Page 18 of Claimed By the Mothman
Greymarket breathed. The building was at peace tonight. It was practically purring, a soothing hum that all tenants could feel, even if they didn’t know it. It was the building saying:All is well. We are whole. We are complete.
Sig breathed in, his senses twitching as the Greymarket residents moved beneath him. He could see, feel, hear, taste them now:
Mrs. Delwyn in Apartment 3B was watching a cooking show, the volume turned up to judgment levels. “THAT’S NOT HOW YOU WHIP MERINGUE!” she yelled, her lizard tail thumping against the floor with righteous irritation.
In 7D, Thess hovered just above their armchair. They were drafting the next issue of theGreymarket Gazette, sending harp-like tones through the air with each edit.
Carol and Dev Sharma in 6G, were dancing in their kitchen. Carol’s laugh rang out mid-spin as Fleetwood Mac drifted through the open window. Something on the stove sizzled like applause.
Benji and his Boston terrier, Rocco, were arguing again in 2D. “No,youchewed the left one,” Benji said, holding up a half-destroyed sock. Rocco responded with a low growl and an expressive side-eye.
In 12A, Orell the Weaver hummed as she worked, her eight long limbs moving in precise, elegant arcs.
Uncle Henry in 9A was recording again. His voice spilled through the cracked windows in bursts of righteous certainty. “I’m not saying it was aliens. I’m just saying it wasTuesday.”
The kids from 1E were once again turning the stairwell into a battlefield. A rubber ball bounced down the steps while voices yelled about plasma shields and alien invasions. One wore a cape. Another wore two. Leadership remained unclear.
Then… he sensedher.
Nell.Apartment 4C. He heard her voice before he caught her scent: soft, unsure singing. The stereo played something nostalgic and human. She didn’t know all the words, but that somehow made it better.
He smelled garlic. Tomato. Boiling water. The comfort of a meal being made with hands and a mending heart.
Underneath it he felt it. Thathum. The Doom was drawing closer now, curling toward her like smoke under a door.
Sig bowed his head slightly. His wings lowered. For a moment—a single, stolen moment—he let himself believe she would stay. That the building could be whole for more than a month, a week, a night.
That was something the humans had taught him. Even fleeting joy matters.
But still…
Still.
Chapter 4
For the third morning in a row, Nell woke before her alarm.
The light through the window was soft and warm against her cheek. She stretched under the thrifted quilt she'd unpacked on her second night—the one she hadn't used in years because Edward said it was too "college dorm," but now seemed to belong perfectly on her bed.
She rolled over, blinked at the ceiling, and waited for the familiar knot of anxiety that had become her morning companion.
It didn't come.
That realization arrived quietly, but then unfurled in her brain like a banner: no dread. No crushing weight on her chest. No restless energy that made her feel like she was crawling out of her own skin. In fact, she hadn't felt that persistent unease once since moving to Greymarket Towers.
Nell rose, shuffled barefoot into the kitchen, and made herself tea. Her pantry shelves were neatly labeled now. She’d stayed up late on Tuesday, alphabetizing the tea tins while listening to an ambient noise playlist that Goldie swore increased aptitude.
The kettle whistled. She poured the water, wrapped her hands around her mug, and moved to the window seat just as the first burst of sun broke through the fog.
Her first week at the Bellwether Center for Alternative Literacy had beenimpossiblyperfect.
Quiet halls, respectful coworkers, and a boss who greeted her each morning with a serene nod and asked if she preferred speaking out loud or via written memos. For the first several weeks, she’d spent hours shelving esoteric texts with hand-sewn bindings, helping elderly patrons search forthat one book, you know, with the blue cover? Or maybe green?and feeding scraps of paper to a very polite waste bin that digested its contents with a satisfied burp.
Nell sipped her tea and glanced at the small notebook sitting beside her on the window seat cushion. She’d started writing things down again. Feelings, mostly. Images that pressed against her brain when she wasn’t paying attention. Fragments of things that didn’t belong to her, but settled in behind her eyes when she closed them.
She flipped the notebook open, clicked her pen, and started writing.
A hum like cello strings under water.
