My great uncle's name was Thomas J. Davis. His nickname was "Whistle." Whistling is how he'd locate his baby sister (my grandmother) at their school dances so he could keep an eye on her & make sure she was safe.
The whole time I was a kid and into my teens, just before something very bad was going to happen, I'd hear whistling. It wasn't a tune or a melody, just whistling. Not like a tea kettle, not like a bird or siren, and no one was around, not even outside walking. People with me couldn't hear it. I thought I was nuts so I kept it to myself for years. Then when I was in my 20's, my dad told me about his Uncle "Whistle," who died in 1940 at the age of 27 (leukemia). Daddy even showed me a picture of him. He was a handsome guy - in the picture he was dressed in a 1930s suit with a white hat, leaning against the stone back gate of his father's house, smiling warmly.
In my heart I think perhaps he's been watching over me. I haven't heard the whistling for a long time, but if I ever do again, I'll ask him to tell my grandma (she passed on in 1976) that I love her & I miss her every day of my life.