You?ve heard of Bloody Mary and The Slenderman, but have any of you ever heard of Whistlin? Willy?

There?s an urban legend in my small town about a man named Whistlin? Willy Cochran. Personally, I don?t believe in urban legends, but after what happened just recently, I?m starting to believe that he?s real.
Some of the darker townsfolk, probably some kids from the high school, created a poem about Whistlin? Willy:
Whistlin? Willy,
Whistlin? Willy,
Hums a tune that?s oh so silly.
He was walkin? ?long an interstate,
Whistling, drunk, and out too late,
When out of nowhere came a car,
Who?s driver was too drunk by far,
And hit old Willy, killed him dead,
Two broken legs, a bashed in head,
And the driver didn?t help, just fled.
One week later on the day,
The driver was sleeping away,
When whistling started, soft as cotton,
A stench that was both dead and rotten,
And on Willy?s final Whistlin? note,
He slit the drivers veiny throat.
So if you ever drink and drive,
But somehow make it home alive,
Don?t fall asleep, don?t close an eye,
Cause Willy will make sure you die.
Sounds like a load of horse****, doesn?t it?
Let me give you some backstory. Willy Cochran was real. He was sort of a vagrant in our town, spending most of the day panhandling for change on Main Street, and then spending it all at The Eagle Tavern as soon as the sun went down.
It was normal to see Willy walking down Main Street, from the tavern to the abandoned house he squatted in most nights, anytime between 11 and 2am (depending on how far the change got him). He was always friendly, always waved, and he was always whistling the exact same song.
No one quite knows the song he was always whistling. Most people think he made it up himself. I?m big in to music and even I can?t pinpoint where the tune comes from. It must have been his own.
Anyways, the first part of the rhyme is true.
One night, Willy left the tavern, later than usual, and was headed down Main Street to sleep off the drunk. I don?t know if he was whistling or not, but I assume he was, because he was always whistling. Now, no one saw it happen, but Willy was struck and killed by a car. His body was found in the gutter (with two broken legs and head that resembled a pumpkin six months after Halloween) the next day by old Ms. Klabach on her way to the store.
All signs pointed to Billy Jackson, the town drunk, as the one who hit him. The bartender at the tavern told Sheriff Caulk that Billy had been drinking late and refused to hand over his keys at last call. The hood of his car, a beautiful old Camaro, was bashed to bits the next day, and Billy couldn?t remember anything happening to it. Fortunately for him, there was no blood or hair anywhere on the car.
Due to lack of concrete evidence, however, Billy was never charged.
Well, exactly one week later, Billy was found dead in his bed. Their was no sign of a break in, and his mother, whom he lived with, didn?t hear a peep all night.
Billy died from loss of blood. His throat had been slit.
The Sheriff chalked it up to retaliation. He figured that one of Willy?s kin had read about everything on the news, driven down to our little town, and cut Billy?s throat while he slept. But again, no proof.
After the whole ordeal, the Sheriff and his deputies cracked down on drinking and driving. One of them was always at The Eagle Tavern towards close to make sure anyone who had had too much handed over the keys.
That lasted a few months. There were no other problems during that time, and my best friend Randy and I both turned 21 between Willy?s death and the end of the drinking and driving patrol.
Neither of us really believed the rhyme. The whole event was strange, sure, but I never believed in stuff like that.
Until last week.
Randy and I went down to the tavern two Saturdays ago. We were celebrating the end of the semester and both of us got proper drunk. Randy, being the idiot that he is, decided to drive home. I begged him not to?not because of Whistlin? Willy, but because I know how dangerous it is to drive drunk?but he brushed me off and told me not to worry.
He texted me that night when he made it home safe, and everything seemed fine.
One week later (in the early hours of Sunday) Billy?s father found him dead in bed with his throat slit.
The Sheriff urged him to keep it under wraps for the time-being, until they had time to find a suspect, but they have made no headway so far.
Now, normally, I still wouldn?t believe in Whistlin? Willy Cochran. I don?t believe in the Boogeyman, or Bloody Mary, or the Black Dog, but something else happened the night that Randy was murdered: he butt-dialed me. He must have rolled over on his phone because, according to his father, they found Randy?s found underneath him when the coroner wheeled him away.
On that voicemail, so faint that I could barely hear it, someone was whistling a tune. Not just any tune: Willy?s tune.


Source.