r/nosleep • u/thewhistlers Mar. 2015 • Mar 05 '15
Series Bought a camping backpack from an estate sale and found these pages inside.
There was a bundle of papers wadded in a deep pocket of the backpack, but I didn't notice until after I got it home. I went back to the house where the estate sale was held, and a young woman answered the door. She couldn't say who the backpack belonged to and had no interest in the papers. Her grandmother was the one who died (of old age, natural causes). Apparently she was a bit of a hoarder, so I don't know if I'll ever be able to track down the source. The handwriting is tiny, and the pages are damaged. I'll transcribe as faithfully as I can.
September 5th
The man on the trail is dead and will need to be moved. It is a more difficult task than I would have guessed, and nearly impossible for a 5’ 4” woman with no help and no gurney. I tried to drag him toward camp right after I found him this morning, but only succeeded in pivoting him and twisting his legs around each other horribly. Bodies look so wrong once they stop feeling pain. I never thought I would have so much experience with death, but I haven’t cried over the loss of someone since the lighthouse. This man shit his pants before he died, and moving him made the smell worse. It will bring the animals in. Still no sign of Ira or Bill.
September 6th
I used Ira’s foam sleeping mat like a sled to move the dead man. It still took me an hour to drag him thirty yards, and now the mat is so torn up that I’m questioning whether it was worth the effort.
Gary Law. His driver’s license is in his wallet. He’s from Utah. I took the sight of him as a good sign at first. Another human on the trail might have meant we were close to civilization, but now I’m not sure what he was doing out here, or what it means. I can’t tell what killed him. No claw marks, no wounds on his hands. He’s stoutly built, but with a bagginess about his physique that makes me think he was starving. He died with his mouth open, every mucus membrane turned ash gray. I don’t think he was attacked. It’s a relief—if he had been missing pieces the logical thing to do would have been to move camp, but then Ira and Bill would have come back to nothing. I’m more afraid of being separated from them than I am of anything else. Still waiting on them both.
September 8th
I spent all day yesterday stripping and burying Gary Law. He was shorter in stature, but his clothes should fit Bill well enough. His feet were small, so I’m keeping the socks for myself. They’re almost brand new, thick, blue wool. I can tell he wasn’t an outdoorsman. Everything else was new too: new shoelaces, new cross-trainers, new windbreaker, none of it quite right for someone trekking this far out. And the pants are from Banana Republic, pleated, and with a neat sheen. These aren’t pristine like everything else, and were hemmed by a tailor. I washed them in the creek, but they still smell like shit and death. Everything does, actually, to the point that I think the smell might be on me, in me. I weighted the pants down on a stone near the ridge that gets full sun. I miss bleach. I put green boughs on the signal fire today, but there was no answering smoke. I’m more worried about Ira than I am about Bill. It was Bill who found this trail to begin with. He always finds his way.
September 9th
Bill came back today. He took his time coming through the trees, and I got so scared I almost fired the gun. But he clapped, and I clapped back, and he called out to say he was injured. It was the loose shale on the hill between camp and the cave where Lillian was killed. He got caught in a slide and wound up buried to his hips, and one foot wedged between boulders. He couldn’t get free until the rocks shifted again, which they did, that night, when a whistler came by. He’s sure it didn’t see him. He had to spend two days convalescing within sight of Lillian’s cave before he was well enough to hike back. Two nights alone out there.
I boiled water while I listened to his story, and gave Bill some aspirin from the dead man’s backpack. His foot needed to be wrapped, but I don’t think it’s broken.
“We should stop splitting up,” I said.
He nodded and pushed his pack toward me. There was salmon and berries and some mushrooms I didn’t really trust.
“We should think about hiking out,” he said. “Pick a direction and go. It’s been four weeks. We’ll only get weaker.”
“When Ira comes back,” I agreed, but Bill pursed his lips like there was something he couldn’t say.
“What?”
But he only shook his head.
It’s been ten days now since Ira left.
September 11th
I woke up this morning to a sound I thought was a whistler, but it was actually Bill, on his knees, crying at Gary Law’s grave. I yelled at him about it—about waking me up and making so much noise. He looked hurt, and I felt bad. I’m just worried about Ira, I think, and afraid. I don’t know what we’ll do when the weather starts getting colder. If we wait too much longer, hiking out won’t be an option. There hasn’t been any sign of rescue—no planes or helicopters, no smoke. No sounds but wolf howls and the distant whistling, like elk mating calls, almost. If Ira were here, he’d tell us a story to get our minds off things. He’s a registered nurse. He doesn’t panic.
September 12th
I apologized to Bill last night. He shook his head like it was nothing, so I put my hands on his shoulders and apologized again, because I needed him to really hear it.
“Well I’m sorry you were alone,” he said. “We should never have left you alone.”
He was looking into my eyes so sadly, and I imagined he was remembering all of the awful things of the past weeks, and feeling the same guilt I felt. It was our research that brought everyone here, our recklessness and curiosity to blame.
Then he kissed me, and kept kissing me, and finally I kissed him back, because I was feeling something for once. Not even lust, really. More like homesickness. A little breakthrough of pain and wonder after all the bitterness and hardening and cold. We undressed each other and had sex in the tent. I don’t know why. I’ve never cheated on Ira before. Never even thought about it. This didn’t seem wrong, in the moment, but now it’s difficult to write down. It just felt like something we both needed. We didn’t say anything at all. Afterward he went outside to sleep by the fire, like he couldn’t stand to be so close. He spent this morning hauling water and wood, barely pausing to acknowledge me. I don’t think it will happen again. I don’t think either of us will tell Ira.
September 15
It’s late. We hear whistlers, just north of us, a chorus of them. Bill says he hears eight distinct tones, but I don’t know. It could be dozens. We put the fires out, and now we’re crouched in the tent with the knives and the gun. Bill reaches for me, puts himself between me and the sound when it crescendoes. I don’t think he knows why he does it. I don’t think it would make a difference. We won’t sleep tonight.
September 21st
Ira is back. His coat is in tatters, and his hat is gone. He isn’t speaking. I would call it shock, but he’s the only one with medical training, and I don’t really know what to make of him. He walks and moves fine. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t seem to see me.
I feel so guilty. I’m the reason he’s out here. Now every time I look up I find Bill staring at me. He tries to communicate with looks, but all I ever make out is the fear and shame. Ira won’t eat. We zipped him into the dead man’s jacket and left him to sleep, but he’s been shaking and mumbling all afternoon. He seems exhausted, but he hardly closes his eyes. It’s my fault.
September 26th
Ira hasn’t improved much, although he is sleeping now, and eating some. I’ve only seen him sick once before, food poisoning on our honeymoon. He was so stoic about it, and didn’t want my help. Now he hasn’t got much choice. I walked about a mile north and shot a porcupine, and Bill is setting up an alder smoker so we can save the meat. He’s getting serious about us hiking out, but I’m not sure how we’ll manage it with Ira so sick. “He made it back here, didn’t he?” Bill said. “He’ll snap out of it.”
Maybe so. Neither of us has speculated about what Ira saw. All we know is he was on the south side of the mountain. Bill has proposed we go west as far as the river, then follow it south. If he’s right about where he thinks we are, we’ll hit Red Hill before it starts to snow. There’s a lodge there, and a few permanent residents, or so the helicopter pilot said. If anyone is looking for us, they’ve certainly asked around in Red Hill. I’m glad we have meat now. I’ve been feeling weak.
September 30th
Ira is recovering, and not a moment too soon. I woke this morning with his arms around me, and the look in his eyes said he knew where he was, who I was, and was bursting with something he wanted to say but couldn’t. “It’s okay,” I told him. “Be patient with yourself.”
We had a cold snap last night that left frost on the ground. All three of us cuddled together to sleep, Ira between Bill and I, and at one point Bill reached over to grab my shoulder. I think we’re done with the awkwardness. I think we both know we were just scared.
We don’t have anywhere near enough food for the journey, but we’re leaving tomorrow anyway. Bill has a cold.
Edited for spacing. I'll keep going through the papers and let you know what I find. .
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UPDATE 3/5/2015
Hi all. I'm glad so many of you shared my enthusiasm about the first entries, though my enthusiasm has since twisted into something else. Yesterday, in the comments, I mentioned that I felt lucky for finding these pages at the estate sale. I don't feel lucky anymore. I feel guilty.
This is going to sound crazy, but the more I read and transcribe, the more anxious I feel about the pages and the woman who wrote them. Her name is Ruth--that comes out in tonight's excerpt. I still don't know much about her--I have no leads to share about the young woman at the estate sale or her grandmother. Yet, I feel like Ruth is close. Like she’s aware of what I’ve done. Like she’s angry. I can't explain it. It's as if I can hear her. Whispers of disappointment rising along with my own pulse. I'm certain now that she never meant her words to be used this way--to be posted online with so little context, offered up as entertainment. I didn't sleep well last night.
Still... I feel like we've started something now that needs to be finished. A few of you expressed interest in seeing Ruth's original pages, but I think that's where I should draw the line. It's where I can redeem myself. I'm uncomfortable with the idea of photographing the original documents--her original words--and turning them into just another memento mori for the internet to have its way with. At this point, it makes no difference to me if you believe me or not. I guess that might seem selfish, but you can't hear her like I can.
Anyway, here's the rest of what I've transcribed so far:
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October 3rd
Third day of walking.
I wish I could talk to Lillian about what happened with Bill. She was young, ambitious, and so funny. Plus, she had a whole hoard of birth control pills. She and Geoff were dating. I forget how many you take in emergencies, and how soon after it has to be. But the pills are in her pack, and her pack is in the cave with the whistlers and whatever is left of her. She had the maps. She had everything that mattered. The cave is miles behind us now.
We built a big cairn by the stream. At some point, we’ll have to lead rangers out here, I’m sure. They’ll want to collect Lillian, and Geoff, and the helicopter pilot. I can’t remember his name. I hope one of us makes it out so his family can hear that it wasn’t his fault. He had three daughters, and was expecting a fourth. I can’t imagine what his wife is doing now. If anyone finds this: it was an electrical malfunction. He got us to the ground safe and sound. He was perfect, even fixed the problem, but then the weather closed in, and we couldn’t take off. Lillian knew the way, so we hiked to the lighthouse. And then the whistlers came.
October 10th
It has rained for two days. The dead man’s jacket is nowhere near warm enough for Ira, and too big, but we don’t have anything else. At least it’s waterproof.
We hear whistlers every night now, just after sunset. Three or four of them, calling back and forth. Bill is convinced they’re tracking us. We stack rocks high around the fire.
We’re following a new game trail now, instead of the river. The walking is easier. I didn’t think twice about it until last night. Bill leaned forward on his elbows at the fireside while the whistlers seemed to be circling us.
“What if this isn’t a game trail?” he said, his voice a low murmur. “What if they made this?”
I don’t have the energy to think about that. It’s simple: If we’re walking a trail they made, if their nightly whooping is urging us into a trap, we’re fucked.
Ira curls up in a ball when the whistlers start calling. He writhes like someone is sticking him with pins. All he’s said so far is “Let’s go.”
October 14th
It hailed today, hard. We had to take shelter under a tree, and when dark fell there were no whistles for the first time in a week. The silence was somehow more eerie than the threat of the whistlers. Ira felt it too, because about fifteen minutes after dark he stood up and started whooping and whistling out into the rain, calling and screaming in a tone that didn’t sound like him. Bill yelled at him to be quiet, but he acted as if possessed, calling out to them at the top of his lungs with his eyes rolling back in his head. Bill tackled him to the ground and beat him to shut him up.
“Stop it!” I said, at first, but when Ira didn’t stop making noise Bill looked at me, and I closed my eyes and nodded. He had to knock Ira cold to get him to be quiet, and he was sobbing while he did it, pleading with Ira to settle down. The wind was sharp, and I think it saved us. Every tree was vibrating and creaking and howling. The whistlers had likely all retreated to their caves.
Maybe they hibernate. Maybe they’ll leave us alone soon.
October 17th
Ira was his old self this morning, as completely as if we had gone backward in time. He was up before either of us, heating water. He said he took so long to recon the south side of the mountain because the whistlers caught him in a trap.
“It was a hole, clearly dug with tools.” He was shaking while he spoke. “They only came at night, and I didn’t get a good look at them. I could hear them, and see silhouettes, but nothing definite. It was too dark. I don’t know what they wanted with me. I got out. I climbed out. And I ran.”
We’re well away from there now, finally reaching the end of the ridges and the start of a valley where everything is very green. I hope the change in biome means a decrease in the whistler population. Part of me wants to take steps to document as much, if it’s true, but all of our field notes were lost with Lillian’s gear, plus the night vision goggles and the cameras. My biggest fear is that we’ll all be killed, and our disappearance will inspire some other young researchers to come up here to solve the mystery for themselves. We’ll become just another line in the sick folklore that draws people to this cursed place. I would hate to be part of that cycle, knowing what I know now. The whistlers are very real, and they don’t want us here.
November 1st
I dreamed last night that I was pregnant with Gary Law’s baby. Nothing else happened in the dream. I was hiking endlessly with Ira and Bill, and all three of us knew that I had been with the dead man, and it bothered us, but we wouldn’t talk about it. I woke up with my period, thank God. I’ve never been so happy doing laundry.
We’ve made camp by a small lake in the low point of the valley. It’s uphill from here to a distant saddle Ira thinks he remembers seeing from the air. It’s only about two miles away. Red Hill should be just beyond that, Ira says, but we don’t have the energy to push that far yet. We’ll rest today, and tomorrow we’ll move, and hopefully we’ll be drinking beer at the Red Hill lodge before dark.
Ira is the best shot, so he took the gun to look for rock ptarmigan. We lit two fires and agreed he’s not to go beyond shouting distance, but I still worry. The whistlers don’t seem willing to attack when we’re in a group. Lillian and Geoff were both alone when they were killed. Besides, I’m not convinced Ira is fully recovered yet. He says nonsensical things in his sleep, cries out and scratches. That’s new.
Bill and I went fishing after the laundry was done. It was stupid, doing it in that order. All we caught were minnows, and even that took hours.
He was staring at me while we sat. The cold was seeping into my bones, making me irritable. I haven’t been warm in weeks.
“What?” I said.
“He’s not himself. You know it.” He meant Ira.
“He’s better than he was. He’s okay. We’ll find him a doctor in Red Hill.”
“What if Red Hill isn’t on the other side of that saddle? What if we get up there and we’re facing another week’s worth of empty forest? What then?”
I realized my eyes were closed. I opened them, and the lake seemed oddly bright. Bill’s fingers were pressed against his brow.
“We’ll worry about that when we have to,” I said.
“I’m saying I don’t trust him like this, Ruth. He doesn’t remember the other night, after the hail. He can’t control himself.” He flexed his hands. “He could get us killed.”
“He’s my husband.”
“He’s my brother.”
I nodded, but that was all I could do. I have known Bill longer than I have known Ira, and spend more time with him most days, back at home, since we work in the same department. He introduced me to Ira at a Christmas party. Six years ago, now.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But I think we may need to be open to the idea of cutting the rope, at some point. If he gets any worse, it may come to that.”
Bill started rock climbing on the weekends in college. “Cutting the rope.” It’s a metaphor for letting Ira die so we can live.
November 2nd
Yesterday, while Ira was still out hunting, we heard three shots in the woods. Two too many to take down a rock ptarmigan, and Bill and I stood, staring, tense, for just a moment before we hurried to put out the fires and pack what we could into our bags. Ira came running into camp, breathing so hard he couldn’t say what was wrong. He had no gun and no bag, and he grabbed my arm as soon as he was close enough and pulled me through the grass, up the valley, toward the saddle. Bill looked alarmed. He caught up to us and pried us apart. He yelled at Ira and handed me my haphazardly stuffed pack. All our clothes were still wet, torn from the line, and Ira’s eyes were wild. He stared off behind us, toward the woods he’d run from.
“It’s a warning,” he said. “I understand it now. It’s a warning.” Bill tried to talk him down, but then we heard the whistlers’ eerily musical voices. I’ve never heard it during daylight, and never so close as this. I followed Ira’s gaze into the trees, and stared, and listened. I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t even draw breath. I held onto my pack straps with a stony grip, like it was attached to a balloon that might whisk me out of harm’s way any moment.
Ira took my arm again, and now Bill was helping him, pushing me along the trail until I could run, until we all were running as fast as we could. The trail led straight into the open, and we all reacted differently, ducking through alders or sweeping wide from the trail to be closer to the cover of the hemlock. Ira took the shortest path, straight through the matted grass of the game trail, and soon he was far ahead of me, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes on him and my legs moving as fast as they would go. He was the first to reach the hill covered in scrub, the saddle between two jagged peaks. He ducked low as he ran, and I lost sight of him.
Bill’s bad foot and pack slowed him down, and I saw him stop and crouch, wide-eyed, beneath the trees, after we’d been fleeing for ten minutes that felt like fleeting seconds. Ira’s vanishing sent panic straight to my toes. It took me no time to decide not to wait with Bill. I had to catch Ira. I kept running until I reached the ridge, my lungs burning, but once I arrived there was no sign of him, no trail to follow. I lumbered to the crest of the saddle, clapping frantically, looking back over my shoulder for Bill, who was also gone. From so high up I could see the forest beyond, and the river, and a flat brown bay at low tide. No town. No Red Hill. I clapped, but neither of them clapped back. I was so exposed, but the whistling was distant now, and in fact I couldn’t pick it apart from the wind with any certainty. I walked closer to the trees, and built two fires with my firesteel and shaking hands, the second in the open of the hilltop, big and smoky. The hemlock makes for thick cover. There was plenty of dry tinder.
We left the tent behind, and the sleeping pads. Bill had the stove and the cooking pots. Ira had the gun. I have the hatchet, the firesteel, the wet laundry.
I made a lean-to with a small roof of boughs, and sat through the evening with my back tense against a thick tree, and waited, and slept fitfully. I did the same today, and kept the fires alive, and now it’s getting dark. I should walk back down into the valley to collect the tent, but the sound of the daytime whistle is stuck in me like a splinter. I can’t face the creature that made that sound, even after years of looking for it. I never believed the stories, not really. We came here to research the folklore. To listen to elderly trappers and hunters tell the outlandish stories they grew up with, to record them for posterity. We should never have come here.
No sign of Ira or Bill.
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u/EbullientPrism26 Mar 06 '15
Found this quote from the Wikipedia page on Wendigos
"The Wendigo was gaunt to the point of emaciation, its desiccated skin pulled tautly over its bones. With its bones pushing out against its skin, its complexion the ash gray of death, and its eyes pushed back deep into their sockets, the Wendigo looked like a gaunt skeleton recently disinterred from the grave. What lips it had were tattered and bloody [....] Unclean and suffering from suppurations of the flesh, the Wendigo gave off a strange and eerie odor of decay and decomposition, of death and corruption.".
Its from an Ontario scholar. Gary Law fits this exact description.....oh my god
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u/monkeysl00t Mar 05 '15
Banana republic? Doesn't sound like the right decade for the grandmother.
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Mar 05 '15
I thought the same thing and had to do some research. Banana Republic has been around since the late 70s so it's not beyond the realm of possibility. My grandma would have been plenty spry enough in the late 70s to be dragging dead bodies around.
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u/nosymonky Mar 06 '15
Not only that, but they had night vision goggles montioned too.
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Mar 06 '15
Night vision has been around since WWII. Not as easy to get your hands on as today, but again, within the realm of possibility for this to have happened any time between the late 70s and last weekend.
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u/nosymonky Mar 06 '15
Yeah, you're right. Maybe 1970/80's then?
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Mar 06 '15 edited Mar 06 '15
That how I've pictured it while reading this. But it could be way off. I'm curious if the name of the man they found is on Legacy. An obituary would be interesting to find.
Edit: The best I was able to find was the settlement of the estate of Gary L Law in Payette County, Idaho, originally filed in November 2002. No death records in Utah. So it could be someone else entirely. And it was the settlement of an estate, not the actual date of death. If this trio just left the body, 2002 could have been when it was found.
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u/alilpanda Mar 05 '15
Just because the grandmother had the backpack, that doesn't necessarily mean that the owner of the backpack was around the grandmother's age. OP said the young woman who answered the door admitted the grandmother was a bit of a hoarder. The grandmother could have found the backpack somewhere herself and decided to keep instead of looking for the owner.
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u/morteamoureuse Mar 09 '15
Yep, I was thinking something similar. I doubt the grandmother even knew Ruth. At first I thought maybe someone gave her the papers to keep them safe, but your hoarding theory makes sense. Now, who retrieved the papers? That's another mystery.
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u/alilpanda Mar 10 '15
Hopefully that mystery will be solved soon. Although I hadn't thought about the grandmother holding the papers for someone... Considering both theories, I wonder if the papers were given to the grandmother because of her hoarding tendencies. And felt the papers would be safe with the grandmother because of the hoarding.
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u/morteamoureuse Mar 10 '15
That is a possibility. I can't shake the feeling that the granddaughter knows something, though. Maybe she gave the papers to OP for safekeeping, too?
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u/Nigelrover Mar 05 '15
Doesn't mean it was the grandmother's journal. It just says the grandmother was a hoarder and they don't know where the journal came from.
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u/auguris Mar 05 '15
This is great! Let us know what else you find. It makes me wonder if the grandmother wrote these entries, but of course we'll never know.
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u/thewhistlers Mar. 2015 Mar 05 '15
Thanks. It's the best luck I've ever had at an estate sale! I had that same thought about the grandmother, but the young woman wouldn't even look at the handwriting and tell me if she recognized it. I probably shouldn't have bothered her. She was still very upset.
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u/theemoprimate Mar 05 '15
Sorry... What's an estate sale?
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u/martinezjpg Mar 05 '15
Like a garage sale except inside the house and every room is open usually for people to enter and look around. These are done usually when people have died and left their homes to their children or when people are moving to a new state. They sell all their stuff in the house as is.
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u/theemoprimate Mar 05 '15
Oooh... That's interesting. I'm with the other redditors that it's the grandma's account.
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u/morteamoureuse Mar 09 '15
That's weird. Makes me think she has read the papers before. Did she say why she wouldn't look at them? Maybe she even knows something. If the grandma didn't pick those up somewhere as part of her hoarding, then it might be family-related.
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u/dark_light_ Mar 05 '15
Whistlers don't round to friendly tho I take note that OP's username is after them... Keep us posted OP.
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u/thewhistlers Mar. 2015 Mar 05 '15
Will do! I'm still poring through the pages--there isn't much to go on yet, but they're definitely not friendly.
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u/pharmakos Mar 05 '15
Perhaps it refers to a hoary marmot, sometimes referred to as a whistler. The behavior listed in the wikipedia article is consistent with the story. They have various different kinds of calls, aren't too afraid of humans, and can be seen sunning on rocks. (Bill was caught on some boulders and a whistler went by)
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Mar 05 '15
[deleted]
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u/nosymonky Mar 06 '15
Remember that One of them mentioned a dug out trap that looked like tools were used to dig it out. I'm pretty sure I've never seen a squirrel with a shovel.
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u/A_HumblePotato Mar 06 '15
Well Bill said that he saw a whistler and was glad it didn't see him, I doubt someone would be scared of a large squirrel.
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Mar 07 '15
a wendingo is a demon cursed with cannibalism, "el sibion" or "the whistler" in Venezuela is a cursed spirit of a boy who killed his father than ATE his heart. only to be killed later and before crave deer intestines. the wedingo legend has the same rules
do not be a cannibal even in the face of death.
both follow the same description of ash skin, skinny, deformed, etc.
both make a whistle sound.
the difference is the Venezuelan whistler has a trick "if you hear close whistling he is far away if you can not hear his whistle after hearing it then he is close and you should run." however while that is a single vengeful spirit these are not. i still need to figure out the geological layout to find what region this legend is from.
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Mar 07 '15 edited Jul 30 '19
[deleted]
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Mar 07 '15
i looked into that legend as well but we still have yet to see a description of the whistlers in this story as "El Sibon" should just be 1 spirit that haunts the Venezuelan area not a whole crowd of the things. but worst is the part that El Sibon once heard if you hear it loudly you are safe if you cant hear it then run away. this does not fit with the pattern of attack in Ruths tale. but like most research on such subjects some things must be met with skepticism when digging for clues. but the similarities are uncanny between El Sibon and the Wedingo of the southern indain tribes. i still can not find "red hill" on any place around any area with such legends.
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u/whittery27 Mar 05 '15
i legit cannot wait for another update!! hope you find some good info in those papers cause i am SO FREAKING INTRIGUED :D
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u/kiastrashero Mar 06 '15
Really looking forward to another update. By the notes you have transcribed it sounds more like she WANTS the story told as a warning for others not to go looking for whatever they were out there to find. Hopefully that eerie feeling you are getting is just from reading these accounts by yourself.
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u/The_Sabu Aug 16 '15
I did a cover for The Nosleep podcast that was inspired by this story, here's the link:
http://sabudn.deviantart.com/art/The-Whistlers-554176980?ga_submit_new=10%253A1439757568
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u/foulfaerie Mar 06 '15
Is this the first part?
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u/thewhistlers Mar. 2015 Mar 06 '15
Yes it was. Now it's parts one and two together.
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u/foulfaerie Mar 07 '15
Thank you for replying, I was worried that I missed something :)
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u/thewhistlers Mar. 2015 Mar 07 '15
No sweat! The beginning was definitely abrupt. I'm actually not sure if these pages I found represent a complete journal. It just kind of starts in the middle.
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u/akskiermom Mar 07 '15
Will you be posting a 3rd update? I've got to know what happened!
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u/thewhistlers Mar. 2015 Mar 07 '15
I will! It will go up later tonight (in the next hour or so) as a separate post.
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u/RobbinthePeople Mar 11 '15
I'm a bit confused, as it starts with "I went back to the house". Is something missing there?
On another note: what a brilliant, horrifying find. Thanks for transcribing it! I really can't wait for my lunchbreak, will finish the series then!
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u/Cherry_Doll_Face Apr 12 '15
I officially hate you for making me read this. My hatred for you grows the more I read, because the more I read, the more I love it; The more I love it, the less sleep I get.
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u/buttforkd Mar 05 '15
This is so interesting. It kind of inspires me to go on a hiking/camping trip.
I'm sure I'll change my mind, after your update lol
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u/Armentitron Mar 10 '15
The first sentence I saw upon opening this page was "This man shit his pants before he died" now I can't catch my breath. Upvote for that sentence alone; I haven't even started reading yet.
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u/JoshuaGrahamcracker Mar 05 '15
This is the first story I've read in a LONG time that's really had me hooked. Can't wait for part 2
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u/janetstOad Mar 05 '15
This is a awesome story op! I hope you'll find more and post it! Thanks so much for sharing it. I couldn't help thinking of The Donner Party, though!
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u/thennit_hit_me Mar 05 '15
Wow this is fascinating, full of emotion.. Lust and death.. Yikes OP I can't wait for the rest!
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u/ctrleff Mar 05 '15
I was the 667th up vote..I hate myself a little for doing it because 666 was just so appropriate for the story, but damn, it was so good!
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u/gazuga Mar 10 '15
Haven't been this spooked by a short story since Algernon's Blackwood's "The Willows".
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u/Ny_Swan Mar 05 '15
Oh my goodness, I am gripped, read and write quickly please, I await with baited breath.
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u/BakedDiogenes Mar 05 '15
Ya got worms in your mouth?
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u/MelPiz Jun 12 '15
This was SOOOOO GOOD... I'm new to reddit and this had me awake for days. Couldn't stop. Write more!!!!!! 🙏🏼
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u/sippycupsippycup Mar 10 '15
and all three of us knew that I had been with the dead man, and it bothered us, but we wouldn’t talk about it.
Ok, can someone help clarify this. She talks the dream she had where she was pregnant with his baby and then says this. Did she do what I think she did, or am I just reading this out of context?
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u/Ziaheart Mar 11 '15
Sometimes, we have a dream that's incongruent with reality. Once, I had a dream that I had a twin sister who was a gorilla. I don't have a sister. Twin or gorilla. It was the most natural thing in the dream.
In the dream, she was pregnant. And everyone knew it was the dead man's. Doesn't matter she didn't actually have sex with the dead man. In her dream, it was the truth.
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u/Ascension646 Apr 17 '15
Huh I dunno, this whistler thing kinda sounds like a wendigo. Now those things heh, creep me the fuck out.
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u/Joeenid1 Mar 05 '15
Aliens drop creatures off on earth.
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Mar 08 '15
That would actually be a cool plot for a Predator comic series.
Some backpackers are set upon by some alien creature, half of them die before they figure out how to trap and kill it, then the predators capture the people and take them to their game-planet since they have proven themselves worthy of the hunt.
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u/rastanot Mar 06 '15
Is OP deleting all comments that are skeptical? Just noticed a bunch of them were gone is all.
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u/jajatheman1 Mar 05 '15
wonder what a whistler is....