The Dark Somnium - "Something is Whistling on the Radio, My Town is Haunted by it"

Episode Date: September 7, 2023

This Creepypasta scary story is from the Nosleep subreddit, posted by ArmchairDetectives, make sure to check out the original story and support the author: "Something is Whistling on the Radio, My Town is Haunted by it" https://www.reddit.com/user/ArmchairDetectives/Armchair Detectives is a collaborative effort by a group of authors, check out their other works here:https://www.reddit.com/user/CandlelightSongs/https://www.reddit.com/user/rephlexi0nhttps://www.reddit.com/user/AtLeastImGenreSavvyhttps://www.reddit.com/user/Saturdead/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

When the voices came on the radio, I was playing with my grandfather on the front lawn. He was sitting in his rocking chair, and I was out on the lawn when I heard it. A long whistle on the radio then. Mom began screaming. Dad was running toward me. Grandpa reached me first. Hands clasped over my ears, so hard it left a ringing noise. He was a serious, stern old man, and I was always a bit afraid of him. Now he yelled at me over and over. Don't listen to him, Billy. Don't listen. His voice came out in a suffocated whisper.

Please, God, don't let him listen. I love him. The old man's lined face was scrunched over. He was crying. I began to cry too. I could hear my mom and dad screaming in the distance, along horrible whales. I thought they were going insane. I love you, Billy.

Don't you leave us. I love you. We stayed like that for a bit, grasping each other. When he let go, it was quiet outside. On the porch, Mom was standing over the wrecked parts of the radio, a basketball bat in her hands. That was the last radio in our house. After that day, that old man and I were never close. He never said anything like that before or after.

I wonder if he got embarrassed. That day, though, it scared him, and he didn't care. In my old town, there's a whistle, and it puts the fear of God in old men. It comes sometimes, and it comes for us. No matter how painfully familiar it became, none of us understood it. Who was the one whistling? What do they want? Asking such questions was as useful as screaming into a well. All you'd get back was echoes.

Among the kids, the fear eventually became secondhand. Our parents had seen the consequences of lending an ear to the whistle, though they never told us. Just don't think about it, is what they said. Other than all that, everything in my hometown was pretty much free reign for us. We were, of course, not to play in the dangerous areas, and of course that spurred us on. One such place was the old scrapyard, the type of place where you can call it active or derelict in equal measure. The favorite spot was a vast heap of warped. metal frames at the very edge of the lot, disappearing into the woods, fit for summiting any dry

day of the week. They might have been defunct pylons or something, but the strange lack of welds or rust suggested something more obscure. One Saturday, me and my buddy Alex were down in the scrapyard at the stroke of noon, ready as ever to clamber up the perilous heights of the metal mountain. At first, we called it Iron Mountain, but the name didn't quite fit. The old framework was made of something we couldn't quite put our finger on. We were boys, yeah, but we weren't entirely careless.

At least I wasn't. I made sure to bring carabiner belts for each of us to wear, though I think it was just too tedious to clip, unclipp, clip our way up the whole time. Alex, my more nimble counterpart, clambered up a ridge on the heap like a bonafide chimp. All I could do was suggest using the safety clips, not enforce it. Race you to the peak? He yelled without even looking back at me. It was irresponsible, but damn if his energy wasn't contagious.

I followed suit, choosing to clip on only when I needed. I was so focused on my footing, I didn't notice Alex was gone until taking a breather and looking up. There was nothing but motionless metal wreckage around. Alex? The only reply was my own echo. I went to shout again when I heard him call out from somewhere about twenty-five. feet above. Alex crawled out of a gap in the metalwork. He beckoned me to follow. I jumped down with a hollow thud into what looked like an old cargo container. Whoa, has this been here the whole time?

Flakes of rust hung lazily from its corrugated walls, framing a gloomy image of Alex beside a dusty table and a peeling green fold-up chair. Well, it didn't just appear overnight, did it? Alex scoffed. What do you think? New base of operations? He turned to the scant tabletop. Its only residence were an old-fashioned radio and some kind of microphone or transceiver. I don't know, man. It's a bit depressing in here, but with some decoration. I trailed off as Alex fiddled with the radio dials.

A dim blue display flickered to life and the radio hissed out static. Dude! Alex yelped while adjusting the frequencies. My dad used to have one of these. If we get walkie-talkies, we can... A sudden hush replaced. the static. Then a low, almost inaudible buzz, underlying another sound emerging from the radio waves. Then we heard it.

Ears! Cover your ears! I screamed, slapping my hands over my drums with such force, it sent a painful compression down my ear tubes. I looked back over to Alex. My stomach felt as if it plummeted ten stories. His arms swayed limply by his sides. His eyes locked on the radio. I'm not sure exactly what happened in that moment. The next thing I remember was kicking the radio onto the floor, hands still clamped around my head, then stomping it into scattered pieces. That brief span couldn't have been more than ten seconds. I grasped Alex by the shoulders and spun him around. His limbs felt stiff, but his eyes are what stick with me to this day. They were murky, churning mist in their depths. The eyes of an old dog. The shine was gone too, like every molecule of

The moisture vanished, leaving his eyes matte and dull. I shook him. When that didn't work, I slapped him. Nothing. Alex just stared vacantly at a distant point. Adults. Need to get adults. I croaked through the hard lump in my throat.

Without a word, I pulled myself up and out from the belly of the metal mountain and flew down the beams and bars with reckless abandon. I had to walk around the scrapyard for a few minutes until a single bar of service popped up. I phoned my dad without hesitation. Dad, I'm at the scrapyard. Alex, he heard it. Wait right where you are. I'm coming. There was nothing else that needed to be said.

My dad arrived with three other men in a pickup. After a brief explanation and a pointing finger, they set off up the grimy heap for Alex. When they came back, Alex was slung over the largest man's shoulder. They set him in the middle back seat for the ride back, stuffing me in the back. It was hard to hear their conversations. Still, I swear I heard someone say.

Would have been better off leaving him here. The rest of Saturday blurred together. My mind was somewhere else. Afternoon bled into evening, bled into night, with oily storm clouds rolling in from the west. I stared out the window through the pattering raindrops that died on the grass in small hollow taps. Amid the clear runnels sat a solitary hill on the edge of town shunned by the trees around it.

I understood its predicament then, on Alex's behalf. The whistle, whatever Alex heard in it, whatever it done to him, left him alone. Daylight drained over the horizon, yet in the fading dusk, a small figure slowly marched its way up that hill. Dim shadows of orange and yellow shone from Alex's blonde hair. My eyes widened. What was he doing? He crested the hill under encroaching shadows and stopped at its peak. I could barely make out his silhouette, eclipsing the low sun.

His head pulled back, and though it was hard to tell, I think his mouth was moving. The only way I could describe it was that he was speaking into the sky, into the murky clouds that would swallow his words for themselves. Hey, hon. My mom's sudden coup jolted me back to reality. Bedtime. She didn't comment on my obvious surprise. Probably thought it was best to ignore the present and let me calm down. It's going to be okay, Billy.

None of it was your fault. What about Alex? She hesitated. He... He is very sick now. I don't know how much longer he has. But he'll find peace. He won't be in any pain.

I'm just glad it wasn't. She trailed off in a sniffle and stroked my hair. Just try and get some rest, baby. Okay, Mom. I love you. You too. More than the world and the stars and everything in between. I don't know when I drifted into sleep, only that it was long after. The next thing I remember is being ripped out of a hazy dream or nightmare by my dad shaking.

His hands pulled away after placing ear defenders on my head. He passed me a torn notebook page, scrawling capitals read, Stay here. Do not take the headphones off till I'm back. I nodded and pulled my covers up tight, watching the hallway light shrink to a sliver through the door as Dad left. The shock of it all made everything come rushing back, Alex and the hill. I sprang off the mattress and over to the window,

parting the curtains just a crack to peek outside. Other than swinging flashlight beams, it was near pitch black outside. Still, I knew where the hill was. Such a familiar sight, it had become something close to muscle memory, squinting in its direction. I frowned. A messy array of dots punctured the night, blinking in strange neon greens and blues. An empty sky told me the cloud cover hadn't yet passed. Whatever towered out there in the darkness was below the clouds.

Close. Real. I retreated into the sheets. Maybe it was just some sort of faraway radio tower I'd never seen before that just so happened to line up with the hill. An ambient breeze blew in the headphones over my ears, like hearing waves in a seashell. The idea of the whistle warming its way through the white noise terrified me, and I curled up under the covers. Some time later, my bedroom door opened. I didn't see or hear it, but felt it. Light tapping on my shoulder beckoned me to emerge, and my dad gently removed my ear defenders. What's happening, Dad? The lights. Where's Alex? He didn't answer, only hugging me and whispering

that we talk about it in the morning, promptly gliding out of my room and leaving me alone. Sleep never came. How could it? I had so many questions, so much fear, so much guilt. It seemed so damn obvious. An old radio, just like the one on the day, Grandpa saved me. The same events played out, only I couldn't save Alex like Grandpa had saved me. I thought of asking him about it all, but he was still the same old man with little to say. Sure, finding answers was enticing, but it wouldn't fix my mistakes. It wouldn't change the way things had become. One day broke, I parted my curtains reluctantly. The hill was empty. The only difference I could tell was that the grass looked all curled up.

Earth hewned from its place, lacerated, torn up. I refused to stare any longer and went downstairs. I stood in the kitchen, hesitantly looking through the window at Grandpa sitting on the porch. Would he comfort me or shoo me away? In the end, I turned back to the sun rays and headed upstairs. With Grandpa on my mind, a light bulb flickered on. I remembered when he moved in a few years ago, he'd lugged a bunch of old, dusty boxes. up the stairs.

He definitely didn't put them anywhere on the first floor, so he must have stuffed them up in the attic. Mom was reading downstairs while Dad occupied himself with gardening. I can't blame either of them for distracting themselves. The attic hatchcourt creaked, and I feared it might snap, but the latch released and the bolt-on ladder segment slid apart, hitting the floor with a soft thump. I climbed up the cold rungs and had to stifle a cough after inhaling the stale, dust-choked I spent some time searching the forgotten corners and behind low roof choice until a stack of beaten cardboard boxes caught my eye.

There wasn't any writing on them, no name or dates, with their split edges and sagging corners. I got the impression they were what I was looking for. The boxes held bundled stacks of papers, some faded photo albums, and the treasure of my hunt, a leather-bound diary. The spine cracked as I flicked through its pages. Most of the contents were mundane, everyday life, until I stopped at a series of late May entries from 72. This is what they said.

May 23rd, 1972. I need to get it out because if I don't, I'm scared that I'll forget it. Not that I want to remember. I want to forget. I want that more than anything. But if I forget, it will come back and put someone else in danger. It'll take someone the way it took Jim Paulson. I need to start this at the beginning, or as close to the beginning as I can.

Jim and I worked at Reynolds' quarry together. We didn't know each other beyond that. Not really. Sometimes he'd be there when we went out for drinks as a crew. But mostly, we just kept to ourselves. I didn't know Jim, but I like to think he was a good man. He had this big belly laugh. No matter how bad the joke was, he'd give him.

chuckle and slap his knee and tell you, you're funnier than Bob Hope. I think he was married. Yes, his wife was named Regina. And three kids with another along the way. I should call her. Have Cecilia send over a casserole or something. No woman should go through what she's going through right now.

Lillian Pierce worked for the quarry too. The secretary. We all called her Nurse Lily because she was in night school. for nursing. She'd also patch us up when we got hurt. I think some of the men came to her with bumps and bruises that didn't really need looking at. But she was professional about the whole thing. Always had a smile and a kind word. Always sent you back to work feeling great. I always wondered why Nurse Lily wasn't married. She was still young, only 30. I know people who would have called her an old maid, but she had time. Her whole life was late. She was

laid out in front of her. She could have had whatever she wanted. A nursing job. A husband. A sweet little baby. I shouldn't be sentimental over Nurse Lily. I can't get sentimental now. Getting sentimental will only cloud my thinking.

Prevent me from remembering how it really happened. I think that's what it wants. I think it's filling my head with sweet thoughts of Nurse Lily and Jim Paulson. Like I said, Jim and I weren't good friends. friends. We worked together. It never went beyond that. I'm getting distracted. I keep feeling that if I don't write about it, it won't be real. It is real. It happened. There was an explosion. I remember that. When the dynamite went off, Jim and I had laid the wire and were climbing up out of the quarry. I remember a pain in the side of my head, ringing in my ears, warm, wet blood running down the side of my face. Doc Handlin says that flying debris ruptured my eardrum. I don't remember that. What I do remember is seeing Jim's face covered in blood.

His hands pressed over his eyes, his mouth open in that distant wail. He was next to me, but he sounded like he was ten miles away. I grabbed him under the arms and dragged him out of the quarry. The other man helped us to Nurse Lily Station. She had this little office in a trailer where she did paperwork and kept first aid supplies. I saw her through the window. She was wearing this little yellow blouse

and had her hair tied back with a red ribbon. And I remember thinking that we'd ruin her blouse with all the blood. She jumped up and ran to us, ushering us in. I remember her shoving Jim into a chair. She grabbed her first aid kit and I remember thinking that it wouldn't be enough. Jim had moved one of his hands

and his left eye was bright red, bathed in blood. The skin around it was shredded, blood streaming down over his face, seeping onto his shirt and pooling at his collar. Whatever it hit me in the ear had hit him in the eye. I sat and pressed my hand against the side of my head. My ear was a wet, pulpy mass. Nurse Lily had this little radio on her desk.

She always had music on. She used to sort of dance to it as she moved around the office. I don't know why I'm writing about that now. I suppose it wants me to. It wants me to think about nurse Lily dancing instead of what really happened. The music was there until it wasn't.

The music stopped. I don't really remember when, but it did. All of a sudden, a low droning sound started instead, sort of like a shrill whine. Or maybe a whistle. This long, low note just filled the air. I'll be deaf.

in that ear for the rest of my life. But that day, my dead ear probably saved me. Nurse Lily was pressing bandages against his face, her mouth moving a mile a minute as she tried to tell him that things would be okay. The ambulance was on its way, and he'd be all right. Jim Paulson just got up and walked out of Nurse Lily's office. He just got up and walked outside.

She ran after him. At first I thought she was trying to get him to come back, but once she caught up to him, she just walked alongside him. They went outside together. I didn't go after them. I watched from the window as they marched out towards the quarry. I should have gone after them. I should have.

I shouldn't have let them, but I don't think I could have stopped it. Jim tilted his head back till he was staring up at the sky. His face turned blue. I've seen a face turned blue before. My boy's face turned that exact shade before I realized he was choking and slapped us back until he threw up chunks of hamburger. But Jim wasn't choking. His skin glowed like the fuzz you see on the TV when the rabbit ears need to be adjusted. It was so bright, so bright.

I covered my face, but I could still see it. Jim's mouth opened and a long, thin wire sprouted up like a vine sneaking up through the dirt. The wire was black and thin, merely visible. Little satellites budded along it, blooming like obscene iron flowers. My teeth began aching then. It felt like the fillings were trying to get out of my back teeth. I remember thinking that that mine wanted to grow and stretched like his. I swear I felt the metal wiggling.

I think I was screaming. More wires were starting to grow out of Jim's head. They sprouted from his ruined eye. sockets. I didn't notice, Nurse Lily. Not at first. She bolted, running forward and clawing at her face. Her pretty face. Wires were growing up out of her eyes and nose and mouth, stretching up towards the sky. She stumbled forward, clawing and scratching, trying to pull the wires out of her skin. I didn't realize how far away she was. I should have run after her. I should have I should have found a way to stop her.

I was so focused on the metal worming up out of her flesh. I didn't fully realize that she was running for the quarry. She threw herself into it. I think maybe she knew what was happening. She knew that something was inside of her, tearing through her flesh in an attempt to get out, violating her from the inside out. She knew that there was no hope.

So she did what Jim Paulson couldn't bring himself to do. She threw herself into the quarry and ended it. I should have stopped her. I should have saved her. She had her whole life left to live. I can't think that way. Not after what happened to her face. That medal was rooted somewhere deep inside of her, ripping its way out.

Maybe if it had just been the metal, things would have been all right. But it wasn't just the metal in the wires. There was something else. something took over Jim Paulson something made him different something reached into him yanked out his soul and took over his body that's what I tell myself anyway

the alternative is worse because the alternative is that Jim was still in there watching as the metal monstrosity piloted his body he looked so relieved at the end God forgive me for not helping God forgive her. They say suicide is a sin, but I think God will forgive Nurse Lily. If there is a God, if he is just and all-knowing, if he truly does love and care for us,

then he'll forgive her. But I know, deep down, that if such a God exists, he never would have let it happen in the first place. May 24th, 1972. Jim Paulson is dead. I've told everyone who will listen. Jim Paulson is dead and nothing can bring him back. May 25th, 1972. God forgive me.

Jim would have done the same for me. I know he would have. May 26th, 1972. I told Doc Anlan to take a look at my teeth. They haven't been the same since I heard that sound. that whistle. Doc Hamlin says it looks like my fillings melted and flowed out over my teeth, that my back teeth are covered in metal.

He kept asking me how it happened, and I didn't have an answer for him. I begged him to take them out. He balked, telling me that they were still good healthy teeth, but I offered him some cash, and he finally got the pliers and Novakane. He took out four of my teeth, the ones with the fillings. It looks like someone poured metal all over my teeth. I threw them out. I couldn't bear to look at them.

Every time I did, I felt that strange, twitchy sensation in the back of my mouth, like the teeth were still in there and they were moving around, trying to reach out for something. My mouth hurts like a son of a bitch, but at least they're out of my head. May 27, 1972. I can't stop thinking about that night. Every time I close my eyes I see that faint gleam of relief I saw in Jim Paulson's one good eye right before I pulled the trigger and splattered what was left of his brains across the quarry.

God help me. I'd forgive me. It was getting dark when I put down the diary. Mom was calling me down for dinner. I ate in silence while my parents talked about the most mundane things, rising onion prices, checking the muffler on the food. family car. They wanted the nightmare to be over, and the best way to do that was to pretend. I couldn't do that. Not yet. While mom and dad cleaned up, I got time to sit down with

grandpa out on the porch. There was still a red crack across the horizon as the last rays of sunlight clung to the distant tree line. I brought the diary and sat down next to the old man. I looked up at him. Grandpa, can we talk? I asked. He He met my gaze and noticed the diary. He shook his head. No, son. He patted me on the back and grinned. Get on the other side.

Can't hear you. We switched sides, and I gave him the diary. He ran his fingers across the pages, feeling the indent of his pen. You shouldn't read people's diaries. That's secret. I'm sorry. I was scared. About the kid, Alex.

Yeah. He rubbed my shoulder and put down the diary. It only feels bad for a while. Then it all goes away. You'll forget. I don't want to. Grandpa turned to me with a grunt. He looked at me like he was trying to read the fine print of the book. How do we do better if we keep forgetting things? We adapt. After a few times, it starts to feel normal. Look at your mom and dad. I peeked through the window. Sure enough, they were just washing dishes like nothing ever happened. To them, this had all been a scare, like seeing a snake in the front yard.

But that was all it was. One day later, and they were already making plans for the week, why didn't you leave? I asked, when that happened in the book. It doesn't want you to. And while you hesitate, it makes you forget, makes you think it's normal. Did you try? He looked down at the diary, closing it.

No, son. I didn't. I got us a lemonade. The sun had fallen well below the horizon, but the glow from the house was enough for me to see a small smile coming back to his face. Don't you want to live here? He asked. It's beautiful. Houses are cheap.

You pay attention to this one thing and it becomes nothing. Doesn't have to be worse than living in a town with a lot of people. black bears. I pondered it for a while. Grandpa looked at me intently. Finally, I shook my head. Bears just eat you. They don't kill what makes you into you, like with Jim.

Grandpa nodded, sipping his lemonade. Hmm. Fair point. Mom called me back in to help with the laundry. Grandpa stayed out, running his hands across his diary. His smile was fading. Maybe thinking about Jim for the first time in years, dislodged something in his mind.

I did my chores, read some comic books, and tried my best to think about something else for a while. By the time I got in bed, my parents were convinced I'd forgotten about the whole thing. Maybe they had, but I hadn't. As mom tucked me in, Grandpa came up to say goodnight. Mom left us alone for a moment. As she closed the door behind us, he sat down next to me and rubbed my hair. I know you're scared. If you could leave this town, would you?

I don't know. This is important, son. If you stay too long, and if this becomes too normal, you'll stay forever. Right here with mom and dad and all the pretty girls in school, and all these nasty nightmares will fade. But they'll still be there, right? Even if I don't remember them? Grandpa sighed and squeezed my hand.

Yeah. They will. Then I guess I'd want to leave. Even if it's just you? Even if you have to leave mom and dad and school behind? Even in the dark, I could see the glint in his eyes. What he asked wasn't just a hypothetical. This was something consequential.

Still, thinking back on Alex and how easily people forgot about him, the answer was simple. I could never live here, knowing that death was just a whistle away. and knowing I could one day be okay with it, well, that's terrifying. Yeah, I said, I want to leave. Then we'll fix that. Tomorrow, all right? All right. I barely slept that night.

There were too many questions running through my mind. I kept thinking about the diary and the vivid imagery that Grandpa painted. I thought about the look on Alex's face after he heard the whistle. I felt the surge of anger in my chest when I smashed that radio. There were so many emotions brewing under my skin and I couldn't keep track of what to feel. So instead, I just lay awake, shaking, hoping to feel some rest before dawn. By morning, I'd gotten about three hours of sleep. Dad went to work and mom took me grocery shopping.

At lunch, she went out to meet some of her friends and I got to stay with Grandpa for a few hours. I didn't mind. Grandpa and I went to the park. We found a quiet bench overlooking a duck pond. We just sat there for a while before he handed me an envelope. You know the bus stop at the north side? The one passed at Malt Mill. I nodded, tracing the edge of the envelope.

It had an elegant, two-william text written on the front. There's a bus that goes by there every midnight. And you can get on that bus and never look back. Where would I go? He handed me a crisp $100 bill. An old friend of mine can meet you at the end station. But do you really want this? Do you really want to leave?

The ducks played in the pond, quacking contently. The wind made the reeds whistle a subtle tune. Yeah. Then tonight you go to that bus. You don't tell a soul about it. You just go and don't look back. Take your bike and keep your ear defenders on until you step foot on that bus.

Will the whistle let me leave? It will. How? Grandpa gave me a handful of unsalted oats for me to feed the ducks with. I was swarmed by a dozen happy birds, and still the reeds whistled. You know when a predator is the most vulnerable? No. When it eats.

So to get it to look the other way, and for you to get out, it has to eat. I don't get it. It's all there. Grandpa said, tapping the envelope. Don't read it until you get on that bus. Are you coming with me? I can't, son. He smiled.

No one can. The day went on as any other. Mom made meatloaf. Dad fell asleep reading the newspaper. It was my time to do the dishes, and I did them better and more thoroughly than I'd ever done before. Everything had this finality to it. I had hidden Grandpa's letter and the hundred-dard. dollar bill in a textbook, I'd stuffed it in my backpack.

Later that evening, as I was getting ready for bed, this burning anxiety crept up on me, the same way I felt when my mom used to tell me I could get a single toy from the store. I could never confidently pick one, and this was the same thing. I didn't know what would happen, and I didn't know what would be the best thing to do. Then again, the choice had already been made. The envelope was right there. I'd never really been close to my grandpa up until now, and having him do this for me, whatever it was, seemed like the right thing.

So when the clock struck 11 p.m., it was time to go. I used the bathroom, filled up a plastic bottle of water, packed my two favorite shirts, and snuck out the door with my ear defenders snug and safe. I got on my bike and followed a side road downtown. From a distance, I could tell something wasn't right. There were too many lights on. This wasn't the kind of town with an active nightlife, except on New Year's Eve. A few cars passed me by, breaking the speed limit.

One of them went by so fast I couldn't see who drove it. All I could see was a cracked side window and a tendril whipping back and forth like a wounded eel. There was a woman screaming. I didn't hear her, but I saw a wide open mouth with protrusion. Seconds later, I saw the taillight disappear into a ditch, more cracked windows. Something red. I got closer to town. I noticed that it wasn't intense midnight lights that I had seen.

It was fire. I thought about what Grandpa had said, that a predator is at its most vulnerable when it's feeding. This was the feeding. This is what it looked like. The entire downtown area losing their minds. I kept moving forward, keeping my eyes on the road. Even so, there was some things that were impossible to look away from. The white tires of my bike were stained with blood, leaving a trail behind.

I kept coughing from the smoke. The body of the guy who owned the hardware store was kneeling in the middle of the street, having set himself on fire. His neck was almost a foot too long. His mouth was wide open towards the sky. I could see two people fighting in a parking garage, one of them beating the other with a meat mallet. They were a tangled mess of clothes and blood, and I couldn't see which one was doing what,

I could see they had a total of five arms. People had been rushing for their cars. Some didn't make it. There was this one woman who had lost her left arm where these long threads of metal had burst out. They stretched back an entire block, solely wrapping around a light post that pulled her lifeless body back. In one car, there was a guy leaning against the horn while something sharp kept pushing against his mouth from the inside. One man had climbed up and torn open a part of the power line, frying himself, leaving only a mockery of a bird's nest behind, and the charred smile of a skull. Madness! Complete visceral madness! Finally, as I reached Main Street, I saw Grandpa's favorite pub. There was a raging inferno inside, and I couldn't bear to count the bodies littered on the street.

I peddled past, stopping only to see if I could spot someone inside. And there he was, Grandpa, sitting in his favorite spot. He'd been pierced through the throat by a steakhouse knife. At the table in front of him was a portable shortwave radio, with its volume turned up to max and a half-finished glass of lemonade. I kept going. I could see shadows of inhuman things dancing in the fire, some of them hobbling in my direction.

I couldn't hear them, but I felt a tremble of high-pitched wine struggle against my ear defenders. Dehydrated eyes stared at me, begging for whatever salvation there could be in my death. I turned one last corner down by the malt mill. One last push to get through town, and there I saw what Grandpa really meant by feeding the predator. In the entrance of the mill there must have been a stampede. People had gotten stuck. What was left of them were eating each other.

There was almost nothing human left. The wires squirmed with each other in the bile of their human. parts, a nest of worms, rat tails, and black snakes. I could see faces in the black nest, intact human faces with blank eyes. Their mouths were opening and closing as if trying to whisper to me. Something was winning. The other faces, one by one, were torn apart by wires and consumed into the black storm. Until only one remained, one human head. The whirlwind of wires slowed and the thing began to take form. The mess spilled onto the road. I could feel a voice telling me to move, but I could not move until I had seen. What we were to become, what this was all about, I wanted

to hear what they were whispering to me. The man's head, wrapped in black wires, spiraled to the top of the beating, pulsing mass. The once-human mass of wires began to stretch upwards, a coiled cobra raising its head. It began to take a hauntingly nightmarish familiar shape. It was a pylon. We were playing with dead bodies in the scrapyard. The head on top, his mouth still opening and closing, he was trying to broadcast a whistle, I realized then. I couldn't get past this. I would never leave. What was I thinking? It was too late. He would sing me a lullaby and I would slumber forever, past the wall of black, wiry flesh, the bus station stood there. I could make out the outline of a man standing there. What was I thinking? Raise your foot and bring it down in front of you. You're going to

walk forward. The flood of wires twitched towards me, and I saw my foot move. One foot backing away, the other foot backing to match. You're going to leave. You're going to live. I wish that thought was the one that convinced me, but at that point, my one preteen, unpoetic thought was, I hate this town. I bolted across the path, with my eyes shut and screaming like a banshee, the sound of a whirlwind of wires rose around me as the monster felt me. I heard the zip of wires close to my face. I felt sharp fingers scratching at my cheeks, but he couldn't catch me. The 30-second bolt threw the snapping wires, and there was nothing but air on my cheeks, and the whistling behind me.

I snapped my eyes opened and turned. The nest was stapled to the spot. Their wires increasingly bound to the metal frames. The wires reached out in vain, but receded further and further into the monstrosity. Once rooted, they weren't supposed to leave, I guess. But I was. With joy in this thought, I kept running all the way to the bus station. It was empty.

At this point at night, only one other person was there. The last of my grandfather's instructions. The man was standing there. He wore a quarry uniform covered in dirt, hospital mask, and glasses. Dirty and grimy, he leaned against the wall and stared at me. Breathing hard, I couldn't speak out, but I knew it had to be him. He was looking at the monster pylon, building itself out there. The whole scene left him unfazed.

He gestured upon the pylon in contemplation. They're feeding a lot. There'll be no whistle tonight. In between breaths, I asked. So we can leave, right? They don't just have a seeking whistle boy. There's one more independent countermeasure right here, and another down the road. I stumbled closer.

Who are you? You've heard of me, Billy. I'm an old friend of your grandpa. His mouth was full of wires. My ear defenders were snatched and smashed. into the ground. Listen, boy, I want you to hear me. Liquid.

I could hear the cold, liquid static issuing from Jim's decades dead body. Boy, why leave, boy. Stay with your family. Have a family. Grow the family. Stay in the farm for the harvest. He grabbed my arms. Under the thin skin, his fingers felt like bags of snakes.

I'm leaving. Screw you. I'm leaving. He grinned, and the wires inside his mouth wriggled like snakes. Today's early harvest is acceptable compensation. He leaned in. You can leave, boy. He let go of my arms.

I could still feel the wiggling sensation of wires under his skin. Better thank your grandpa for this. Your strain will be salvaged. Your parents will provide another crop. He raised an arm to the southern road. Walk down that road. Isn't there a bus going there? Why would there be a bus out of here?

No one ever leaves. He raised his arms in a gesture. But feel free to come back when you get the itch, boy. You never forget your hometown. Bring your family. Listen to the tunes. The thing in Jim's skin stood stock still, grinning with his mouth open, wires writhing inside. He was like that when I left the station, even as I looked back constantly to make sure.

That was the last conversation I had in my town. Down the street, I found what I expected out there. A maze of ruined, burned cars blocked the streets. Some had their roofs ripped open as something emerged. Others still had half-formed wires and meshed with bones and vacationing clothes. The radios inside all looked dead and burned out. Still, I got off the road and headed into the wilderness, not rejoining till the sun rose and the road was empty. I was the only thing moving on that road.

I wonder if I was the last.