Sadly, Liu Feng didn’t live to see his own success. The night after he wrote what would be his seminal work, the young poet’s family reported hearing excited cries of triumph from his bedroom, “which quickly turned to anguished screams.” They found Liu Feng dead in his room, his expression a gruesome mix of terror and elation.
The Nightingale Box disappeared that night, but has resurfaced many times over the years, often to famous (and famously short-lived) New Rotterdam artists, including painter Ken Gleeman, singer/songwriter Infra Red, dancer Ginger Perez, and Andy Warhol–contemporary Quoi. All died under mysterious and grisly circumstances, just as their creative outputs blossomed.
Its most recent sighting was in a 1999 MTV interview of up-and-coming VJ Mason Weekly in his New Rotterdam beachfront home. In the interview, a visibly distracted Weekly frequently glances toward what appears to be an ornate container lined with metallic dials. A warbling tune can occasionally be heard in the background audio. Weekly died three days after the interview, walking fully clothed into the sea. Witnesses’ reports conflict on whether his rictus grin was gleeful or despairing.
3
The darkness was smothering. Even as his eyes adjusted, Emrys found he could barely pierce the gloom. The three of them sat quietly on Serena’s sofa, speaking only in terse whispers as they listened for signs of the mysterious whistling stranger. Emrys stayed glued to his phone the whole time. The small pane of light was a window, truer and more farseeing than any real one. It told him the world outside still existed, despite what this claustrophobic darkness might have him believe.
Emrys knew he’d need the phone’s flashlight to get back to his apartment (slow footfalls on the stairwell—click, click), but he couldn’t seem to force himself to put it away. He watched with mounting anxiety as his battery life dwindled to forty-nine percent, then thirty-five, then twenty-two, then seven.
He was only saved by the arrival of Serena’s dads.
“What. In the world. Happened?” Mr. Dubose called once he opened the door. “Serena!”
Serena winced at her father’s voice. Mr. Dubose was her bio-dad. Both were Black and had a lot in common: grace, charm, intelligence. They also—Emrys had already discovered in his brief time in the building—could rile one another up like no one else.
“I guess he noticed the intercom,” she sighed, pulling on a twist of hair. “I knew Scotch tape wouldn’t do it.”
Thankfully, Mr. Navarro, Serena’s other dad, was there to petition for calm. He entered after Mr. Dubose, with Dom, Serena’s brother, just behind him.
“Wuh-huh-ho!” Dom exclaimed with a laugh. “Serena, you’ve really outdone yourself this time. Nice work.” Dom breezed past the group and into kitchen, then poked his head out with a grin. “You sure you don’t want to take up lacrosse? Most of the new players aren’t half as sturdy as these intercoms.”
“Shut up, Dom!” Serena groaned.
“Language,” Mr. Navarro interjected patiently. He turned to Emrys and Hazel. “How about we let them burn off some steam, huh?” he said, nodding to the front door. “I’ll walk you home.”
Mr. Navarro was Dom’s bio-dad, and while the two shared his Dominican ancestry and warm brown skin, they were about as different as could be. At least Emrys thought so. Whereas Felix Navarro was kind and thoughtful and soft-spoken, Dom was … a handful. He was older than Serena by a couple years, and sometimes he even acted like it. Other times he was like a five-year-old in the body of an eighth-grade linebacker.
Emrys and Hazel nervously followed Mr. Navarro out, but there was no sign of anything strange in the hallway. No blood spatters, or dribbles of monstrous goo, or knife marks scratched into the walls. Emrys’s mind ran through all the New Rotterdam legends he could think of, trying to connect one to what he’d heard. The Laughing Man? The Nightingale Box? None of them quite fit. Still, something about the eerie whistling—a bright, cheerful melody that hovered just at the edge of familiarity—had set his already active imagination training for the Anxiety Olympics.
Whoever the mysterious whistler was, they’d somehow gotten into the building without being buzzed. And Emrys hadn’t heard them leave.
But the climb home was uneventful. The stairs were the same stairs, just darker, and Emrys could hear muted conversations from the other apartments. If anyone else in the building had noticed the whistling stranger, they didn’t seem particularly disturbed.
As Hazel arrived at her door, she turned and said goodbye with a little wave. Emrys offered to ask his parents if she could stay over during the blackout. Hazel’s mom was a nurse at Saint Azazel Hospital’s emergency room, and her shifts often took place overnight. Hazel hadn’t talked much about it during their time at camp, but since moving to New Rotterdam, Emrys couldn’t help but notice his friend was frequently home alone.
Still, Hazel demurred, saying she had some cleaning to do.
Then, before Emrys knew it, he was home. His dog, Sir Galahound, greeted him with his usual wiggly butt and waggly tail, before turning his exuberance on Mr. Navarro. Emrys’s mom appeared from around the corner, her face outlined in candlelight, just as the dog was receiving an epic ear-scratching.
“Felix!” she said. “Thanks for walking Emrys up. I was just on the verge of getting nervous.”
“No problem at all,” Mr. Navarro said. “Serena had … an accident with the intercom, which is apparently no longer connected to our wall. Figured she and Max could use some space to talk it out.”
Emrys’s mom grimaced. “Want to come in for a minute? Have a drink?”
“Desperately,” Mr. Navarro chuckled. “Thanks, Grace, but I should head back down and offer support. I’ll figure out to whom when I get there.”
After bidding his parents and Mr. Navarro good night, Emrys hurried to his room, Sir Galahound hot on his heels. He quickly dug the portable battery charger from his desk drawer and connected it to his phone. Instantly, the battery icon in the upper corner was cut in half, bisected by a zig-zagging lightning bolt. That beautiful symbol meant power was flooding into the phone. Everything would be okay.
Outside, thunder boomed. Real lightning was still crashing above New Rotterdam, of course. The storm raged on, but here in 49 Eldridge Heights—with his phone and his dog and his parents readying for bed across the apartment—Emrys finally felt his anxiety begin to disentangle.
Then his phone buzzed.
Did you see anything on your floor? Hazel had texted Emrys and Serena in a group chat.
What do u mean?
The whistler! Hazel texted. Any sign of them?
Emrys chuckled. The Whistler is a pretty good wiki name but no.
A few moments later, Serena chimed in.
They must have gone all the way up
Was it the Sorcerer of #701? Emrys texted. Then, Are you in trouble Serena?
Yes
A beat later, she texted, Van Stavern never leaves his apartment. Mr. Popov even brings his mail up. Definitely not a whistler.
He’s never had a visitor before, Hazel texted. Not that I’ve seen.
An idea was simmering in Emrys’s mind, a pressure that begged for release. It was ridiculous, really. He was already safe in his room in his pajamas, the eeriness of the night long past.
I could listen outside his door, he texted. Maybe the Whistler went inside?
