THE longhouse always sounded different at night.
In the city, silence feels empty. Here, it feels full, as if something is breathing just beyond the walls. The forest pressed close, alive with whispers that slipped through the wooden planks and settled deep into your bones. That was the first thing I noticed when I returned to my grandmother’s longhouse in rural Sarawak for the school holidays.
The second was her warning. “After sunset,” she said, her eyes fixed on mine, “never whistle.”
I laughed softly, dropping my bag beside the woven mat. “Why? Afraid I’ll wake the neighbours?”
Her expression did not change. “If something whistles back, do not answer it.”
That night, the air was thick and still. Oil lamps flickered, casting long shadows across the wooden walls. My cousins slept soundly beside me, their breathing steady and calm, but I lay awake, staring into the darkness.
Then came a sound. Soft. Clear. A whistle.
I frowned. It was too deliberate to be the wind, too precise to be an animal. It sounded human. A grin tugged at my lips, thinking my cousins were just trying to scare me. I leaned toward the window and whistled back.
Silence.
Then, a second whistle. Closer. This time, it was exact. My tone. My rhythm.
My smile faded. From beneath the longhouse, a dog barked. Then another. Soon, an uneasy, warning chorus rose from the pack. The air turned cold, brushing past my skin like a quiet breath.
“It’s not funny anymore,” I muttered. No one answered.
Then came the third whistle, right outside the window. My chest tightened. Slowly, I turned. The forest stood still, shadows layered thick among the trees where the moonlight barely touched the ground. At first, I saw nothing. Then, something moved. A figure stood at the edge of the clearing. It was tall and wrong. Its shape was uneven, as if it did not understand how a human body should look. It did not walk or sway; it simply shifted, like a reflection trying to become real. My breath caught.
“Hello?” I whispered.
The figure tilted its head and whistled. My sound. Perfect. Every note, every pause was copied exactly, but it sounded hollow, as if the air was being drawn through a hollow bone. The dogs below the longhouse began to howl. I tried to look away but I couldn’t. Something held my gaze, locking me onto that shape between the trees.
Then it spoke. “Come to me.” The voice was mine.
My heart slammed against my ribs as a cold realisation spread through me. It wasn’t calling me; it was becoming me. I stumbled back, my hands shaking. The air grew heavy, harder to breathe. Behind me, the wooden floor creaked. I froze. I was alone, wasn’t I?
A soft whistle echoed, this time right behind me. I could hear it breathing. I spun around to find nothing but shadows stretching along the walls, though the sound still lingered, trapped in the room.
“Don’t answer it,” my grandmother’s voice cut through the silence as she pushed open the door. Her eyes went to the window, then to me. “You whistled.”
Before I could speak, she began to chant—soft, steady, and urgent. The words were old, older than the longhouse itself. She scattered something from a small pouch across the doorway and the air instantly shifted, loosening like a tight grip letting go. The whistling stopped completely.
We did not speak for a long time. Finally, I whispered, “What was that?”
My grandmother’s gaze was heavy. “The forest listens,” she said, lowering her voice. “But some things do more than listen. Some are not human, not anymore. They learn your voice. And once they learn it, they will come for you.”
The next morning, everything seemed normal.
The forest glowed green in the sunlight, birds sang, and the dogs rested quietly. It felt as though the night before had been nothing but a dream.
As I swept the wooden floor beside my grandmother, she spoke one last time. “That is why we have taboos. Not to scare you, but to protect you from what you cannot see.”
I understand now…that some sounds are not meant to be returned. Some voices are not meant to be trusted. Some things do not need to chase you; they only need you to answer once. Even now, back in the city, I still hear it sometimes. A soft whistle in the distance. Familiar. Perfect. Waiting.
This time, I ceased to answer because I know something is still listening, and still waiting. – DayakDaily
Twelve-year-old Feliz Loh Li Fei is a bright student from SJK (C) Chung Hua, Sibu, who fuels his vivid imagination through reading and painting. He also channels his exceptional problem-solving and creative skills into building complex structures with blocks and playing Minecraft.
Feliz is one of the Top 10 winners (Youth category) for DayakDaily’s 2026 Writing Competition with the theme “Sarawak Folklore”.
