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My name's Zoe Lang.
I make indie documentaries about the strange and unexplained—cryptids, haunted places, unsolved mysteries. My latest obsession? The Mothman.
Everyone in Point Pleasant talks about him like he's real. Like they saw something. Like he's watching from above even now. Red eyes. Huge wings. A warning, they say, before disasters.
Skeptic me? I thought it was just folklore dipped in tragedy. Until I stayed the night near the Silver Bridge ruins.
December air bites deep in West Virginia, and the fog rolls in thick after midnight. My camera guy bailed after day two—claimed he heard wings beating above the trees when no birds were around. I thought he was just being dramatic.
So, I set up my tent alone.
By 2 a.m., I was awake. There was no sound—no wind, no leaves, no insects. Just… stillness.
Then I felt it. A low hum. Not in the air, but in my bones.
I stepped outside, camera in hand. Fog swallowed the world around me, but I pointed my lens upward.
There it was.
A figure, too tall for any man, perched on the skeletal remains of the old bridge. Wings folded like a bat, and two glowing red orbs stared straight down at me.
I froze. Couldn't even press record.
Then it took flight—no sound, no flapping, just a dark blur against the pale sky. I spun in a circle, trying to follow, but it vanished like it had never been there.
Until I turned the camera to playback.
There were no clips. Everything I'd recorded that night had been wiped.
But in the reflection of my last test shot, in the lens glare—those same red eyes blinked at me from behind.
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I left Point Pleasant the next morning.
But sometimes, when I'm driving alone at night, I catch a glimpse in the rearview mirror. High above the trees. Watching.
Waiting.
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