I tried something new with this piece. Instead of writing directly about my trauma, I gave it shape through fiction, a story where I meet the demon that once haunted me, and this time, I win.
What surprised me wasn’t the ending but the process. Writing within an imposed limit of just a few hundred words, I edited again and again, each pass pulling something new to the surface: a sound, a slant of light, the smell of the old wood. In those small details, I found the pieces of memory I thought I’d lost, and in shaping them, I reclaimed them.
“The Whistle” isn’t about destruction. It’s about restoration. About stepping back into the place where fear once lived and finding strength waiting there instead. And now, for your enjoyment, I present to you… The Whistle.
The Whistle – Fiction(ish)
Lori pedaled hard and let go of the handlebars. The wind whipped against her; this was freedom. The ride home from school was her favorite part of the day, no rules, no voices, just her and her thoughts. In her backpack, a sketchpad crammed with images of a world that didn’t hurt so much.
She turned toward the abandoned farm. No one had lived there for years. The buildings slouched in a permanent silence. The paint peeled away, leaving gray, weather-worn boards exposed to the sun. But for Lori, it was a place to dream and plan. In the old loft, she sketched —nestled into the hay, sketchpad on her lap, feet idly kicking against the bales. She loved watching the dust motes, golden in the sun, dancing in the air around her.
She pictured buildings restored: crisp, clean sides, sparkling fresh paint, horses racing in the paddock, and began to draw.
The autumn wind kicked up, bringing a chill to the once-warm space. The sun had slipped lower than she’d realized. It was late and the shadows lengthened and thickened, twisting the familiar into something… else.
A sound made her pause. Telling herself it was just her imagination, she stuffed her sketchpad into her bag, ears tuned to a silence that held its breath, waiting.
She heard it again… a whistle; louder, closer, longer, like someone walking toward her. Her heart raced as she stumbled toward the ladder. Looking back, she watched the golden specks vanish, leaving a red glow encased in shadows, like eyes staring back at her.
The air turned icy, catching in her throat as the pooling darkness slowly formed the shape of a too-tall man.
Lori froze, eyes locked on the monster emerging from the shadows. She inched back until her spine pressed against the cold wall. Her heart thudding in her ears, she clutched her bag so tightly her palms burned.
Suddenly, the silence of the barn was pierced by the eerie sound of a sharp whistle echoing through the empty loft.
As if waking from a dream, Lori shook her head and took a deep breath. She would not be afraid of a shadow. She clenched her jaw. Not this place. Not her place.
Looking around, she grabbed a loose board and yanked. The screech as it tore free fed her courage. The board bristled, nails glinting wickedly in the fading light.
A face emerged from the darkness, covered with pockmarks and jagged scars.
Lori charged, fueled by fear and rage, swinging the board in front of her. She swung, again and again, until light streamed from the gashes left behind.
Finally, fury spent, she stepped back and dropped the board. Where her board had struck, light pulsed out — cold and white, slicing through the shadow like it had always been hollow. Tiny wisps of dirty gray smoke blew away in the autumn breeze, taking the lingering echo of a whistle away… forever.
Only dust remained. The barn was hers.
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