Write Image Prompt 20070806: The Whistling Mill

Dusty cobwebs stretched and then snapped as Eva pushed on the burred wood. Stepping into the gaping black hole, she carefully tested the strength of the boards as her eyes adjusted to the dark. Shapes began to form and come out of the dark; a single cot, an open roll top desk, a swivel chair and… her fingers fumbled for a match. Setting ablaze a half melted candle on the table’s edge, she turned. Many items glinted on the wall, she approached- there, a seemingly large and grotesque collection of knives populated an entire wall. Some had two handles, some were curved as if a giant’s mezzalune, and some possessed jagged peaks as if to shred rather than cut.

The failing light of the sun was snuffed out as an inky black settled into the valley. Struggling to open, her hands shaking- she flipped open her cell phone. Its bright glow shone as a beacon for civilization in this broken shell slowing being reclaimed by the wilderness. Damn, still no signal! With fortitude she pressed the off button and watched it swirl away bidding her goodbye as it blinked out. Conserving the battery had to be a priority now- where the hell were they? Bradley…she was going to strangle that idiot when she found them. Yeah, lets go out to the country- found this great little winery with fabulous vintages- oh, and there an absolute steal. You’ll love it, she reiterated aloud to herself pulling out the chair. Swiping her sleeve across the surface, dislodging chunks of solidified dust and debris to join its brethren on the floor, she relaxed- or tried. Drumming her fingers on the desktop she pondered her predicament. Telling herself that she was lost, she could see anything and there was nothing else to do tonight but rest.

Seated by the window, she watched the moon rising- she hated the fact though that it provided illumination it gave no comfort as the sounds of night began to play. A lone wolf on a distant ridge howling reminded her why she never left the city. Exhausted, she must have walk twelve miles, maybe in circles and ignoring the first pains of hunger she could remember in many years, she grasped the corner of the moth eaten blanket pulling it back. The interior revealed that the wool was actually navy, not gray as the thick coat of dust that had settled there. Sitting on the side she kicked off her shoes and lay back. Her eyes wandered the room and its meager belongings, the metal blades winking in the moonlight; more than a little disturbed she reluctantly closed her eyes.

Slowly, drifting deeper her breathing steady and soft; slipping into the fog of slumber’s edge. Then snap! Her eyes flew wide open as she bolted upright in bed. Not far, coming closer she could hear a long lonely whistling.

If a person screams in the forest and no one is around to hear it, do they make a sound?