The Slide Whistle

The details are hazy now, but I know the toy bin was real, and that’s not a lie. It was my first encounter, though I’ve had two since. This one happened in the den of our old house on Mulberry Street, a long, narrow room with the kitchen at one end and a picture window at the other. In front of that window, under the sheer curtains, sat my toy bin—a big, wooden chest painted with faded circus animals.

I was three, maybe four. I recall sitting cross-legged on the shag carpet, watching a silly game show on the console TV. My mother and father were in the kitchen, their murmurs drifting in with the smell of simmering sauce. The afternoon light slanted through the window, casting long rectangles across the floor. The toy bin was a pool of shadow at the edge of my vision.

Suddenly, the curtains billowed inward, even though the window was shut tight. A cold draft, thick as river water, rolled over me. Then I heard it—a wheeze, like an asthmatic accordion, coming from the bin. The lid creaked open an inch, and something peered out. Not eyes, but a pale, leering face, all teeth and no mouth. It sang in a warble-y falsetto, ‘Come play, little one. I have a tune for you.’

I screamed. A primal shriek that cut through the kitchen chatter. My father bounded in, his face a mask of worry. ‘What’s wrong, sweet pea?’ He knelt, hands on my shoulders. But I couldn’t speak. I just pointed at the bin, sobbing. The curtains rustled again, and I buried my face in his chest.

He went to the bin, pried the lid open. ‘There’s nothing here, just your toys.’ He pulled out a red toy slide whistle, the kind that zooms when you push the plunger. ‘See? Just this.’ He blew it, and the sound was a discordant shriek, not the playful twee I knew. I cried harder, and he put it back, closing the lid.

Later, after I’d calmed, he asked me what I saw. I lisped, ‘The curtains moved, and there was something in the box. It had a face and it sang.’ He looked at the window, at the bin, and back at me. He didn’t laugh. He just said, ‘Well, maybe it was a dream.’ But his voice had a tremor.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing the slide whistle’s wheeze, like a breath in the dark. I snuck down to the den. The moon was full, and the room was silver. The toy bin lid was open. I crept closer, my heart pounding. Inside, the toys were arranged in a neat circle around the slide whistle, as if for a séance.

I reached for the whistle, and it vibrated, warm as a fever. A voice, thin as a spider’s thread, purred, ‘You left me. I waited. But now you’re back.’ The lid slammed shut, and I was alone. I ran to my parents’ room, but they slept soundly, unaware.

I never opened that bin again. We moved a year later, and I left it behind. But sometimes, in quiet houses, I hear that wheeze-off tune, and I know it’s not a toy. It’s a hunger, waiting for the next child who dares to play.