Dragged into Darkness Read Free

was loud.  The Whistler was talented; the music carried easily on the night air.  This was not whistling that could be produced by just anyone.  This was music and the whistle was an instrument no different from a flute or piano.  What was startling about the music was that anyone could whistle that well.
    The architect recognized the music as either classical or an operatic aria.  He had heard it before but he was unable to put a name to it.  It was not that the sound failed to do justice to the score but that his musical knowledge was lacking.  All those who heard the Whistler broke their conversations to listen to the crystal clear music. 
    As beautiful as the music sounded, its menacing nature unnerved the architect.  His every step was shadowed by it.  Every time he changed streets on his journey he saw fewer and fewer people but the music continued to pursue, as did the Whistler.  He looked to locate the Whistler but never found the source of the music.  The music intensified in harmony and clarity with each street, ricocheting off the walls of the imposing buildings like a pinball.  The proximity of the sound closed upon him with every step.  He turned onto the deserted street a little way from the alley where his car stood.  He increased the pace of his walk; the whistling matched it and exceeded it.
    The chilling music was on top of Thompson. He felt the expelled air from the Whistler on his neck.  He turned into the alley and looked over his shoulder, frightened.  The instant he turned the whistling stopped and no one was there.  Where had the minstrel gone?   He continued to move in the direction of his car while frantically searching for the Whistler.
    “Did you like it?” a voice said.
    It was a man’s voice.  His speech was calm and level; there seemed to be a smile contained within it.  His tone was relaxing and had a hypnotic quality that put Thompson at ease.  The voice felt like a comforting arm had been placed around him.
    Thompson walked slap-bang into a stranger standing in the alley.  He dropped the bag with the bottles of wine in it.  They exploded on the concrete surface between the two men and a stain spread across the paper bag.  Droplets passed through the porous material and a puddle formed under the men’s feet.
    “Shit! I’m sorry.  I didn’t see you there.  Are you okay?” Thompson said.
    “Did you like it?” the stranger said again, in the same mild manner.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Did you like the music?”
    This guy scared him and his stomach made a complete revolution.  He could not see his face although he stood right in front of him.  Shadows cloaked the stranger’s face in darkness, although moonlight reflected off his Porsche parked further down the alley.  The Whistler was the only obstacle between him and his means of escape.
    “The music?   It was very good.  You certainly have talent.  Well, if you will excuse me I have to get home.”
    He sidestepped the Whistler and tried not to look as if their meeting had panicked him.  He made careful, deliberate steps towards his car.  To the Whistler he walked like he was about to shit himself or already had.
    “What about your package?”
    “I don’t want it.”
    “Don’t you think it’s thoughtless to leave this broken glass where someone could cut themselves?  You might even puncture your tires when you drive out of here.  You could put it in this dumpster.”
    Thompson stopped.  He had been walking away from the man the entire time they spoke.  He had not even turned to look at him while they talked.  Now he was trapped in no- mans land, he had gone over the top and he was half way between the safety of his car and the malevolent Whistler.  He turned around.
    Thompson walked back to his spoiled purchases that had leaked out into the alley.  His walk was a little more relaxed than earlier but he was still fearful of this man.  He bent down to pick up the expensive mess.  He lifted