The Butterfly Collector
Darla had always been a little... strange. The kind of strange that made her neighbors double-check their locks at night and whisper rumors about her creepy collection of antique dolls. But Darla didn’t mind. In fact, she relished in it. She had always been an odd duck, a proud owner of a taxidermied crow named Reginald and a wall of old doll heads with hollowed-out eyes that seemed to follow visitors around her house.
One evening, as the light outside faded into a purplish dusk, Darla stood before her mirror, admiring her latest acquisition—a doll she’d found at a flea market, weathered by time and more than a little unsettling. Its eyes were mismatched—one blue and the other black as night. "You'll fit in just fine," Darla muttered, placing the doll on the shelf, giving it a prime spot among the others.
That night, she went to bed, thinking about nothing in particular. Maybe what brand of peanut butter was superior, or why her neighbor still hadn’t returned her lawnmower. Just mundane things. But as she slipped into sleep, a faint scratching noise stirred her from the edge of a dream.
“Probably Reginald falling off the mantel again,” she grumbled, pulling her blanket tighter. But the scratching continued. Louder this time. Darla sat up in bed, glancing at her door. It was slightly ajar, though she was certain she had closed it before sleeping.
Then came the whisper. Faint, like a child's voice caught in the wind: "Remember me?"
Darla froze. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, thinking she was still half-dreaming. But when she looked at the mirror across the room, she saw the doll—the one with the mismatched eyes—was no longer on its shelf. It was sitting on her dresser, one cracked wing slowly unfurling, revealing pale faces peeking through the tattered fabric.
“Now… that’s new,” she muttered to herself, trying to stifle her panic.
The doll—now somehow a moth—fluttered its damaged wings, each beat kicking up the dust of forgotten years. Faces pushed out from the wings’ surface—children's faces. Their tiny porcelain mouths opened as if gasping for air.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Darla said, rubbing her temples. “Moths. Of course. Why not? Let’s just add moth dolls to my list of issues tonight.”
The thing fluttered toward her, the crackling sound of its brittle wings filling the room. It perched at the end of her bed, staring with its mismatched eyes—one wide and innocent, the other dark and sunken, like a tiny, doll-sized abyss.
Darla sighed, rolling her eyes. “So, what, you’re here to haunt me? You’re a moth and a doll—kinda lame, don’t you think?” she quipped, reaching for the glass of water beside her bed. “Look, I’m not afraid of some freaky doll that looks like it moonlights in a bad horror movie. Just spit it out already. What do you want?”
The doll’s wings twitched, and its little bow-tied body shifted as if preparing to speak. Its tiny lips moved, but no sound came out. Just the same whisper: "Remember me?"
Darla squinted, leaning in. “Seriously, I don’t. Did I skip you at the flea market or something?”
The moth-doll let out an exasperated little sigh—a sigh!—as if Darla wasn’t taking this haunting nearly as seriously as it wanted. One of the faces in its wing—a particularly creepy one with wide, staring eyes—whispered again, more clearly this time: "You forgot us... but we didn’t forget you."
Darla blinked. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. This isn’t about that doll tea party incident from 1989, is it?”
The moth fluttered its wings menacingly—or at least, it tried. Really, it just looked like it was having a mild seizure.
Darla stifled a snicker. “You’re telling me this whole spooky act is because I abandoned a tea party? You guys need therapy. I was, what, six? My bad for moving on with my life. You should’ve seen it coming when I discovered Pokémon.”
But the moth-doll wasn’t amused. It launched itself at her, tiny porcelain hands gripping her blanket as it flapped its decayed wings in frustration. One of the wings tore slightly, and a button fell off with a tiny plink.
“Oh no, not the button. How ever will I survive?” Darla deadpanned, lifting the moth-doll by its scrappy little body. She set it gently on her dresser. “Listen, I’ll get you some super glue in the morning. Maybe a few stitches. But you’ve gotta stop with the ‘vengeful ghost of my childhood’ routine. It’s a bit much, even for me.”
The moth-doll sat there, wings sagging, as if contemplating its entire existence. Perhaps it realized it had severely miscalculated its haunting strategy. Perhaps it understood that Darla—of all people—was not the best choice for a victim.
“Good talk,” Darla said, fluffing her pillow and settling back into bed. “Now go sulk somewhere else. I have work in the morning.”
The moth-doll gave one last pitiful flap of its wings before retreating back to its shelf, where it sat quietly among the other forgotten dolls.
As Darla drifted back to sleep, she could’ve sworn she heard Reginald the taxidermied crow let out a cackle. Maybe he was just as amused by the situation as she was.
