What was the legendary Mothman doing in Ohio? In the 60 plus years of its reported existence it had never crossed the river. Why had the West Virginia myth started showing up in a different state? And why in a used car lot?
Charnese asked a lot of questions. It had gotten her into trouble her entire life and now it had landed her here, the location of the last reported sighting of the legendary creature. And it looked like it was going to get her killed.
Yes, the protests in Cincinnati were getting all of the press, but the persistent rumors that the Mothman had been spotted here, at PATRIOT CARS, had drawn her miles away and compelled her to bring Martin, the only photographer on staff. Her own personal reasons for asking him along might have included the fact that he was devastatingly handsome, but that wasn’t anyone’s business. They had known each other for years, from their time at Regent until they had both ended up working the city desk, and that had given her enough leverage to get him to come with her on what was, most likely, a wild goose chase.
Not surprisingly, waiting for a rarely spotted cryptid to show took some hours, giving her and Martin time to discuss many things, but the primary focus of these discussions became the fires they could see in the distance. They knew the protests had turned into riots at night, some say by clashes between police and protestors who refused to obey the curfew. Others saying the violence was sparked by criminals taking advantage of the civil confusion to loot whatever they could get their hands on. Others even saying bad actors had been planted in the protestors’ midst to provide cops with an excuse to use violence against them. As twilight turned to full dark, though, one thing was clear – the fires were headed this way.
Watching the flames light the sky with their approach made Charnese think that maybe now would be a good time to tell Martin how she felt about him. Over the years, she had watched his dedication, patience, and perseverance and she had found, even through the blinders of her own professional ambitions, that she had grown fond of him. Watching his face slowly become illuminated by the ashy orange coloring the sky, she couldn’t help but admit that it had become more than fondness and there was a limited time for such truths. Paradoxically, though, the dangers of the riots brought on a tightness in her throat that made it harder. Martin, as always, made jokes and, to anyone else, would have looked like Mr. Cool, but she could detect the slightly higher pitch in his laughs, a sure sign that he, too, was afraid.
So when the shot rang out, puncturing the windshield of a Ford with a spiderweb hole, Charnese and Martin were already in a heightened state of awareness. Trained by years of conflict, she didn’t drop her recorder nor he his cameras, but both ducked, hiding together between cars. The zinging echo of the bullet died away to be replaced with an incoherent yelling, garbled by the echoing of punctured glass and the bullet’s passing. Charnese tried to yell back, to explain their presence, that she had gotten permission from the owner to be here. This only elicited a response of more yells and the report of more shots.
Ducking and crouching between cars, they fled from the shooter, but snaking around the lot was like trying to find the way through a Halloween corn maze. Whoever was shooting and yelling only kept getting closer no matter which way Charnese and Martin turned.
They ducked through tunnels made by the metal of cars and the threat of bullets. Crawling and sweating, they tried to zigzag away from the shooter and towards any exit. The shooter’s increasing proximity was marked by his yelling becoming louder and more distinct, ordering them to stop. Which, to Charnese, was more insane than the concept of the Mothman – why would they stop when he had already started shooting?
She and Martin froze between a pair of Hummers when the beam of a flashlight fell on them and the same voice ordered them to, “Freeze!” In one of the few lights that lit the car lot at night, Charnese got her first and only good look at the shooter, who she could have passed on any street in any city and never given him any mind. She couldn’t help but think how young he was, even as his yells distorted his face with fear and anger.
In the muzzle of the raised rifle, Charnese saw the emptiness of all their lost tomorrows as the shooter took aim at her and Martin. Trapped between the tall SUVs, she could feel Martin shuffle backward but stop, unwilling to abandon her.
Which surely would have been the end of them if it weren’t for the weird, owlish call that sounded loud throughout the night. So uncanny was the cry that all three of them, the shooter, Charnese, and Martin, stopped and stared up into the empty sky. A long moment passed, at the end of which the shooter remembered his purpose and re-aimed the rifle, but both of his eyes opened as a pool of darkness, deeper than any night, fell on him from above. Burning red eyes hypnotized all them as a thin humanoid descended on pillowy, curved wings to fall onto the shooter, his yells turning into screams as he fired more shots into the sky.
There was the briefest of struggles that Charnese heard more than saw, the wings of the creature having completely enveloped the man. Then with three billows of its wings, it ascended into the air, the man only a pair of legs that dangled from the departing shadow. Watching it go, it became only a brief silhouette against the orange sky, and for a moment Charnese could have sworn she saw a pair of silvery, muscular buttocks reflect the briefest of lights as the creature disappeared to wherever it had come from, there would-be murderer in hand.
A surreal silence permeated the car lot. Charnese, breathing deep, turned to Martin who was vainly attempting to snap pictures of the receding flyer. When it vanished, he dropped the lens and turned to stare at her with his own questions. Charnese was so happy to know that he would live another day, she kissed him.
When that blissful embrace erased any fear that Martin might reject her, Charnese let it linger a little longer before she broke the kiss. “Tell me you got a picture of its butt.”
See the author’s published work here.
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