Mothman Trevor Henderson Novels & Stories

Because no matter what was inside him he was only a human monster, after all. She touched his body with the toe of her sneaker, wondering if he would jump up and try to drag her inside the tree again. That was what always happened in Miranda’s horror movies. The killer was never really dead. He always came back in the last reel, knife raised. But there was nothing. Hendricks was just a shell, an empty husk that used to smile at her. And one that had killed her best friend, and tried to kill her, too. “David told me,” he said, looking from Hendricks to Touhy.

“You’re going to tell me everything about this cousin of yours… full name, where he lives, what he drives, who he sleeps with, and the color of his damn toothbrush. And if you leave anything out, I’ll know.” He hesitated. Just for a second. But that second was long enough for Henry to step forward and crack his knuckles, long enough for me to let the chain sway again, its hooks catching the dim light. “Okay, okay!” he blurted. “Name’s Travis Holt. Lives on the east side, runs with the Grey Pines crew. Drives a beat-up green pickup. I don’t know who he’s with, I don’t…”

asked Dad. "I don't know. I was sent to find your compound and kill you. I worked through a middle man, said they'd give us a place in a new city if I pulled it off. They said you were good, I figured your legend was beefed up. My mistake," he replied. "Give me a name." "Henderson, it's all I know, man." Dad shot the man in the stomach, he groaned then dropped to the ground. "Henderson's dead, lie to me again and it's your knee," said Dad, pressing the barrel at the man's knee.