The Moth on the Glass

I’m sixteen now, but this happened when I was seven, in the fall of 1998, in a small town in Ohio called Marrow. We lived on the edge of a cornfield that seemed to go on forever, and our house was an old farmhouse with a wraparound porch that creaked in the wind. That night, a storm had rolled in, turning the sky a sickly green, and the rain came down in sheets, hammering the windows like a thousand tiny fists.

My little sister, Clara, and I were in the living room, building a fort out of couch cushions, when I remembered I’d left my favorite book in the car—the one with the creepy illustrations that I loved to scare myself with. My mom was in the kitchen, humming off-key while she washed dishes, and the back door leading to the garage was right there. I told her I was going to get it, and she just nodded, distracted by a spot on a plate.

I stepped into the garage, letting the door swing shut behind me with a click. The garage was a concrete box, lit by a single flickering bulb, and it smelled of oil and old cardboard. The car was an old station wagon, its paint peeling like sunburn, and in the dim light, it looked like a sleeping beast. I kept my eyes fixed on it, not daring to glance at the garage door to my left, which had two square windows. I knew they were just windows, but my imagination filled them with faces.

I reached the car, opened the back door, and grabbed the book. As I clutched it to my chest, a chill ran up my spine. The rain was pounding on the roof, and thunder shook the floor, but it felt like something else was in the garage with me. I spun around, my heart hammering, and rush toward the house door. My hand was on the knob, I could feel the cold metal, when I heard it—three distinct knocks, slow and deliberate, coming from the garage door windows.

I froze. I didn’t want to turn, but my body moved on its own, twisting me around. The windows were fogged from the cold, but I could see a shape on the other side—a tall, thin figure, with arms that seemed too long, its hands pressed flat against the glass. It was wearing a long coat, and its head was tilted, as if studying me. The lightning flashed, and it illuminated the face—or what should have been a face. There was nothing but smooth, pale skin, like a mannequin. But then it opened its mouth, a dark slit, and spoke in a voice that was muffled but somehow clear, ‘Let me in, little one. I have something to show you.’

I screamed, a sound that tore from my throat, and yanked the door open. I stumbled into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me, and leaned against it, gasping. My mom turned, alarmed, and asked what was wrong. I told her there was someone at the garage window. She rushed to the door, opened it slowly, and peeked out. The garage was empty, the rain still pouring. She closed the door and locked it, telling me it was just my imagination, the storm playing tricks.

But I knew what I had seen. That night, I lay in bed, the image burned into my mind. I couldn’t sleep, and I kept staring at my window, which faced the cornfield. The rain had finally stopped, and the moon was peeking through the clouds. In the field, I saw a figure standing among the stalks, motionless, just watching the house. It was the same figure. It raised a hand and waved, and then it vanished into the shadows.

I never went into that garage alone again. Years later, I learned that the previous owners of the house had a son who went missing in 1994. They found his coat in the cornfield, but never his body. Sometimes, when the wind blows through the stalks, I swear I can hear three knocks, as if something is trying to get in.