Page 24 of Claimed By the Mothman
Mr. Lyle stood in the hallway, posture immaculate, a slim black folder tucked under one arm. He inclined his head, as if acknowledging her presence on the other side of the wood.
She opened the door. “Mr. Lyle?”
“Ms. Townsend,” he said smoothly. “May I come in for a moment?”
She stepped aside. He didn’t wait for an invitation.
He moved into the apartment with careful efficiency, scanning the room curiously like someone auditing the aftermath of a minor miracle. His eyes flicked to the window. To the ring on her hand. To the floor beneath her feet, like he could hear something pulsing in the foundations.
“I apologize for the interruption,” he said, adjusting a cuff. “But the building is becoming...animated.”
Nell frowned. “Animated how?”
“Attentive. Restless.” He paused. “Hungry, perhaps, but not for you. Not yet.”
She swallowed. “Is this about the red doors?”
“It is all about all doors,” he said gently. “Visible or not. Fixed or not.”
He turned toward her fully, and for the first time, his poise seemed less bureaucratic and more ceremonial.
“Some thresholds remake you,” he said softly. “Some offer more than you can carry. Others ask for what you didn’t know you were willing to give.” He held out the folder but did not press it into her hands.
“I cannot stop what’s unfolding,” he said. “But you deserve to know the shape of it.”
The folder hovered between them. She took it. He nodded once, more a benediction than a farewell, and walked out, leaving behind the faint scent of pine and snow and something older than either.
Nell stood still for a long moment, the folder cool and weighty in her hands. Then, she looked down at the folder in her hands. Slowly, she opened it. Inside was a single page, typed neatly.
Some are born to survive the Lustrum.
Some are born to become it.
If you are reading this, you already know which you are.
She reread the final line three times, but it didn’t change. The circled date at the bottom was today’s.
—
She woke up in the middle of the night, heart hammering, sheets tangled around her legs.
The hum had grown closer. Like it had pressed its face to the glass of her reality and was breathing fog onto the surface.
She sat up slowly, the dream dissolving her. She couldn’t recall the path, but she remembered the feeling of it: red doors that opened silently. Corridors bending like breath held too long. Her own hand outstretched, as if it knew the way even while her mind reeled.
She pressed her palms to her eyes—and suddenly—
Chopsticks clacking,the sound echoing merrily in the kitchen while she and Goldie ate takeout and watched the setting sun. “You’re not a disaster,” Goldie had said. “You’re just a story in-between drafts right now.”
Her name, said too casually—“Oh, hey, Nell”—as if she’d just interrupted a podcast, not her marriage. Elinore’s bare skin gleaming like a pearl in the tangled sheets in their bed. Edward’s hand frozen mid-motion on her thigh.
Her mother’s laugh,bright and round like the summer sun. Her father’s arms, big and safe, smelling of leather and tobacco. “There’s my girl,” he rumbled. “Got your nose in a book again?”
The mildew smellof the weekly hotel that no candle could cover. The fridge that hummed too loud. The stain on the ceiling she refused to interpret. The dull, growing hole in her heart and her bank account.
Sig Samora’s glowing red eyesin the elevator. His voice, soothing as waves, dark as dusk. The feel of his clawed hand on her arm, grounding her.
—the present buckled.
