"One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star" – Friedrich Nietzsche
The farms of Powdersville, SC barely cling to the shrinking green spaces left in the burgeoning suburban sprawl. White oaks, scarred but resilient—the ones that survived Helene–dot fields where dry grass is the only crop, and weather-beaten barns slowly collapse beneath the weight of time. Juxtaposed with these once-thriving centers for agriculture, gaudy, uniform housing developments perpetuate the institutions of homeowner’s associations, manicured lawns, and inflatable yard decorations.
Along one of these carefully planned cul-de-sacs, something is happening in front of the house with the least decorations. The curb inlet beneath the brown, plastic mailbox appears to be the source of the activity. The access cover clanks, its metal vibrating with each wobble, but doesn’t budge, and a human arm creeps out of the opening in the concrete to explore a bit. In the harsh, anti-diurnal blue streetlight, it couldn’t look more surreal. Eventually, the arm retracts, and a deafening boom heralds the lid flying into the air. It flips end over end in an arc that sends it splintering through a large “Pumpkin-Spice Up Your Life” sign that appears on at least four other porches.
From the maw left behind, The Mothman rises slowly as if being lifted mechanically. Montague's gaze lingered on the suburban landscape, his thoughts drifting to Ezra Wolf, the Red-Eyed Warrior. Their past encounters had left an indelible mark, and Montague couldn't help but wonder if Ezra's fixation on Sebastian's record would ultimately prove his undoing. When his feet clear the surface, he steps onto the street and strides toward the exit of the neighborhood.
Like most housing developments in the Upstate, Foxbrook Farms contains neither a brook nor a farm (jury’s out on if any foxes have been spotted). It also stands out as a symbol of sanitized modernity on an otherwise country highway curving between here and Berea. The Doctor-Professor now strolls this highway, devoid of traffic at this hour, gazing admiringly at the contrast in the pastoral setting in which he suddenly finds himself. He knows he’s moments from encountering yet another of the hastily-grown planned community, and for now relishes in the particular silence of an uninhabited stretch.
Then he fills that silence with his voice.
Montague: One would hope that ambition would drive an admirer of a legend to surpass that legend by doing something to set themself apart. Not by simply replicating their feats, hoping to eke out a marginal gain.Sebastian is, indeed, a living legend. However, merely mirroring his achievements, even if for a fraction longer, won't secure the Red-Eyed Warrior's iconic status in the annals of our history.
He pauses, sniffing the air as his eyes narrow and flick from side to side. As if pulled by the familiar aroma by the nostrils, Monty’s head leads his entire body to twist and then proceed in the complete opposite direction.
Montague: Wolf needs a realignment of his priorities. It’s infuriating to watch that much potential sit untapped, especially as this impulsive parvenu climbs on rungs of circumstance and good fortune. While he won’t actually eclipse the reign of the Chelsea Crippler, he’s making a real go of it. With only that singular focus, however, that’s all the reign will be remembered for. In emulating the legend, he forgets that glory lies not in duration, but in innovation. What a waste.
He passes Foxbrook Farms again without sparing it any of his valuable attention, but pauses a few yards further to cock his head with one eyebrow raised. Its counterpart joins it presently, and The Showman quickens his pace.
Montague: In that same vein, how much time will Ezra waste reminding me that he’s already defended against me recently? M ,The lessons from that evening will be lost on him, overlooked in his reflection. I warned Ezra back then that he was at a crossroads. He admiringly chose the path of more resistance, but learned absolutely nothing.
Before much longer, Montague comes around a hairpin turn to find a muddy field, the scent of kettle corn, and a blanket of fog that had to have been manufactured considering the lack of humidity since the hurricane passed through. Monty’s eyes light up, and he sprints toward the timber fence before vaulting over it into the field.
Slowly, admiring everything in detail as he goes, Montague steps through the gates of “Mad Hollow Haunted Farm”, noting the care taken to age the lumber and paint the giant panels of foam to resemble an ancient portcullis raised halfway. The silence instantly becomes something eerie, surrounding him like a comfortable shroud. There’s a vibration here, a residual exhilaration, despite the stillness that belies the bustle that brought this place to life only a few hours prior.
Enclosed by these buildings, the unseasonal heat of the late October weather causes sweat to bead across his forehead and over his neck. Signs announcing such scare zones as ‘Bloody Bayou’, ‘Slaughterhouse’, and ‘Haunted Harvest’ creak mysteriously while dried cornstalks, gathered around supporting beams, whisper despite the lack of breeze.
As Monty delves deeper into the attraction, the shadows grow longer and darker, the very night itself twisting around him. Beyond the axe-throwing range, a hearse stands at the entrance of ‘The Crematorium’, a large, ornately carved frame leaning askew against the windshield. Montague draws closer, curious about the tableau, and notices a significant scattering of mirror glass he hadn’t noticed in the darkness before.
The Doctor-Professor gazes up at the crematorium facade, realizing that it’s a fun house. In the open, shadowy second floor, he can make out rows of similarly sized and shaped frames, but can’t tell where the missing one might have fallen from.
Walking up to the hearse, Montague chuckles a bit.
Montague: What an appropriate display.
He runs his left hand lovingly over the bonnet of the dirty, black carriage.
Montague: The self-reflection that has been giving Ezra the drive to push past his inexperience and naivete, to form better alliances and seize each moment he’s put to the test, has been brought to a jarring halt by the unexpected appearance of the ferryman. What’s more, Ezra was tardy to Nora’s appointment with the collector. What a burden…
Montague's gaze falls upon the shattered mirror.
Montague: And now, the mirror lies broken, a reflection of Ezra's own fractured psyche. The self-doubt that once fueled his growth has given way to brash overconfidence.
He looks closer at the mirror frame, leaning in before rapping it with his kncukles. A flat smack echoes off the empty buildings around him. Nodding, he peers over the back of the frame, noticing the warped holes where the weight of the glass pulled the whole thing down.
Montague: Ah, crafted from cheap plastic instead of sturdy wood. A facade of elegance, masking a hollow core. What a waste.
He shakes his head sadly. The Showman's eyes rise to the crematorium facade, where the rows of frames stand like silent gargoyles. Soon the guard will change as the rest come falling down…
Montague: Ezra's recent successes have lulled him into complacency. He's forgotten the value of introspection.
With a calculated movement, Montague lifts the frame of the shattered mirror, and the reflections within its remaining fragments begin to distort and ripple.
Montague: It’s time for another lesson, Ezra. Your broken nature is not a weakness, but a strength. The shattered remnants of your self-reflection could reveal a new, twisted truth that would serve you well as you strive to overcome your grief with prestige, not to repeat Seb’s legacy, but to establish your own.
As Montague gazes into the mirror, the reflections transform, displaying a vivid and macabre scene. The haunted attraction, once deserted, now teems with life. Patrons scream with delight, fleeing from monstrous creatures. Strobes and lasers flash, casting an otherworldly glow. Montague's voice takes on a hypnotic quality.
Montague: Imagine it, Ezra: a world where your brokenness becomes the lens through which you perceive reality. The distortions, the cracks, the shattered remnants – all revealing a new landscape of possibilities.
The mirror's reflections seem to pulse with a spooky energy, as if beckoning for the viewer to embrace his fractured reality.
Montague's smile grows, his eyes glinting as his lips curl to reveal his teeth.
Montague: Come, Ezra, let’s shatter the illusions that bind you.
With that, the Mothman steps through the void in the center of the looking-glass, and doesn’t emerge from the other side. The frame falls against the hood of the hearse again, shaking the remaining shards free as the frame comes apart and clatters to the ground. Moments later, the silence is destroyed as the rest of the mirrors drop, one by one, to crash around the hearse.
