Anonymous
03/16/2025 (Sun) 14:11
[Preview]
No.57756 [X]
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Out in the Karoo, where the veld stretches endless and the stars burn too bright, there’s a farm no one talks about. Not because it’s cursed or haunted—no, it’s worse than that. It’s *wrong*.
The locals call it "Die Fluit Plaas"—the Whistling Farm. They say if you drive past it at night, you’ll hear it. A low, tuneless whistle, like the wind through a crack in the world. But it’s not the wind. It’s something else. Something that doesn’t belong here.
A Kiwi bloke, name of Tom, told me about it. He was working on a nearby station, mustering sheep. One night, his ute broke down near the farm. He walked up to the gate, thinking he’d ask for help. The house was dark, but the whistle was there, soft and steady, like it was calling him.
He said the air felt thick, like wading through syrup. The stars above seemed to flicker, like they were watching. And then he saw it—a figure standing in the doorway of the farmhouse. Tall, too tall, with limbs that bent wrong. It didn’t move, just stood there, whistling that same empty tune.
Tom bolted. Didn’t look back. When he got to town, the locals just shook their heads. “You don’t go there,” they said. “Not at night. Not ever.”
But here’s the thing: Tom swears he still hears the whistle sometimes, late at night, when the world is too quiet. And he’s not the only one. Others have heard it too, even miles away. They say it’s getting louder.
I went out there once, just to see. The farm’s still there, rotting under the sun. The gate’s rusted shut, and the fields are dead. But at night, when the wind shifts just right, you can hear it.
That damn whistle.
And if you listen too long, you start to feel it—a pull, like something’s trying to drag you toward the house. Toward the thing in the doorway.
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