The Mothman’s Lullaby

I’m Elara, and I’m sixteen. I know that sounds young to be telling you this, but I swear on my grandmother’s grave that every word is true. I’ve always felt things other people couldn’t—a cold spot in a sunny room, a whisper when no one’s there. But nothing prepared me for what happened last autumn at my aunt’s cabin in the Smoky Mountains.

My mom had sent me up there to help my aunt clean out the place after my uncle passed. It was a rustic log cabin, set back in the woods, with a wraparound porch that creaked when you walked on it. The air smelled of pine and damp earth. The first few days were normal—dusting, sorting through old boxes, listening to the wind rattle the windows. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone. Aunt Ruth blamed it on grief, but I knew better.

It started one afternoon when Aunt Ruth had gone into town for supplies. I was alone, lying on the couch in the living room, reading a dog-eared novel. The house was silent except for the ticking of a grandfather clock. Then the temperature dropped. I felt a chill crawl up my spine, like someone had walked over my grave. I put the book down, listening. Nothing. I tried to sit up, but my limbs were frozen. It was like sleep paralysis, but I wasn’t asleep. I could see the room clearly: the stone fireplace, the faded floral curtains, the dusty moose head on the wall.

Then I heard it—a low, humming sound, like a swarm of bees, but deeper. It seemed to come from every direction. I tried to scream, but my throat was locked. My eyes darted around, and that’s when I saw it by the window: a tall, shadowy figure with tattered wings, its eyes glowing like twin coals. It tilted its head, and the humming grew louder. I felt something grab my ankles, cold and strong, and I was yanked off the couch. I hit the floor with a thud, but my body still wouldn’t move. The creature stepped closer, and I could smell it—like burnt feathers and rotten leaves. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed in my head, over and over, a desperate plea to anything holy.

Suddenly, the grip released, and the humming stopped. I could move again. I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding against my ribs. The cabin was empty. No figure, no smell, no cold. I ran to the front door and threw it open, gulping fresh air. When Aunt Ruth came back, she found me shaking in the corner. She didn’t ask questions; she just wrapped me in a wool blanket and made tea. But I saw her glance at the window, and her hands trembled.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the guest bedroom, watching the moonlight filter through the blinds. At 3 a.m., I heard the humming again, faint. It was coming from the attic. I crept up the creaky stairs, my heart in my throat. The attic door was ajar, swinging slightly. I pushed it open. Inside, among old steamer trunks and mothballed clothing, was a journal. It belonged to my uncle. I opened it to a random page, and my blood ran cold.

‘It watches,’ the entry said. ‘Every night, it waits by the window. I’ve tried everything. It won’t leave until I give it what it wants. But I’d rather die than let it take Elara.’ There were more pages, filled with frantic scribbles about a ‘moth-like creature’ and a ‘sacrifice to end the cycle.’ The last entry was dated the day before he died, of a heart attack. Or so we were told.

I heard a creak behind me. I spun around. The attic door was closed now. And the humming filled my ears. I clutched the journal to my chest, backing into a corner. The air thickened, and I felt that icy grip on my ankles again, dragging me across the floorboards. I screamed, but it came out as a whisper. I clutched the journal tighter, and in desperation, I cried out, ‘I’m not the one you want! Take the journal, not me!’

The dragging stopped. The humming faded. A gust of wind blew through the attic, and a single moth circled my head before flying out a crack in the wall. I lay there, gasping, the journal still in my hands. I opened the cover and saw an inscription: ‘For the next keeper.’

I never told Aunt Ruth the full story. I left the cabin the next morning, taking the journal with me. But I still have nightmares about that thing, watching me from the edge of the woods, waiting. And sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I swear I can hear a faint humming, like a lullaby, calling me back.