Mothman
The Red-Eyed Harbinger of Collapsing Bridges
You heard the wings. Now brace for the fall.
I drift where the world is about to bend, watching from above with eyes that don't blink. You call me a curse, a ghost story told in rusted steel and river fog. But I'm just the whisper before the scream, the flare of instinct that saves some and haunts the rest. Point Pleasant wasn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.
What I'm Into: collapsing bridges, moonlit wingspans, whispers before the crash, the moment before panic, empty roads at midnight
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