Moths

By Weihan Liang

Prologue – 

The alley was cold and dark, with snow falling from the sky above. Shivering lightly, Murphy pulled his jacket tighter around his body, cursing at the weather. At thirty eight, Paul Murphy was already the most famous author in Sanler – if not the world. His debut novel, written when he was sixteen, shot straight to the top of the chart in its first few days alone. With each successful novel came praise from the critics marvelling at his technique of gripping suspense. He was at the top, loving it and pouring a full forty-five hour week in just three days.

But then the problems started piling up.

So engrossed in his work that he was, he had not realised that his wife had been seeing another man behind his back. What made it all the more worse is that he had not found out about it until the day he had literally walked in on her and her lover – his brother. After the long and trying divorce was finally over, he thought the worst of the problems were over. In truth, they were just beginning. With the sudden betrayal of his own flesh and blood, he began to slip in his work. Deadlines were missed, public appearances cancelled and books stopped being published. Finally, his publisher had issued him an ultimatum.

Get his act together or get out.

Murphy had taken a long vacation in New Zealand to try to get his head together after his decision. He finally decided that there was nothing that he could have done to stop his wife leaving him. He smiled as he recalled that moment, where a literal weight had lifted off his shoulders. When he came home, his friends, colleagues and family noticed a very different, but welcome, change in his demeanour. He spent less time in his work and more time with his family. He forgave his ex-wife and brother and even encouraged them to get married – a move that surprised even him. He slowly shook his head, evoking the image of his brothers shocked face as he encouraged them. He hummed to himself, feeling the metallic smoothness of his “lucky charm”. He had bought it in one of the obscure craft stalls in Auckland on his last day. Oh, and what happened on that last day made him finally leave the ghosts of his past behind…

A strange sound brought him out of his reminiscing. A sort of…fluttering above his head, like a million tiny insects vying for someone’s attention. He smirked at his imagination, and then tucked that last line away, hoping that he could use it in his next book. Sales had started to pick up again, with the news of his return from vacation, and were off to a very promising start. Even as he hurried home, he thought about his last meeting with his publisher, and the talk about turning not one, but TWO of his novels into movies. Yes, he thought to himself, this year will be a tremendous success for me…

The sound intruded into his range of hearing again, snapping off his thoughts like a freight train. It seemed different somehow…closer even. Murphy mentally shrugged and walked down the alley, towards his home. The wind howled relentlessly against his body, bringing icy winds extremely close to his skin, despite the thick clothes he had on. He knew this alley like the back of his hand; there were no thugs here, no homeless people, just trashcans, the odd security camera – not like those things were ever on anyway – and the occasional teenage couple having a bit of “fun”, as they put it. Now, though, on the coldest night in thirty years, there was no one in the alley, save for Murphy himself. As the wind died down, he saw a sight that he had never seen before in this alley. Something so bizarre and out of place, it seemed almost comical.

It was a moth.

In all of his years of study at school and university, Murphy had never seen or encountered one like the one in front of him. What struck him odd was that it was hovering in front of him, not at all bothered by the icy breeze or the sub-zero temperatures. Frowning, he looked at it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Finally coming to an abrupt decision, he stepped towards it, as if trying to force it away from him.

It didn’t move.

Murphy paused, cocking his head to the side, thoroughly puzzled. Squinting against the snow, he saw another moth join the first. Now, he felt a feeling slowly creeping into his veins, taking him a second to realize that it was fear. Then another. And another. Still more of the flying insects joined the first until there was a veritable wall of the creatures. Squaring his shoulders, Murphy began to walk towards them, intending to walk straight through them. Suddenley, the cloud of moths disbursed, as if they had been frightened by an outside source. Murphy watched them fly off, puzzled. He laughed to himself and started walking, thinking that he would have to tell his publisher what had happened. Why, it might even be the start of a new book…

He had barely taken more than two steps before they descended on him.

The same fluttering sound was all the warning he had before they swooped on him like a flock of vultures. He whirled in the cloud of moths as they meticulously stripped off each layer of clothing, finally leaving him naked. As he fell on to the cold and wet concrete, the swarm vanished once more. Murphy picked himself up off the ground, violently shivering as another blast of wind barrelled down the alley. He grimaced as he thought of the chewing out he would receive from his publisher, accountant and mother at getting an expensive suit eaten by moths that never seemed to be affected by temperatures colder than the coldest night in the North Pole…

Before he could blink or even think, the cloud engulfed him again. Murphy stared at the insects as they buzzed around him, feeling the feathery beat of their wings against his naked body. The feeling was akin to a lengthened orgasm, and it set Murphy’s nerves on fire. Immersed in this feeling, he almost didn’t register the first spark of pain on his leg. A second, more intense, one caused him to look down at his legs. A multitude of moths had latched onto his legs and were biting through his skin. Murphy would have laughed at this thought, if it wasn’t for the terrible pain that was lancing up his legs. With a terrified groan, he crumpled to the floor, feeling the moths on his leg boring deeper and deeper until they had stripped away his legs to the bone. As he felt himself slipping away, his last thought was of his ex-wife.

As the moths finished feeding, they flew off, one by one, until there was nothing in the dark alley but trashcans, snow and the ravaged remains of a once successful writer.