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It was a crisp October night in 2021, and the weight of worry hung heavy on my shoulders as I watched over my parents' home in South Central Kentucky.

My mother was battling pulmonary fibrosis in the county hospital, her struggle with the disease casting a shadow over our family.

The knowledge that she could one day be smothered by the lack of oxygen haunted me

as I patrolled the familiar grounds of our 10-acre homestead, a legacy passed down through generations.

That night, my baby brother, who had already departed from this life, was my sole companion in the

empty house. The rest of my family was gathered at the hospital,

leaving me to keep vigil at home. As I prepared to retire to bed, a sense of unease gnawed at me,

refusing to let me slip into the embrace of sleep. The air seemed charged with an indefinable tension,

and every creek of the old house only amplified my discomfort.

Unable to find solace in sleep, I rose from my bed and wrapped myself in a blanket against the chill of the night.

Sitting at my desk, I attempted to lose myself in a book, but my mind remained tethered to the ominous feeling that lingered in the air. As I

strained to concentrate on the words before me, a faint sound intruded upon the silence,

a distant, haunting whistle that sent shivers down my spine. With each passing moment,

the sound grew louder, echoing through the stillness of the night.

Wearyed by the day's labor, I hesitated to investigate, but the curiosity and unease drove me to my feet.

Crossing the room, I approached the front door, the source of the eerie noise drawing me closer.

...