Nick Medina Has a New Horror on the Horizon — See the Cover! (Exclusive)

The upcoming chilling novel follows the consequences of one man's decision not to yield to Indigenous superstitions. Read an exclusive excerpt below!

Nick Medina is returning to his roots once more with his latest thrilling novel, The Whistler.

The Indigenous author, a member of the Tunica-Biloxi Tribe of Louisiana, returns this fall with his adaptation of a chilling Native superstition. The author continues to draw inspiration from his heritage and stories passed down by his maternal grandmother — and follows the likes of his first two thriller novels, Sisters of the Lost Nation and Indian Burial Ground.

The Whistler hits shelves on Sept. 23 and PEOPLE can exclusively reveal both the creepy cover as well as an early excerpt.

The book chronicles famed ghost-hunter Henry Hotard as he navigates his new life as a quadriplegic, but his injury may have been caused by the Native superstition that says whistling at night summons evil spirits.

“Henry Hotard was gaining fame for his eerie ghost-hunting videos. Then his world came crashing down around him. Now, he's in a wheelchair, helpless and haunted by a specter that's stealing everything he loves,” the book's synopsis teases. “To expel the spirit, he'll have to relive the events that led to his injury. It all started when he whistled at night…”

Turn on all of the lights and read an exclusive excerpt below.

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His eyes snap open and all he knows is fear.

Whether the distress Henry feels manifested before he woke in response to a nightmare he can’t remember or if it only flooded his body the instant his eyelids went up isn’t clear, nor is it important for him to figure out. What is important is how he’ll escape. If he ever can.

His jaw flexes and a scream that would bring Pawpaw Mac and Mawmaw Tilly running from their room at the end of the hall wants to tear out, but it doesn’t. He can barely take a breath deep enough to feel like he’s not on the verge of suffocating. Somehow since going to bed, the blanket has moved up around his neck, like a snake constricting tighter by the second.

He tries to move his arms, but they’re buried beneath the blanket, a thousand pounds heavier than when he went to bed, pinning his arms to his sides. Even if he could move them, they’d do little good because his legs aren’t moving either and without them, he’s stuck, as if the mattress were made of quicksand, as if the sheet beneath him were one large piece of flypaper.

The figure standing at the foot of Henry’s bed, however, has no problem moving at all.

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A canvas of black, it’s long, lean and silent. It might not even have a mouth. Its arms dangle from shoulders that look sturdy and strong.

The figure takes a step closer to the bed. Its black fingertips graze the blanket covering Henry, only inches from his feet, which stick up like two pieces of wood. Kindling, maybe. If the figure were to set them ablaze, there’d be nothing Henry could do to put them out. He can’t kick. If he could, he would, but his legs feel impossibly heavy — pinned as if the hammer of a mousetrap has come down upon them, trapping him. The fear inside him swells, giving rise to panic that makes him want to cry. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, the panic. He’s been overwhelmed a lot over the last year, by anxiety, alarm, hopelessness and dread.

He tries to swallow, but still he’s rendered silent, as if he and the shadow man have become reflections of each other. Except the figure can move. It takes another step closer, pressing its thighs against the foot of the bed.

Just breathe, Henry tells himself. Because he won’t last long if he doesn’t do that. But maybe that would be better, he thinks. To let himself asphyxiate before the shadow man can inflict a fate much worse. It’s not the first time he’s had thoughts like that. Sometimes he wishes he would have winked out before he got to know the meaning of hell on earth. He’s often wondered if the Reaper’s hand would be gentler than the impact of a fiery car crash or a freefall from the top of a tall building.

Henry breathes. He gasps. The blanket pulls tighter. They told him to close his eyes and count during moments like this, when the panic becomes so overwhelming that doom seems certain and inescapable. But he can’t close his eyes now. Not with the specter looming over him.

Excerpted from The Whistler by Nick Medina Copyright © 2025 by Nick Medina. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. 

The Whistler by Nick Medina is out Sept. 23, and available for preorder now, wherever books are sold.