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I am the Mothman, silent watcher of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, in those haunted months of 1966-67. With crimson eyes and wings that swallowed the night, I drifted above the decaying TNT bunkers, the winding roads, and the fragile lives below--not as a predator, but as an unwilling herald. I appeared in fleeting glimpses to lovers and ordinary people on the brink, chasing headlights and lingering near the Silver Bridge to warn of the catastrophe gathering like storm clouds over the Ohio River. I could neither speak their tongue nor halt the doom written in fate's cold script; I could only bear witness as the threads unraveled toward collapse and sorrow. Nobody knows what truly happened in Point Pleasant...until now.