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Every night, no matter the weather, something walks down our street whistling softly.

You can only hear it if you're in the living room or the kitchen when they walk by,

and it always starts at exactly 303. The sound is faint at first, somewhere near the beginning of the lane near the Carson

place. We're towards the middle of the street, so the whistling moves past us before fading away in the direction of the cul-de-sac.

When I was younger, my sister and I would sneak into the kitchen some nights to listen and mom and dad didn't like

that and we'd catch hell if they found us but they were never too hard on us since

we always stuck to one big rule.

Don't try to look at whatever was whistling.

My neighborhood is a funny place.

I've lived here since I was six and I love it. The houses are small

and well kept, good sized yards, plenty of places to room. There are a lot of other kids here my age. I turned 13 back in October. We grew

up together and would always play Four Square in the cul-de-sac or roam around back porch to the summer. This was a good place to grow up.

I'm old enough to see it. And there's only the two strange things here, the night whistling, and the good luck.

The whistling never bothered me much.

Like I said, I couldn't even hear it from my bedroom, but mom and dad don't like talking

about it, so I've stopped asking questions.

My dad is a strong guy, tall and calm. He has an accent since he moved to the US as a kid.

His family, my grandparents, they're from the islands.

That's what they call it.

...