Something walks whistling past my house every night at 3:03.

I was almost killed in a car accident a few years back, and since then, my sense of time has been a bit messed up. I can’t explain it really, other than to say I’ve developed a sort of internal clock that I just can’t seem to shake. I guess it’s like having a pulse, except instead of familiar drumbeat against your skin, I have this constant steady voice that seems to tick off the seconds and minutes and hours in my head. <br><br>I’ve learned to live with it. There are worse things in life, and it actually helps me stay on schedule, waste less time. It’s just that sometimes, in the middle of the night, that voice goes from background noise to forefront of my attention. <br><br>And every night, at exactly 3:03, I hear the whistling.<br><br>“One thousand eight hundred fifty one, one thousand eight hundred fifty two, one thousand eight hundred fifty three.”<br><br>I sit up straight in bed, my shirt slick with immediate sweat. I’ve tried earplugs. I’ve tried earphones and a sound machine. I’ve tried sleeping pills, though they knock out my clock and always leave me disoriented. The whistling is soft, but always audible. Always walkIng past my house at 3:03. Always the same gentle, friendly tune.<br><br>We live in a ranch house on an isolated street, but for a few months we had a neighbor. An older woman named Mrs. Jenkins, who moved in after her husband of fifty plus years died. She was a paranoid woman with two huge dogs that she refused to vacate the house, despite the fact both were older and in poor shape. We had tried to win her trust, but she wasn’t interested in friendship. I found that out the first time I heard the whistling.<br><br>The man whistling seemed to be walking down the street, and I thought nothing of it. The tune was catchy, and my heart wasn’t even really racing. That is, until it stopped. I held my breath, waiting for the whistling to resume, but it didn’t. I heard footsteps outside my door, gentle, friendly footsteps that seemed to pause as whoever was walking by listened to see if I was awake. <br><br>That’s when I snapped, throwing back the covers and stomping towards the door. Whoever was out there took off like a shot, feet pounding the pavement, and I yanked open the front door to see a dark shape fleeing down the street. <br><br>That was when I saw her.<br><br>“Did you see him?” she asked, sidling up to my door. “Did you see him?” <br><br>“How did you get here so fast?” I asked, dumbfounded.<br><br>“I could hear how quiet his footsteps were.” She cast a suspicious look at me before turning to stare out into the night. “He was walking by my house, whistling that tune. He always whistles at 3:03. Do you think he knows?” <br><br>I was too groggy, too disoriented to ask her what she meant, but she answered anyway. <br><br>“We’ve lived here a long time. Me and my husband. Did you know that? This was his family’s ranch. They built this place, together.”<br><br>“What does that have to do with anything?” I rubbed my face with my hands, wishing I had just taken another sleeping pill that night. <br><br>“Did you see him?” she asked again. She seemed to be growing agitated, and I wanted nothing more than to go back to bed. <br><br>“I didn’t see his face, if that’s what you mean.”<br><br>“Was he tall?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him for some time now. Was he tall?”<br><br>I thought back to what I had seen. It was dark, and I was half-asleep, but the man had seemed tall, impossibly tall. <br><br>“Well,” she sighed. “At least he’s not in the house.”<br><br>We talked for a few more minutes, and then I went back inside. I didn’t hear the whistling for the rest of the night, but the next evening, at exactly 3:03, a man passed by my house whistling. I didn’t get out of bed. I didn’t look at the clock. The sound was enough to confirm my suspicions.<br><br>The man had whistled by my house at exactly 3:03 every night since. <br><br>I didn’t see him again, save in occasional, fleeting glimpses, until last night. <br><br>It was an exceptionally warm night, and we had the windows open to try and catch any stray breeze. I had almost drifted off to sleep when I heard the whistling. I was half asleep already, and it sounded beautiful. The tune was so familiar at that point, I could even hum along. The extra oxygen seemed to do the whistling justice, and I found myself smiling. <br><br>“Do you hear that?” I said to my wife Jena. <br><br>“Hear what?” she mumbled. <br><br>“The whistling. Don’t you think it’s pretty?”<br><br>She sat up in bed and rubbed my shoulder, trying to reassure me in her tired tone. “There’s no one whistling out there. It’s okay.”<br><br>“No, it sounds different tonight.” I insisted. “Tonight it sounds friendly.”<br><br>“Well whatever the case, it’s not real.” She snuggled into my side. “Go back to sleep.”<br><br>“Why does it have to be a bad thing? Why does it have to be something malevolent?” I asked. I knew I was acting strange, but my wife couldn’t possibly understand. The man whistling had been walking past my house every night for the past few months, and I had grown accustomed to the sound. <br><br>I was getting over my fear of it, and last night I decided I was going to take matters into my own hands. I tossed off the covers and got out of bed, walking to the window and looking out into the night. A few seconds later, I heard the screen slide open behind me, and I was startled to see Jena grinning mischievously at me.<br><br>“You got me out of bed, so now we’re going to go outside together and prove there’s no one there.” She said. <br><br>I followed her through the front door, thinking that maybe this was for the better. I mean, what if it really was just a figment of my imagination, some auditory hallucination brought on by the accident? I thought the worst was over, that I had finally conquered my irrational fear, until we got outside and we both heard it. Loud. Clear. Beautiful.<br><br>Jena’s expression changed from one of playful mischief to abject terror. “What the hell is that?” She whispered.<br><br>“What the hell is what?” I tried to play it off, but she had already started walking towards the sidewalk. <br><br>“You hear it, don’t you?” she hissed back at me. “Whatever that is, it’s walking by our house right now!”<br><br>I wanted to stop her. I wanted to run over there and physically pick her up and carry her back into the house, but it was too late. I had unleashed something in her, the same thing the whistling had unleashed in me a few months back.<br><br>“Stay here, please.” She said. “I’m going to see what that is.”<br><br>I watched as she followed the sound of the whistling. I knew that if I followed her, I would see a man out there, whistling as he walked down the street. But when Jena walked out of view, I did follow her. <br><br>And when I rounded the corner, I saw her standing in Mrs. Jenkin’s front yard, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. <br><br>“What is it?” I asked. <br><br>“Look at this house.” She said. “No one lives here. This house is abandoned, and it has been for a very long time.”