Mothschief

Episode 1: Midnight Mountain Water

This deserves a little bit of an introduction.

I’ve thought for a while about having a recurring collection of short stories to post here on the Stack. Sometimes story ideas don’t fill out long form story telling. Other times, well, you’re probably not gonna sell some of them.

This is one of those stories that came from a funny story. Here I was, staying over with some friends due to the snow/freeze that we experienced recently, and with not much to do. So, based on a wild video from IG, we were pickling pumpkins. Conversation happened, and this story is the result.

I hope y’all enjoy.

In my defense, the window was open when I got there.

The front porch light, the best defense any sane person could have against me, was also left off. Upon hindsight, well, it was probably burnt out. This is rural Appalachia, we’re talking about. But, hey, that’s not the point! The point I am trying to make is that they were asking for me to snoop around. And, what can I say? I am fond of mischief.

Or mothschief, as I like to call it. There are obvious reason for that. Not that anyone would listen to me. It’s hard to communicate when you have a proboscis instead of a proper mouth. All that comes out sounds like one of those whoopie-cushions that the human larva find such enjoyment in. Despite what people may think about me, I do not like having strangers laugh in my face when I’m trying to speak to them. That’s why I favor the silent approach.

This night in particular, though, was far from silent.

Like I mentioned before, the porch light was off and the window was open. Despite my height, I find it quite easy to slip into spaces. You just have to be conscious of the wingspan is all. The LAST thing I want is to damage the boys. They’ve gotten me out of tight spaces more times than I care to admit.

Let me set the stage for you.

Appalachia. Rural Appalachia. And that’s pronounced apple-at-cha. Don’t come around here utterin’ that apple-A-schuh nonsense. If you’re going to say it, say it properly!

Anywho, rural Appalachia. Back in the holler. Out in them woods, and I say woods on purpose. Ain’t no one round these parts call them a forest. But back in them woods sat this old cabin. It’d been a spot I’d scoped out for a while now. Who were the owners? Disharoons? Murphys? Hatfields? Eh, it don’t matter much. They were humans. All humans look alike in their own way anyway. At least to me they do. No defining traits like wing patterns, antenna, not nothin’! Just… goopy bodies crammed into strange fabric casings. I’ve never figured out how humans made it this far.

These humans in particular fascinated me. They were industrious; They had a small farm with chickens, ducks, guineas, goats instead of cows, a pig lot, a smoke house, and some kind of contraption tucked way back in their woods that made water. But this water wasn’t normal water. It burned like fire, it did. And it made my antenna feel funny. I drank a whole jar of it once and couldn’t fly straight for a whole night. Woke up the next morning hanging upside down from a tree branch feelin’ like my head was caught in a lemon juice drenched bear trap.

Needless to say, I wanted more of this water. And these humans kept the jars locked in the root cellar beneath their home. It’s like they don’t want to share their magical mountain water with no one. They make these weird reddish metal springs that produce the fire water and then they keep it all to themselves. Bunch of greedy bastards. Tonight, though, I had found my way in.

I’d been lurkin’ in the old oak tree that loomed on the plateau overlookin’ their holler ever since the sun started droopin’. Sure, the daylight bugged me. But I was determined to get a jar or two of that magical mountain water, so the discomfort was tolerable. I knew that they’d bedded down when the smell of their dinner faded and the lights inside the cabin diminished.

The fools, I thought to myself as I spread out my wings. They’d extinguished their last defense against me. I swooped from my lurkin’ point, silent as an owl, and circled the air above the cabin to seek out an entry point. The chimney wasn’t smokin’ tonight, but that wasn’t a good entry point. Human chimneys have a grumpy little spirit dwelling within them. They don’t take kindly to intruders.

On my third pass around, as I mentioned before, I noticed the front porch light was off. I noticed the window was open, too, after diving down for a better look. That’s when the plan emerged.

Now, I will openly admit, this plan was not at all well thought out. I was young, brash, and dry. I wanted that magical mountain water. I wanted it bad. Had a hankerin’ from hell, I did. And that is more than enough to drown out much sense in my brain back in those days. Now, being older, I see the folly in my youthful nonsense. But, if I’d had half the brain I do now, I wouldn’t have half as many stories. Like that one about the collapsing bridge.

Before you ask, I had nothing to do with that. It was wobbly before I showed up. Just because I was a little pudgy back then and might have accidentally weighed down the weakest side of the bridge does not mean that I caused the collapse.

Anywho, where was I?

Oh, yes. Entering the cabin.

I landed fifty yards from the front porch. It gave me time to make sure that humans inside were actually asleep before making my approach. When I was certain that the horrid sounds coming from inside the cabin were just snoring and not some kind of guard beast growling, I lurked towards the porch and peered inside the open window. The interior was comfortable, if not a little sparse. These weren’t high status humans by any means, but they weren’t bad off neither. I stretched my antenna inside and shook ‘em about. When I didn’t sense nothin’, I tucked my wings in and squeezed myself inside.

Now, I might be tall, but I’m surprisingly light. Still, not one moment after my feet touched the floor boards didn’t one of them planks squeak. I froze immediately. My heart felt like it stopped as well. When nothin’ came of the noise, I sighed and resumed my lurkin’.

The room I’d crawled into was both sittin’ room and cookin’ room. There were chairs and tables, a few cabinets, and a whole wall covered in strange metal circles with sticks that the humans cooked their food in. None of these things were important. What was important was the little clear jars that contained the mountain water.

Now, I had been watchin’ these humans for some time. They’d been yappin’ about somethin’ called a cellar. Apparently there was a door to this magical place inside their house. You need to understand that it isn’t hard to find a door when humans are around. The trick is figuring out which door goes where. All doors look the same. This makes mothschief immensely difficult.

The first door I opened lead into one of the human sleepin’ caves. Humans nest in these strange square caves, layin’ on strange square beds, with even more strange square removable furs that they cover themselves with. Now, those square furs are strange delicious. Seein’ the one spread out before me was temptin’ despite the human snoring soundly beneath it. The desire to step inside and consume the square, which humans called blankets, was powerful. My stomach growling didn’t make it any easier.

I steeled my resolve, though. I hadn’t come for a midnight snack. I had come for the jars, and the jars I would have. So I quietly closed the door leadin’ to the sleepin’ cave and kept on with my search. It took two more doors before I found the stairs leadin’ down into the earth. I cracked the door open and was met by a cool draft that smelled faintly of dirt. I knew at once that this was the secretive cave that the humans called the cellar. I had to stoop to keep from knockin’ my head against the ceiling. My antenna drug along the sloopin’ roof as I ventured down into the earth. Thankfully, I am not impeded by the dark. So when I at last found the dirt beneath my feet, my eyes beheld the shelves of neatly arranged jars that the humans kept down in that secretive dungeon.

Some jars held fruit. Some held vegetables. Some looked like the had… pig’s feet? I recognized honey and somethin’ delightful called jam. I’d swiped some of those before. Some of the jaws had a pungent smell. I didn’t like those that much. Soon enough, though, I found the jars I’d come for.

Arranged in a cooler section of the cellar, tucked away all by themselves, were the jars of the magical mountain water. I squeaked with delight at the sight! So many jars! The metal spring must have been productive this year. Or the humans had been extra greedy. Either way, the benefits were mine for the takin’. I looked around for something to stick the jars in, unaware that my squeak of excitement might have been a little louder than expected. I wasn’t payin’ half the attention I needed to be to keepin’ up with my surroundins. So when I turned around from packin’ a bag full of jars of the mountain water, I squeaked in surprise at the sight of one of the little humans standin’ behind me.

She was small. Barely standing at knee height to me. Her eyes, a sky blue color, stared fully open up at my hunched over form. To her credit, she didn’t cry. Instead, she turned and ran up the stairs shoutin’!

“Get the shotgun, memaw! Mothmans stealin’ our pickled pumpkins!”

I’d been around humans long enough to know that a shotgun was a strange metal stick that spit hot hatred at anything the humans pointed it at. I was not about to wait around to see what that felt like when it bit you on the ass.

Now, you might be thinkin’, “But mothman! How did you make it out of the cellar, out the window, and into the sky without gettin’ shot?”

Point of fact, I didn’t. I was half way through squeezin’ my body out the window when I felt somethin’ hot pepper my backside. It struck me with enough force that it pushed my out the window and into the yard. Fearin’ for my life, and what was left of my rear, I took to the sky without a second thought. Another loud burst from the shotgun followed, though I have no earthly clue where it went. I’d saved my bottom from another bruisin’ and I had a bag full of mountain water. That is all that mattered.

Now, you might be thinkin’, “But mothman, was it worth gettin’ shot in the rear for those jars?”

The answer to that would be yes and no. The magical mountain water numbs all wounds. It would have been more worth while if I hadn’t also had to waste two of those bottles on treatin’ said shot backside, though.

Hindsight is double-aught. Or something like that.