The Whistler by Nick Medina
Berkley (September 2025)
Reviewed by Haley Newlin
For fear of summoning evil spirits, Native superstition says you should never, ever whistle at night.
Henry Hotard was about to hit the big time. He’d gained a huge online following with his ghost-hunting videos. But things changed one day, a day he wishes he could forget, and now he’s navigating a new reality — life in a wheelchair and back on the reservation where he grew up, and relying on his grandparents’ care.
Growing up on the reservation, one hears all sorts of stories, cautionary tales with wicked creatures and anecdotes. Myths. But some superstitions shouldn’t be ignored.
It all started when he whistled at night.
The prologue of The Whistler hooks readers with a shocking, gory tale at the Cadow house, “a place where so much blood had been spilled.” From the start, Medina demonstrates his mastery of genre blending. I loved the creepy and atmospheric unraveling of the unsolved Cadow mystery, as well as its effective use of iconic horror tropes.
The Cadow house took on its own character, described as a bloodthirsty being with watchful eyes and a palpable wickedness. The hungry energy of the house brilliantly mirrors the gratification Henry chases online through his ghost-hunting videos. And then, Medina interweaves a story called “The Boy With Two Faces,” based on Native lore about two-faced creatures, which felt like the final thread that tied each of the narratives together to become something so visceral, painful, and important.
Like his previous releases, Indian Burial Ground and Sisters of the Lost Nation, The Whistler is emotionally evocative and captivates readers so entirely that they experience, or can imagine experiencing, otherwise unfathomable challenges. For example, Medina writes that “…many across Indian country lacked access to basic health services, leading to death from preventable illnesses at rates higher than those of any other ethnic group in America.”
And Henry feels trapped by his own body and its new limitations. He has to learn and invent accommodations for things that once felt so simple, such as going from his bed to the bathroom or getting dressed after a shower. He can’t play music, and there is no elevator to his third-floor apartment, which he once shared with his girlfriend, Jade.
There is so much loss in The Whistler. The book swells with it. It’s inescapable grief; loss of loved ones, loss of routine and positive thinking, loss of self, loss of friendship, loss of autonomy, all stemming from one night…and a whistle.
I lost patience with Henry’s character a few times. I wished he were less reactive and jealous because he was hurting the people around him, damaging his own relationship with his girlfriend, Jade, and best friend, Toad. But Medina quickly steered me right. Henry is buried beneath so much dread that he fears it may plague him for the rest of his life. Readers aren’t supposed to see him at his best because he was still trying to find it in a world that he’d felt had betrayed him. He was also carrying a great deal of guilt — something I didn’t understand until the end of the novel. Guilt and fear make people do terrible things.
The author also expertly guides readers into the emotions of those around Henry, all of whom are affected by the accident in some way. I appreciated Medina’s tour of emotions from impatience to empathy and fear to a sense of renewal. Readers will feel the characters’ frustration with one another, their longing. And their silent pleas for help or intervention tug at you, bringing you back to the book, desperate for resolution, in whatever bloody form it takes.
The Whistler is undoubtedly one of the most impactful and lingering reads of 2025. Horror fans, this is not to be missed, especially if you enjoy Stephen Graham Jones’ writing or Erika T. Wurth’s stunning debut, White Horse.
