Shining in the afternoon sun, a monstrosity stands smack-dab in the center of Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Tucker Scarberry can clearly see white plumes of clouds drift by through the large punched-out sections of its wings, stiff and gleaming behind it. He stands impatiently at the base of the statue, gazing up at it. When he was younger, he was terrified of the red-eyed apparition. Though he was too young then to remember now, his mom had once recounted how he’d tuck his face into her leg and grip the denim of her jeans in his small fists. Now, the large metal creation of the fictitious creature known as ‘Mothman’ is merely an eyesore on the otherwise quaint small town.
Though, ‘quaint’ might be giving it more credit than its due. There are a few shops on Main Street, but for the most part, entertainment for those who are Tucker’s age is hard to come by. The lack of entertainment leads local high schoolers to seek out alternative methods of enjoying their youth. Hence the agreed upon meeting spot beneath the infamous Mothman statue with his friends.
Towering above him, it stands in an active position. Built in 2002 by Bob Roach, a retired welder, it serves as a stainless steel monument to the thriving tourist attraction heart of Point Pleasant. Despite its homey small-town atmosphere, the big-wigs and rich folk of the area all profit from the Mothman phenomena. From the Mothman Museum itself to the Mothman Festival where small children run around in winged onesies. Hayrides drag wagon-full after wagon-full of touch-starved teenagers into the depths of the woods where ‘Mothman’ (Bernie from the coffee shop) lies in wait with his pipe-cleaner antennae. Anyone who is anyone has their fingers in the metaphorical cookie jar.
Tucker’s attention drifts from the statue, to one such leech who is exiting the bank. The man is dressed in an ill-fitting suit; he resembles a triangle; broad shoulders make his small dress pants look even smaller. As he shuffles his way to his car, Tucker identifies him as Coach Barnes of the lady’s softball team at the high school. He moonlights as a stockbroker, not that Tucker really has any idea how that works. Evidently, it helps one afford an ill-fitting suit. Tucker stifles a laugh and shakes his head, turning his attention to the statue once more. Red glass eyes twinkle like fist-sized rubies as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. Similarly, the setting sun is at just the right angle to cast its beams of light into Tucker’s eyes. He squints and surveys his surroundings. Where were they?
Night fell over the sleepy town; as porch lights winked off, fireflies shook themselves awake and soared into the navy blue ether. The square nose of a Chevelle soars by, startling the insects into a cloud of blinking lights. Linda is curled in the passenger seat with her feet tucked up underneath of her. Beside her, Roger is stealing glances of her whenever he comes to a straight road; she looks like a deer sleeping peacefully in a field. Linda’s eyes were half-lidded, head resting against the crook of her arm. Her arm is pressed to the cold glass of the window. Below them, around them, the car roars out of the town and toward the forest.
In the back seat, Steve and Mary were tangled together. In the dark, they breathed as one, alcohol clouding their minds. Mary tipped her head back and watched the stars peek out from the dark as they drove further from the light pollution of civilization. They drove toward what is called the ‘TNT zone,’ named for the dilapidated munitions factory from World War 2 buried in the woods. Once a logging company, the building was repurposed for the war effort. What remained of the live rounds were scattered throughout the surrounding countryside. While most avoided the area to prevent an untimely demise, some high school students saw the area as an opportunity for a private place away from prying eyes.
Roger worried his bottom lip between his teeth as the bulky behemoth of a car rumbled its way closer and closer to their destination. He cast another longing look at Linda and observed her. Thick blonde curls spiraled lazily down her shoulders. He imagined how it would feel to wrap one of the massive locks around his hand. Would it be soft and fluffy like a cloud, or thick and dry like a strong branch?
Unknown to Roger, a figure lumbered its way across the road. The crown of its head just barely scraped eight feet, but if you counted the long antennae that sprouted there, it could easily be nine feet tall. The moment seemed to freeze in time. Roger’s hands are at ten and two, as they should be, but he found that he couldn’t move them at all. He could see the figure from the corner of his eye, but he was unable to quite discern what it was. Unfortunately, his neck was also locked in position and his eyes refused to budge. He was frozen staring at Linda, sleeping peacefully beside him.
WHAT WILL YOU DO?
>>BRAKE
BRAKE! This has definitely drawn me in!