Page 1 of Moth to Her Flame

Chapter One

Chelsea

"Picture this—I'm in my backyard when BAM! This light beam shoots down and my prize Holstein starts floating like some county fair balloon! I swear on my grandma's Bible, that cow was levitating!"

My fingers dance across the soundboard, adjusting levels while fighting back a smirk. Mrs. Henderson from Wyoming, tonight’s first caller, hasn’t taken a breath in three minutes. Her tale of bovine abduction would be more convincing if she hadn’t called last month about Shadow People dancing under her bed at two AM.

“Fascinating, Mrs. Henderson.” Leaning into my professional-grade Shure microphone, my voice drops to the sultry,mysterious tone that’s become my trademark. “And did these alleged aliens leave any evidence behind? Crop circles? Strange markings? Perhaps a cosmic cow patty?”

The static of the satellite connection crackles through my headphones. Outside my cabin’s window, Colorado’s moonlit peaks pierce the night sky like ancient guardians. The generator hums steadily from out back, powering my little corner of weird in the digital age.

“Well, no, but—”

“Thank you for sharing your extraordinary experience with the Nocturnal Transmissions audience.” My finger hovers over the fade-out button. “Remember, listeners: the truth isn’t just out there—it’swayout there. This is Nocturna, your guide through the midnight hours.”

After queueing up some atmospheric background music—tonight, it’s synthetic whale songs mixed with surging waves—I take my next call. As he rambles about Bigfoot sightings, my fingers tighten on the soundboard controls.

Memories of my own encounter, and the career suicide that followed, flash hot and sharp. The caller's Bigfoot theory hits too close to home. Two years ago, concrete evidence—footprints, photos, everything vetted—had cost me my journalism career. Funny how truth becomes career suicide when it's too uncomfortable for people to accept.

I’d gone to journalism school and took my investigations seriously. Too bad it turned out that most of the world prefers comfortable lies to uncomfortable truths. The aftermath attracted some unsavory attention—not just mockery, but emails from private collectors offering “compensation” for locations and details. As if I’d help anyone hunt down creatures for their personal menageries.

Hence my self-imposed exile to this remote mountain cabin, broadcasting to fellow believers and skeptics alike through my midnight call-in show.

I try to reduce the emotional burn by reminding myself of my triumphs as well as my biggest career tragedy. Before it all went to hell, I’d written a series of paranormal pieces that earned respect. That was before things became personal, though.

“Next caller, you’re live with Nocturna.”

“Long-time listener, first-time caller.” The voice is young, female, and trembling with excitement. “You’re the only one who might believe me. Last week, I was hiking near Pike’s Peak—”

“Let me guess.” I break my own rule about interrupting callers, but sometimes you can’t help yourself. “You saw something… unusual?”

“I saw someoneunusual. A man in a suit, like some corporate type, but way out in the middle of nowhere. He had this weirdequipment, like something out of a sci-fi movie. He was taking readings or measurements or something.”

Now this is different. Most callers want to talk about their brushes with the supernatural. Few report seeing watchers.

“Did he see you?”

“No. He gave off such a weird vibe that I hid. But here’s where it gets weirder—he was talking into an earpiece, saying something about ‘energy signatures’ and ‘quantum anomalies.’ It wouldn’t have alarmed me, but he mentioned your name, Nocturna. I thought I should call.”

The back of my neck prickles. My show name. At first, I did a great job keeping my real name anonymous, but a month or so ago, I started talking about my Sasquatch debacle. After that, it wasn’t hard for fans to find me through a cursory Google search. Although astute listeners might know my name, I still guard my address with my life.

“Interesting.” My voice remains steady, years of journalism training kicking in as I wonder if this caller is purposely trying to yank my chain—or if she really heard a man-in-black type talking about me. “Did you happen to notice any company logos? Vehicle markings?”

“Nothing obvious, but his tablet had this symbol—like a maze inside a circle? Listen, I’ve got to go, but… be careful, okay? Something about him felt wrong.”

The line goes dead before I can ask more questions. Sliding my headphones down around my neck, I pull up my research database. A maze inside a circle… why does that sound familiar?

“Well, night owls,” my voice carries none of the unease churning in my stomach. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a corporate conspiracy to go with our floating cattle. Maybe the aliens are outsourcing? Keep those calls coming—especially if you’ve spotted any mysterious suits in unusual places. While we ponder that puzzle, here’s a little mood music to fuel your paranoid fantasies.”

As the haunting “Tubular Bells” theme fills the airwaves, I hunch toward the screen, searching for that symbol. The caller’s story nags at me like a loose thread begging to be pulled. Two years of hosting this show taught me that sometimes the craziest stories hold the darkest truths.

My webcam light blinks on for a split second, then off again. Probably just a glitch—the hazard of broadcasting from the middle of nowhere. Still, something makes me reach for the gun in my desk drawer, checking that it’s loaded.

In this business, paranoia isn’t just an occupational hazard—it’s a survival skill.

“Coming up next on Nocturnal Transmissions: Aurora Jackman will be joining us to talk about her latest book on astral projection and lucid dreaming. But first, let me tell you about the time I tracked a Sasquatch and lost everything… except the truth.”

The ON AIR light glows red against the darkness outside my window, a symbolic beacon for every lost soul and conspiracy theorist awake this time of night. Somewhere out there, someone’s listening.

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