I look again, squinting toward the shape. But it’s gone.
Had to be a resident. Probably someone who came out for air and then went back inside. Nothing suspicious.
We cross Broad Street, and Dorian peers through the chain-link fence into the concrete yard of the Coast Guard station. Here on the back side near the abandoned building, it’s mostly storage—old equipment and containers.
“There’s a lot of iron here,” he mutters. “And look at this.” He touches a small object attached to the fence. It’s a crucifix.
“There are more.” I turn on my phone light and step in closer, pointing out chains and crosses—dozens of them, wreathed with the links of the fence. As we skirt the edge of the abandoned building, I notice more crosses nestled into the ivy and moss, jammed between bricks, tucked on ledges. “I might have missed some of these the first time, but I definitely wouldn’t have missed all of them,” I tell Dorian. “Someone must havebeen busy shoring up the spiritual defenses. Which means we’re in the right place.”
We turn the corner, approaching the front entrance beneath the overhanging trees. Dorian swears as a dangling cross hits him in the face. He has to bat several more aside as we move forward.
My fingers trail over the wall of the building, where newly painted Bible verses thatch the brick and concrete. A cockroach almost as big as my hand scuttles near my fingers, and I nearly shriek, but I manage to stifle it.
Dorian chuckles at my sudden recoil, but the sound dies in his throat. “Baz.”
Around the entrance to the building, a soft, fluttering darkness clusters, thickly coating the bricks and ivy. Velvety midnight wings, feathery antennae, crooked legs. Hundreds of them.
“Black moths,” I whisper.
They stir as I approach, their wings fanning, their soft, fat bodies shifting. Several of them take off and skim toward me on silent wings.
Last time they approached me, I was taken by surprise, and I was a little creeped out. But they’re just moths. They can’t hurt me, right? I keep my breathing measured and slow as handfuls of the creatures settle on my shoulders, arms, and back.
“They’re not so bad,” I say faintly.
But Dorian is walking forward, alarm radiating from his body as he aims his phone light ahead. My gaze follows the beam of light, and there, in the recessed doorway of the building, lies a lumpy shape, blanketed with moths. The diamond windows and diagonal boards of the door form a sorrowful frown overlooking the lumpy object.
Dorian waves the moths aside.
“Mrs. Dunwoody.” I clamp my hand over my mouth, bile burning my throat.
She’s been partly skinned—nibbled in places and torn in others—but I’d know that ragged floral housecoat anywhere. Two Sharpies have rolled out of her pocket into the gleaming blood and spilled paint pooling in the corner of the doorstep.
I gag sharply, slamming my hand over my mouth. A shudder runs over my body, disturbing the moths that have landed on me. They take flight, surging forward and settling onto the blood, their tiny mouthparts dipping down to it.
Dorian comes to me, his face white. “We can’t help her, Baz. We need to leave. We can call in a tip to the police, let them take care of it.”
“Just—leave her?” I gasp. “They’re drinking her blood, Dorian. The fucking moths are drinking her blood!”
“We have to leave her, Baz.” Dorian grasps my arms, urgency in his tone. “She’s gone. We have to think about how this will look…”
But a shuddering gasp startles both of us—a hoarse, wet inhale from the body on the ground.
“Oh shit,” I sob. “She’s still alive.”
The moths flutter upward, abandoning the pool of blood and alighting in the mat of ivy covering the walls. They seem to melt into the shadows between the leaves.
Fighting nausea, I step forward and kneel beside my neighbor’s body. Her bloodied hand lifts, and her fingers clamp on my wrist. “Need to tell you,” she wheezes. “Need to—”
“Dorian, call 911,” I order in a choked voice.
“Too late.” Mrs. Dunwoody’s eyes are wide, fractured with pain and urgency. “I have to tell you…tell someone…about the Holy City of Charleston, built on unholy ground. One eldritch thing buriedhere, and one beneath Old Sheldon Church. That one is bigger, more dangerous. You have to warn the others…that it’s so much worse than we thought…” She coughs wetly, swallows.
“You don’t have to talk.” With shaking fingers, I touch her matted hair. “Please, just rest. Dorian, are you calling 911?”
“It’s like she said,” he replies quietly. “It’s no use. Let her speak, and we’ll call when it’s over.”
I flash him a glare—damn callous man—and then I turn back to Mrs. Dunwoody. “Forget him. I’ll call you some help.”
