Dark Pattern

I'm the Whistler, and I know many think, or I walk by night. I know many strange tales, getting in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Here, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak.

The Whistler's drugged nervously back and forth across the living room of her Bel-Air home. Stop now at the window to glance out into the night, the surrounding hills bathed in bright moonlight. still quiet except for the barking of a dog nearby and the barking stirs a strange and easy feeling within you doesn't something you can't explain but

it's there building slowly oh Glenn how are you landed the Addison came up to kick his top and we're all going over to their place for goodness well if you don't mind I'd rather not I don't suppose you've We've had the papers.

Well, heaven no. We've been much too busy getting about. Why? It's Benji. Yes. There was an accident at Indian Lake last night. Benji was killed. But heaven's done. We've gone up there for the weekend, took his boat out on the lake.

And there was an explosion. Oh darling, how psyched. It was quite a shock. Of course. You and Benji were such good. Thanks, Grand. No. No, no, really, but it's sweet of your gland. A moment after you hang up the phone, you return to the window.

The dog has started barking and howling again, hasn't he, Norm? Yes, and you wonder why. Is there someone out there? You move quickly to the sliding glass door leading to the patio. Open it, and you turn on the sunlight.

Patio is empty. You step outside and glance around, and then hurry down the driveway. You're suddenly aware that you're harder speeding furiously. There's a tight dry feeling in your throat if you're normal. Now as you reach the road, you recognize the man as Arthur Morris, the neighbor.