Mothman

"Sounds good," Kenneth said. And at that moment, it really did.

***

Kenneth woke up alone. A single lamp was on. The bathroom door was open, the room dark beyond that. Kenneth stood up, stretching his sore limbs. "Kathleen?" he said. No answer.

He checked his phone; it was Saturday night! Almost 24 hours since he arrived. Where had the time gone? He racked his brain to remember anything from the previous day, but there was nothing. He remembered arriving on Friday, talking to Kathleen, her brief, horrifying scare, their pact to remain here and together to watch out for one another, and then...nothing.

"Kathleen?" he said again, but of course she wasn't there. He tried dialing her number but remembered that she'd gotten rid of her phone. Where was she? Why would she leave? His fingers were slippery with sweat as he thumbed a phone number: Lydia. He had to hear her voice, needed it to reassure him. He listened to the tinned ring over and over again. "Come on, pick up, pick up!" But she didn't. No voicemail either.

He put the phone on the end table, and that's when he saw it: his wedding ring. It was next to the lamp. His mouth went dry. He reached for it, expecting it to vanish before his hand got there, but his fingers closed tight around the metal, solid and real. The weight of it in the center of his palm seemed extraordinary. How could it be? He'd lost it before he even met Kathleen, before he saw the creature, before any of this. But here it was.

He crushed the gold band in his hand and marched to the motel room door, prepared to hurl the ring over the stair railing and into the parking lot, to reject the reality of at least one impossible thing. But when the door was open he stopped, stunned, appalled, unable to believe what he was seeing. There she stood, right at the top of the stairs, smiling like the Mona Lisa. And before Kenneth could react, she turned and ran, her white tennis shoes slapping the stairs and then rebounding off the black tar of the parking lot.

"Wait!" Kenneth screamed, and without a thought he chased her, leaving the motel room door swinging wide open behind him. He ran, terrified of losing sight of her in the dark, desperate to keep her in his field of vision. Because it was not Kathleen he saw now, or even Lydia; it was the girl from the street on Thursday, the dead girl, run down in broad daylight but now, suddenly, miraculously alive and leading him on a chase down dark streets and strange alleyways, a chase across an open lot filled with gravel and broken glass, a chase after a dream or an illusion or a madness that he was unwilling to abandon.

The girl was fast and she never seemed to tire, but he was in sound shape and a regular runner until recently. He lagged a bit but never really tired. They came to a chain link fence, and beyond it bare strip of land leading to the black, cold waters of the lake. There was nowhere to go. She turned and smiled at him again. She didn't seem to be out of breath or perspiring at all. Kenneth was winded. He tried to speak but the effort of it forced him to his knees. The girl just smiled.

"Hello," she said, after a time.

"Who are you?" Kenneth said, still on his knees, his voice still raw.

"Don't you recognize me?"

"I do. I think. Aren't you...no...?"

Something had changed. Maybe it was the effect of the darkness or the distant glare of the lights on the bay water, or maybe it was nothing but Kenneth's fevered mind, but now she almost looked like—

"Lydia?"

She stepped forward, smiling still, and now he could see her plainly: her round face, her almond eyes, the bleached streaks in her hair. She was even wearing her wedding ring again. "Hi baby."

"What—what are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

"But how did you—? And I haven't heard from you in—in..." Something was wrong. Images swam in front of his eyes. He felt hot, like he was staring into an oven. "This isn't right. Who are you?"

Her smile flickered for a moment. "Ken, it's me."

"No it's not."

"Ken, I'm..."

"Who are you?"

And then she disappeared, winking out like an extinguished light. But Kenneth felt a draft on his back, like the fluttering of wings. He turned, and there was the black shape, with its wings and burning eyes. Kenneth covered his face and bury his head against the ground. There was a voice like a million buzzing insects:

"Hello, Kenneth Arnold."

"Go away," Kenneth said."

The winged thing fluttered closer; the impossible, shadowy depths of its body seemed ready to swallow Kenneth up.

"Isn't it a lovely night, Kenneth Arnold?"

"Leave me alone..."

"Would you care for a game of solitaire, Kenneth Arnold?"

"I...I...yes..."

"That's good. But first we want you to do something for us, Kenneth."

"Yes," Kenneth muttered, slurring his words. He felt peaceful now, passive, all of a sudden. "Yes, I'm ready."

"That's good. That's very good."

***

"Fuck yes."

Those were the words that brought Kenneth back to consciousness. His words, he realized. A response to a question, one that still lingered just on the edge of his memory. Whatever it was, he'd answered, and now he felt the tug of fingers at his belt. No, wait, he wasn't wearing a belt; in fact, he wasn't wearing anything at all except his boxers, which those tugging fingers were now pulling away. He was in a house he didn't know (white carpet, white upholstery, white walls and ceiling and huge, billowing white curtains over the huge windows with glistening sunlight streaming through from a clear blue afternoon sky outside). He could not remember how he got here.

A woman (also unclothed except for a bra and panties that consisted of very little material) knelt in front of him, sliding her hands into his waistline, pulling it down and then stroking his cock with one soft palm. He was so hard it hurt; he'd never felt this much urgency. He was pent-up. The woman opened her mouth and slid him all the way in and all the way back, all in one go. Kenneth was stunned for a second but before he could react she looped her arms around his legs and pulled him in more. There was a muffled "Mmmm..." and the feeling of a wet tongue dancing along him.

His body went rigid and hot. He tried to put his hand on the back of the woman's head but she batted it away. Then she actually pushed him, popping him out of her mouth long enough to shove him against the wall and, with him properly pinned, she sucked the head of his cock back into her mouth. Again that muffled "Mmmm..." Kenneth felt dazed. Okay, he told himself. It's okay. Nothing to worry about. Just go with it.

So he did. He enjoyed the hot sucking sensation of the woman's perfect mouth and the firmness of her body rubbing up and down his legs. She'd discarded her bra and her bare breasts pressed against his thighs. Her movements were so smooth and her limbs so strong that everything she did was like a glide. His shaft was wet with spit and dribbling onto the cushion of her tongue. Don't think about it. Don't think about anything. Just go along.

Something caught his eye: a gold earring, dangling from the woman's earlobe, the color stark against her dark skin. They were just like the ones that—

"Holy shit, Teena?"

The world snapped into focus. Teena stood up and looked him in the eye. "You like to say my name?" she said, pinning him up against the wall again. Her naked thighs rubbed his legs. "Go on, say my name again."

"Um, Teena..."

"That's good."

She lifted one leg so that he thigh pressed against his hip, rubbing herself up and down on him. Her smile twitched less than an inch away from his lips, and she punctuated each of her words with a tiny, fleeting kiss.

"I like the way you say my name Kenneth. Always have. You sound like a little boy asking his teacher for permission. So what are you asking now?"

"Teena..."

She grabbed his hands and placed them on her ass. It was smooth and taut. Kenneth was suddenly having trouble concentrating again.

"Go on. Give it a little smack." She wiggled her ass in his hands. "I'm asking you to. Or do you want me to order you to?" She grabbed his face in one hand, pushing his head against the wall. "Is that how you like to do it? We can do it like that." She stood up taller and pushed her naked breasts against his face. Her hard, dark nipples rubbed his lips. "Do you like being pushed around? Do you want me to make you say, 'Yes Ma'am?'"

"I..."

"On second thought, don't talk." She clapped a hand over his mouth. " Who wants a man to talk all the time?" She pushed him down to his knees. Her crotch waved in front of his face. She smelled hot and wet. She teased the black lace panties down a fraction of an inch, showing off the smoothly curved lines of her hips. "Don't just sit there Kenneth. You know what to do."

She laced her fingers through his hair.

"Opportunities like this don't come along every day." She pushed his face into her, burying him between her thighs. The sensation of smothering only lasted for a second. The feeling of lace fabric and, just behind it, hot flesh, against his mouth was disorienting. She tugged the panties aside. In a few seconds, a warm taste filled his mouth. She was wet all the way through. His tongue flickered over her

"Don't be shy," she said. "You do a good job you'll get a mark for it on your next review." She patted his head. "Just kidding. Maybe. Now lick it already."

He slid his tongue up and then down, over the whole length of it. When she didn't seem to respond to that he concentrated just on the top, flickering again, and that drew another moan, so he did it again. Opening his mouth wider he sucked against her, drawing her between his lips and teeth and then flicking his tongue against her again and again. The muscles on her thighs rippled; she must be incredibly strong, he thought. She could probably crush me down here if she wanted to. The thought made him go faster.

"Oh...fuck yes!" she said. "Oh, fuck, that's right. Be a good boy now, Kenneth. Be good and...Kenneth, are you all right?"

"I feel strange," Kenneth said, trying to stand. His legs wobbled. He half sat and half collapsed onto a couch. It took a great deal of effort not to hyperventilate. Teena draped herself over him, muttering concern.

"Jesus, I'm sorry," she said. "I guess I got carried away."

"No, you were fine. I mean, you were great. I mean, it's not that at all."

"Maybe you're dehydrated," she said. "You've been working hard all day."

"I have? Um...how long have I been here now?"

"It's..." She craned her neck to see the clock. "Christ, two thirty! I didn't even realize." She laughed, kissing him again. "Let me get you some water," she said, padding barefoot to the kitchen. Kenneth watched her walk away. He couldn't help it.

Two thirty. It was two thirty Sunday afternoon. He was pretty sure it was Sunday, although he did not remember Saturday ever ending. He did not remember coming to Teena's place. He certainly did not remember...whatever else they did. But at least he was pretty sure what day it was now. To verify, he turned on the TV and flipped to the news. Something about his hands on the remote control button bothered him. A troubled thought tickled the back of his mind but he couldn't place it. Something was wrong? What was wrong...?

The voice on the television finally penetrated his haze: "...on the scene as the remains of the I80 freeway connector still smolder behind us. A tanker truck hauling over 8,000 gallons of unleaded gasoline overturned here this morning, reducing a section of the interchange to rubble. There is still no sure indication of the initial—"

Kenneth froze. The orange light of the fires flickered over and over on the television screen. Certain words stood out in his mind like flashing neon signs: "Tanker," "gasoline," "rubble," "freeway." It was the MacArthur freeway, the one he'd seen the creature perched under six days ago.

He was looking at his hands again. They were clean. Very, very clean. Cautiously, not yet sure why, he raised one and sniffed his fingertips; the smell of scented soap hit him full in the nostrils. Dish soap too. He'd given his hands a good scrubbing recently. Probably twice. But just around the edges of his nails, all the soap in the world couldn't quite cover the noxious odor of...

"Gas."

Kenneth was out the door like a shot. He blew right past Teena, leaving her to squawk in surprise. She called after him but he ignored her. He got into his car and sped the whole way to Oakland, pushing the accelerator to 90 in open spaces where he thought he could get away with it. He had to go around the freeway, of course, and he couldn't escape the traffic; he seethed bumper-to-bumper, feeling he too would explode at any moment. Finally—finally—he sighted the motor lodge and pulled in. He bounded up the steps and pounded on Kathleen's door. She opened it and he barged in without waiting for her to say anything. She was in the midst of packing. Kenneth turned on the TV, flipped it to the news, where a replay of the freeway report was running.

"Do you see? Do you see?"

Kathleen closed the door, bewildered. "The accident? I saw. What does—"

"I did it. I blew up the tanker truck."

Kathleen took a half step back. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't remember doing it, but I did it. It all makes sense: I remember reading about homemade explosives. I remember those engineering manuals. I remember making a phone call to the shipping company posing as a transit board employee asking about their routes. And I remember how many things I don't remember, all the blackouts, all the missing time, what do you think I was doing during all that time? I was planning this!"

He crossed the room in two quick strides and took Kathleen's hand. "Don't you get it? We wanted to know why us? This is why. This is what it wanted us to do. It got into my head and it made me! And then it tried to make me forget. And it almost worked!" He stopped. "You believe me, don't you? Don't you...?"

She put her arms around him and cradled his head on her shoulder. "Shhh," she said. "It's all right. It's all right."

Kenneth felt his stomach turn over. "How many people did I kill?"

"What?"

"Just tell me. How many was it?"

"Kenneth, you didn't kill anyone."

"Yes, I did. It was me."

"No, Kenneth, didn't you listen to the whole report? No one died."

Kenneth was sure he hadn't heard right. "That's...impossible?"

"It's true. Even the driver of the truck survived. Here, I'll show you."

She pulled up the story on her phone. Kenneth read it twice. She was right: No casualties reported. Not even any serious injuries. A miracle.

"Oh, thank Christ," he said, sagging onto the bed. Then he looked up: "But...what else have I done?"

"Kenneth..."

"There's so much I don't remember. What if there are other things? What if there are more people? What if—?!"

"Kenneth, listen to me! I...wait, here, this will help you." She took out a phone. Kenneth watched her, puzzled. She dialed a single number and spoke into the receiver. Then she handed it to him. "It's for you," she said. Kenneth took the phone, baffled.

"Hello?" he said.

"Hello, Kenneth Anderton Arnold," the voice on the other end whirred. "Are you listening?"

"I...yes. Yes. I'm listening."

Tears glistened in Kathleen's eyes. "I'm sorry, Kenneth," she mouthed. Kenneth stared at her, stunned, delirious.

"Would you care for a game of solitaire, Kenneth Arnold?" said the voice.

"Yes."

"That's good. But first we want you to do something for us, Kenneth."

"What's that?"

Kathleen took the phone away from him. She ran a finger down the side of his cheek.

"Forget."

***

The man in the black suit read the newspaper. Kathleen sat on the other side of the booth, waiting. The man in the black suit had not even looked at her. Only once he finished the paper (having read every line of every article, front to back) did he set it down and take notice, seemingly for the first time, of his food and of Kathleen. "Well," he said, "how do you feel about it all?"

Kathleen had no idea what the question even meant. "Fine," she said.

"Hmm. The first field assignment is usually the hardest. You'll have less trouble with the next."

"I didn't have—"

"How is Kenneth?"

"He's...fine. Back home."

"Any latent memories?"

"I don't think so."

"Good. So are you going to ask me why? Why this freeway, why man, what's the point of it all?"

"No."

"That's good. You have a question about the Engineer then? It's usually one or the other?"

"I'm not—"

He cut her off: "Hold that thought. Have you ever heard of John Klein?"

Kathleen blinked. "No?"

"When I was young and new to the agency, in fact when I'd only recently received my very first field assignment, like you just did, we had an...incident."

"Incident?"

"We lost contact with the Engineer. It went rogue, you could say. Rather than following protocol it revealed itself to unrelated people, dozens of them. Caused a tremendous scare, as you can imagine. Even made it into the papers. They called it 'the Mothman.'"

The man the black suit laughed in a way that indicated he did not in the least find this funny.

"Why would the Engineer do that? I didn't think it even could—

"We don't know why. We just know it created a huge headache for us. And it attracted the attention of John Klein. He was a writer from New York. He came down to West Virginia, where we were working, and started asking questions, even started writing a book about it. I had to clean it all up. And we did clean it up, eventually. The Engineer went back to its normal protocols and the job went off as planned. A bridge collapse; nothing special. And that left John Klein as our last loose end."

"What did you do?"

"Suppressed his book, and his articles. Wrote him a new one. Convinced him that suicide was the best way out. All standard. But here's the thing: Klein didn't kill himself like he was supposed to. And he didn't trash his book, like we wanted him to do. The bastard finished it in secret, and published it. It was the biggest breach of security we've ever had. We're still trying to undo the damage."

"Jesus," Kathleen said. She hadn't touched her coffee.

"The truth is, I went easy on Klein. I went easy on him because I liked him. That's the lesson in all this: You're young, and this was your first big job. It's normal to have a few reservations. But don't let them get to you. Don't let Kenneth Arnold become your John Klein. Get me?"

Kathleen's pulse quickened a little. She nodded.

"Good," said the man in the black suit. "You're on the move now. The dossier is in your car. Your name this time is Elizabeth Underhill. The target is a woman named Natalie Wood. I believe you're going to Alaska and that there's going to be a problem with an oil pipeline. Call me from the road if you have questions."

Kathleen (Elizabeth) readied herself to go. Before walking away from the table, she turned back. "Sir...the Engineer doesn't really work for us, does it?" Her voice went up an octave and cracked. "We work for it. Don't we?"

"It's been a big day already, Elizabeth," said the man in the black suit. "Maybe these sorts of questions should wait until you're more...situated."

He began reading his paper again, from the beginning. Elizabeth walked away. Outside the diner, something else left too. Only the man in the black suit remained. When he left, it would be like he was never there at all.

***

Post: In November 1966, four teenagers from the town of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, reported a strange apparition, a flying man with wings and red eyes. Newspapers dubbed this figure "the Mothman." For the next 13 months dozens of Point Pleasant residents reported similar encounters, as well as an oddball list of UFOs, men in black, and other, less identifiable phenomena.