The Moth in the Floorboards

The day the priest came, I watched from my window as he traced a cross of holy water across the peeling paint of the third floor. The landlord had finally gotten his wish. The room that had always felt like a cold breath on the back of my neck was now, supposedly, free of its tenant. I remember the way the women from the parish had wept with joy, as if the devil himself had been evicted. But I knew better. You don’t evict a thing that lives in the wood.

My room, the one nearest the stairs, was a shrine to my childhood. Pooh wallpapered the walls, a patchwork of sunny yellows and honey browns. Each of my blankets was embroidered with his little red shirt. My pillows were plump and soft, all of them wearing his smiling face. But the room had a secret, an old wooden closet built into the wall at the foot of my bed. The wood was polished, a deep mahogany, and it had a brass handle that was always cold to the touch, no matter the weather.

My boyfriend, Damien, was a film lover. He would spend hours on my laptop, devouring movies in the dim glow of my bedside lamp. On his days off, he’d come over and wrap himself in my Pooh-scented blanket, completely unaware of the quiet that settled over the room when I left for work. It was on one such day, the air thick with the smell of ozone, that he told me about the moth.

I came home to find him pale, sitting cross-legged on my bed, clutching my pillow like a shield. ‘There’s something in the closet,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. I laughed, thinking he was just trying to scare me. But when I opened the closet, a moth flew out. It was the size of my palm, with wings the color of dried blood, and it fluttered silently across the room before disappearing into the air vent. I dismissed it as a fluke, but Damien wouldn’t sleep that night. He kept staring at the closet, his eyes wide.

Over the next few weeks, the moth became a constant visitor. I would find it resting on the rim of my coffee cup, its segmented legs tasting the steam. It would land on the face of my Pooh clock, the hands trembling under its weight. And every time, no matter where I was, I would hear a faint scraping sound from inside the closet. Not like a rat, but like something dragging itself across the wood.

I started having nightmares. In them, I was standing in a field of dead flowers, and the sky was the color of old bone. There was a house in the distance, and I knew, with a certainty that made my blood run cold, that the moth was its keeper. It was guiding me there, its wings beating a rhythm that matched my own heartbeat.

One evening, as I was trying to sleep, I heard the closet door creak open. The sound was new. I snapped on the lamp, and the light revealed the door ajar, a sliver of darkness within. The moth was perched on the edge, as if waiting. My heart lurched. I got up, my bare feet cold against the floor, and approached. As I drew closer, the moth took flight and landed on the inside of the door. That’s when I noticed the words carved into the wood of the closet, hidden behind where the door had been. They were in a language I didn’t recognize, but the moth was tracing them with its antennae, as if reading aloud.

I called Damien, my voice shaking as I described the carving. He came over, carrying a small knife he used for apples. ‘Don’t go near it,’ he said, but I was already standing in front of the closet. The moth had settled on my shoulder, its weight like a cold coin. I could feel its legs tickling my neck. ‘There’s something written here,’ I whispered, and I raised my hand to trace the lines. The moment I touched the edge of the carving, the moth beat its wings violently, and the room went dark.

When the blackness lifted, I was standing in a place I had never seen. The air was thick with dust, and the floor was made of packed earth. There was a figure before me, a hunched silhouette of a man, but his face was not human. It was featureless, smooth like marble, and from his shoulders grew wings, moth wings. He was standing in front of my closet, which was now a door carved into a tree trunk. He raised a hand, and the moth that had followed me flew to him, resting on his palm. ‘You opened the door,’ he said, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘You cannot close it again.’

I tried to scream, but my voice was nothing. I was back in my room, on my knees, gasping. The closet was open, and I saw that inside it, the wall was gone, replaced by a gaping tunnel that led into darkness. The moth was sitting on the threshold, its wings folded.

Damien found me there, and he dragged me away from the closet. He slammed the door shut, and the next day, he brought a carpenter. They nailed the door shut, but every night, I still hear the scratching. And sometimes, when I wake in the middle of the night, there is a moth on my pillow, watching me. It no longer flutters away. It just sits there, patient. And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that the moth is not a moth. It is a key, and it is waiting for me to open the closet again.