key."

"Really?" he said. "I thought it was--rather haunting."

That night Richard woke from an uneasy dream and clutched at his armpits. He had no idea why, and he recoiled when he found his pits unpleasantly sweaty. The details of the dream were already vanishing, but he remembered Hallowfield. Not the site of the long-abandoned village, but the thriving medieval community it had once been. It was a place, he vaguely recalled, of pleasant half-timbered houses.

But in his dream, it was also a place of fear.

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