I’ve been seeing the moths. They’ve been gathering under the streetlamps on my block. They’ve gathered in such large quantities that they’re killing the lights. This week we’ve had two or three cars collide with deer during the night. The cars all totaled, and the bodies of the deer left rotting on the side of the road. I’ve also been having headaches, and an endless ringing in my left ear. The doctor told me it was nothing. Said maybe I should take off from work. The ringing could be temporary hearing damage. So, I took off the day after I met with the doctor. That was Friday. It was Saturday night that I noticed the moths, and now it’s Friday again.

I’ve been taking walks. Walking in the woods behind my house. It’s cool in the summer, and quiet. A place to escape the static, and the droning. I don’t understand my work anymore. It used to be composing and writing and recording. I’ve been reduced to static pops, and low ambience. The woods are where my ears can rest, and I can listen to the dream that is this place. The other day while walking in the woods I passed a man. He was dressed as if he’d been transplanted from sometime between the 1970s and 1990s. He was disheveled and wore a heavy coat over a heavy sweater, and a knitted cap. He was drinking from a large cup of soda from the local convenience store. It sounded like he had just reached the bottom. I smiled as I passed the man, and he moved past me without a word. I’ve lived here for nearly a decade and have been walking these woods all that time. I’ve never seen the man before, and I’ve run into him about 5 times in these woods in the last few weeks.

I’ve been trying to eat healthy. Kale, cucumbers, olive oil, vinegar, a dash of salt, and protein, physician’s orders. All those years of burgers, pizza, pastrami, and pork were catching up to me. This afternoon I was eating my salad while working on a new comp and I bit into something strange. I pulled the thing from my teeth, a moth. I spit the foot into a bowl and held the creature away from me. It was covered in red—painted. I flushed the creature down the toilet and grabbed a glass of water. These fucking things were everywhere. They were getting inside. Getting in my food. I’ve started living in the dark. Not a light on after sunset. They will get in. They’re diligent. I started feeling faint. I needed to lay down.

I woke up in a cold sweat. I had a slight fever, and a cough. The bedroom was dark, cold. I could feel a breeze. I got to my feet and flicked the switch of the lamp besides my bed. The window was open. I don’t remember leaving it open. It’s possible I did and had forgotten, but I don’t know. I shut the window and walked the floor. Not a sound. Not a soul. It was freezing now. I got back in bed, and under the blanket. I moved to shut the lamp off when I heard something. It sounded a like a squeak or a bend. Plastic or rubber. Old house, old noise. Creaky floorboards, windows, attics, furnaces and walls. The ghosts and I had made an agreement years ago. I turned off the lamp. I settled back into bed and closed my eyes. I was falling into sleep when I heard it again. The squeak. I moved my hand towards the lamp when I heard it, “Don’t.” My heart raced. My skin crawled. My throat dried. I felt the blood running to my head, fingers, and toes. I couldn’t let out a word. “You thought we wouldn’t find you. You thought you were alone,” the voice lectured. Squeak. “This is the pattern we make. This is the one you follow. This cannot break.” Silence. I could hear the floorboards creak as the figure stepped towards the bed. I could just barely make out 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 say, “what do you want?” Silence. “They will show you here. Show the still. No fire. No…” the figure quieted and shuffled in place. “Wrong now. All wrong. You’ll suffer. No time,” the windows flew open, and a large wind came through the bedroom. Then, I opened my eyes.

Coffee in the morning. From the nook through the window over the sink I could see a police car. I move towards the front window and part the shades. EMS was pulling something in a black bag into the back of the ambulance. Christ. It happened again. It was weeks of the moths now. The casualties of the local fauna and civilian life were increasing. Fumigation teams have descended upon the town, but there has been little luck with traditional and experimental extermination. These moths were something else. Later I found out the woman that died owned the local convenience store. A staple of the town. A tragedy. I’ll send condolences to the family.

My brother was scheduled to visit this weekend. I told him not to come. Not until this situation is remedied. To get to this town you must take a long, winding country road. Once you’re here the same road is one of the views to get you from one side of town to another. This town was old. Settled in by the Dutch sometime in the mid to late 1600s. Though most of the land has remained untouched. The old woods that surround the town have dark history. War, murder, suspicion of the supernatural, and cursed. I’ve always been a cynic of the latter, but I’ll never say never. My eye catches the clock—3:33.

I try not to feed into local legend, but around here it’s said that a group of people live in the woods. Some say that those people have lived there forever. Before any of us, before the settlers, the native people. They said they were born of the forest. One story says that they are the dream of the forest. The manifestation of the plants, animals, faeries, and smaller lifeforms that make up the biome. There was a night. Just one. When I saw lights peaks through the trees. Warm, white light flickering through the dark. It moved from left to right, up and down. It held for hours. I thought I heard music too, but it’s just the stories giving sound to sight. It’s just imagination.

On another walk in the woods, I ran into the Soda Man again. This time I tried to walk right past him, but he grabbed my arm, “You’ve gone too far.” I pulled my arm away and told him that I walked this way all the time. “This is not your right. This is false. This is unhappy,” he grunted. The man pulls from the straw, and wiped his mouth, “Change the light. Change the song.” He grabbed my arm again and opened my palm. In it he placed several painted moths—green, blue, yellow, red. Painted just the same as the one in my salad. “Did you put this in my food?” I yelled. The man grumbled something I couldn’t understand. “No luck, smile, sound, and sleep,” he said chuckling. He pulled soda from his cup again. It sounded like he had reached his end. He pulled the straw. Squeak.

It was near sundown and the moths began to gather around the streetlamps. The town had put nets up around all around town. A small effort to attempt to prevent the deer from entering the road during the twilight hours. It had been days since another incident. Townsfolk were just refusing to drive on these roads at night. Not until things are fixed. I didn’t blame them. I rarely drove as is. Something about driving around here at night unsettles me. I make some dinner and settle in for the night. I’ve been reading more. I used to be an avid reader, but the last few years have been too much. Life just didn’t seem to have time or want for a book. I sat in my recliner and dug into this pulpy sci-fi that had been handed down to me by my father. The story was melodramatic and over the top, but I couldn’t help but dig in. This wexnt really well with a nice Bordeaux.

Squeak.

The night felt long. I woke up with the book on the floor next to me. Pages mangled, bookmark nowhere in sight. Damn. I got up and poured the rest of the wine out into the sink. There was a knock at my kitchen screen door. I couldn’t see a thing. The clock said 3:33. I grabbed a knife, and yelled, “what do you want?” Another knock. “I’m serious, what do you want? Leave!” Silence. A low drone began hum beyond by screen door. Then a sharp high-pitched squeaking. Then more knocking. Loud knocking from all around the house. The droning sound became more intense. I fell to my knees. I screamed. The sounds amplified. I held my hands over my ears. I looked out my window and saw white orbs moving quickly from window to window. They were orbiting my house. Faster, and faster they moved around the house. In the window over the sink, I saw the convenience store owner. She smiled and banged on the window. “GET THE FUCK AWAY,” I choked. Her face began to change. Some faces were familiar. Some were old. Some young. Some didn’t look like people at all. The house enveloped in white light. SQUEAK

I was walking down a hallway. It was familiar. My middle school. The smell was horrendous. Mold, mildew, and mothballs. I was being guided. A dream in autopilot. I was brought to my old homeroom. This was 4th grade. I sat at the head of the class. I was alone. The clock above the chalkboard at the head of the classroom read three thirty-three. On the board, written in large lettering “This is the pattern we make”. I walked over to my desk. On the paper I had drawn a bunch of strange creatures. A green moth. A blue moth. A yellow moth. A red moth. I drew a big house in front of large, lush pines. I drew a large cup. Young me looked up from his paper, “No fire?” he asked. I looked at him. I shook my head confused. The young me looked forward and continue drawing on his paper. Behind me I heard something slam. A large white soda cup had been dropped on the edge of the table. A man sat behind the desk staring at the young me. “No fire, hmm?” he grunted. “Time sick. You sick. No time.” Squeak. The man pulled off his ragged knitted cap to reveal a balding head with bright orange hair unfurling from the sides. “All sick. No time. No fire. No dream,” he said disappointed. “What do you want from me?” I asked. “Want?” he replied angrily. “No want. Never. No fire. Sick. Fix. No time.” I stood confused. I looked up at the clock—333. The man looked up towards the clock, mumbled, and shook his head. “I’m trying to understand,” I said. “Time sick. Make better. Make fire,” he spoke directly. He looked me in the eye, “make better.” The man shook his head, grabbed his knitted hat, and placed it back on his head. He walked over the front of his desk and picked up his cup. Squeak. He shrugged and tossed the cup in the trash next to the desk. “No more,” he said and walked out of the room. He leaned back into the doorway and pointed at the clock, “time up.” The clock read 334. I turned back to young me. I was gone.

I felt pain. Immense pain. The smell of mothballs overtook me. I opened my eyes to a ceiling fan turning slowly. I felt a weakness in my body. I could barely sit up. I didn’t recognize the walls. The lights. My bed felt differently. I looked at my hands, but they weren’t mine. They had aged tremendously. Out the window I could see the trees. It was the old, strange woods. I heard a knock at the door, but I was too tired to speak. I woman walked in. A woman with a familiar face. It was the owner of the convenience store. Her blonde hair was tied back. She wore blue. “Where am I?” I asked. “Sir, you’re somewhere safe. Please rest. We’ll take care of you,” she replied. I became unsettled. “Where am I,” I said with a raised voice. I coughed. I coughed hard and deep. “Sir, you’re unwell. You’re in our care. Please, don’t get excited. You’ll exhaust yourself.” Squeak. The door opened again and a man in a white coat entered. “Hello, sir. You, okay?” It was him, but it didn’t look like him. “What have you done to me?” He scratched his head, smirked, and sat down beside me. “Sir, we did many. We buy time. We buy you time,” he smiled. The man grabbed my hand and patted it. He leaned in, and whispered, “Fire. Pockets. Eat. Eat.” He stood up, nodded towards the woman, and walked out of the room. Squeak. “Sir, I’ll be back in two hours to check up on you. Try to rest until I get back.” The woman exited the room. I sat still for a moment. My body felt different. I felt tired. I’ve never felt this tired before. I moved my hand below the covers, and into the pockets of my gown. I pulled a pained moth from my pocked. I looked at it. Painted hastily. Hard as a rock. My eyes glanced passed the creature. The clock—332. I placed the moth in my mouth and bit down. Crunch. Bubble. Fizz.

Squeak.