The Whistling Cistern

We called it the Whistling Cistern, not because of any musical sound, but because of the long, thin, high-pitched noise that seemed to seep from its metal skin when the pressure dropped. It wasn’t a whistle you’d hear on a kettle or a train; it was more like a sustained, breathy sigh, almost human. That’s what our landlord, Mr. Patel, said when we asked about the rusted tank that dominated the courtyard of our eight-door apartment block in the dusty outskirts of Jaipur. He said it was just old pipes, but the way he avoided our eyes when he said it made us doubt.

We were a motley crew: eight families, each with our own quirks and rituals. There was the Sharma family, who fought nightly about money; the Iyer couple, who kept to themselves and read the newspaper in silence; and us, the Vermas, a boisterous family of five. We had moved six years ago, and the compound had become our little world. The shared parking area was our amphitheater, the site of countless festivals, potlucks, and late-night card games. On Diwali, we’d string up lights across the balconies; on Independence Day, the kids would wave tiny flags while the adults argued about politics. It was a home, with all its warmth and occasional chaos.

But the cistern, that looming gray monolith in the corner, was always there, a silent witness to our lives. Its surface was pitted with rust, and a persistent drip from the overflow pipe created a small, mossy patch that never dried. My sister Meera, two years older, was the first to notice something off. She was the sensitive one, attuned to the moods of the house. She’d often complain of a ‘pressing’ feeling in certain corners, especially near the cistern, but we dismissed it as her imagination. Then the incident happened.

It was a chilly November night. I was hunched over my PlayStation, trying to beat a boss, when I heard Meera’s voice, sharp and urgent, calling my name from upstairs. I dropped the controller and bounded up the stairs, my heart pounding. She was sitting upright on her bed, her face pale in the dim light. She held a finger to her lips and pointed towards her wardrobe. ‘Listen,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t move.’ I stood frozen, straining my ears. The house was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. And then, I heard it: a soft, drawn-out sibilant sound, like ‘PSSSSSSST’, coming from the direction of the wardrobe. It was barely audible, but it was unmistakably human—a hiss, not a whistle.

‘You heard it?’ she asked, her eyes wide. I nodded, my throat dry. I slowly walked to the wardrobe and yanked it open. Nothing but her clothes, neatly hung. The hiss seemed to echo from the walls, then faded. We looked at each other, shaken. ‘Maybe it’s the cistern,’ I said, trying to sound rational. ‘You know, the pressure.’ But Meera shook her head. ‘That was not a pipe,’ she said. ‘That was someone trying to get my attention.’

That was the first time. Over the next few weeks, the hissing became more frequent, and it started to target others. We’d hear it in the hallways, in the bathroom, sometimes even in the middle of a movie night. The children reported it too, though they were more curious than scared. One of them, little Aarav from House C, claimed he saw a ‘thin, black shape’ flit behind the cistern one evening. We chalked it up to an overactive imagination, but the unease grew. The festive atmosphere in the parking area became tinged with apprehension.

Then came the night of the blackout. A storm had knocked out power to the whole block, and we were all gathered in the parking area, lighting candles and sharing stories to pass the time. It was around 11 PM when the hissing began, not from any one direction but from all around us. It was a chorus of whispers, each one saying ‘PSSSSSSST’ in a slightly different pitch, as if many voices were trying to call us. A collective shiver ran through the group. Someone suggested we go to the cistern to check the pressure gauge. Mr. Patel, the landlord, was reluctant, but the crowd insisted. We walked in a huddled mass, the flicker of a single lantern casting wild shadows. The cistern loomed ahead, its metal surface gleaming with moisture.

As we approached, the hissing grew louder, more insistent. The pressure gauge on the side was spinning wildly. Then, without warning, the cistern’s lid burst open with a loud clang. A column of water shot into the air, and in that instant, the lantern went out. We were plunged into absolute darkness. A moment later, the clouds parted, and moonlight revealed a horrifying sight: the water that had sprayed was not clear but a deep, oily black. And it was moving, crawling back into the cistern like a living thing. The hissing stopped. Silence.

Someone screamed, and we scattered. I grabbed Meera’s hand and we ran upstairs, locking the door. That night, we didn’t sleep. We sat in the living room, listening to the sound of the cistern re-filling, its hiss now faint and mocking.

The next morning, we found the watchman, old and withered, dead in his chair near the gate. His face was frozen in a look of pure terror, and his ears were bleeding, as if he’d heard a sound too painful to bear. The hissing, we realized, wasn’t just a call—it was a lure. And the cistern, it wasn’t a water tank at all. It was something else, something that had been slumbering beneath our feet, feeding on our joy, waiting to be heard.

We moved out within the month. But even now, in the new city, I sometimes hear a soft ‘PSSSSSSST’ in the dead of night. And I know that somewhere, in that abandoned compound, the cistern is still whistling, calling for someone else to listen.