Soda Man

I’ve been seeing the moths. They gather under the streetlamps on my block—so many that they’re killing the lights. This week, two or three cars collided with deer in the night. The cars were totaled, and the deer left rotting on the side of the road. I’ve been getting headaches too. A constant ringing in my left ear. The doctor said it was nothing. Suggested I take some time off work. Said it might be temporary hearing damage. So, I took the next day off—Friday. Saturday night, I noticed the moths. Now it’s Friday again.

I’ve been taking walks. In the woods behind my house. It’s cool in the summer. Quiet. A place to escape the static and the droning. I don’t understand my work anymore. It used to be composing, writing, recording. Now it’s just static pops and low ambience. The woods let my ears rest. I can listen to the dream that lives there.

The other day, while walking, I passed a man. He looked like he came from somewhere between the 1970s and 1990s—disheveled, wearing a heavy coat over a heavy sweater, a knitted cap. He drank from a huge convenience store soda. Sounded like he’d just reached the bottom. I smiled as I passed. He didn’t say a word. I’ve lived here nearly a decade and walked those woods all that time. I’ve never seen him before. But now, I’ve run into him five times in just the last few weeks.

I’ve been trying to eat healthy. Kale, cucumbers, olive oil, vinegar, salt, and protein—doctor’s orders. All those years of burgers, pizza, pastrami, and pork finally catching up. This afternoon, while eating a salad and working on a new comp, I bit into something strange. I pulled it from my teeth—a moth. I spat the foot into a bowl. It was painted red. I flushed it and drank a glass of water. These things are everywhere. They’re getting inside. In my food. I’ve started living in the dark. No lights after sunset. They’ll get in. They’re diligent. I felt faint. I needed to lie down.

I woke in a cold sweat. Fever. Cough. The bedroom was dark and cold. I felt a breeze. Got up and flipped the lamp switch. The window was open. I don’t remember leaving it that way. Maybe I did. I don’t know. I closed it. Walked the floor. Silence. Freezing now. I got back in bed, pulled the blanket up. I reached to shut off the lamp when I heard something. A squeak. Or a bend. Plastic or rubber. Old house noises. Floorboards, windows, attics, furnaces, walls. The ghosts and I made an agreement years ago.

I turned off the lamp and closed my eyes. Just as I was falling asleep, I heard it again—the squeak. I reached for the lamp when I heard, “Don’t.” My heart raced. Skin crawled. Throat dry. Blood surged through my head, fingers, toes. I couldn’t speak.

“You thought we wouldn’t find you. You thought you were alone,” the voice said.

Squeak.

“This is the pattern we make. This is the one you follow. This cannot break.”

Silence.

The floorboards creaked as something stepped toward the bed. I saw the shape of a head. Maybe an eye.

“We will find you yesterday—and when. Tomorrow and where. The birth at eve. We miss your smell.”

I managed to whisper, “What do you want?”

Silence.

“They will show you here. Show the still. No fire. No…” The figure quieted. Shifted in place. “Wrong now. All wrong. You’ll suffer. No time.”

The windows flew open. A wind tore through the bedroom. Then—I opened my eyes.

Morning. Coffee.

Through the nook window over the sink, I saw a police car. I moved to the front window and parted the shades. EMS was loading a black bag into the back of an ambulance.

Christ. It happened again.

It’s been weeks of this now. The moths. The casualties. Fauna. Civilians. Fumigation teams have come, but nothing’s worked—traditional or experimental. These moths are different.

Later, I learned the woman who died owned the local convenience store. A town staple. A tragedy. I’ll send condolences to the family.

My brother was supposed to visit this weekend. I told him not to come. Not until this is over.

To reach this town, you have to take a long, winding country road. Once you’re here, that road is also how you get from one side of town to the other. The town’s old—settled by the Dutch in the mid-to-late 1600s. Most of the land’s untouched. The surrounding woods have a dark history. War. Murder. Supernatural suspicion. Cursed.

I’ve always been skeptical about that last part. But I’ll never say never.

I glance at the clock—3:33.

I try not to feed the local legends, but around here, people say there’s a group living in the woods. Some say they’ve always been here—before settlers, before native tribes. Born of the forest itself. One story says they’re the forest’s dream—a manifestation of plants, animals, faeries, and tiny lifeforms that make up the biome.

There was one night—just one—when I saw lights flickering through the trees. Warm, white light. Moving left to right, up and down. Lasted hours. I thought I heard music, too. But maybe it was just the stories adding sound to sight. Just imagination.

On another walk, I ran into the Soda Man again. I tried to walk past, but he grabbed my arm.

“You’ve gone too far.”

I pulled away. “I walk this way all the time.”

“This is not your right. This is false. This is unhappy,” he grunted.

He sipped from his straw, wiped his mouth. “Change the light. Change the song.”

He grabbed my arm again and opened my palm. He placed several painted moths—green, blue, yellow, red. Same as the one in my salad.

“Did you put this in my food?” I shouted.

He mumbled something I didn’t catch. “No luck. Smile. Sound. Sleep,” he chuckled.

He sipped again.

Squeak.

Near sundown, the moths began gathering around the streetlamps. The town put nets up everywhere. Trying to keep deer off the roads at twilight. No incidents in days. People just stopped driving at night. I don’t blame them. I rarely drive anymore. Something about driving around here after dark feels wrong.

I made dinner. Settled in. I’ve been reading again. Used to be an avid reader. Life got in the way. Picked up an old pulpy sci-fi from my dad. Melodramatic, over the top, but I couldn’t put it down. Went well with a glass of Bordeaux.

Squeak.

The night dragged. I woke with the book on the floor. Pages bent. Bookmark gone.

Damn.

I poured the rest of the wine down the sink. Knock at the kitchen screen door. Couldn’t see anything. Clock said 3:33. I grabbed a knife.

“What do you want?” I yelled.

Another knock.

“I’m serious! Leave!”

Silence.

A low drone began to hum. Then a high-pitched squeaking. Knocking—loud—from all sides of the house. The drone intensified. I fell to my knees. Screamed. The sound overwhelmed me.

White orbs zipped past window to window. Orbiting the house faster and faster. At the kitchen window, the store owner appeared. She smiled. Banged on the glass.

“GET THE FUCK AWAY!” I screamed.

Her face began to shift. Some faces I recognized. Some old. Some young. Some not human.

The house was enveloped in white light.

SQUEAK.

I was walking down a hallway. My middle school. The smell—mold, mildew, mothballs. A dream. I was being guided. Brought to my old homeroom. Fourth grade.

I sat at the front of the class. Alone.

The clock read 3:33.

On the board, in huge letters: “This is the pattern we make.”

I walked to my desk. On the paper were strange drawings—green moth, blue moth, yellow, red. A house. Tall pines. A large soda cup.

Young me looked up. “No fire?” he asked.

I stared, confused. He kept drawing.

A loud slam. A white soda cup hit the desk.

The man sat behind it, staring.

“No fire, hmm?” he grunted. “Time sick. You sick. No time.”

Squeak.

He pulled off his knitted cap. Balding. Orange hair spilling out the sides.

“All sick. No time. No fire. No dream,” he said, disappointed.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“Want?” he snapped. “No want. Never. No fire. Sick. Fix. No time.”

I stood, confused. Looked at the clock—3:33.

He mumbled, shook his head.

“I’m trying to understand.”

“Time sick. Make better. Make fire,” he said. He looked into my eyes. “Make better.”

He put on his cap, picked up his cup.

Squeak.

He tossed it in the trash. “No more.”

He walked out. Leaned into the doorway. Pointed at the clock.

“Time up.”

The clock read 3:34.

I turned back. The young me was gone.

Pain. Intense pain.

The smell of mothballs.

I opened my eyes. A ceiling fan turned slowly. My body—weak. The room—unfamiliar. The bed felt different. I looked at my hands. They weren’t mine. Older. Tremendously older.

Out the window—the old woods.

A knock at the door.

A woman walked in. Blonde hair tied back. Blue uniform. The store owner.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“You’re somewhere safe, sir. Please rest. We’ll take care of you.”

“Where am I?” I said again, louder.

I coughed. Deep.

“You’re unwell. In our care. Please don’t get excited. You’ll exhaust yourself.”

Squeak.

The door opened again. A man in a white coat.

“Hello, sir. You okay?”

It was him. But not.

“What have you done to me?”

He scratched his head. Smirked. Sat down.

“Sir, we did many. We buy time. We buy you time.”

He patted my hand. Leaned in.

“Fire. Pockets. Eat. Eat.”

He stood, nodded to the woman, and left.

Squeak.

“I’ll be back in two hours to check on you,” she said. “Try to rest.”

She left.

I sat still. Body strange. Tired like never before.

I reached into my gown pocket. Pulled out a painted moth. Hard as a rock.

The clock—3:32.

I put the moth in my mouth. Bit down.

Crunch. Bubble. Fizz.

Squeak.