Page 20 of Claimed By the Mothman
Nell stared. The cryptid winked at her and dove back into the ficus plant.
She walked over to the elevator without another word, hoping it was the normal one today.
—
Later that night, the apartment felt too still.
Goldie had come over for Thai, wine, and gossip (she’d dramatically named itTakeout and Dish The Tea), and from the way she kicked off her shoes and immediately claimed Nell’s floor cushions like ancestral territory, it looked like it was going to be a standing weekly occurrence.
They’d eaten pad thai out of paper containers with cheap chopsticks and debated which of the residents were secretly in a polycule. (Thess, they both decided definitely, and possibly the tall guy from 8F who smelled like petrichor and moonlight.)
Jem had stopped by with more banana bread and an invitation for a “real dinner, proper forks, no excuses.” Goldie had immediately promised to bring a watermelon-and-feta salad, and Nell weakly offered homemade cookies that would probably come from her favorite downtown bakery.
Now the takeout containers had been tossed. Goldie had left in a flurry of scarves and kissy noises. The balcony doors were open, letting in the quiet rustle of the city—a soft ambient susurrus broken by the occasional hiss of tires or the faint howl of a cryptid-sounding street musician doing interpretive theremin.
She sat on the window seat, notebook open and pen in hand. She’d meant to write, but instead she just stared out the glass, eyes unfocused.
Eventually, she remembered the trash bag sitting by the door.
With a sigh, she rose, barefoot and loose-limbed with wine, and stepped into the hallway.
It was quiet. Not a normal apartment building quiet, but the kind that pushes against your ears. A silence that made you feel like you were the one making too much noise, even by just breathing.
Nell walked toward the trash chute, the trash bag swinging lightly from her hand. Her bare feet pressed soft indentations into the carpet. At the end of the hall, past the last sconce where the light flickered, a pair of red doors appeared.
Nell knew this hallway. Sheknewit. She’d walked it three times this week doing late-night laps on the phone with her sister, pretending to be productive while pacing in pajama pants.
But now the red doors werethere. Tall and too narrow, like they had been squeezed into the wall by force or wishful thinking. The paint looked wet, like it had just been painted… or like they were bleeding.
Her opal ring heated faintly against her skin. Her breath hitched. She stepped closer.
The handles of the doors gleamed.
Nell’s fingers twitched. Her hand rose slowly, almost curiously, as if her body had decided without her. The air between her and the door felt thinner now, like distance didn’t matter.
She reached and—
CLATTER.
Nell spun around, heart leaping into her throat. Theo stood in the middle of the hallway, one hand smashing a plastic sword against the wall, the other holding the remains of what looked like a toy knight’s helmet. His oversized hoodie was inside-out and covered in glitter.
“Don’t touch that,” he said solemnly. His glowing yellow eyes were very serious. “Not yet.”
Then he burped and bolted in the opposite direction, trailing glitter like fairy dust behind him.
All of a sudden, what she hadjust been about to docame crashing down on her. Had she actually been about to open the doors?Seriously?After Jem’s warnings, after Thess’s very clear message this morning? She’d been ready to just ... turn the handle? Like it was nothing?
“Gods,” she whispered. “I amsodumb.”
Blame the wine, blame the weird air, blameanything, but still—godsdamn, Nell.
She turned back toward the doors, but they were gone. Just a hallway now, with the radiator and wallpaper curling at the seam.
Nell stood there for another moment, the trash bag still clutched in one hand. Then, slowly, she backed away. Returned to her apartment. Shut the door. Locked it. Leaned against the wood, hand pressed to her sternum.
The ring on her finger was cool now. But a humwas buzzing in her chest.
—
