Page 4 of Moth to Her Flame

A great horned owl watches my approach from a nearby pine, unimpressed. At least the local wildlife has gotten used to my presence during my… occasional fly-bys. Not stalking. Definitely not stalking. Just… protective observation.

Clandestineprotective observation that’s about to become a lot more obvious.

The wind shifts, carrying her voice to my sensitive antennae. She’s still broadcasting, voice husky, yet smooth as silk as she discusses the finer points of chupacabra sightings. The familiar cadence steadies my nerves even as it sets my heart racing.

Focus. Lives are at stake. Hers included.

Landing silently on a sturdy pine branch with a clear view of her cabin, I take a moment to smooth my wing edges. Not outof vanity. Just… professional courtesy. First impressions matter when you’re about to upend someone’s reality.

Through her studio window, she's illuminated by the soft glow of equipment lights—headphones on, hands dancing across her soundboard with practiced grace. Every movement mesmerizes, even the simple act of tucking hair behind her ear makes my wings quiver. How many nights have I watched her like this, wanting to be closer but knowing I'd only inspire fear?

Her expression is animated as she talks, as though her callers are right there with her instead of scattered across the midnight airwaves. Finally, she signs off with one of her favorite catchphrases, “Thanks for listening. Remember, stay curious, stay cautious, and stay tuned for the next transmission.”

My antennae twitch at the thought of finally hearing that sultry voice in person, not through speakers or from a distance. They pick up the subtle vibrations of her backup generator, the hum of electronics, and the soft whir of her ceiling fan. All the small sounds that make up her world.

A world I’m about to crash into like a meteor.

After pressing a key on her keyboard, she removes her headphones. She rolls her shoulders, one hand moving to massage the back of her neck. Even through the window, I can see the fatigue in her posture. It’s now or never.

She deserves to know. She deserves a chance to protect herself.

The conviction that drove me here resurfaces, stronger than my doubts. She’s spent years giving voice to the strange and mysterious, creating space for stories like mine. Like ours. Even when it cost her everything.

Now it’s my turn to give her truth in return… no matter what happens next.

Drawing in a deep breath, I spread my wings. The rising moon silvers their edges as I glide down toward her porch. My hand, raised to knock, hesitates for just a moment.

Please don’t let her have that gun handy.

Chapter Four

Chelsea

Halfway through checking my security cameras for the night, a knock echoes through my cabin. Not a timid, uncertain knock. Three sharp raps that mean business.

My heart kicks against my ribs. No one comes up here. That’s the whole point of broadcasting from the middle of nowhere. Besides, it’s three in the damn morning.

The gun is in my hand before I consciously decide to retrieve it from my desk drawer. Two years of self-imposed exile have taught me a few things about survival. Like keeping the safety off when answering unexpected after-midnight visits.

Another knock. Even more insistent this time.

“Who’s there?” My voice carries the steel edge that’s become my trademark since the Sasquatch incident. The one that says I’m not some helpless female alone in the woods. "Last warning—show yourself or get off my property. I'm armed and my aim is excellent."

“Please.” The voice is male, unexpectedly gentle despite its strange resonance. “I need to speak with you. It’s about your safety.”

Right. Because that’s not serial killer dialogue at all.

Keeping the gun ready, I approach the door. The porch light reveals nothing through the peephole except shadows that seem to move strangely. Probably just moths drawn to the light.

Except those shadows are way too big for moths.

“Show yourself clearly or leave. Now.”

“Um. I think in the movies this is where someone tells you to sit down first.”

Does this ass think he’s funny? No one’s funny at three in the morning.

“Show yourself or get off my freaking porch!”

---