Wind whips the flaps of the tent as I wait for Holt to return inside. It’s pitch black out with the chirp of crickets and hoots of owls keeping me company.
I reposition in the sleeping bag, wishing that the lumpy ground was my soft mattress. I've never been a big fan of the outdoors, but my husband is. So, like any great marriage, we compromise. I let Holt drag me out to various forests for camping and hiking every few months, and he lets me stay at home and work on my art.
I’m a painter, painting anything from beautiful landscapes to the macabre. My biggest art piece I ever sold was a painting of a skeleton on the mossy forest floor, flowers and vines intertwined between ribcages. I had Holt to thank for that one after finding an animal skeleton with foliage growing from it on one of our camping trips.
This trip he chose the Virginia wilderness–a forest outside of a small town named Point Pleasant. Apparently, in the sixties, several people claimed to have seen a red-eyed moth like figure that stood as tall as a human. The figure, now known as Mothman, is a cryptid in league with Bigfoot and The Loch Ness Monster. Holt thought it’d be a great inspiration for a future painting. What he didn’t realize was that a mothman festival took place annually every third weekend in September. So, between the statue of Mothman in the city, and the endless posters, plushes, and costumes at the festival, I’d say I’ve got enough inspiration to fill a small book full of paintings.
They even held bus tours of the tnt bunkers that Mothman was supposedly spotted in.
All I can say is this town sure is dedicated to their fuzzy monster.
A distant howl snaps me back to the present. My hair stands on edge alon my arms and the back of my neck. The night has grown cold without Holt beside me to keep me warm.
“Holt? You almost done?” I ask as I throw the sleeping bag off my legs.
I stick my head out of the tent and peer around the woods. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim moonlight. Our campfire has dwindled to merely embers now, offering nothing more than a small, warm glow.
“Holt? Honey, where are you? Did you get lost going to the bathroom?”
I don’t want to venture out of the tent if I can avoid it. The forest at night gives me the creeps. I’ve seen the Blair Witch Project and know bad things happen in the dark.
I’m met with silence. Only nature responds.
A twig snaps somewhere in the distance behind me. My heart nearly leaps from my chest at the suddenness of the sound. I see nothing but trees in the faint moonlight. An infinite sea of bark and leaves.
“Holt,” I call out again, my voice hitching. I hope I’m not about to be devoured by a hungry coyote. “Honey is that you?”
“Tara! Come here! I found something.” It’s Holt’s voice.
My intrusive thoughts slither in like a snake. What if it’s a skinwalker? I’ve seen too many videos on Tiktok of the creatures mimicking people’s voices.
“Tara?” He calls out again.
I sigh. I need to stay off Tiktok. Monsters aren’t real. My husband’s curiosity, however, is a beast of its own.
“Where are you?” I respond, slipping on my hiking boots and tying the laces.
“Follow my voice. I’m scared that if I move I may not be able to find it again.”
I tie the final knot and stand, grabbing a flashlight from my bag. Clicking it on offers a world of light surrounded by ever present shadows.
I shake my head and shout, “Marco!”
“Pollo,” he replies. I head toward his voice.
I curse his name as I enter the treeline, stepping over fallen logs and running face first into a spider web. There’s something about the sticky strands that turns me feral. I swat and shake my head, praying there’s not a spider crawling around my hair.
By the time I reach Holt, I’m ready to go home. Though I love painting the wilderness, I am not a fan of experiencing it.
“Tara, look at this,” he says, ushering me toward him.
I point the beam of my flashlight to where he’s standing. I can see his breath billowing past his lips which are hidden by his red beard. The rest of his red hair is tucked away underneath his green beanie.
My gaze moves past Holt and I see what has him excited. A stone entrance lies buried in a mossy hill top. Vines with leaves in various fall shades cling to the blue door. Rust coats the bar holding the door shut.
“I wonder if this is one of those tnt bunkers the people in town were talking about?”
I step closer. “Sure looks like it could’ve been built in World War II.”
Holt moves forward and begins struggling to lift the rusted bar.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“I want to see inside,” He says through strained teeth. His Irish complexion is turning as red as his hair.
“Since when are you an urban explorer?”
“I just want to see what all the fuss is about.” The bar gives and he loses his footing as the door screeches open. The sound reminds me of nails on a chalkboard. “Plus, when are we ever going to get the chance to see something like this again?”
“Have you never watched a horror movie? This is how we die.”
He wipes his hands on his pants as he stands back up. “Tara, we’re not going to die. That door hasn’t been opened in a long time. No serial killers lurking in the shadows. Unless…you don’t think Mothman’s gonna get you?”
“Monsters aren’t real,” I say, crossing my arms. “But I don’t know how stable anything is inside. What if something caves in?”
“Admit it. You’re scared.”
“Nope. I’m smart. At this rate I’ll be surviving our horror movie. Don’t worry, I’ll send your mother a signed popcorn bucket.”
“Think how inspirational it’ll be inside. You could do one of your spooky paintings with the inspiration you gather. Maybe even throw Mothman in there. Hell, maybe you can sell your painting for big money in town. Clearly these people like their cryptids.”
I sigh. He’s not going to give up. Something about the woods brings out his inner child. And like all children, he’s stubborn until he gets his way.
He’s lucky I love him.
“Fine…five minutes.”
He smiles and leans in to give me a kiss on the lips.
I let him lead as we venture past the metal door. It’s so dark I can nearly feel it. Our flashlights do very little to light the void. I realize that it’s because the room is insanely big. The walls curve upward, leading into a high ceiling. Bright graffiti coats the concrete.
I nearly stumble backward as my flashlight locks on to a dark figure with crimson eyes.
“Holt! We need to leave, now! I insist, grabbing his jacket and tugging.
“Tara,” he says as he points his own flashlight at the wall. “It’s graffiti. It’s not the Mothman…” I can hear him holding back a snicker. Meanwhile my heart thunders loudly in my ears.
“Can we go now?” I ask, itching to leave. It’s too quiet here.
Holt takes out his phone and snaps a picture of the graffiti. “Oh look.”
He ignores my question.
“Theres a door over there.” He points to the left, and sure enough, an open doorway sits waiting. Inviting us to explore more of its depths.
“I think we should go, Holt. I don’t like it in here.”
“Hey, we still have three minutes.” He takes my hand in his. “Let’s take a look together. Then we can leave.”
Reluctantly, I walk with him to the doorway. It leads to the hallway. Doors stretch every few feet. Some of the wood has rotted, laying in the floors.
Holt lets go of my hand. “Wow, this is cool. I wonder if this is where they stored the dynamite. Wanna take some home as a souvenir if we find some?”
“I’m not going any further. You can go look quick but I’m staying right where I can see the exit.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
He pops in and out of the rooms, his phone’s camera flashing in the dark. At least one of us is enjoying himself.
A cold breeze tickles the back of my neck and I spin around, half expecting something to be standing behind me. It’s just the wind from the open doorway, I tell myself.
“Okay Holt, time’s up. We should really go.” I turn around and find no sign of him. I wait a moment, expecting a camera flash to come from one of the rooms.
“Holt? This isn’t funny. We should get back.”
Silence.
“Dammit Holt. Let’s go.”
A thunk comes from the end of the hallway, along with a camera flash.
My blood boils. He’s sleeping outside of the tent tonight.
I walk down to the end of the hallway with anger guiding me. I’d teach him to ignore me.
I round the corner and step through the doorway into a small room.
“You’re in the doghou…” My words trail off as I take in the sight before me. The room is empty. Or at least I think until I see something dark drip to the floor.
The scent of iron assails my nostrils. I follow my flashlight’s beam to the ceiling and gasp. Holt is suspended in midair by a black, winged creature. Its fur shines in the light. Striking red eyes stare straight at me. The antennae at the top of its head are black and wispy.
More blood falls to the floor, sounding like water dripping from a faucet. A crunch follows as the creature takes a bite out of Holt’s neck.
“Oh my God,” I say, stumbling backward. I land flat on my ass but quickly pop back up and run for the door.
A loud screech echoes behind me. I don’t look back. I keep running. Once I reach the metal door I turn around and push it shut, locking the metal bar back in place.
I take a few deep breaths, my heart racing.
BANG. Something hard hits the metal, making a dent in the surface.
I don’t hesitate. I run. I run until my lungs are screaming for air. I trip over roots and stones but don’t stop.
Blindly I run through the trees until I see a roadway come into view. Hope blooms inside my chest. Roads mean cars. Cars mean safety.
Bright lights appear in the distance. I make my way to the edge of the road, waving my hands and shouting for help.
A loud screech comes from above me. I look up in time to see the black, winged creature descend upon me. It lifts me up in the air with its claws just as the car reaches where I was. Pain sparks in my shoulders. I can feel the wet warmth of blood soaking through my hoodie.
Tears flood my eyes as the creature flies me back to its lair to reunite me with my husband once more.
