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of the world. Maybe he would find it back where it had originated: in Point Pleasant.
    He shut his laptop, made sure it was plugged in to charge, and headed downstairs to the front door where his bags were still in a heap on the floor. He picked them up, carried them to the utility room adjacent to the front hallway, and started pulling garments out of the bags to shove into the washing machine. He would leave first thing in the morning, but he needed clean clothes.
    As Ben lay awake in the messy bed he had not bothered to make the morning he had embarked on his trip over a month ago, he regretted his decision to have that final coffee. When unconsciousness finally overtook him, he dreamed of red eyes and the flutter of wings for the first time in years.
     
     
     
    POINT PLEASANT, WEST VIRGINIA
    August 1991
    Ben had no idea what they were going to do when they reached their bikes. Nicholas was swift on his Schwinn; he always just managed to beat Ben during their impromptu races around Point Pleasant’s quiet streets. But even Nicholas would not be able to out-pedal this thing. It was fast. And if Nicholas could not beat it, Ben probably had about the same chance of survival as a popsicle in hell.
    Nicholas must have had a similar thought given the look of sheer panic on his face as they entered a clearing. Ben could see the opening to the forest and the shrubbery that concealed their bikes. He supposed that they had nothing to lose; there was nowhere else to run and at least on the bikes they would go faster than they had managed on foot.
    Ben’s lungs burned, but he pushed himself to run faster. Then he heard it: a loud thud. The noise was followed by a keen awareness that Nicholas was no longer at his side. Ben skidded to a halt and spun around, but he did not see his friend. He doubled back without thought.
    “Nic!”
    A hand latched onto Ben’s shoulder, and he was yanked against a nearby oak. Nicholas had stumbled, but he had pulled himself up behind the trunk. He put a finger to his own lips, and Ben nodded and kept quiet. He swallowed down a rush of fear when he realized he could no longer hear the sound of wings flapping or branches breaking. Nicholas stared up at the surrounding treetops as if to try to spot the thing again while Ben kept his gaze level and scanned the area for any indication of where it might have gone.
    “I don’t see it,” Nicholas whispered and elbowed Ben to catch his attention. Nicholas’ dark hair was more ruffled than usual, and his blue eyes were darkened with fear. “Maybe it gave up.”
    Ben shot Nicholas a look . “That’s what they always think in the movies. Then the monster eats them.”
    “This isn’t a movie, Ben.”
    Ben shifted free of Nicholas’ hand. “No, really, you think? I say we keep running for the bikes. It’s all we can do, and they’re just over there,” he said, gesturing toward the shrubbery.
    Nicholas conceded with a nod, but his posture remained tense. The plan was a shoddy one, but it seemed to be their only option. They could not stay in the forest; it could return any minute.
    “Let’s go,” Nicholas said finally. “I’ll keep an eye above us, you keep lookout on the ground.”
    Their pace was cautious as they trudged forward.
    “It really has red eyes,” Ben said, his voice hushed. “ Really red.”
    “Shut up, Ben.”
    “I’m just saying.”
    They were less than fifty feet from their bikes, and neither one of them had spotted any sign of the thing. The Mothman , Ben guessed he should call it; the town’s urban legend was definitely real, and every horrifying detail of it made Ben’s skin crawl. It looked nothing like a moth, though, so the name just did not ring true. Ruth Calloway had done the Mothman a disservice when she had described it to them on all of those random summer afternoons. She never told them that it had scaly, gray skin or that its wings were more akin to a bat’s than a moth’s. Or that those appendages were