That night the moths did not come again. He sat in the chair until he knew they weren’t coming. Then he turned around and stood up and went to the door. The other door that he had moved last night hadn’t been moved back, so he went to open the other door again.

It was always so quiet here. There was never any sound. Usually in the city you can always hear something. Trucks or whatever, off in the distance. There wasn’t anything here. All he could hear were the sounds that he made. It was really creepy.

When the door opened, it creaked and he almost pooped myself. It was one of those funny creeks that you only hear in movies too. Like: “Reeeeeeeeeeeee!” His heart was beating pretty fast so the next thing that he saw still freaked him out a little, but didn’t actually give him chills. He was at the top of a staircase on the second floor. Hanging from the ceiling of the entire floor were fly traps. They were spaced a few feet apart, as if ready to catch an army of flies. They were longer than normal too, so he almost had to duck to miss them. They went all the way down the hall to the only other door on this floor. It was shut.

He didn’t move for a long time after he saw it. You know that feeling you get when you’re trying to make out something in the dark, and you can almost make yourself believe that it’s a ghost or something really weird… And then it turns out to be your brother all along… That’s the feeling that he got the longer he looked at the door. Something about the shape of the painting made him not look away. Something was familiar about it all… And the longer he looked, the more and more he was convinced that what it was wasn’t what it was… On the door was painted a white moth.

It was then that he noticed that every flycatcher was covered in moths. This is where they had come. They hadn’t come back to him because they were all dead.