Mothman’s strangest detail is not that it looked monstrous.

It is that, in the accounts that held up, it barely did anything.

It followed cars. It stared through windows. It ruined sleep, scrambled nerves, and maybe took one dog. Then the Silver Bridge fell, forty-six people died, and the creature became an omen with wings. The horror is not the attack. There isn’t one. The horror is the possibility that something saw the disaster coming and could only stand there, red-eyed and useless.