The Whistler - Hardcover

Medina, Nick

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593820401 ISBN 13: 9780593820407

Verlag: Penguin Putnam Inc, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

A young man is haunted by a mythological specter bent on stealing everything he loves in this unsettling horror from the author of Indian Burial Ground and Sisters of the Lost Nation.

As featured in People ∙ Men’s Health ∙ Chicago Tribune ∙ Paste Magazine ∙ and more!

For fear of summoning evil spirits, Native superstition says you should never, ever whistle at night.

Henry Hotard was on the verge of fame, gaining a following and traction with his eerie ghost-hunting videos. Then his dreams came to a screeching halt. Now, he's learning to navigate a new life in a wheelchair, back on the reservation where he grew up, relying on his grandparents’ care while he recovers.

And he’s being haunted.

His girlfriend, Jade, insists he just needs time to adjust to his new reality as a quadriplegic, that it’s his traumatized mind playing tricks on him, but Henry knows better. As the specter haunting him creeps closer each night, Henry battles to find a way to endure, to rid himself of the horror stalking him. Worried that this dread might plague him forever, he realizes the only way to exile his phantom is by confronting his troubled past and going back to the events that led to his injury.

It all started when he whistled at night....

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Born in Chicago, Illinois, and a member of the Tunica-Biloxi Tribe of Louisiana, Nick Medina writes horror, crime, and mystery fiction that pairs social issues with local and Native American folklore. In addition to writing, he enjoys live music, ghost stories, and spending time with family. The Whistler is his third novel.

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One

His eyes snap open, and all he knows is fear.

Whether Henry's distress manifested before he woke in response to a nightmare he can't remember or it only flooded his body the instant his eyelids opened isn't clear, nor does it matter. What's important is how he'll escape. If he ever can.

His jaw flexes, and a scream that would bring Pawpaw Mac and Mawmaw Tilly running from their room at the end of the hall wants to tear out but doesn't. He can barely breathe deep enough to keep suffocation at bay. Somehow since going to bed, the blanket has moved up around his neck, like a snake constricting tighter by the second.

He tries to move his arms, but they're buried beneath the blanket, a thousand pounds heavier than when he went to bed. Even if he could move them, they'd do little good because his legs aren't moving either, and without them, he's stuck, as if the mattress were made of quicksand, the sheet one large piece of flypaper.

The figure at the foot of Henry's bed, however, moves with ease.

A canvas of black, it's long, lean, silent. It might not even have a mouth. Its arms dangle from shoulders that appear sturdy and strong.

The figure steps closer to the bed. Its black fingertips graze the blanket over Henry, only inches from his feet, sticking up like two pieces of wood. Kindling, maybe. If the figure were to set them ablaze, Henry would be helpless to put them out. His fear swells, giving rise to panic that brings tears to his eyes. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, the panic. He's been overwhelmed a lot over the last year, by anxiety, alarm, hopelessness, and dread.

Just breathe, he tells himself. Because he won't last long if he doesn't do that. But maybe, he thinks, the alternative would be better, to let himself asphyxiate before the shadow man-having taken another step closer, thighs now pressed against the foot of the bed-can inflict a fate much worse. It's not the first time Henry's had that thought. Sometimes he wishes he would have winked out before he got to know the meaning of hell on earth. He's often wondered if the Reaper's hand would be gentler than the impact of a fiery car crash or a freef all from the top of a tall building.

He breathes. He gasps. The blanket pulls tighter. They told him to close his eyes and count during moments like this, when the panic becomes so overwhelming that doom seems certain and inescapable. But he can't close his eyes now. Not with the specter looming over him.

Henry does look away, though, into the indistinguishable corners of the room, all the while expecting the figure to assert itself in his line of sight. His eyes pass over the squat dresser against the wall to his left. A mirror sits atop it, dark except for a small patch of bright white, the glint of light reflected from the window on the opposite side of the room. The curtains are nearly shut. Just a one-inch gap separates the pair, allowing the narrow stream of moonlight to filter through.

Henry focuses on the light. He follows the moonbeam with his eyes from the window to where it's settled on the acoustic guitar that sits in its stand a few feet from the closet. The instrument must be twice his age, at least fifty years old or more. He wasn't allowed to touch it when he was very small, which might have been when he'd wanted to touch it most. It was after the age of six that Pawpaw Mac finally determined that Henry was old enough-careful enough-to put his hands on it. He'd sit on the floor, legs crossed, with the guitar balanced on his lap. Its mahogany body seemed enormous back then, dwarfing Henry's abdomen and chest. He'd barely been able to stretch his right arm around it to reach the strings, and his left arm wasn't long enough to grasp the lowest frets at the far end of the instrument's long neck, wide enough to be a road.

Pawpaw Mac was something of a magician in Henry's eyes when he'd pick up that guitar and play. Song would suddenly fill silence. People who'd been drowsing over a cup of coffee or a pint of beer would suddenly be up and singing. His fingers seemed to move on their own-tapping, pressing, picking, dancing. It was a wonder how he could sing and sway, eyes squeezed shut half the time, and never make a mistake.

His grandfather's flair would frustrate Henry when he himself would try to coax something beautiful from the guitar. His fingers would trip on the strings, each a cruel inflictor of pain, making his digits burn and worse. He screamed the first time he pushed up on one of those strings, bending it and causing the flesh beneath his fingernail to split, like a paper cut right in the tender spot. He'd had to wear tape around his fingertip until it healed. For a while, he didn't want to touch the guitar again after that. But in time he came back, and eventually he learned how to manage those vicious strings, ultimately becoming deeply familiar with notes, chords, and scales-the boring things Pawpaw Mac said he ought to understand if he ever wanted to make magic himself.

Like the thick calluses that once capped each finger on Henry's left hand, the magic is gone now. The calluses had been there to protect him, built up by years of dedication to becoming not just good but great. But now his fingers are soft-splittable-the thick skin having peeled away in horrifying stages. It was a small yet scary sign of just how vulnerable he'd become, every bit of his old armor removed.

He's sure he'll never play again. Paw might not either. It's been a few months since Mac sat out front and strummed. It's been even longer since he played for a crowd. Those good old days are over. Another ending that came without warning.

Instead of calming himself, Henry has made his panic worse. It always swells when he thinks about what he can't do and what he'll never do again. Still, he can't find his voice. He can't find the figure either when he looks back at the foot of his bed. There's nothing there, just a clear view of the laptop sitting closed atop the desk against the wall. There's no chair at the desk. Mawmaw Tilly's cuckoo clock hangs from the wall.

She'd brought it, along with a little wooden dog that had wooden wheels in place of paws, back from her trip to a place that sounded scary to Henry as a kid-the Black Forest.

It still sounds scary now, especially since it sounds like a place the black figure could have come from. It's not gone, after all. It's beside him in the shadowy area between the corner of the room and the head of his bed. He can't see all of it because it's standing behind him alongside the pillows propped beneath his skull. But he can see one of its hands, its fingers flexing as if they'll tighten around his wrist or throat.

He wants to cry out, to beg, to run and never stop. All he can hope is that his distressed expression will earn him some mercy, a reprieve.

The flexing hand rises. Its fingers straighten and grow, becoming long, lean, and pointed, like a pitchfork's wrought iron tines. The figure casts thickening darkness over Henry's face, its hand reaching, coming closer. Closer.

Breathless, Henry closes his eyes and counts, certain that his heart will explode if he doesn't.

One, two, three, fo-

The familiar and mechanical sounds of gears coming to life cut him off. He opens his eyes. The hand is gone. The specter, too. The cuckoo clock, however, has sprung to life, somehow overriding the shutoff that has always kept it quiet at night.

The little white bird with blue wings that lives inside the clock pokes its head out. Instead of intoning the cute little call-cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo-that Henry has heard so many times over the years, the tiny bird whistles, something it's never done before.

Two

February 2023

Peering over the brim of his beer glass, Henry watched Jade the way he'd watch a skilled guitarist shred-rapt, because...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Putnam Inc
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593820401
• ISBN 13: 9780593820407
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 368
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: preigu GmbH & Co. KG; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; Niedersachsen; 49078; Deutschland