There are three living things in the basement, one of which is a brown-speckled moth, another being a brown-robed monk. The two are not dissimilar, in appearance or in mannerisms.
Both have small, round heads framed by short and curly hair, long, thin arms that move awkwardly, bodies rounded in an oval reaching up. Both live their lives defined by light and move around it- they share a fascination for candles that borders on obsession. They move quietly to their location of choice, wandering often on the path. They are easily startled, and their faces are thought unexpressive. The smell of textiles and old parchment accompanies the thought of them, both consuming books ravenously. Both live a solitary life.
The third one lives a solitary life, too.
There are whispers that something is wrong with Ira. That his muteness and his focus on transcribing the fading manuscripts betray that he is not one of us. He goes to the basement, after all, spending long days. His face is strange, after all, and he does not act like the other novices.
They say things about the basement. It is drafty, despite the fact that there are no windows. It is the home of a monster, and the reason that there are no lights is that its face is so terrible that to gaze upon it would mean death. The monster will use your brittle bones and hollowed out corpse and become you while you become it.
Ira’s task is a humble one. He copies the text exactly, duplicating the fragile old works, and safeguarding them. The old works he embalms, coating with a waterproof resin. The hours drip into nighttime, but the old basement requires a candle-light no matter what the sun decides to do.
His routine is well-worn. The ringing of the church bells rises him, and they head to Morning. Breakfast is simple and plain. He takes a candle down the creaking stairs, fetches his quill and ink-well. He faces the door, draws a symbol. Says the chant as he closes his eyes and enters, sweeping his hands in the circle. The door must be closed completely before his eyes open- this was impressed on him heavily, that this was the one rule he must never break. He strikes the candle alight, takes his seat with a book. Until dusk, when the bells chime once more, he writes, drawing the illustrations and copying each writers’ flourishes. Then it is Dinner, Evening, and Rest.
There is something else in the room. It is not the moth, which flits about the candle’s tip. It is not the ever-blowing breeze that turns the aged pages. The door is shut, firmly. Ira waits, a moment, and when the feeling remains, he sets his quill aside after tapping the ink.
The darkest and furthest corner of the room is the only place where the light does not reach. Flickering shadows dance about the rest. Ira stands, shaky at first, then as though drawn. He grasps the candle in its stand, ignoring the wax that falls on his hand.
He sees a papery wing first, dotted in owl-eyelets of dark coloration across a tawny expanse. They are moth-wings made oversize, an exact replica of the moth which followed the candle to the corner. The arms are next, spindly even as they are the size of his own forearm. The beast is as tall as he is. It is a moth in the shape of a man, a grotesque parody of both. He does not dare look at the face, suddenly remembering the myths. He blows the candle out, leaving his own exhalations and the quiet chittering of a moth to fill the room.
He says the chants, in a trembling breath. They are fragile and weak, fluttery soap-bubbles that burst in the dark of the room. The wax is still hot against his fingers. Over and over, he says the chants.
The events of the day pour through his head, but nothing stands out. Is this a mirage? A temptation of some sort? Has his own folly allowed a gate somewhere to open and pour out this abomination? Or perhaps the isolation has finally driven him mad.
Over and over, he says the chants, until his lips are numb and his throat aching and his lungs cutting, until sleep finally draws him under its embrace, and not even pain can keep him from it.
When the bell tolls, Ira wakes with a start. It would be Morning- he has missed Evening, though the chants should offer a substitute. The chair is stiff against his back, the room still dark as ever. He blindly reaches for the candle across the desk, narrowly missing the inkwell.
Once he can see, his waking becomes more defined. The Moth stands across from his desk, arms angular to the floor, wings flat against its back. It still seems like it is in pursuit, expectant. The light dances across the Moth’s belly, on the wooden desk, against the wall. A furry throat guides to a coiled tongue, and Ira must not look further. Quickly, he begins chanting again. The hunger growls against him, and his hand still burns from the wax.
Is this his death, come to claim him?
A shadow across the wall shifts- the Moth has moved. Its head is tilted, more, and the tongue unspools, slightly, before retracting. The curves of its antenna are ram’s horns, reminders that the eyes bring only death.
He sits at his desk, rooted as the cypress. Before him is a book, in need of transcribing. He lifts his gaze from the Moth to the quill, dips it in the inkwell. The quiet drag of the quill is a relief. It is only then that he realizes that the breeze in the room has stopped.
They sit like that for a day, the Moth watching Ira, Ira copying the soft sketches of the book before him. It tells of thousands of creatures in horrifying shapes, the only consistent feature a face that ends the world.
Ira has begun to acclimate to the Moth’s gaze. The persistent staring is curious, now, rather than ominous. The words he has been chanting seem to do nothing- is it a sign of the creature’s power, his own failure, or is it that the creature does not need to be warded against? Still, he does not dare look into its eyes, and continues his chanting through parched lips.
The Evening bells ring, and Ira stares at his copy of the book. The pages are full of depictions of similarly unholy creatures, but it is as though capturing their essence has distilled it- there is no more raw terror to be gleaned. Instead it is refined into a more nuanced form of horror that comes from understanding. He worries that in reproducing them, he has given the forms more power, but dismisses it. The Affables allowed him to copy it, encouraged him, even.
He is ever-conscious of the beast, aware of the deviations in his routine and desperate to fix them. His quill he sets aside, routine as ever. The candle is burnt much further than it ought to be, but surely- surely- it won’t matter. The door, the chant, the symbol. Ira stands up and pushes his chair into the desk. The beast across the desk watches him with interest, furry mandibles twitching, legs angular, wings held. He swallows, exhales.
The way to the door is short, about three paces. The candle is trembling in his hand, a replica of the previous night. Floorboards give way under his feet. He is shivering, and the words he tries to pass through his lips are stumbling. The doorknob is untempered iron, and he reaches out, laying a hand on top of it. One-two-three tries and he pulls open the door. He pauses, looks back behind him, for a moment, and the figure is looking back. Something flits past his eye and he starts. It was only the moth, the real moth, only two-inches tall.
Ira runs out, dropping the candle, slamming the door shut. He turns the deadbolt, collapsing against the wall with frantic sobs. Adrenaline floods his body. The Words pass through his lips, though any harm that can be done has. Perhaps this will earn him forgiveness, from the Affables if not above.
Evening is still in session, the rich sounds of the Affables filling the air. The basement is soundproof. Ira has never asked why. The door is shut and latched behind him, and the beast should not be able to follow him here, but still he feels its presence.
He talks to an Affable. He is assured of the safety of the chants, that if he follows the guidelines everything will be fine. He wants to ask about the beast, but does not dare, ashamed of his own actions.
He grabs some leftover food from Evening, to better mimic the routine. He goes to sleep under a thick woolen blanket and dreams of fluttering wings and searching eyes.
Ira is exhausted, but it is Morning and there is work to be done. The Affables speak, dispensing advice, and breakfast is had. Monks turn to chatter at each other and Ira sits alone.
Fetch a candle from the shelf, run water over your shaking hand. Take the steps that lead down, ignore the voice in your head and do as they say. You never had a chance, though you do not know it. Mutter the words you tell yourself you mean and do not look.
The Monk does his work, dutifully, and the Beast observes, dutifully.
Evening rings out, and Ira, emboldened, walks to the door. The abomination is still watching him, but he wears the Affable’s assurance like a cloak. The door rattles, but does not open, and it is then that he begins to panic.
No matter how much he pleads and slams at the door, nothing happens. The door is soundproof, reinforced, and the walls sturdy. It is designed as a prison would be. The room locks from the outside. Someone must have locked it. Someone will find him, surely. He will not die here, with only this monster for company. Chants fall from his lips easily, habit, but he stops. Chants have given him nothing.
He lies against the wall adjacent to the door, squeezing his knees to his chest and closing his eyes. His breath comes rapid and shallow. His eyes are hot with tears.
He does as the Affables tell him. They have lied to him, evident now. They have been lying to everyone. But if there is a shred of advice that proves true, he is saved.
Time passes. The candle is dead, and there is no other way to judge time other than that it passes. His stomach growls, his limbs ache. The Monk sleeps and wakes, alternately, time itself fading into a blurry memory.
He is greeted by his own visage, once, on waking. It breathes as he does, scars the same. It is meant to be comforting, he thinks, delirious. Its effect is unsettling, as being confronted with yourself is. Its head is covered by his own brown hood, pulled up, and so a shadow falls over the eyes. He stares into the contours of his own face, fascinated by what he sees. Mirrors are forbidden, and so it is a rare look into his own appearance.
This is the Moth, he knows, having shifted once more.
Ira will die in the basement. This is a fact, immutable as the stars. Nothing can be done to save him- the Affables will surely not, and the Moth’s powers do not extend to freeing him. Ira himself can only write, and write he does. The Moth fills the room with a silver glow. It is an apology. Ira does not understand. He signs his work Ira, betrayed and adds a foreword: to the moth.
He looks into his own eyes, and there is forgiveness.
It is a month and thirteen days after the Moth revealed itself before someone enters the basement.
The Monk is positioned at the desk, quill in hand, gaze vacant towards the door. Its other hand is outstretched, reaching and accusatory at once. Its skin is kept glassy and lifelike, coated in the resin they use to taxidermy moths. The eyes are wide and unblinking on the desk below, sockets bloody and hollow.
to the monk is scrawled onto the desk.