The Paper Moth

The old folks’ home sat at the end of a gravel road, its paint peeling like dead skin. I’d taken the job for the money, not the atmosphere, and that October morning, the chill in the air felt wrong, even for autumn in upstate New York. My name’s Frank, and I’m a handyman, not a detective, so I try not to read too much into the creaks and groans of a building that’s had better days. The place was called Maple Haven, though there wasn’t a maple in sight, just a few gnarled oaks that dropped leaves like they were mourning something. The interior renovations were simple: patch a hole in a bathroom wall in room 214, fix a loose floorboard in the hallway outside, and rehang a door that had warped. The administrator, a thin woman named Mrs. Crandall, had left me a key and a floor plan, apologizing that most of the residents were in the east wing for their morning activities. The west wing, where I was headed, was quiet, almost too quiet. The air was thick with dust and the faint smell of lavender, but under that, something else—like old paper and mothballs.

Room 214 was at the end of a corridor that seemed to absorb light. The fluorescent bulbs buzzed and flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow on the faded wallpaper, which was patterned with roses that had turned brown at the edges. I pushed the door open, and the hinges groaned in protest. The bathroom was small, with a sink, a toilet, and a tub with a shower curtain that had once been white but was now a mosaic of rust and mildew. The hole in the wall was behind the toilet, about two feet in diameter, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. I knelt down, pulling my tools from my belt, and peered inside. It was too dark to see much, but I could hear a faint rustling, like something alive in the wall. I figured it was mice, or maybe a squirrel that had gotten in through the roof. I decided to enlarge the hole slightly to inspect, and as I did, I noticed something odd: the wall gap was not a natural break but a purposely cut opening, with edges that were smooth and straight, as if made with a knife. In the cavity, I saw a bundle of old women’s clothes—a flowered dress, a shawl, a pair of worn slippers—arranged as if they were a body, all folded neatly, and on top sat a children’s picture book with a moth-eaten cover.

I reached in and pulled out the book. The cover read ‘The Paper Garden,’ and the illustrations inside were of a little girl with a watering can, but every page had been defaced by something that looked like ink, but the pattern was too deliberate. On each page, the girl’s eyes had been scratched out, and in the margins, there were tiny, meticulous drawings of moths, hundreds of them. The last page had a handwritten inscription, faded but legible: ‘For my Elsie, who liked to fly. -M.’ I felt a knot in my stomach. This wasn’t just debris; it was a message. I put the book back, intending to tell Mrs. Crandall about it, but when I stood up, I saw a figure in the mirror over the sink. It was an old woman, standing just behind me, reflected only in the glass. But when I turned, there was no one there. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a shadow, but the shape in the mirror had been clear: a hunched figure in a long dress, with hair like a spider’s web. And for a split second, I thought I saw its mouth open, too wide, as if to scream, but no sound came.

I couldn’t shake the unease, but I had a job to do. I patched the hole with drywall and spackle, leaving a small vent for the wire mesh I planned to install later, but every time I reached for a tool, I felt eyes on my back. The corridor outside was empty, but I had the sense that someone was watching from the shadows, just out of sight. I finished the patch and moved to the floorboard in the hall. It was near a window that was boarded over, and the wood was warped from years of moisture. As I pried it up, I saw something underneath: a small, folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. I unfolded it, expecting a letter, but instead, it was a drawing—the same little girl from the book, but now she was drawn as a moth, with wings spread and a disturbing, almost human face. And beside her, in the same handwriting, were the words: ‘They turned off the light.

I was about to pocket the paper when I heard a noise from room 214. A faint, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat. I walked back and pressed my ear to the wall where I’d patched. The sound seemed to come from inside, but the bathroom was empty. Then the door swung open on its own, slowly, and I saw that the shower curtain, which had been hanging limp, was now billowing as if caught in a breeze, though there was no window open. I stepped closer, and as I did, the curtain wrapped around me, cold and damp. I struggled, but it clung like wet skin, and then I felt a hand—bony, gripping my wrist. I tore free and stumbled back, my heart racing. The curtain fell limp again, and the room was still. But I knew I wasn’t alone.

I left the hall and went to find Mrs. Crandall in her office. She was reading a magazine, and when I entered, she looked up with a start, as if she’d been expecting someone else. I told her about the strange finding in the wall, the book, the drawing, and the incident in the bathroom. She listened, her face growing pale. Then she sighed, set down the magazine, and spoke in a low, trembling voice. ‘You found her things,’ she said. ‘Elsie March. She was a resident here until she passed, back in ’89. She was a recluse, kept to herself. They say she was a hoarder, filled her room with old clothes and paper scraps. But after she died, some of the staff said they saw her still, in the halls, especially in that west wing. We never knew what to make of it. They had to board up that window because the light bothered her. She was afraid of the light, they said. Afraid of what it would reveal.’ Mrs. Crandall paused, and her eyes darted to the doorway. ‘I should have told you not to work there alone. But the night watchman quit last week, and I couldn’t find anyone else. I’m sorry, Mr. Clemmons. I don’t believe in ghosts, but there’s been a feeling…’

I wanted to dismiss her words as the superstition of an old woman, but as I left her office, I felt a draft, and the lights flickered. I decided to finish my work quickly, despite the strange occurrences. I returned to the corridor, but the dust in the air seemed thicker, and the wallpaper was now curling more, revealing the plaster beneath, which was stained with a dark, brownish shape that looked like a spread-eagled figure. My tools were still on the floor, but the drawing I had found was gone—either blown away or taken. I thought I saw a shadow move at the far end of the hall, a short, stooped figure, but when I turned, there was nothing. I worked on the floorboard, nailing it down, but my hands trembled. Then I noticed that the hole I had patched in room 214 was now open again, the fresh drywall shattered on the floor, as if something had burst out from inside. I approached cautiously, and the smell of lavender was overwhelming, mixed with something like burnt sugar. I looked into the cavity, and it was empty—the clothes, the book, all gone. But in the back of the space, carved into the wood, was a message, scrawled in shaky handwriting: ‘She flew away, but she left a piece behind.’

I stumbled back, my heart pounding. I knew I had to get out of there. I grabbed my tools and hurried to the main exit, but the corridor seemed longer than before, and the doors at the end were locked. I turned to find another way, but the wallpaper was now flaking off, revealing more of those drawings—the girl, the moths, over and over. I ran, my boots echoing on the linoleum, but the sound seemed to multiply, as if footsteps were following my own. I finally burst through a side door into the parking lot, gasping for air. The sun was high now, but the cold chill of that building stayed with me. I got in my truck and drove away without looking back.

To this day, I still wonder what I saw, or who. I never went back to Maple Haven, and I guess I never will. Sometimes, in the quiet of my own home, I feel a draft, and I catch the faint smell of lavender. And I see, just for a moment, a moth fluttering at the window, its wings patterned with the face of a child. And I know that whatever that old woman left behind, she’s not resting. She’s just waiting for someone else to find her paper garden. And when they do, they’ll understand that some things are better left sealed in the dark.