The Tune in Room 14

It was late October when I moved into the old Victorian on Maple Street. My girlfriend, Clara, and I had just gotten the keys, and we were thrilled to finally have a place of our own. But the house had a history, and the previous tenants had left in a hurry, leaving behind odd trinkets and a musty smell that clung to the walls. We didn’t mind; we were young and in love, and the house was cheap.

Our first week was a blur of boxes and paint. Clara’s mother had come to help, and my folks had pitched in, but eventually, it was just us. I had a few things left at my parents’ house, and I decided to go back one evening to grab the last of my stuff. My parents had moved out a few days prior, and the place was empty, dark, and eerily silent. I had never realized how long that hallway was, how the floorboards creaked with every step, how the shadows seemed to stretch and twist.

I walked past what used to be my sister’s room, though she had moved out years ago. The door was ajar, and a cold draft seeped through. I quickened my pace, grabbed my boxes from my old room, and headed back. As I passed my sister’s door again, I heard it—a clear, melodic whistle. It wasn’t the wind or a creak; it was a tune, something old and folksy, but I couldn’t place it. My heart slammed against my ribs. I froze, listening. The whistling continued, coming from inside the room, and I knew I was the only person in the house.

I told myself it was my imagination, that maybe a radio had been left on or something. But the sound was too distinct, too human. I crept closer, my hand trembling on the doorknob, and pushed the door open. The room was bare, except for a single chair in the center, facing the window. The whistling stopped abruptly as if it had been waiting for me. I stepped back, a primal fear gripping me, and ran out of the house, not even locking the door behind me.

When I got back to our new house, I didn’t tell Clara about it. She would have laughed it off or worried, and I didn’t want to seem childish. But the memory gnawed at me. A week later, we were unpacking in the living room when I heard the same whistle from upstairs. Clara was in the kitchen, and I was alone in the hall. The tune was unmistakable, coming from the guest room. I slowly climbed the stairs, my heart pounding. I pushed the door open, and there was the same chair—old, wooden, and out of place—facing the window. I had never seen it before.

I asked Clara if she had bought a chair for the guest room. She looked at me like I was insane and said no. We argued; I accused her of hiding things from me, and she accused me of being stressed. But I knew what I heard and saw. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the silence, and then it started again—a low, breathy whistle from the hall. I got up, my feet cold on the hardwood, and opened the door. The hallway was empty, but the whistling was louder, coming from the bathroom at the end. I walked toward it, my mouth dry, and pushed the door ajar.

The bathroom was steamy, as if someone had just taken a shower, and on the sink was a single strand of long dark hair, not Clara’s. I reeled back, and as I did, the whistling stopped, replaced by a faint, wet laugh that came from the vent above. I slammed the door and ran downstairs, grabbing Clara by the arm and telling her we had to leave. She thought I was having a breakdown, but I was adamant. We spent the night at a motel, and I told her everything—about the house, the chair, the whistling, the hair. She listened, her face pale, and then she said something that chilled me to the bone: ‘My friend’s brother lived in this house before us. He drowned in the bathtub last year.’

We tried to sell the house, but we couldn’t afford to move back home. We decided to confront whatever it was. I researched the house’s history and found that in the 1920s, a young woman named Adelaide had lived here. She was a singer, known for her whistling, and she had been found dead in the bathroom, her throat cut. The police ruled it a suicide, but some said her jealous husband had done it. The tune she used to whistle was a lullaby, a simple folk melody that had been passed down in her family.

Now, whenever I hear that whistle, I know she’s here. But it’s not just her anymore. I hear footsteps, and sometimes I see the chair in different rooms, always facing a window. Last night, I was in the kitchen when I felt a breath on my neck, and a voice whispered, ‘Flee, before you join me.’ I turned around, and the chair was there, empty. I don’t know how much longer we can stay. Clara is pregnant now, and I’m terrified that this entity might latch onto our child. I’ve started to hear the whistle during the day, not just at night, and it’s getting closer. I’m writing this as a warning: if you ever move into a house with a single chair in a room, facing a window, and you hear a whistle—run. Don’t look back. Because the tune is for you, and it will never stop until you’re with her.