The Desert Whistler

My grandfather warned me never to whistle at night in the desert. I thought it

was superstition. Camping in New Mexico, I heard a whistle back.

A distorted melody, like a broken music box. Standing at the firelight edge,

it looked human, but the proportions were wrong. Neck bent, eyes glowing.

The flashlight caught its face. My face. Stretched over something ancient and terrible.

Don't acknowledge. Don't run. I sat frozen for three hours as it circled

me in the dark. At dawn, I found tracks. Human footprints shifting

mid-stride into jagged, heavy claws. They want you to invite them in.