🌗Midnight Moth🌓

Just a 19-year-old girl fueled by coffee and an unhealthy amount of imagination, writing chaotic stories that may or may not make sense ☕️🤭✨ If I’m not writing, you can find me plotting world domination or trying to remember where I put my coffee mug.

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

Lament Of The Lost And Forgotten

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

4 min read

Silence.

Eerie, unnatural silence fills the empty corridors of Blue Stone Manor. The only sound is the echo of your own boots against the cracked marble floor, each step a ghost of the last. The stillness presses in, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the relentless pounding of your heart. It roars in your ears. Your breath comes in short, uneven bursts, each inhale trembling with the weight of the cold, stale air. There is no one here but you—just you and your thoughts, those dark, curling thoughts that slither through your mind, wrapping tight around your throat like a sleeping anaconda.

One step. Two. How long have you been walking this hall? Seconds? Hours? Days? Time does not belong here. It flees this place like a coward, abandoning you to a space where night stretches endlessly, trapping shadows in an unforgiving, frozen stillness. You exhale, watching your breath materialize into a thin, crystalline cloud before it vanishes—like everything else.

Your fingers toy with the diamond band on your hand. It is familiar. A part of you. And yet, the story behind it escapes you. Had it always been there? You cannot remember.

The peeling wallpaper brushes against your fingertips, brittle and delicate, crumbling at the lightest touch. Faded floral patterns disintegrate, petals floating idly through the air as if carried by an unseen breeze. The portraits lining the corridor stare down in judgment, their once-proud subjects trapped in cracked, dusty frames. Nobles, perhaps. Or victims. Maybe both. Their unblinking gazes follow you, their painted lips whispering something just beyond the edge of hearing. Do they sneer? Frown? Smile? The flickering light distorts their expressions, playing cruel tricks on your tired mind.

Then—sound.

A single, piercing note shatters the silence.

Your breath stutters. The noise rings through the air, high and thin, like the cry of a dying thing. It rattles down your spine, a discordant warning. Every instinct tells you to turn back, to leave, to run.

But you don’t.

You move forward. One step. Two.

The sound calls to you, leading you to a door. Unlike the rest of the manor, it is untouched by time. Its dark wood gleams, smooth and unblemished. Silver filigree winds around the frame in intricate, curling patterns, an artistry too perfect—too deliberate. It does not belong.

You reach for the handle, fingers brushing cool metal just as the note reaches its crescendo— Louder. Louder.

Then, silence.

The door swings open without a sound.

Inside, moonlight spills through towering windows, casting pale silver light across the room. Papers lie scattered across every surface, blank sheets curling at the edges, forgotten whispers of unfinished thoughts. Instruments—violins, cellos, harps—rest in disarray, discarded like fallen soldiers in the aftermath of battle. Some are shattered, splintered beyond repair. Others remain eerily intact, untouched by time’s cruel hand.

And there, in the farthest corner, a candle burns. Its flame flickers atop a music stand, illuminating the solitary figure seated before it.

A man.

Or something like one.

He sits with his back to you, long and still, his gaze lost in the endless stretch of trees beyond the window. Shadows cling to him like a second skin, obscuring his face, yet something in his posture—his presence—keeps you frozen in place. A warning hums in the back of your mind. Do not move. Do not speak.

He sighs. A quiet, weary thing. Then, with slow, practiced movements, he lifts the violin to his chin, bow poised against the fragile strings.

And he plays.

That note.

That dreadful, lonely note.

It coils around your ribs, wrapping cold fingers around your heart. Then, the melody begins— a sorrowful, haunting serenade.

The notes drift through the air like smoke, curling into the empty spaces of the room, weaving something both delicate and dreadful. It is beautiful. Tragic. A melody steeped in longing, each trembling chord pulling at something deep inside you—something old, something forgotten.

You know this song.

Somewhere, sometime, you’ve heard it before. It is a story in itself, a tale of devotion and despair. The legend of a man who fell in love with a statue, a love so consuming that he played for her every night beneath the stars. He brought her gifts—jewels, flowers, the wedding band his mother once wore. And still, she remained cold, unyielding stone.

And so, he played.

Played until his fingers bled.

Played until his breath gave out.

Played until death claimed him at her feet.

And though the statue remained, his body was never found.

The violinist in front of you slows his bow, drawing out the final, aching note. A whisper of sound that lingers in the air before dissolving into silence.

A breath.

Then, at last, he turns.

Moonlight spills across his face, pale and sharp, painting him in soft shades of silver and shadow. He is beautiful in a way that unsettles—his features timeless, neither young nor old, but something in between. Something eternal. His eyes meet yours, dark and knowing, and in them, you see something that sends a chill through your bones.

Recognition.

He smiles, tired and sad, as if he has waited an eternity for this moment.

And then he speaks.

“At last, my Angel, you’ve come home.”

Horror

Thriller

Tasting Death

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

1 min read

Night falls upon the hour, Painting the manor in blue, I walk through these hallowed halls, Headed to my private room.

I ring the bell inside it twice, Metallic chimes resound, And swiftly comes my tiny maid, With her tiny cart, head bowed down.

She says nothing as she lifts the kettle, Pouring the tea with grace, And once the leaves begin to settle, She dips her head and takes her place.

I lift the cup and smell the gentle scent, Something odd, yet aromatic and pure, I taste it, and smile, finding myself content, But bliss fades quickly, its calm unsure.

I shiver with chills, though the hearth remains bright, My bones ache, fingers numb to the cold, I try to speak, but my head splits with fright, I blink as consciousness begins to fold.

I slump, my chair tipping with my weight, And gravity pulls me to the earth, held tight, Lungs falter, stutter, struggling to inflate, A cruel laugh echoes from the endless night.

My eyes are the only part I still control, For my body is heavy, bound by the unseen, My tongue lies dead, cold, beyond all soul, In this silence, I curse what couldn’t be foreseen.

Heartbeats thud, a quiet, dull roar, My eyes blink slowly, then close once more, A distant clock strikes the midnight hour, And I awaken on night’s Plutonian shore.

Poetry

Thriller

Blood For The Beautiful 🌹

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

6 min read

Leona Castiel walked a fine line between duty and pleasure.

He didn’t exactly enjoy his job. It was messy, dark, and undeniably dangerous.

Yet, part of him thrived in it. He cleaned the streets of filth that dared to step out of line. The screams of agony that echoed through the empty basement halls were like music to his ears.

All so she could stay safe.

Georgina Floyd.

The most beautiful girl he’d ever laid eyes on, with soft jade eyes and sunkissed skin. She worked at the cafe down the street, brewing coffee behind the counter, taking orders from excited customers. Many times, he watched her from the shadows, tucking her caramel-blond hair into a messy ponytail, nervously chewing on her lower lip as she cleaned spills and prepped dishes for the constant flow of customers.

He enjoyed watching her work. It was one of his favorite pastimes. He liked to imagine her in his own kitchen, swaying her seductive hips to some obnoxious pop song, working at the marble island. Not that she knew he existed— she didn’t even know his name. But Leona knew everything about her.

Her favorite movie. Her favorite food. Her address. Even the exact name of the hair product she used—the one that left a sweet vanilla and cinnamon scent…

A loud scream interrupted his blissful daydreaming, the unwelcome sound emitting from the tortured man had been working on for the past hour or so. Leona didn’t mind. His mind had wandered before, and this was an opportunity to meet a new…acquaintance.

The man, Mr. Wickhamm, was older—late forties, possibly early fifties. His once pristine suit was now drenched in sweat and blood, the fabric torn and disheveled. He’d been sitting in the chair for far too long, bound, gagged, and on the edge of madness. His eyes were wide with fear, and his panting breaths echoed in the otherwise silent room.

Leona leaned forward, making eye contact with the terrified man, and let out a slow, deliberate sigh. “Mr. Wickhamm,” he purred, his voice low but striking with an unspoken command. “I do hope this is worth your time.”

Wickhamm’s breathing hitched as he trembled in his restraints. His desperation hung in the air, thick as the blood pooling around him. Leona’s gaze wandered, inspecting the man in front of him with clinical detachment. His appearance was no longer that of a respectable businessman, but a wretched, broken soul who had long lost his dignity.

“Tell me, Mr. Wickhamm,” Leona murmured, “What brings a man like you to these depths?”

The man whimpered but said nothing, his eyes flicking from Leona’s icy gaze to the tools scattered around the room. There was no escape. He knew that now.

Leona picked up a knife, admiring its sharpness as he ran his finger along its edge. “The thing about men like you, Mr. Wickhamm,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave, “is that you think you’re untouchable. But everyone has a weakness. Some people have wives, some have children, and others…” He paused, taking a slow step toward the trembling man. “Others have greed.”

Wickhamm’s eyes flickered with recognition.

“You were hired, weren’t you?” Leona asked, his voice softening as he leaned closer. “To hurt someone. A girl, actually. Georgina Floyd.” He let the name hang in the air like a toxin, waiting for the man’s reaction.

Mr. Wickhamm’s face went pale, his lips parting in an unspoken plea. “I—I didn’t have a choice,” he stammered, but Leona silenced him with a raised hand.

“I know,” Leona said, his voice calm as ever. “That’s what makes this so… tedious. People like you always think they have no choice, don’t they?”

The man’s eyes darted around the room, looking for any escape, but there was none. Not here.

Leona stepped back, tilting his head in thought. “You see, I have this little problem,” he murmured, half to himself. “There’s a girl I care about—a soft and sweet thing, like summer.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at Wickhamm. “And you… you tried to bring the filth of my world too close to hers.”

Wickhamm shuddered, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“I clean up messes, Wickhamm,” Leona said, his voice suddenly sharp. “And you? You’re just another stain.”

He gripped the older man’s hair, yanking his head back, exposing the pale skin of his neck. The light overhead flickered once, casting an eerie glow over the grim scene.

Leona’s hand was steady as he brought the blade to the man’s throat, his fingers warm against the cool steel. “Tell me, Mr. Wickhamm,” he drawled, his tone velvet-soft, “Was the money worth it? Did the few miserable bills they stuffed into your pocket justify the hell you’ve landed yourself in?”

Wickhamm’s lips trembled, his breath hitching, but no answer came.

Leona sighed with palpable disappointment. He wiped the blade clean with a pristine white handkerchief, now streaked with crimson. “And here I thought we were building a rapport.”

Stepping back, he surveyed his work—the blood, the tension, the despair. But in the end, it all had a purpose. A purpose he was about to fulfill.

He could almost hear her voice now, Georgina’s sweet laughter drifting through his mind. The thought of her, warm and innocent, kept him grounded even as he dealt with the filth of the world.

With a final glance at Wickhamm, Leona moved forward again, a cold smile curving on his lips. “Now… Let’s see if you can be of any use to me.”

- - - - -

The room was still, save for the soft drip of blood from the body at Leona,s feet. The silence stretched on, interrupted only by the faint hum of Leona’s breathing as he cleaned his blade. His eyes flickered briefly to the shadows in the corner of the room.

A dark figure hovered there, barely more than a silhouette.

Leona let out an exasperated sigh, his voice low but sharp. “You know, it’s getting old, Cassien. Stop lurking in the damn corner.”

The figure shifted, a quiet chuckle escaping from the shadows. The outline of a man stepped forward into the weak light. Cassien. His shoulder-length curly brown hair framed a face that was both striking and unsettling, with obsidian eyes that seemed to swallow the light around them.

“Couldn’t resist,” Cassien smirked, his voice dripping with a mix of cynicism and amusement. “It’s the only time I get to enjoy the show. You should make it longer, Leona. Really drag it out next time.”

Leona didn’t respond immediately, simply wiping the last of the blood off his knife before sheathing it. “You’re always here for the ‘entertainment’, aren’t you?”

Cassien shrugged with a lazy smile, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark. “What can I say? It’s better than watching those damn politicians play their little power games. At least you get to do something.”

Leona gave a half-smile, clearly unbothered by the comment. “I’m sure I’ll find more entertainment at ‘The Den.’”

Cassien’s expression shifted slightly, no longer playful. “Right, the meeting with the bosses. Let me guess: more promises, more negotiations? Same old dance.”

Leona shot him a quick look, his gaze sharp. “Exactly. And while I’m there, you’ll be dealing with the mess here.”

Cassien’s lips curled upward again, and he cracked his knuckles nonchalantly. “Leave it to me. I’ll clean up the body. No one will ever know he was here.”

Leona gave a nod of approval, pushing a loose lock of chestnut hair back into place as he moved toward the door. “Good. No trace. The last thing I need is complications.”

Cassien tilted his head, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “Always a pleasure watching you work. But I’ll take care of the rest. Go handle your little meeting.”

Leona paused at the door, his hand on the handle. “Don’t make a mess of it. Remember what happens when things aren’t clean.”

With that, Leona left, his footsteps fading as he descended into the night. The sound of the door clicking shut was the final note before Cassien moved swiftly into action, already planning how to erase every trace of the night’s grim work.

- - - - -

Leona slid into the plush leather seat of the Aston Martin DB11, the engine purring to life with a satisfying roar. The night was still young, but his mind was already racing ahead. The meeting with the neighboring bosses was essential—there was power to be claimed, alliances to be secured. But none of it mattered if it didn’t protect her.

As the tires gripped the asphalt, Leona’s gaze flickered to the rearview mirror, his mind briefly drifting back to Georgina. He had seen her earlier, lost in the world of her little cafe, unaware of the darkness that encroached on her life. She would never know the extent of his actions, the depths of the darkness he navigated just to keep her safe. She didn’t need to.

His eyes hardened as he navigated the streets, his thoughts already turning to the meeting ahead. Deals would be made, power shifted, but all of it would serve one purpose.

Georgina.

No one else could stand in his way. She would be his, and anyone who thought otherwise would soon regret it.

Crime

Romance

The Darkness Between Us

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

2 min read

** Prologue**

Red. What once had been her favorite color now soaked into the pristine white carpet beneath her feet.

Calista dropped her new maroon backpack by the front door—the one she’d carefully chosen to start middle school—and froze. Her gaze fell to a crimson trail leading deeper into the small, simplistic apartment she shared with her mother.

Her breath hitched as fear gripped her chest like an icy hand. Stepping inside, she scanned the living room and kitchen, her heart pounding harder with every glance. To her left, the wooden kitchen table leaned awkwardly against the far wall, its legs splintered and broken. To her right, the old leather sofa they’d just bought the other day bore deep gashes and jagged holes, as if clawed apart. Shards of glass from broken picture frames crunched beneath her sneakers as she moved, the apartment unrecognizable in its chaos.

But it wasn’t the destruction that made her hands tremble. It wasn’t even the blood—growing in size and number the closer she crept toward the back corner of the apartment.

It was the silence.

Her mother was never quiet. She was always bustling around the house, humming along to the radio or singing her favorite pop songs. But now… nothing. The oppressive hush pressed down on Calista, thick and suffocating.

“Mom?” she called out weakly, her voice cracking. No response.

Her legs felt heavier with every step she took toward her mother’s bedroom. The blood trail widened, the deep red standing out starkly against the beige carpet. Calista clung to the fragile hope that this was all some terrible misunderstanding, that any second her mother would laugh and reassure her everything was fine.

When she reached the door, she hesitated. Her hand hovered over the handle, fingers trembling as tears blurred her vision. Finally, with a shaky breath, she pushed it open.

And her fragile hope shattered.

There, at the foot of the bed, lay her mother’s body.

Her cascading brown hair fell over her face, partially hiding the red stain blooming across her plain yellow t-shirt. The blood had spread in thick rivulets, soaking into her jeans and pooling around her scuffed tennis shoes.

“…Mom?” Calista whispered, her voice barely audible. She stumbled forward, dropping to her knees. With trembling hands, she reached out, brushing the hair away from her mother’s face.

Her fingers froze as they met cold, unyielding skin. Her mother’s bright hazel eyes—so much like her own—were dull, clouded over with a milky film.

Calista let out a broken, wordless cry as the reality slammed into her. Her mother was gone.

Her mother was dead.

Thriller

Horror

Alters And Allure

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

5 min read

I could have been a star.

No, not like some giant ball of gas hanging in the endless expanse of space, but someone people look up to—someone others admire, aspire to be. I could have been a model with my slim physique and poised demeanor, an actor on screen, or even a dancer, my limbs long and graceful.

But no.

I became a doctor. Sort of.

In Velorion, a nation where technology and science stretch beyond imagination, it’s customary for every child to undergo an assessment by the Great Eye—a gleaming, sentient orb at the heart of our capital city, Thalethis. The Eye’s purpose is to determine each child’s future path, their role in the grand machinery of our society.

After the decision, the child is sent to a facility for body and brain alterations—an operation meant to optimize them, to make them the best version of themselves. We’re hooked up to machines, put under for what feels like a moment, and then transformed. The process is brief, but the recovery can take months. Our very DNA is restructured—our bodies, minds, and even our heights altered to perfection.

I was nine when it happened to me. I stepped onto the silver plate before the Great Eye, located in the center of Thalethis. The plate parted slowly to reveal the golden orb within. It studied me for a long time, its unfathomable gaze sweeping over every inch of me.

I stood still, doing my best to keep my breath steady, but it was impossible to remain calm in the face of something so immense, so mysterious. A loud boom broke the silence.

“Elara Tetherbane,” the Eye declared in its deep, mechanical voice. “Your future is decided. Doctor.”

My mother gasped in delight below me, embracing my father, while he patted her back in response. I should have smiled, I should have been happy—after all, I was destined for a respectable career—but instead, I felt a strange emptiness. I had expected something more, something a child dreams of—maybe an astronaut, or a ballerina. But no, a doctor.

I was about to step down when the Eye’s voice returned, this time with an unsettling hesitation.

“Elara-a-a—“

The Eye faltered, its usual clarity replaced with an odd sputter. I couldn’t explain it, but something had gone wrong. The orb seemed to hesitate, as if unsure of me. A spark shot from it, and for a moment, everything felt… off. But before I could process it further, soldiers ushered me away to make room for the next child, as if the moment had never occurred.

The rest of the day was a blur. The trip to the factory. A boy with black hair handing me a lollipop and wishing me a successful operation. The surgery itself. I don’t remember much—only that the drugs made everything feel distant, like I was floating through it all.

Current Day

I clicked my pen against the clipboard as I walked through the sterile halls of Sector 1’s Central Hospital. In a city of flying cars and instant teleportation, many might find it strange that I prefer the feel of paper to digital data, but I find something comforting about it. Paper can’t be hacked or altered by some glitch or malfunction.

I massaged my temples as I walked, reviewing patient notes. My tired eyes flicked over each file, noting the conditions of my patients. The list grew longer as I passed by the bright white walls of the hallway:

‘Jayne Tettra. 23. Pulmonary Embolism.’

Flip.

‘Hamish Ledorré. 65. Congestive Heart Failure.’

Flip.

‘Roddrick Sashe. 48. Urinary Tract Infection.’

Flip.

‘Lucy Gray. 8. Intracranial Hemorrhage.’

I stopped on this one. Lucy’s picture caught my eye—a smiling child with brown pigtails. Her condition was serious, rare for someone her age. She was my priority this morning. I made my way toward her room, the hum of the hospital around me.

As I neared her room, a scuffle caught my attention. I paused, narrowing my eyes as I retraced my steps, following the noise.

At a pair of reinforced iron doors, five guards struggled to contain a large, thrashing figure. My heart skipped. While it wasn’t uncommon for patients to be agitated, this situation felt different.

A dark figure, scales glinting along his face and neck, struggled against his restraints, hissing angrily at the guards. His slitted amber eyes locked onto me, and I froze.

An Altered Predacine.

These creatures, once human, are subjects of the most dangerous and inhumane experiments—humans whose DNA has been fused with that of various animals, transforming them into grotesque soldiers of the state. They give up their humanity in service of Velorion.

The creature’s face twisted in a snarl, showing elongated canines. Soldiers injected him with suppressors, dragging him behind the doors, which sealed with a loud thunk.

I blinked, forcing myself to focus. That was a danger I’d have to deal with later. For now, I needed to attend to Lucy. I knocked softly on her door and entered.

She lay on the bed, eyes unfocused, looking fragile. I smiled softly, sitting beside her.

“Hi, Lucy. I’m Dr. Elara. I hear you’re not feeling well.”

She nodded faintly, her little body still.

“Can I take a look?”

Another small nod, and I began my quick scan, confirming what I suspected—brain bleed, near the brainstem. I immediately sent a message for the OR to be prepped. Time was critical.

“Good news, Lucy,” I said, offering her a reassuring smile. “We know what’s going on, and we’re going to help you feel better.”

She smiled weakly as I gently squeezed her hand.

“You’re in good hands,” I promised her, before noticing the fear in her eyes. She barely whispered, her lip trembling.

“I-I’m… afraid…”

My heart tightened. I knelt beside her, speaking softly. “It’s okay, Lucy. I understand. It’s scary, but you don’t have to do it alone. We’re all here for you.”

I glanced around, spotting a shelf of stuffed animals. “How about you pick a friend to come with you?” I suggested. “One of these little guys can go with you to the room.”

Her eyes lingered on the shelf, and after a pause, she pointed to a soft, white bear. I gently placed it in her arms.

“This one’s perfect,” I said, smoothing its fur. “You can hold onto it whenever you need to, okay?”

She clutched the bear tightly, the tension in her face easing slightly.

“Thank you, Dr. Elara…” she whispered.

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” I replied, standing up. “You’re going to be just fine.”

As the nurses arrived to take her to the operating room, I felt a quiet relief. It wasn’t just the surgery or the machines—it was the small things, like the bear, the kind words—that made all the difference.

The door clicked shut, and I exhaled, turning to check on the preparations. Just then, my phone buzzed.

I read the message, and my stomach twisted.

Dr. Elara, we need you in the lower levels. Serpent Class Level 4 AP in need of medical attention. Report immediately.

My heart skipped. The same kind of creature I’d just seen—volatile, dangerous.

I hurried to the elevator, feeling the weight of the situation settle over me.

“Let’s see what kind of trouble we’re in.”

Science fiction

Fantasy

Critter From Hell

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

8 min read

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥👹🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Shelia Padlova was the world’s finest exterminator. Be it insects, rats, or even the occasional raccoon, there was no pest she couldn’t handle—or so she thought. Everything changed on this particular morning.

The day began like any other. Around 8 a.m., her phone rang. On the other end was an elderly woman, hysterical and begging for Shelia to come at her earliest convenience. “There’s something lurking in my house,” the woman had said, her voice trembling.

Shelia, ever the professional, agreed to arrive within the hour. She hung up, hopped in the shower, and tamed her wild red curls into a messy bun. A bit of moisturizer for her pale skin, a swipe of mascara to make her green eyes pop—just enough to look alive—and she was ready to go. She grabbed an iced coffee from the fridge, slipped into her shirt, pants, and steel-toed boots, then shrugged on her long black trench coat before heading out the door. Locking it behind her, she hopped into her Chevy, sipping her coffee and humming along to Billie Eilish’s “Bad Guy” as she drove.

The house came into view as she rounded the corner: a quaint, older home with creaking wood and peeling paint. Shelia killed the ignition and stepped out of her truck, grabbing her gear bag from the back. Bounding up the steps, she knocked gently on the front door, her eyes scanning the worn porch.

Before her knuckles left the wood, the door swung open on silent hinges. An elderly woman stood in the doorway, her gray hair pulled into a loose bun, her pink blouse tidy and unassuming. What wasn’t unassuming, however, was the shotgun clutched tightly in her hands.

Shelia blinked, taking a half step back before quickly regaining her composure. “I’m Shelia Padlova, from Harold’s Extermination and Pest Control. We spoke on the phone earlier?”

The woman nodded, her face pale but determined. Without a word, she waved Shelia inside, though the shotgun remained steadfast in her grip.

“Miss Shelia,” the woman began in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone, “I’ll warn you now—this creature is unlike anything you’ve dealt with before. There’s a reason I had to call you.”

Shelia mentally rolled her eyes but maintained a professional smile, unzipping her bag just a hint. “Of course. Can you describe it? That might help me figure out how to handle it quickly.”

The woman tightened her grip on the shotgun as she led Shelia through the foyer and into the kitchen. Her voice dropped even lower. “It’s big and hairy.”

Okay, maybe a rat, Shelia thought.

“It has a long, scaly nose.”

Possum? Snake? She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“And two jagged horns grow out of its skull. Its dark ruby eyes… they stare into your soul.”

Shelia blinked, her mouth opening slightly before snapping shut. Ruby eyes? Horns? Is this lady serious? But as she glanced around the kitchen, her skepticism wavered. The place was a disaster: broken wood, shattered plates, and discarded cereal boxes and tin cans littered the floor. Whatever had caused this chaos wasn’t your average pest.

Setting her bag on the table, Shelia pulled out a pair of thick gloves and a sturdy net. Her heart raced, but her movements were steady as she approached the source of the snarling and scraping sounds coming from beneath the sink.

Shelia crouched down, spotting it—a thin, bare tail flicking back and forth from the cabinet beneath the sink. It twitched rhythmically as the creature inside crunched loudly on something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t shy about its meal. Shelia gripped the cabinet door, took a steadying breath, and opened it on silent hinges.

With a practiced motion, she slammed the net down over the tail, grinning in triumph. “Gotcha!”

Her victory lasted approximately two seconds.

A blood-curdling screech filled the kitchen as the creature thrashed violently. The net shredded apart like wet paper, and Shelia froze as two jagged horns emerged from the cabinet, followed by a long, scaly nose and glowing ruby eyes that locked onto hers.

“What the hell—” Shelia started, but the creature lunged before she could finish.

“OH NOPE!” she yelled, scrambling backward. Her boots slipped on a cereal box, and she nearly fell before vaulting onto the kitchen table. With no time to think, she grabbed the nearest object—a stale loaf of bread—and swung it like a baseball bat.

WHACK!

The creature reeled back, snarling, before darting into another corner of the kitchen. Shelia, still clutching the loaf, stood on the table like it was her last line of defense.

“What the HELL is that?!” she shouted, pointing at the shadows where the thing had disappeared.

The elderly woman, still standing in the doorway, gave an awkward shrug. “Well, at first, I thought it was a cat…”

Shelia turned to her, slack-jawed. “A cat? What the hell about that thing looks like a cat?!” She waved the loaf of bread toward the corner where the glowing ruby eyes and scaly nose were peeking out again.

The woman threw up her hands defensively. “It was dark! I saw the tail and figured it wandered in through the back door! How was I supposed to know it had horns and demonic laser eyes?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Shelia snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe the fact it looks like Satan’s house pet was a clue?!”

The creature hissed again, creeping closer.

“That’s it!” Shelia shouted, dropping the bread and jumping off the table to rummage through her bag. “I’m torching it!”

“Torching it?!” The old woman’s eyes went wide. “This is a house, not a bonfire!”

“Do you want me to get rid of it or not?!” Shelia yelled back, pulling out a small can of bug spray and a lighter.

“You’re insane!”

“Lady, I’ve had it with your demon-cat-whatever this is!” Shelia lit the lighter and sprayed the bug spray, creating a makeshift flamethrower.

The creature screeched again as the fire shot toward it, missing by a hair and setting one of the old woman’s curtains ablaze.

“MY CURTAIN!” the woman screamed, rushing to grab a dish towel to put out the fire.

“Priorities, lady!” Shelia shouted as the creature lunged again. She swung the rolling pin with one hand and blasted another flame with the other, finally sending the creature scrambling back into the shadows with an angry, earsplitting wail.

Breathing heavily, Shelia straightened, holding the lighter and bug spray like weapons. “What the hell kind of pest control situation is this?!”

The elderly woman, patting out the charred curtain, glared at her. “I told you! Big, hairy, ruby eyes—you didn’t listen!”

“I thought you were exaggerating! That thing is straight out of hell!”

“It’s your job to handle it!”

“Lady, my job is roaches, rats, maybe a raccoon! That thing needs an exorcist! Or a flamethrower I didn’t make in 30 seconds!”

The creature hissed from the shadows, its glowing eyes flashing ominously. Shelia groaned, pointing her makeshift flamethrower toward it. “If it comes back out, I’m torching your whole kitchen. I swear to God.”

The old woman raised her hands indignantly. “If you torch my house, I’m keeping your deposit!”

Shelia glared at her, the bug spray nozzle still aimed at the shadows. “Keep it! You’ll need it to rebuild after this thing turns your house into the gates of hell!”

As if on cue, the creature lunged again, this time launching itself onto the countertop and knocking over a stack of plates.

“OH COME ON!” Shelia shouted, leaping back onto the table as the plates shattered around her. She sprayed another jet of fire, forcing the creature to retreat with a snarl.

The old woman rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “You’re supposed to be the professional, aren’t you?”

Shelia turned to her, hair frazzled and mascara smudged. “Lady, I’m one more hiss away from calling the military!”

The old woman huffed, crossing her arms. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a pest.”

“Just a pest?!” Shelia threw her arms in the air. “IT HAS HORNS AND GLOWING EYES. PESTS DON’T LOOK LIKE THEY MOONLIGHT AS APOCALYPSE MONSTERS!”

The creature hissed again, and Shelia raised her makeshift flamethrower. “That’s it! You deal with it! I’m putting this whole kitchen in my rearview mirror!”

The old woman grabbed her shotgun, cocking it with an unsettling calm. “Fine, but don’t think you’re getting paid!”

Shelia groaned, muttering under her breath. “I hate this job. I hate this house. I hate this thing. Next time, I’m getting hazard pay.”

The creature hissed one last time before darting toward the broken kitchen window, squeezing its massive, hairy body through the gap and vanishing into the yard.

Shelia lowered her makeshift flamethrower, blinking in stunned silence as the sound of crashing garbage cans echoed from outside.

“Well…” the old woman said, brushing her hands off on her blouse. “That solves that.”

Shelia turned to her, completely dumbfounded. “That solves that?! Lady, it just escaped! What if it comes back? What if it brings friends?”

The old woman waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, I doubt it. It looked scared. You probably singed its tail.”

Shelia stared at her, absolutely incredulous. “Singed its—what do you think this is? A Disney movie? That thing’s not gonna pack a hobo bag on a stick and waltz off into the sunset! It’s probably plotting revenge as we speak!”

The woman picked up her shotgun and leaned it against the wall. “Well, you’re the expert. Shouldn’t you have, I don’t know, caught it?”

Shelia let out a strangled laugh, gesturing wildly at the mess around her. “Caught it?! With what? My bare hands? Lady, my net turned to confetti! Your demon gremlin chewed through it like it was a snack!”

The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I could lend you my shotgun next time.”

“Next time?!” Shelia gaped at her. “Oh, there isn’t gonna be a next time. If that thing shows up again, I’m calling animal control, the National Guard, and maybe a priest for good measure. I’m not touching this house again without holy water and a flame tank.”

The old woman frowned. “I don’t see why you’re so worked up. It’s just a pest.”

Shelia’s jaw dropped. “Just a pest?! It had horns! It had laser eyes! Pests don’t hiss like they’re auditioning for a horror movie!”

The woman shrugged. “Well, I did tell you it wasn’t ordinary. Maybe you’ll listen next time.”

Shelia grabbed her bag from the table, muttering under her breath. “Oh, I’m listening, all right. Listening to myself quit this job.”

As she stomped toward the door, the old woman called after her, “You’re still sending me the bill, right?”

Shelia paused in the doorway, turned around with a bitter smile, and said, “Lady, I’m charging you double for emotional damages.”

With that, she slammed the door behind her, hopped into her Chevy, and sped off, vowing never to take a job without very specific details again.

The old woman sighed, looking around her ruined kitchen before grabbing a broom. “Kids these days. So dramatic.”

Outside, glowing ruby eyes peeked from the bushes, a low growl rumbling through the air.

Humour

Drama

The Obsession Game

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

1 min read

(Just a quick note, I know it doesn’t say it but I am open to feedback on this, as I am on any of my other works ☕️😌)

Nyra Helmsmore knows obsession intimately. She’s lived in its shadow, felt its pull, and now it’s consuming her, all because of him—Wrenn Silacor. With his striking gray eyes, effortless charm, and a perfection that seems otherworldly, Wrenn has become her entire world. She’s studied him, followed him, and convinced herself that she understands him in ways no one else can.

But Wrenn is more than the star everyone worships. Behind the glowing façade of fame lies something darker. When their worlds finally collide, Nyra realizes she’s caught the attention of a man who sees more than he lets on—and takes more than he gives.

What begins as a tantalizing fixation unravels into a deadly game of cat and mouse. As the lines between desire and fear blur, Nyra is forced to confront a chilling truth: Wrenn isn’t just an obsession. He’s a trap—and one she might never escape.

For fans of psychological thrillers that leave you breathless, The Obsession Game is a tale of infatuation, danger, and the high cost of longing for something just out of reach.

Drama

Thriller

A Quiet Mind

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

2 min read

Light bursts through my closed eyelids, forcing me to open my eyes, yet I can hardly focus on the world around me. The brightness makes everything seem distant and blurred, as though I’m submerged in fog.

“She’s awake!” A voice cuts through the haze. A woman in a blue outfit is talking, calling out to someone else. Their voices fade in and out of comprehension, like muffled whispers.

I try to sit up but something isn’t right. My body feels foreign. My throat is dry, aching from the lack of use, and all I can manage is a weak croak. “Where am I? And where are my children?”

No one answers. They move around me, busy with other patients—others like me? Wounds, bandages, confusion. My mind swirls with ungraspable thoughts, trying to piece together the fragments of what’s happening, but everything slips away as quickly as it comes.

I reach out instinctively, hoping to grasp onto something, anything. But my arms—they don’t respond. They’re heavy, stiff, like they belong to someone else. Panic rises in my chest.

A man in a white coat steps up, his presence cutting through the fog in my mind. He shines a light in my eyes, his voice even, detached. “Miss, can you tell me your name?”

I try to focus on him, but it feels like I’m looking through water. “It’s… Virginia… Guilin… where are my children?”

He makes a note, clicking a pen. Once, twice. He asks another question, but the words don’t stick. “What do you do for a living?”

I struggle to gather my thoughts, like trying to hold onto sand slipping through my fingers. “I… teach poetry. Yes, I’m a teacher.” It feels right, but why do I feel so uncertain?

“Good. Do you know where you are?” He adjusts his glasses, eyes scanning my face, looking for something.

“Is this… a hospital?” I glance around, hoping for some clarity, but nothing about the sterile white walls brings familiarity.

“Yes,” he responds, flipping through the pages on his clipboard.

“Why… am I here?”

“You had a seizure earlier this morning,” he says, his tone mechanical, as if this is all routine. “You’ve been unresponsive for almost three hours.”

My mind spins. A seizure? That’s… that’s why I’m here? But why can’t I remember? Why do I feel so empty?

The door swings open, and a man walks in—a figure from my life, yet unfamiliar. He wears a black jacket and a hat. My husband? His face is blurry, his voice muffled as he gently takes my hand. His tears fall, his words tangled in emotion I can’t quite catch.

“Don’t worry about the kids,” he says, his voice cracking. “They’re with your parents. It’s okay.”

But I can’t shake the unease. Something isn’t right. Where are my children? Why is everything so distant?

He talks to the doctor, discussing surgery, baseball games, memories—none of it makes sense. His hand leaves mine, and I watch as he steps out of the room with the doctor. The door clicks shut behind them, and I’m alone again, the quiet too loud in my head.

I turn back to the window, and there they are again—blue. So much blue. A sea of blue moving against the sterile whiteness of the walls. The noise of it all, the bustle, the chaos—it makes me feel small.

My throat is sore. My arms feel useless, like they don’t belong. I open my mouth to speak, but it’s barely a whisper.

“Where am I? And where are my children?”

Drama

Beautiful Til The End

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

1 min read

I gaze upon her perfect figure, Pale and flawless, Smooth like polished ivory, Cool as frost on a winter’s morning.

Her lips are red, Like the rose bouquet I gave her, It was her birthday, after all.

Her dress, white and soft, Like clouds or pure innocence— But there’s a stillness in the fabric.

Her neck wears a purple necklace, New, amethyst perhaps? Clings tight, As if to hold her here.

Her eyes are closed, Beautiful icy eyes, sealed from the world, Blue and scarlet light dances upon her skin— And the wailing cry carries her away To a sanctuary where nothing stirs.

Poetry

A Night Unseen

🌗Midnight Moth🌓

5 min read

I swirl my glass of Cabernet wine, plastering an interested smile on my face as my date continues droning on about the monotonous and uninspiring life of a corporate office worker.

The man’s pathetic, really. He’s been complaining about his boss and his job for the past hour, never once asking me a question or even noticing my waning attention. I can tell he’s the kind of guy who lacks the drive to change things, the type who goes through life blaming the world for not bending to his will.

I glance at my phone, willing it to ring—praying for some call to rescue me with a solid, undeniable excuse to leave. But, of course, it never comes.

Just my luck.

I sigh and look around the restaurant, noting the intimate atmosphere most people seem to be enjoying. Couples share candlelit conversations, their whispers blending with the faint jazz music playing in the background. The marbled floors gleam under golden chandeliers, and the windows lining the walls frame a glittering view of the city skyline. Everything about this place screams romance—except for my table, where my date continues to drown in his own self-pity.

I glance back at him as he drones on about his latest grievance with his coworkers. He’s not entirely bad-looking. Blond hair frames sharp blue eyes, and his suit—tailored, expensive—hints at someone who should have charm to spare. But his handsome features are wasted on his hollow personality. He has that dead-inside look, a man going through the motions of life without ever really living.

I brush invisible dust off my belted black jumpsuit, which I’d paired with gold accessories and heels. It compliments my tanned skin and curly hickory-colored hair, which I had taken far too much time styling for this mediocre evening. As he continues to ramble, I suppress a yawn, picking at the remains of my filet mignon and sipping my wine.

At some point, I excuse myself, claiming I need to use the ladies’ room. Not that he hears me. He’s too absorbed in his own narrative. My heels click against the polished floor as I walk away, and for the first time tonight, I feel a semblance of relief.

I turn the corner and nearly crash into something—or rather, someone. I stumble back, my balance faltering, but before I can hit the ground, a hand shoots out and wraps around my waist, steadying me.

My heart does a little tumble as my green eyes widen, meeting the gaze of the man who caught me.

Oh. My. God.

Standing before me is, without a doubt, the most striking man I’ve ever seen. He towers over me, easily over six feet tall, with slightly curled jet-black hair and piercing obsidian eyes. His chiseled features are so perfect they seem almost unreal—like they were carved by the hands of a master sculptor. He looks down at me with an amused expression, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

“Careful now, darling,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet. “A beauty like you should never be on the ground.”

I nod dumbly, unable to form coherent words. My brain struggles to process both his presence and the fact that he’s still holding me.

He releases me gently, stepping back as a faint smile plays on his lips. “Enjoy your evening,” he says, inclining his head before walking past me.

I watch him go, still rooted to the spot, my mind racing. Who was that?

I shake myself out of my daze and head to the restroom, splashing cold water on my face in an attempt to calm my nerves. By the time I return to my table, I’ve convinced myself it was just a random encounter—nothing more.

But when I glance toward the far end of the dining room, I see him again. He’s seated a few tables away, looking completely at ease as he sips his drink.

My date quirks a brow as I sit down. “Where did you go? You ought to know it’s rather rude to leave in the middle of a conversation, dear.”

“Apologies,” I say, forcing a polite smile. “I just needed a moment.”

“Never mind that,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, his eyes scanning the room. They settle on a young woman leaving the restaurant, and a strange expression flickers across his face—something between boredom and disdain.

“And sadly,” he continues, “I’ve grown bored of you as well. There really isn’t anything special about you, aside from your money.”

I nearly choke on my wine, my mouth dropping open as he rises from his seat. He grabs his coat, giving me one last condescending look. “I’ll be on my way. I’m sure you can handle the bill.”

And with that, he walks out, leaving me stunned and furious.

I take a deep breath, downing the rest of my wine in one gulp as I try to regain my composure. But before I can fully process what just happened, a commotion breaks out a few tables away.

I glance over to see a woman in a garish bubblegum-pink dress standing and yelling at her date, a bottle of sparkling water clutched in her hand. Before anyone can stop her, she dumps the entire bottle over his head, her laughter echoing through the room.

The man slowly rises, water dripping from his hair and suit, and I freeze. It’s him—the stranger who saved me earlier.

He doesn’t look angry, though. If anything, he looks mildly amused as he grabs a napkin and begins drying himself off. “Well,” he says, his tone calm but cutting, “It seems things won’t work out after all, Iliana.”

He tosses the napkin onto the table, pulls out his wallet, and leaves cash for the servers before whispering something to the woman. Whatever he says makes her go pale, and she stares after him as he strides out of the restaurant.

I don’t know what compels me to follow, but before I realize it, I’m on my feet, grabbing my bag and heading for the door.

The cool night air greets me once again as I step outside, scanning the sidewalk for any sign of him. I spot him a few paces away, his tall figure impossible to miss as he walks with purpose.

“Wait!” I call out before I can stop myself.

He pauses, turning slightly to look at me. His expression softens when he sees me, and he waits as I jog to catch up.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice tinged with genuine concern.

“Yes,” I say quickly, feeling my cheeks heat. “I just… I wanted to thank you. For earlier.”

A small smile curves his lips. “No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.”

I hesitate, unsure of what to say next. He watches me patiently, as though he has all the time in the world.

“I never got your name,” I say finally.

“Adrian,” he replies, his dark eyes gleaming under the streetlights. “And yours?”

“Kiara.”

“Kiara,” he repeats, the name rolling off his tongue like a secret.

We stand there for a moment, the noise of the city fading into the background. There’s something about him that draws me in, something I can’t quite put into words.

“Would you like to take a walk?” he asks, his voice breaking the silence.

I nod before I can overthink it.

As we stroll through the city, the conversation flows effortlessly. He’s charming but not overbearing, and there’s an intensity to him that’s both intriguing and intimidating.

By the time we part ways, the night feels like a blur—a surreal dream I’m not entirely sure I want to wake from.

As I watch him disappear into the shadows, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the last time I’ll see Adrian. Something tells me our paths are destined to cross again.

For better or worse.

Drama

Romance