Mothman

It was tight; he didn't think it would work. He was afraid to push, afraid that if he forced it he would hurt her, so they spent a few moments awkwardly rubbing against one another. Finally, at her coaxing, he put more pressure on it. He didn't let her gasp discourage him. He pushed harder. It'll be all right if it hurts, he told himself. She'd be let down if it didn't. The feeling was rough, but satisfying. He had a brief, panicky moment, a feeling as if he were somehow being hurt instead of her, but it passed. The thickness of her thighs and ass were inviting company for his thrusting hips. He was only halfway in (anything more than that didn't seem possible, although she asked for more) but the traction was so hard that the smallest movement resulted in shivers. He throbbed all the way through her.

He felt the wedding ring on his hand. It wasn't there, but he felt it anyway. You can't just stop feeling a thing like. The cold, hard weight of it had been a part of him too long. He imagined she could feel it too, right there, where his hand gripped the flesh of her ass, like a little cold ember. He couldn't hear her cries over the rush of the water or the rushing in his ears. It didn't matter. Now she wasn't herself or his wife. Now she was barely there at all. And so was he.

They were almost embarrassed after. The room had only one towel, so they had to share. Kathleen kept looking at him and then looking away. He wondered what she was thinking about. He was thinking about nothing. The room was dark. She switched on the lamp and started combing out her wet hair. She told him he could stay the night if he wanted. The words she didn't say were: "I'm scared to be alone."

Kenneth went to the window again. Pitch black outside. They'd been in there a long time. Lucidity was creeping up on him again. When he glanced up his heart seized; there, in the window, in the distance, two glowing red eyes, glaring right through him. Two eyes that saw everything.

He wanted to scream, but his voice was shrunken, vacant, useless, gone. I'm going to die, he thought, as fear seized him again. I can't take this. I'm just going to die.

And then the lights winked out. Kenneth could breathe again, and he realized what he'd really seen: taillights. The lights of a truck down on the freeway, reflected in the glass for just a second. That was all.

"What is it?" Kathleen said.

"Nothing," said Kenneth. He turned his back on the window. The vacant menace of unseen observation hung over him still, but he forced himself to keep his back turned. "Nothing at all."

***

Kenneth stared at the computer screen. Black letters swam over a white background like wriggling insects. His head hurt, for some reason. Vaguely, he had the impression that the phone had just been ringing, but when he checked it there was no missed call. His little office felt crowded and hot. He frowned. Something was—

Someone knocked on his open door. Teena was looking at him with eyebrows raised. He shifted a little in his seat. "What's up, boss?" he said.

"What are you working on?"

Kenneth glanced at his screen. The words there made no sense: "The most effective formula is 25% aluminum and 75% iron oxide. Contrary to popular belief, thermite is not illegal to own or use..."

"Not much," he said.

"Almost time for lunch. Want to grab a bite?"

Kenneth blinked. He could never recall Teena taking anyone from the office out. He hesitated for a second. A phantom memory buzzed at the back of his mind, a voice: "Would you like a game of solitaire..." But then it was gone. "Sure thing," he said.

They said nothing in the elevator, or crossing the street to the café. Overhead Kenneth heard the screech of the rail brakes as the 2:16 SFO/Millbrae train pulled in. He shuddered a little. He'd been a nervous wreck on the train that morning; after calling in sick two days in a row to avoid the commute he'd finally had to buckle down. He'd sat in his seat, sweating and clawing at the upholstery, not wanting to look at that spot under the freeway overpass but not able to take his eyes off it either. Of course, nothing had been there. The operator's mild, blind voice seemed to taunt him as he disembarked: "This is MacArthur station." He'd seen and heard nothing strange since Monday, except the occasional odd sense of vertigo like back in the office just now.

Lydia remained unreachable; he had not called Kathleen either. She was in town through the weekend, he knew. He did not want to let her leave (where was she even from? He'd never thought to ask,) without talking again about what happened. Kathleen leave was the only person who could confirm his sanity. But anytime he tried to dial her number he found himself calling Lydia instead.

At the cafe, Teena ordered a sandwich, him a salad that he had no intention of eating. He'd barely eaten all week. Teena was wearing those dangly gold earrings. The first time he'd noticed them was at the Christmas party two years ago. He'd liked the look of them and wondered if he should get a pair for Lydia. Lydia asked him why he'd been staring at Teena all night and when he pointed out the earrings she didn't believe him. They had a fight over it and she'd moved out for a week. Come to think of it, that was when their troubles really began. Now the earrings were back, and again Kenneth couldn't help but be distracted again by the glittering yellow chains dangling over her dark skin.

"So," she said, startling him out of his reverie. "How have you been holding up?"

Kenneth shrugged. "Fine. I'm sorry I missed a few days."

"I wasn't talking about work." She leaned forward a little, sliding her hands across the table. "The whole Lydia thing. I don't mean to pry. I just thought...you keep to yourself a lot."

"I hadn't noticed."

"I know what it's like when there's too much on your mind and no one to talk to. So I wanted you to know that I'm around."

"That's very compassionate." Kenneth realized it sounded like a sarcastic remark, so he flashed a smile. "But I'm fine. It's just a rough patch."

"Okay," Teena said. Her hands inched their way across the table a bit more; one was turned ever so slightly, palm up, seemingly inviting. "I'd rather you not think of me as just your boss. I've always kept an eye on you. Just in case, if that doesn't sound completely awful to say."

"Teena—"

"I'm not trying to pressure you," she said. "It's just you and me here. Whatever we say, it never comes back to the office. But think about it, all right? You've got my number. I'm a phone call away. Day or night."

She stopped as the waiter arrived with their food and refreshed their drinks. The afternoon sun glared off the windshields outside, blinding Kenneth for a moment. Teena folded her hands now, pursing her lips, looking at him only out the corner of her eyes, sensing his unease. Kenneth's mind was a jumble. He wanted to tell Teena everything that had happened, to blurt it all out in one long, breathless confession, but the words would not come.

She excused herself to the restroom. Kenneth cursed; the confessional urge passed and now he thought only of the ramifications for his job. If Teena felt rejected by his silence (which he guessed technically she should) it would be a disaster, no matter what she said about not pressuring him. He'd have to find some way to let her down gently when she came back. Jesus, if being married doesn't get you out of this situation gracefully what the hell will, he thought? But the glaring absence of his wedding ring made him bite his tongue.

At that moment, someone sat down in Teena's chair. It was a man dressed in a black suit (neat but somewhat faded) and an old-fashioned black fedora. He was an old man, probably in his seventies, with a hawk nose and large ears. Kenneth couldn't help but think of Ebenezer Scrooge. The stranger grabbed a bottle of ketchup off the next table, shook a blob onto Teena's plate, and began helping himself to her fries. Before Kenneth could open his mouth to object, the stranger cut him off:

"Have you ever heard of a man named John Klein?" he said.

Kenneth blinked, too bewildered to reply.

"He was a writer, and a reporter of sorts, back in the 60s and the 70s," said the man in the black suit. "Did a lot of 'investigation' into UFOs and alien encounters, that sort of thing."

"Never heard of him," said Kenneth, unable to think of what else to say.

"But I bet you know his work anyway," said the man in the black suit. "Klein was the man who gave us the term, 'Men in Black.' You know what that means, right? Supposedly after people-always Americans-see UFOs or aliens, a few days later they'll be visited again by strange people dressed in black, driving late-model cars, and acting intimidating. You've heard of the phenomena?"

"I guess?" said Kenneth.

"Have you ever seen a UFO, Mr. Arnold? Or an alien? Or anything else unusual?"

"I—"

"Do you believe in such things?"

"I have no—"

"What about 'Men in Black', do you believe in those? Have you ever been visited by one?" The man in the black suit seemed to be sneering now, although it might just be the natural twist of his lips.

"I have no idea," Kenneth said, finally breaking in. "What do you think?"

"There are no 'Men in Black,'" said the man in the black suit. And he chuckled.

Kenneth's head was spinning. "Well that's fine," he said. "But my da—my friend is sitting there."

"She won't be back for a while yet," said the man in the black suit. "Long enough for us to finish our talk. So this Klein guy, he goes around interviewing so-called witnesses who say they've seen flying saucers and little green men and what have you, and eventually he writes a book about it. Now Klein, he had some strange ideas: He said that there are no alien visitors or interstellar aircraft. But the things we call aliens and UFOs are nevertheless quite real. Are you following me?"

"Not really."

"People have only been reporting alien UFOs for the last hundred years," the man in the black suit went on. "But people have always seen strange creatures and lights in the sky. We used to call them demons, or witches, or fairies. In 1692 if you saw lights in the sky you assumed you were looking at a witch flying through the air with a lantern hanging from her broomstick, but if you saw that same light today you'd think it was an alien spaceship. And folks in early America were always being harassed by well-dressed men in black who asked strange questions. Do you know what they thought of those visits? They thought the man in black was the devil. Isn't that funny?

"So according to Klein, UFOs and the monsters who come with them are as old as the Earth and have always lived right alongside us. Now and then we see one and we give it the name that we're comfortable with in our time and place."

"That's interesting," said Kenneth, who thought it was nothing of the sort. That strange, closed-off feeling was coming back to him. He was having trouble breathing. He tried to loosen his tie but found he wasn't wearing one.

"What do you think, Mr. Arnold? Do you believe in aliens, or in demons? Do you believe in the CIA, or in the devil?"

"I don't know," said Kenneth. His voice was hoarse, and he could barely sit up. He felt like his chest was collapsing. He had to get out of here, had to get away from this old freak.

"I'm going to ask you again, Mr. Arnold: Have you ever seen a UFO? Ever encountered a strange creature? Have you ever been visited by Men in Black? Because if you had, I'd be very careful who you told about it, hypothetically speaking. Your wife, for example, probably shouldn't know. I understand you two are going through a rough patch and a shock like this wouldn't be good for her. You can see that."

Kenneth had to get out of there.

"Just one more question," said the main the black suit. "If you ever did see anything like that, what would you—"

Kenneth bolted. The other diners turned and stared, but he didn't care. He pushed the door open and the glaring sun hit his eyes and for a second he swooned, but only for a second, because then he was back to being himself again: no more panic, no more suffocation. He stopped shaking. He almost turned and looked back at the café to see if the man in the black suit was still there, but no, he couldn't do that. Instead he walked toward the curb, forgetting about Teena, forgetting about the man in the black suit, forgetting everything. Just put one foot in front of the other, he told himself. Everything in his life had been spinning out of control for three days, so now he concentrated just on what he knew he was in control of: himself, walking down the street right now, one foot in front of the other. The feeling of solid ground beneath his feet reassured him. Everything is all right now, he told himself. Everything is all right.

He was almost to the curb when he saw her; she was a petite woman, probably only eighteen or nineteen years old but so small she could be mistaken for even younger. She was dressed for warm weather, all bare legs and shorts and tank top with plunging neck, and her white sneakers looked brand new, so that they all but glowed. She was just stepping off the curb and Kenneth could tell right away that she did not see the oncoming car, did not hear the grinding approach of its tires, did not realize she was stepping directly into its path and that the driver would never be able to stop in time. Kenneth's heart stopped, then started again, sending a jolt of adrenaline through him. "Watch out!" he screamed.

Or at least, he tried to. He thought the words, formed them with his mouth, summoned up the breath to project them, but at the last instant they died in a whisper too soft for anyone to hear, because at that moment he saw it: the thing. It hung in the branches of a nearby tree like a monstrous bat, obscured by the shifting of the leaves in the wind. He saw the glaring, stop-light glow of its eyes and the movement of its huge, fluttering, nightmare wings. It had been watching him the whole time, and it chose that moment to reveal itself to him again. And when it did, he could no longer speak.

The squeal of brakes was loud, but Kenneth was barely aware of it. The dull, sickening smack of a body hitting the pavement and the screams of the bystanders sounded far-off as well. Kenneth saw only the pulsing glow of the eyes and heard only the furtive, barely audible whisper of a voice that was not a voice but rather a mechanical or insectoid buzzing and clicking that resembled words. "Kenneth Anderton Arnold..." it said...

And then it was gone. The winged thing vanished and the world snapped back into focus. People were screaming, crying, talking animatedly into phones. The driver of the van sat on the curb, face in her hands. One of the girl's brilliant white shoes was on the curb too, and the other stuck out from under the truck, attached to a firm, tanned leg, its calf only faintly dappled with blood. Kenneth slumped to the ground. He looked at the empty spot in the trees; yes, empty now, but the thing had been there. He felt it. He knew it. "Why?" he said. But only the wind in the branches answered him.

***

"Why would it stop you?" Kathleen said. She sat on the motel bed, chewing her nails. Kenneth was standing, then pacing, never wanting to stay still. The blinds were closed, and outside it was a black night with no moon. It was Friday. He'd called her all day but she never answered and finally he resorted to coming to the motel in person. She said she'd had to throw her phone away because of harassing calls.

"I don't know why. I was calling out to her, I was warning her, the words were in my mouth, and then it was there and I just couldn't."

"Maybe you just froze? Maybe you really did warn her but it was already too late? Everything happened so fast, there's no way to know."

"No. No, I know what happened. And I'm sure that old spook in the diner had something to do with it too. He scared me into going out there at just the right second and that thing stopped me from intervening. They wanted to be sure I saw it happen. Look, why are you fighting me on this? I need for you to believe me. There's no one else in the world who would believe me."

Kathleen slumped a little. "I'm sorry. I just want things to be normal."

Kenneth nodded. "Have you seen it again?"

"No. But strange things have been happening. I get these phone calls, but no one is ever there. I even took the battery out of my phone but I still got calls! I have blackouts and dizzy spells. And look at this!"

She threw a book at him. He turned it over. "What is it?"

"It's about structural engineering," she said. "Here's two more like it."

"So what?"

"Kenneth, I never bought these books. But yesterday I found myself lying right here on this bed reading one. I realized I'd been reading it for hours without knowing what I was doing! And there are notes all over it, notes in my handwriting!"

She opened one book and started reading out loud: "'Excessive bending causes a column to collapse. A column with relatively small eccentricities of loading can therefore be expected—'"

"'To support loads only slightly less than a Euler load,'" Kenneth said, finishing for her. She looked up at him. He leaned against the door, astonished; the words had popped right out of his mouth without him realizing it.

"'The maximum load drops sharply—'" Kathleen read.

"'With increasing values of eccentricity. The load-bearing capacity of short columns is thus seen to be very sensitive to variances of loading,'" Kenneth finished, a look of blanched horror spreading across his face. Kathleen put the book down, shaking.

"Kenneth," she said, "have you ever read this book?"

"No," Kenneth said, trying not to swallow his tongue. "I don't know a damn thing about structural engineering or 'column eccentricity,' whatever the hell that is."

"Neither do I," Kathleen said. "But I know this whole book back to front, word for word."

"So do I," Kenneth said. More words crowded his mind now, wanting to be spoken: Finely powdered thermite can be ignited by a regular flint spark lighter, as the sparks are burning metal. Therefore it is unsafe to strike a lighter close to thermite. A stoichiometric mixture of finely powdered iron(III) oxide and aluminum may be ignited using ordinary red-tipped book matches...

"What does it mean?" Kathleen.

"I don't know." He was exhausted from saying those words so much.

She stood up, coming to him, putting her arms around him. ""I'm scare," she said. "Please hold me..."

He realized now something was different about her; she had dyed her hair blonde. Now she looked a little like Lydia. The thought made him edge away. Only for a second, but it was long enough. He stammered an apology, but she went to the door, fumbling with the knob for a moment in blind anger. She was about to stalk out into the night when suddenly she froze, eyes wide with horror, and then she slammed the door, putting her back to it and starting to cry.

"Those eyes—!" she said. "He's here, he's watching us!" She curled-up in a ball on the floor, crying. Kenneth ran, catching her, then looked at the door, as if to open it, but she stopped him. "No! God, no, don't look, it's horrible, don't look!"

"All right," he said. They sat like that, in silence again. Kathleen was suddenly calm; icy, in fact. The transformation alarmed Kenneth.

"Kenneth," she said. "I know what we have to do. We can't leave this room."

"All right?" he said, a question this time.

"We have to keep an eye on each other. We have to be watching one another at all times. It's the only way we'll know if we start doing anything...strange."

Kenneth thought it over, then nodded. It did make sense.

"We'll stay here," she said, "and we'll wait. We'll wait for..." She paused biting her lip. "I don't know what. I guess we'll just wait. Until we know what else to do."