Title: The Whistler

Author: Karolyn Gray

Fandom: Haven

Summary: A child kidnapping and murder case is disturbingly familiar to Nathan.

Main character(s): Nathan Wuornos, Audrey Parker

Rating: T

Warnings: violence, kidnapping, child murder

Spoilers: Up to 1.13 Spiral

Disclaimer: Haven, characters, and related indicia is owned and copyrighted by E1 Entertainment, Syfy, NBC Universal, Stephen King and all related parties. No copyright infringement is intended. This is a work of fan based fiction and is not endorsed or affiliated in any way, shape, or form to the owners and/or copyright holders.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Nat, PKD, and Scar for beta reading. All errors that remain are mine. The story is currently rated T but later chapters may push the rating up to M for subject matter.

The Whistler

By Karolyn Gray

Prologue

It's completely black, no light what so ever to see by. But a part of him never wants to see again anyway. He's seen too much in his time with the man he's knows as the Whistler in his mind. If he never saw anything again, he'd be glad of it. The darkness is welcoming, an echo of what lurks within that he never knew was there.

He can smell the dampness, the dirt, the decay around him, all with the barest hint of pine underneath it. It does nothing to hide the scent of sweat and urine that permeates the area. It also does little to cover the unique smell of blood. Not that he needs his nose to be well aware of the coppery taste in his mouth; somehow he has bitten his tongue.

He didn't need his eyes to also know he wasn't alone. He could hear the other boy's steady breaths and occasional moving around on the ground nearby. It was preferable to his gasping in fear when the Whistler came, his jovial tunes an ominous warning of what was to come. Anything was better than the girl's screams they heard over the incessant music shortly after he had taken her from their prison.

He shudders at the first creak, barely audible but there none the less. When the whistling starts in time with the music, he hears the other boy begin to whimper. Both know what the whistling means. As much as he tries to fight it, he felt terror rise in his chest.

He is crying when light pierces through the gloom as the trap door above them is flung open. Squinting at the painful light all he can see is the watery figure of their captor casually climbing down the steps and smiling at them. The other boy curls up into a ball, earning a disdainful sneer from the man.

"Well, boys, we all know what time it is. Don't we?" The man smiles as his question are met with utter silence from the pair.

When he sees the Whistler start toward the other boy he clambers to his feet and puts himself between them, strangely emboldened by the dark whispers in his mind. He is scared, certain he's trembling, but determined.

"No!"

The Whistler stares long and hard, dark eyes making him want to squirm under their scrutiny. He stares back, feeling anger rise within him in the form of stubborn defiance. He's not certain how long they stare at one another but in that time he realizes the Whistler isn't going to kill him right now. At that knowledge a plan forms in his mind even as he sees a satisfied expression comes across the man's face.

"I knew it," he murmured. "I knew it would be you."

The Whistler grabs him by the hair and shakes him roughly once. "You do what I say, when I say it. If you don't, I'll have to punish you and your friend. Understand, boy?"

He nods his head. Since being taken here he had learned quickly about the Whistler's punishments. The Whistler had 'punished' the girl. And he had helped him just as It had demanded.

He quietly follows the man out of the basement prison, taking in everything he can about the largely nondescript cabin he finds himself standing in. He's been here before and it still jars him at how normal it seems compared to the nightmare of the 'workshop'. He doesn't see what he's looking for, a way to escape, and silently follows the Whistler outside, realizing it is cold when he can see the other man's breath, and into the other garage like building nearby: the workshop.

The smell registers in his mind long before he processes what his eyes are seeing. The gruesome scene before him is bad enough but the stink of blood, flesh, and death is near overwhelming as he feels his stomach rebel. He's actually glad as he bends over, trying to restrain his heaving, that he hasn't eaten lately. He is even glad to hear the music playing as it gives him something to focus on as he quells his rebellious stomach.

It will all be over soon. This he knows, he feels it within him. And with that knowledge, he wants to smile in triumph but keeps his face blank as the Whistler turns to him.

He quickly follows the man's direction in bundling up the remains, equally grateful that he can't feel the blood and gore and sickened at being so close to the smell. He sees plenty of tools he can use as weapons but the Whistler is watching him too closely as he waits impatiently tapping a short handled shovel and pick together.

Soon he is following the Whistler through the gloomy woods, their path lit by the lantern. Each time he thinks of bolting away into the forest, it is like the man knows as he stops whistling and gives him a hard look or verbal threat. Soon they stop and the man passes him the pick and shovel, ordering him to work.

As he digs where the Whistler pointed he knows his opportunity to escape and get help is rapidly coming to a close. This knowledge doesn't bother him as listens to the whispers in the dark, their assurances all he has that all will be well soon.

The Whistler starts talking to him, praising him for being such a 'good boy, a special boy' which unnerves him. Without being told he struggles with dragging the body into the shallow grave and then begins to cover it. That earns him more praise from the deranged man who rambles on about protégés, kindred spirits, harvests, and good times ahead.

He actually wishes the man just go back to whistling.

The Whistler yanks the shovel from his hands when he's done. He leans over and grabs the pick.

"I bet you want to stick me right now. Don't you, son?" The Whistler asks. He looks up as he tightened his grip on the pick axe, seeing the man smiling at him. "Go ahead. I don't think you're quite there yet, my protégé."

He feels something shift within him, the whispers now a roar his mind, and a dark rage overcomes his thoughts.

He swings as hard as he can, not at the Whistler's torso, but at his foot. There's a satisfying crunch and splash of blood. More satisfying is the Whistler's howl of pain. He dashes away as fast as he can into the pitch black night even as he hears a terrible cackling laugh full of sinister glee spring forth from his own mouth.

He runs as fast as he can, tripping over roots and bumping into more than one tree in his flight. He doesn't care, it's not like he can feel it anyway. He just runs as fast as he can. He keeps running even as his muscles burn and he feels like he can't take another breath. He just runs.

Something heavy lands on him, his face pushed into the muddy ground, suffocating, until he feels weak and lightheaded. He is disoriented as he is flipped over and sees the face of the Whistler grinning above him. He cries out in surprised and tries to struggle, but the man has him pinned down. The surprise quickly returns to the dark hearted joy he had knowing he had hurt the man. He sneers at the man above him, wanting nothing more than to gut the man who's tormented him, use the bloody gruesome things the man has shown him.

"Shh," the Whistler assures him, voice gentle and kind. "Don't be afraid. I'm not mad at you. I was testing you."

The Whistler grins beatifically at him. "You're special. You're one of my children, now. And I have much for you to do."

"I won't help you," he spit back. All he feels is black rage coursing through him, a desire to not just kill this man, but to make him suffer.

"You already have, my son." The man lovingly strokes his cheek. "But it's time for you to sleep now. When you awake everything will be fine. You'll see."

The darkness fades from him and all that remains is fear. With the darkness gone, he finds his determination and desire for revenge evaporating under the weight of the much larger man. He just wants to run for his life.

He struggles against the large man's frame, terrified at what he will do to him. The Whistler doesn't fight him, he just starts whistling again. He finds himself mesmerized by the tune, limbs relaxing and eyes drooping as the last vestiges of resistance slip away until he falls into a fitful slumber.

*~~Haven~~Haven~~Haven~~*

Nathan woke with a start, gasping as his eyes took in where he was. Groaning in recognition at the sight of his bedroom he flopped back down on the bed. He couldn't feel it, but based on what his nose picked up, his sheets were drenched in sweat from the rapidly fading nightmare.

A glance to his clock radio brought forth a groan of annoyance. 4:45 am. He'd only gotten four hours of sleep since the last time he woke up from another dream—another nightmare—he couldn't remember.

He ran his hands over his face in resignation. He had been having nightmares for the last week he. Normally he would put them down to stress, remembering having bouts of nightmares and night terrors as a young child his parents would sooth away and later in high school when he was stressed out over his college applications, but Haven had actually been quiet the past couple weeks in both criminal activity and the Troubles. After a moment's consideration he decided trying to get any more sleep would be a waste of time and got up to take a shower.

He flicked on the radio as he went by, unsurprised that the music that came forth was completely different from the previous day's format. WTLH did that sometimes—particularly in the late evening and early mornings—and while he'd developed a wide variety of taste in music since his affliction came back he wasn't sure he was up for this morning's selection—he thought it sounded like something from the 30s or 40s. He considered turning it off but after a few moments of listening to the music he decided he liked the harmonies of the song. It was fitting for the morning: dynamic but hinting at melancholy.