As the weather gets warmer, I usually find myself spending more evenings out on my porch, relaxing with a glass of red wine, gazing out at the wooded area across the street from my house.
A couple of weeks ago, I sat on my porch as usual, whistling a tune that had been stuck in my head all day.
My neighbor, from her own porch, turned to me and said "You shouldn't whistle at night. The dead will think you're calling for them."
"They're closer than you think." she said.
I suddenly felt the urge to go back inside. The woods started to look a little too dark, concealing what almost looked like blurry shapes that swayed behind the trees.
I don't whistle at night anymore.
But they do.