Whistle While You Rot
Most people think the graveyard is haunted.
They're right.
But the dead aren't the problem. It's the expectations they leave behind.
When the Bone Collector died, he left me a whistle made of polished femur, a stack of unpaid grave taxes, and the gentle suggestion that I "carry on the work."
I'd rather chew my nails.
My name's Neiki Valen. No title, no prophecy, no tragic backstory worth printing. I dig holes for a living. Sometimes I fill them. I'm very good at staying out of things thats not my business . Tragic Heroics, Thats pitiful. World-saving? That's someone else's gig, not mine. I prefer a quiet life—unbothered, well-fed, and mildly entertained.
So, naturally, fate handed me bone magic and a job offer from a corpse.
The whistle arrived in a black velvet pouch. No instructions, no note, no cursed warning label—just a soft hum that got louder when I touched it. It felt... expectant. Hungry. Like it knew I didn't want it.
I set it on my table and ignored it for three days.
That was a mistake.
On the first night, I heard whispers. Faint, scratchy voices brushing the edges of my mind. I thought it was wind. Or maybe I was overtired. Or did I disturbed an undead during my grave digging 🤔?
On the second night, something thumped against the window. Not a knock. More like a forehead.
And on the third night, the sky turned bone-white and I saw him.
The Bone Collector.
Dead. Still robed. Still smug.
Floating three inches above my compost heap.
"You're late," he rasped.
I blinked. "I didn't know I was invited."
"You inherited the whistle."
"Unwillingly."
"Still counts."
I hate ghosts that argue on technicalities.
He explained that the whistle wasn't just a trinket — it was a tether. A calling horn. A tool forged from something ancient that tied its holder to the murmurs of the dead. And unfortunately, I had already bonded with it. Which meant I couldn't toss it, bury it, or sell it to the nearest idiot with a death wish.
"I'm not your apprentice," I said.
"You are now," he replied. "Unless you want the dead to get louder."
Spoiler: they did.
By morning, I'd heard a child sobbing under the floorboards, a woman reciting her last words on repeat, and someone — I think a merchant — arguing over a receipt from the afterlife. I hadn't slept. My eye twitched involuntarily.
So here we are.
The whistle's on the table. It glows faintly. I don't want to touch it.
But I do.
Because it won't stop humming.
Because the dead are gathering.
Because if I don't answer, they'll find someone else—which I think won't help. Or worse — they'll keep talking.
And if I'm going to lose my peace, I might as well control the volume.
I tuck the whistle into my coat, pick up a rusted shovel, and step outside.
The graveyard breathes. The bones below shift.
Let's see what they want.