A Whistle

The whistle in the wind disturbed my slumber. It is an abnormality in this normally quaint forest of oak, ash, and maple. The applause of leaves, the sputtering of intermittent creeks, and the crack of trees leaning to and fro are the only sounds I am accustomed to. I sat up and focused my ears on my surroundings: the whistle was distant but it seemed to be moving in some direction. I pulled on my boots, armed myself with my bow and a skinning knife, and set off into the night.

Curiosity is dangerous in a place you are not comfortable with but I am no stranger to the dense understory of these woods. That does not stop me from being cautious, though. I have hunted a great many creatures that got too comfortable here and I am susceptible to the same traps they are. After getting my bearings and pinpointing a direction of the whistle, I began my slow plod through the brush.

As I moved, I felt a sense of anxiety grab my stomach. Am I walking right into a trap? This is exactly what I would do if I were trying to catch a tough prey. The knot in my stomach pushed and pulled at me but I snuck forward nonetheless. I should turn around but I cannot point my body away from the source of the whistle for fear that it would begin chasing me.

I continued to follow the sound as it changed into less of a whistle and more of a heavy wind. It was rythmic and dense, it seemed to tug at my very soul itself. I am too far gone at this point to turn back now. I must know what is causing this abberation. The forest began to open up into a patch of recently downed trees. There was no sign of a fire and the stumps do not have the telltale sign of lumbermen. No, they seemed to have been torn down by the wind.

When I reached the center of the clearing the heavy wind sound begin to shift into a more... human sound. It was unending with no breathe taken but it's pitch raised and lowered periodically. It was as if a woman was being tortured for some ungodly crime by creatures determined to wring every ounce of pain out of her. I resisted grabbing my knife to remove my ears and forced it further into its holster.

As I struggled with my desire to escape this sound, I saw it. My blood began to chill like the coldest winter has just descended upon me. My skin felt as if it wanted to retreat back into the woods behind me. My feet told a different story, though. I began to walk towards what I saw. Just inside the treeline was a figure cloaked in a tattered robe, who seemed to be floating a foot above the ground. It's hand was extended towards me pointing at my heart. It's mouth was agape and it was filling the world around me with that soul rending scream. It eyes were weeping but filled with hate. Not a hate for me, but a hate for my life. A hate that extended to everything I have ever done and everything I will do. I began to cry and beg. I apologized profusely, I said whatever I could to get that hate to stop. I cannot imagine a world without that hate; that hate is the soil, it is the air, it is the food, it is the water. My breathe became shallow and rushed; I couldn't dream of controlling myself now.

The figure began to move and then it was gone. The scream was gone but that hate remained. It boiled in my veins and caused me to gag, retch, and vomit. I curled up on the ground and waited for the day to come.

I awoke when the sun hit my eyes, it must be noon. With my senses now gathered I looked back upon last nights event. A Banshee. Gods, what have I done to deserve this. That hate remains in me, I pray and thank my lords for allowing death to take that hate from me. I... cannot contain it myself. Strength, bravery, skill, talent; all of it is nothing in the face of a being that hates your soul. I am so sorry, I must have been something awful for you to feel that way about me.